Chapter Text
5 YEARS SINCE TAYLOR SWIFT DISAPPEARED
by Margot Vance, Teen Vogue. 13 June 2030.
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It's been five years since Taylor Swift - singer, songwriter, business mogul, mastermind - was last seen in public. Not photographed, not overheard, not quietly spotted in a Rhode Island trip or ducking into Electric Lady Studios in New York. Not seen, in any sense of the word.
Amidst a digital age where visibility is often conflated with existence, Swift's vanishing act has taken on an almost mythic quality. No social media updates, no surprise releases, no appearances at award shows or high-profile gatherings. Her last public statement was a May 2025 post celebrating her successful re-acquisition of her original masters, a victory years in the making.
In retrospect, it read almost like a farewell.
Later that year, People confirmed her breakup with Kansas City Chiefs tight end Travis Kelce. The article was notably sparse on details, quoting anonymous sources who described the split as "amicable" and "quiet."
That December, Swift was reportedly expected at several industry events but cancelled, or simply didn't appear.
Since then, silence.
Even her closest collaborators - such as Jack Antonoff and Aaron Dessner - have offered no comment, though industry chatter suggests many haven't heard from her in years.
It's easy to forget how present she once was. For nearly two decades, Taylor Swift not only dominated charts and headlines, but reshaped the music industry's relationship to power, ownership, and storytelling. From country ingénue to pop behemoth to indie-folk darling, her artistic transformations were milestones in their own right. She filled stadiums, shattered streaming records, and, with 2024's The Tortured Poets Department, penned what many believed to be her final "breakup album", one that, in hindsight, felt steeped in something deeper than heartbreak.
So where did she go?
Some speculate she's living abroad - Paris, Florence, Tokyo. Others believe she's in hiding stateside, possibly upstate New York or back in Nashville. Conspiracy theories abound, as they always do, ranging from the plausible (a long sabbatical from fame) to the far-fetched (secret marriage, private island, silent retreat). Reddit threads dissect her lyrics with religious fervour, and dedicated TikTok accounts trace supposed sightings that vanish as quickly as they appear.
But beyond the noise of conspiracy theories, one question lingers: Why did she disappear?
Was it the culmination of burnout? The inevitable toll of being a woman and a brand under a magnifying glass for twenty years? Or was it a final act of agency from someone who, having fought so publicly for control over her art, finally achieved control over her narrative?
We don't know, and maybe we're not meant to.
Perhaps the most Swiftian twist of all is this: after years of dissecting her every move, the biggest statement Taylor Swift ever made may have been her decision to stop making any.
· · ·
You're, objectively, not a stupid person. Being who you are, leading the life you lead, the life you used to lead, does require basic intelligence. Which is precisely why you feel so... dumbfounded, baffled, gobsmacked, what-in-the-actual-fuck-ed, by it all.
It's been a fairly long time since you even considered going back to the time-old art of compiling evidence. It is an art, you consider, that pertains to the much younger, fickle craft of being a journalist.
It's been much longer since you last cared to consider yourself a journalist.
Retired. At thirty-six. The thought makes you snort into your coffee cup - the good stuff, beans you grew yourself on the small patch of land you now call home. Retired. As if you'd spent decades climbing some corporate ladder instead of... risking your life on a dead-end road. As if you'd earned a pension instead of burning every professional bridge behind you and progressively every penny in your thinner-by-the-day savings account.
The coffee is exceptional this morning, which almost makes up for the fact that your mysterious pain-in-the-ass fucking neighbour has apparently decided your shared water access needs "discussion" again. The note came via the usual route: handed to you by Marco, that stone-faced military type dude who speaks for his employer like some kind of human shield. Always Marco, never the actual landowner. Never a direct conversation.
"My employer believes the recent modifications to your irrigation system may be affecting water pressure on the adjacent property," Marco had recited yesterday, standing rigid in your doorway like he was delivering a formal military briefing instead of yet another petty complaint about farming logistics.
You'd wanted to ask what kind of person sends a handler to discuss water rights instead of walking the barely one kilometre between properties to have an actual conversation. But Marco's presence always makes it clear that questions about his employer are unwelcome.
Three months of this nonsense. Three months of Marco appearing at your door with complaints about noise levels, property line disputes, and now water pressure. Your neighbour might own ten times the land you do (probably more, it's not like you're a very mathematically savvy person), but apparently lacks the basic social skills to introduce themselves.
