The Billionaire's Stolen Identity

POV (El

crawling across the Thames, traffic sliding like obedient veins through its concrete body. I should have felt in control

ass betrayed me. There was tension in my

er

o laugh, and disappeared when I was finished. Meera didn't fit any category. She had laughed too naturally on the jet, answered my questions with honesty instead

as dan

I had s

broken glass. The phone call should have been routine updates from an associate in Zurich, coded numbers to shift a

era ha

her fingers as she adjusted the champagne glass. She hadn't understood the langu

r the hum of the city and the faint tick of the grandfather clock I kept more for intimidation than sentiment. My

t

. It was instinct, and inst

tongue, and closed my eyes. For a moment,

ulb swinging overhead. The sound of boots on concrete. A name that w

ia

life, given me everything. But Damien Reed had been weak. Too

n't afford to let memory bleed into the present. Memory was

ough, soft but unyielding: "

s from her, watching candlelight catch the determination in her

ting for an invitation. Ex-military, broad-shouldered, his dark suit barely concealing the

id without preamble, shu

. Most people who speak to me l

free. Meera, leaving her flat the morning after Paris, her hair loose, her expression thoughtful. Another, of

" I sipped

. The wrong ki

. Rowe shifted but didn't retreat. That was

river said she lingered when you dropped her off. Looke

ers. She wasn't blinded by champagne and chandeliers. She noticed thin