It's ironic, really. You used to make a living getting people to talk. Now you can't even get your neighbour to acknowledge your existence beyond formal complaints delivered by proxy.
The drive into Boquete later that afternoon feels like a small liberation from all that stress. Joanna is waiting at the usual café, her laptop spread across the table amid scattered paper charts showing rainfall patterns and soil compositions. She's a local agronomist who took pity on the obviously clueless gringa who showed up with big dreams and a bigger checkbook, asking pointed questions about altitude and processing methods. Within weeks she turned into a friend. Joanna has the kind of practical expertise that makes your coffee operation actually marginally profitable, which is why you pretend not to notice when she charges you roughly half what she charges her other clients. And why, as a gesture of gratitude, you make yourself available for any proofreading, writing, translating or interpreting tasks she needs help with.
"You look like hell," she says without looking up from her screen.
"Charming as always."
"I'm serious. When's the last time you did something that wasn't farm-related?"
You consider this while Joanna closes her laptop and fixes you with that look, the one that says she's about to meddle in your life whether you want her to or not.
"Tonight," she announces, and for a very brief moment your mind goes to that Despicable Me scene with Gru addressing the minions. "We're going out."
"Jo-"
"Not negotiable. There's a new bar downtown, decent music, actual people who shower regularly. You need to remember what civilisation looks like."
Which is how you find yourself five hours later, three drinks in, watching the social dynamics of a Boquete nightspot with the analytical detachment that never quite leaves you, in spite of the very focused daily efforts to get rid of it. The pub, if it can generously be called that, is clearly an expat spot. English seems to be the standard spoken language within those 200 square meters. Joanna disappeared an hour ago to charm some local artist, leaving you nursing your fourth whisky and wondering why you thought this was a good idea to begin with.
The bar is busier than you expected, filled with a mix of locals and mostly expats, all of them seeming to know each other in that small-town way. Everyone except the blonde in the corner booth who's been sitting alone since you arrived, nursing what looks like the same drink throughout the night.
She's beautiful in an almost aggressive way, the kind of polished perfection that suggests money, lots of it, with designer clothes and jewellery that look like they cost an obscene lot each piece. But there's something else there, something in the way she holds herself that catches your attention. She looks like someone who doesn't want to be noticed, which, of course, makes her the most interesting person in the room.
You should, rationally, probably just finish your drink and find Joanna. Go home. Tend to your plants and your careful, quiet life.
Instead, you find yourself standing, the whisky making the decision before your brain can interfere.
The walk across the bar feels longer than it should, like you're moving through water. Maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's the way she looks up as you approach - not startled, exactly, more curious.
When you reach her table, you start with an "Hola," that is met with only a confused tilt of her head to the side, so you decide to course-correct back to English. "Mind if I sit?" you ask, gesturing to the empty chair across from her small table.
She considers this for a moment, still tilting her head adorably. There's some amusement in her expression, like she's surprised by the interruption but not entirely displeased. Her eyes are an eerie vivid shade of blue, you notice, and there's a sharpness there that makes you think she's been watching the room just like you have. Her hair is shoulder-length, curled, as if she had left it to dry naturally. For a second, you wonder if you've seen her before. She's got... one of those faces. Maybe that's simply a white, blonde, blue-eyed American thing.
"I don't usually..." she starts, but stops herself mid-sentence. Her accent is definitely American. Shrugs. "Go ahead."
You settle into the chair, immediately aware that you're probably swaying slightly. You should order some water, you absentmindedly think to yourself. Instead, you catch the bartender's eye and hold up two fingers, then point to whatever she's drinking. It seems like some sort of liquor, also, so you feel optimistic.
"I don't think I've seen you here before," you say, which is true enough. Boquete isn't exactly a metropolis, you'd remember someone who looks like this.
"I could say the same about you." Her voice has an interesting quality to it, and she seems confident in her words, if only a little like she's trying to dose them. "Though I get the feeling you're more of a regular than I am."
"Define regular." You lean back in your chair, studying her face. For what feels like the hundredth time within the couple of minutes you spent looking at her, you note how... gorgeous she is. "I come in maybe once a month when my friend decides I'm becoming too antisocial for my own good."
"And are you? Antisocial, I mean."
"Depends who's asking." The drinks arrive, liquid amber and strong that burns pleasantly on the way down. Feels like high-quality whisky. You wonder for a second if your wallet will weep when you eventually have to pay for that particular decision. It's good enough to make you feel confident a small crater in your finances will be born from those simple two glasses. "What about you? You seem like you're working pretty hard at the whole mysterious stranger thing."
She laughs at that. "Is it that obvious?"
"Body language." You gesture vaguely in her direction. "Phone face-down, back to the room, haven't made eye contact with anyone. Either you're avoiding someone specific or you're just really committed to the enigmatic loner aesthetic."
"Maybe I'm just not very social."
"No, that's not it." The alcohol is making you bolder than usual, as you once were, back in the day, but she doesn't seem to mind the attention. If anything, she's leaning forward slightly, engaged. Her eyes drift to somewhere far in the room, making eye contact with a khaki-wearing guy that seems to be some military type, like Marco. You think briefly about Marco, about his fucking boss, wince internally and get back to the blonde, who already has her attention back at you. "Social anxiety looks different. This is more like... trying to blend in, or disappear."
Her eyebrows raise. "You sound like you speak from experience."
"Maybe I do." You take another sip, feeling the warmth spread through your chest. "Though I'm obviously failing at it tonight."
"Lucky for me."
The words hang in the air between you, and you realise she's flirting back. When was the last time you flirted with anyone? Months, at least. Maybe longer. The farm doesn't exactly provide a thriving social scene, and before that... well, before that, you weren't exactly in the headspace for romance.
"So what brings you to our little mountain paradise?" you ask, having one more sip of the decidedly expensive whisky. "Work? Vacation? Running away from something?"
"Isn't everyone running away from something?"
"Touché." You study her over the rim of your glass. "Though some people run toward things too. New adventures, fresh starts, that stuff..."
"Is that what you did? Run toward new adventures and fresh starts?"
"Among other things." You're being deliberately vague, but so is she. It feels like a game, how much can you learn about each other without actually giving anything away? "What about you? What are you running toward?"
"Peace and quiet, mostly." She swirls her drink, ice clinking against glass. "Turns out it's harder to find than you'd think."
"Depends where you look for it." You lean forward, matching her posture. "Some places are better than others."
"Any recommendations?"
There's something in the way she asks that makes your pulse quicken. You're definitely reading into this, but the alcohol has made you optimistic about your interpretive skills. "I might know a few spots. Though I should warn you, I'm probably not the most reliable tour guide these days."
"Why's that?"
"Well, for starters, I'm drunk." You gesture at your glass with a self-deprecating smile. "And I have been considerably grumpy these past few days. Have had a few less-than-pleasant encounters with my next door neighbour."
That is definitely a generous description for it. Firstly, because "less-than-pleasant" is definitely an understatement. Secondly, because "encounters" is probably not the best word to describe getting some thinly-veiled threats from some terrifyingly tall dude speaking on behalf of his manchild of an employer. You decide that your asshole neighbour is definitely a man. Only men can be that annoying.
"Less-than-pleasant encounters?" She sounds genuinely curious now, not just politely engaged.
"Riveting stuff, really. Property law, the thrilling world of agricultural litigation." You wave a hand dismissively. "Nothing that can't wait until tomorrow's hangover."
She's watching you carefully, like she's trying to figure something out. You make an effort to break through the haze for a split second in order to try and figure out via some telepathic connection what, exactly, she is thinking. But then she smiles, and the moment passes.
"You're interesting," she says finally.
"I'm drunk and rambling. That's not usually what passes for interesting."
"Maybe I have low standards."
"Or maybe you're just as drunk as I am."
"I'm not, actually." She lifts her glass, still mostly full. "I'm just enjoying the company."
The admission makes a warm feeling unfurl in your chest, separate from the alcohol. One more pathetic finding: when was the last time someone enjoyed your company? Joanna doesn't count, she's paid to tolerate you, more or less. Before tonight, you'd started to wonder if you'd forgotten how to have a normal conversation with another human being.
"Good," you say, then immediately feel heat rise in your cheeks. "I mean- that's good. The enjoying part. Not that you're not drunk. Though that's probably also good, considering-"
"You're cute."
The words stop your rambling mid-sentence. She's looking at you with something that might be, at very least, genuine interest.
"I should probably get going soon," you say, though you make no move to leave. "Early morning tomorrow."
"Should you?"
"Probably." You don't break eye contact. "But I'm not sure I want to."
"Then don't."
"What would you suggest instead?"
"Walk me to my car?"
When the check comes, you reach for your wallet as an automatic reflex. You order a water bottle with the bill, which, you soon find out, is a wise choice. Your fingers fumble slightly with the leather - definitely drunker than you thought - but before you can extract any cash, she's already placed a crisp bill on the table.
"I've got it," she says simply.
"No, come on, I invited myself over-"
"And I'm inviting you to walk me to my car." There's something final in her tone, confident. "Consider it even."
You want to argue but her expression stops you. Maybe it's the slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth, or the way she's already standing, clearly ready to leave. Instead, you mutter something about getting the next round, which makes her laugh.
"Optimistic of you to assume there'll be a next round."
"Is that a challenge?"
"Maybe."
The night air hits you like a wall when you step outside, cooler than you expected. The crisp mountain winds and the change of temperature are enough to help clear your mind a bit.
"Which one's yours?" you ask, scanning the small parking area behind the bar.
She nods toward a dark SUV parked near the back, away from the streetlight. It's the kind of vehicle that's expensive enough to be reliable, generic enough to blend in anywhere. You're about to make some joke about mysterious strangers and their mysterious cars when you notice her posture change slightly.
She's looking past you, toward the bar's entrance, and there's something in her expression that makes you want to turn around, even if you do your best to suppress that particular instinct. Instead, you follow her lead and keep walking.
"Everything okay?" you ask quietly.
"Fine. Just thought I saw someone I knew."
You resist the urge to look back. If there's one thing years of investigative work taught you, it's how to read a situation, and right now every instinct is telling you that whoever she saw, it wasn't a pleasant surprise. But you're drunk, and she's beautiful, and for once in your life you decide to let someone else's secrets be their own problem.
You reach her car, a newer model Toyota, you think, though in the dim light it's hard to tell. She stops next to the driver's side door and turns to face you, and suddenly the space between you feels denser.
"So," you say, and realise you have no idea how to finish that sentence.
"So," she echoes, and steps closer.
You can smell her perfume, a subtle vanilla fragrance that makes your head spin more than the alcohol did. She's looking at you with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken.
"Can I-" you start to ask, but she's already moving, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck.
"Yes," she says against your lips, and then you're kissing her.
It's been so long since you kissed anyone that you almost forgot how good it could be. She tastes like that expensive whisky of hers you both were drinking and something almost overly sweet, resembling peppermint cream. Her lips are soft and insistent. You find yourself pressing her back against the car, hands finding her waist. Her tongue, you very soon figure, is talented beyond measure. She's deliberate, letting you lead for a brief minute before taking back control. She sucks on your tongue, plants small, soft pecks on your lips when the need for oxygen makes itself known, pulls your bottom lip between her teeth with a maddening gentleness, then goes back to letting her tongue wander against yours.
Throughout, she lets out these breathy little moans, free hand moving to caress one of your breasts over your t-shirt. There's a minor, almost insignificant height difference favouring her, enough so that her hand on your neck at some point moves to your jaw, slightly tilting your head back. Her right knee moves between your legs, and you get a full, body-wide jolt of electricity when her thigh puts in some real pressure against you, a small honest-to-god whimper leaving your lips.
When you left your house earlier today, the last thing on your mind was any possibility of hooking up with someone, and you suddenly regret choosing the soft, faded jeans you always favoured. The blonde, apparently, has had that forethought, or at the very least isn't someone who felt the chilly weather at night in Panama, as she's wearing a short leather skirt to die for under her long coat, something for which you're suddenly very grateful.
Tentatively, your left hand moves from her waist down to her thigh, the one she isn't currently pressing against you. Your hips move against her almost as a physical, uncontrollable response, chasing some immediate relief even with the layers of clothing between you.
You're not sure how long you stay like that, trading kisses that grow progressively less innocent, but eventually she pulls back, and you're both flushed and breathing hard.
"Okay?" she asks, her forehead resting against yours.
"Very okay," you manage, and she laughs.
"Good." Her thumb traces along your jawline, and you have to resist the urge to turn your face into her palm. "Because I was thinking..."
"Yeah?"
"My place isn't far from here." She's watching your face carefully, looking for your reaction. "If you want to continue this conversation somewhere more private."
The offer hangs in the air between you. You should probably say no. You should definitely say no. You're drunk, she's a stranger, and you have that meeting with the lawyer in the morning. This is the kind of impulsive decision that usually leads to complications you don't need.
"I want to," you say instead, because apparently your self-preservation instincts have taken the night off.
Her smile is radiant, blinding. "Follow me?"
"I probably shouldn't drive right now."
"Leave your car. I'll bring you back for it tomorrow." She's already pulling her keys from her bag, and you realise she's thought this through more than you have. "Unless you'd rather I drop you off at home tonight?"
"No." The word comes out in a rush. "I mean, yes, I'll come with you. If that's okay."
"It's very okay."
She unlocks the car, and you're about to get in when she pauses, her hand on the driver's side door. For a moment, she scans the parking lot again, and you catch a glimpse of worry in her expression.
"Really, everything all right?" you ask.
"Perfect," she says, though there's a strain to her smile now. "Just habit. Get in."
You slide into the passenger seat, noting the pristine interior and the scent of leather and that same subtle perfume. The car is definitely newer and more expensive than anything you've driven lately, although not flashy. Practical luxury, if that's even a thing.
She starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot, turning toward the mountain roads that lead up into the hills above the city. You settle back in your seat, watching her, and try not to think about how this is exactly the kind of spontaneous decision your old self would have talked you out of.
The motion of the car is helping to clear your head, though not as much as you'd like. You're still pleasantly buzzed, floating on the memory of her mouth against yours and the way her hand rests casually on the gear shift between you. The radio is playing something soft and jazzy, like elevator music, just loud enough to fill the silence without demanding attention.
You should probably make conversation, but you're distracted by the way the dashboard lights catch her profile. There's something maddeningly familiar about her face. It's like trying to remember a word that's right on the tip of your tongue, except instead of a word, it's an entire person.
You keep stealing glances at her profile as she drives, trying to pinpoint what's so familiar about her face. It's not just that she's beautiful - though she definitely is - it's something more specific. The curve of her jaw, maybe, or the way she tilts her head when she's concentrating on the winding mountain road, or even that eerie blue of her irises.
"You okay over there?" she asks, catching you staring.
"Fine." You turn toward the window, embarrassed. "Just... have we met before? You look really familiar."
She's quiet for a moment, hands tightening almost imperceptibly on the steering wheel. "I don't think so. I'd remember."
"Yeah, probably." You shake your head, trying to dismiss the feeling. "You just have one of those faces, I guess. Classic features."
"One of those faces," she repeats, though her tone is odd this time. Amused, maybe, or resigned.
You let yourself get distracted by the way the headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating coffee plants and the occasional glimpse of other farms tucked into the mountainside. The alcohol is still making everything feel slightly dreamlike, softening the edges of your usual hyper-awareness. For once, you're not cataloguing every detail of your surroundings, not automatically noting landmarks or potential escape routes.
Instead, you're focused entirely on her - the way she hums quietly along to the music, how she takes the curves with practiced ease like she's driven this route a hundred times before. There's something soothing about being a passenger for once, about letting someone else navigate while you just exist in the moment.
The alcohol is starting to wear off, replaced by something much more immediate and demanding. It's been so long since you've felt this kind of want - this acute awareness of another person's presence, the way her hand looks on the steering wheel, strong with visible veins, how she keeps glancing over at you like she's checking to make sure you're still there.
You're, in plain words, crass as they might be, horny as fuck. It's been months since you've so much as thought about sex, and now it's like every nerve ending has suddenly remembered what it's supposed to be doing. When she reaches over to adjust the air conditioning and her fingers accidentally brush your knee, you have to bite back a sound that would definitely be embarrassing to make in a moving vehicle alongside a virtual stranger.
"How far is your place?" you ask, entirely proud of how normal your voice sounds.
"Not far." There's amusement in her tone, like she knows exactly what you're thinking. "Maybe ten minutes."
Ten minutes feels like an eternity when you're this keyed up, but you force yourself to lean back and watch the scenery roll by. Panama at night is peaceful in a way that still surprises you - so different from the places you used to call home. Here, the mountains swallow up the light pollution, leaving just scattered house lights and the stars.
You're so focused on not focusing on the woman beside you that you almost miss it when the car slows.
You blink, suddenly more alert, and find yourself staring at a familiar wrought-iron gate. Your stomach drops.
"What-" you start, but the words die in your throat as she reaches for what must be a remote control.
No. No, this can't be right.
You know this gate. You've stared at it plenty of times over the past three months, usually while fantasising about ramming it with your truck. It's the entrance to the property that borders yours to the east, the property belonging to your mysterious, pain-in-the-ass neighbour who's been making your life hell with their water rights bullshit. "Wait," you say, sitting up straighter as she punches a code into the security keypad. "Wait, this is-"
The gates swing open, revealing the long driveway you've only glimpsed from a distance. Your neighbour's driveway. Your fucking neighbour's driveway.
The alcohol-induced haze evaporates instantly, replaced by a clarity so sharp it makes your head spin. This woman, this beautiful, mysterious woman you've been flirting with and kissing and with whom you were planning to sleep, lives here. With your neighbour. Your neighbour who's been making your life hell for three months.
The car moves forward through the gate, and you catch glimpses of the sprawling property beyond - carefully maintained grounds, expensive landscaping. You've only seen it from your side of the property line, but there's no mistaking it.
"Stop the car."
Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, cutting through whatever song was playing on the stereo. She glances over, confused.
"What?"
"Stop the fucking car."
She pulls over just inside the gates, putting the SUV in park and turning to face you. "What's wrong?"
"What's wrong?" You're fully sober now, and furious. "What's wrong is that you live with the jerk who's been trying to steal my water rights for the past three months. Amongst other shit."
Her expression shifts, confusion giving way to something that might be recognition. "Water rights?"
"Don't play dumb. You know exactly what I'm talking about. The spring that runs between our properties? The one your boyfriend or husband or whatever has been claiming belongs to him through that military asshole he keeps sending to my door?"
"My-" She blinks, then her face goes pale. "Oh, shit."
"Oh shit is right." You're beyond angry now, feeling like the universe's biggest idiot. Of course. Of course the one person you're attracted to in this godforsaken place would turn out to be connected to your biggest headache. "Let me guess, you knew who I was the whole time, right? This was all some kind of game?"
"No, I-"
"What, you and your partner thought it would be fun to mess with the crazy girl who bought the farm next door? See how far you could string me along before-"
"There is no partner."
The words cut through your rant, delivered with such focused quietness that you actually stop talking, surprising as might be even to yourself.
"What?"
"There is no partner. No boyfriend, no husband. It's just me." She's gripping the steering wheel now, knuckles white in the dashboard light. "The property is mine. The water dispute is my thing. The, uh, the 'military asshole' works for me."
You stare at her, processing this information. She's your neighbour. She's the mysterious landowner who's been making your life miserable. She's the person you've been cursing at every morning when you check your water pressure.
"You," you say slowly, "are Asshole Neighbour."
"I prefer to think of myself as 'misunderstood property owner,'" she says weakly, but the joke falls flat.
"Let me out."
"What?"
"Let me out of the car. I'm walking home." You're already reaching for the door handle, but she hits the locks before you can open it.
"You can't walk home from here. It's over a kilometre to your gate, it's dark, and you're still drunk."
"Watch me." You struggle with the door, but the locks won't budge. "Let me out of this fucking car right now."
"Just listen-"
"Let me out!"
"Fine!" She hits the unlock button, and you practically fall out of the passenger seat in your haste to escape. "But I'm not letting you walk home in the dark when you've been drinking."
"Oh, now you're concerned about my wellbeing?" You slam the door harder than necessary. "That's rich, coming from the one responsible for my high blood pressure levels lately."
She gets out of the car too, facing you across the hood. In the harsh glare of the security lights, she looks different; still beautiful, but somehow smaller, more vulnerable. And, unfortunately, all the beauty now gives way to the maddening bitter knowledge that just this morning you swore to your empty house that you'd murder this fucking jerk with your own hands if the opportunity ever presented itself.
"I can explain," she says.
"I'm sure you can." You start walking toward the gates, which are already swinging closed again. Fucking asshole. "I'm sure you have a great explanation for why you've been harassing me for months and then decided to pick me up at a bar like some kind of-"
"I didn't know it was you!" The desperation in her voice makes you stop walking, though you don't turn around. "I swear to god, I had no idea who you were until just now. I don't even know your name."
Despite yourself, you believe her. The shock on her face when you mentioned the water rights had seemed genuine, not like someone who'd been caught in a lie. But that almost makes it worse, because it means this whole evening was just some sort of cosmic joke at your expense, which feels even more cruel than being intentionally targeted.
"Well," you say, finally turning to face her. "Now you know."
"Let me drive you home," she says, taking a step toward you. "Please. We can talk-"
"Absolutely not." You hold up a hand to stop her from coming any closer. "I'm not getting back in that car with you."
"Then let me pay for a cab." She's already reaching for her phone. "I can have someone here in-"
"I don't want your dirty money."
She flinches like you've slapped her. "It's not dirty money, it's just-"
"Couldn't care less." You pull out your own phone, grateful that you at least have Joanna's cab driver's number saved. It'll be barely be a two-minute drive, but still. Your hands are shaking with anger as you dial.
She watches you make the call, hovering nearby like she wants to say something else but doesn't know what. When you hang up, she tries again.
"The cab will take at least twenty minutes to get out here. You don't have to wait alone-"
"I'd rather wait alone than stand here with someone who's been trying to steal from me for months."
"I wasn't trying to steal-"
"Save it." You cross your arms and deliberately turn your back to her. "Just go back to your fancy house and leave me alone."
You hear her sigh, then footsteps on gravel. For a moment, you think she's actually going to leave you standing here, but then you realise she's just moving to lean against her car. Keeping her distance, but not abandoning you entirely.
The twenty minutes stretch like hours. You stand near the gate, refusing to acknowledge her presence, while she stays by her SUV like some kind of beautiful, guilty sentinel. Neither of you speaks.
When the cab finally arrives, its headlights cutting through the darkness, you've never been so grateful to see anything in your life. As you climb into the backseat, she pushes off from her car.
"Wait," she calls out. "Can we at least-"
You roll down the window just long enough to flip her off with both hands.
"Go fuck yourself," you say with feeling, then tell the driver to hit the gas.
· · ·
You're lying in bed at nearly four in the morning, staring at the ceiling fan that's been making that annoying clicking sound for weeks now, when it hits you like a freight train carrying a cargo hold full of platinum albums.
The shape of her mouth when she smiled, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the quality of her voice, those blue eyes. The expensive car, the compound, the security gates and the military-looking guys who work for her.
Five years.
Five years since Taylor Swift disappeared from the public eye following her last world tour. Five years of speculation, conspiracy theories, and increasingly desperate attempts by paparazzi to track down the most famous woman in the world.
Five years, and she's been living next door to you.
You sit up in bed so fast you get dizzy.
"Holy shit," you whisper to the empty room. "Holy fucking shit."
The evidence clicks into place with the ruthless efficiency your journalistic brain hasn't employed in months. The over-the-top security makes sense now, as does the fact that she conducts all her business through intermediaries.
She's been hiding in plain sight in the mountains of Panama, and you have been screaming at her about irrigation systems for whole three months.
You grab your phone from the nightstand, fingers shaking as you open Google. You haven't searched for celebrity news in years, haven't cared enough to keep up with pop culture since you left journalism behind (didn't even when you did still work in it). But muscle memory kicks in as you type: "Taylor Swift disappearance 2025."
The results are exactly what you expected. Thousands of articles speculating about her whereabouts, fan theories ranging from reasonable to completely unhinged, grainy photos that claim to show her in various locations around the world, none of them Panama. The most recent credible sighting was over four years ago at a private airport in Nashville.
And tonight, you made out with her against her car.
You drop the phone and put your head in your hands.
This is insane. This is absolutely, completely insane. You've spent three months engaged in a petty property dispute with one of the most famous people on the planet, and you had no idea. She's been sending lawyers and security guys to your door while you stood there in your muddy boots trying not to personally commit half a dozen hate crimes.
The worst part is that it makes perfect sense. Of course she bought a massive property in the middle of nowhere. Of course she hired security and conducts all her business through intermediaries. Of course she looked like she was working very hard to be invisible at the bar tonight.
She wasn't being mysterious for the sake of it, she was trying not to be recognised. And you, in your alcohol-fuelled state, completely missed it.
"Fuck," you mutter, falling back against your pillows.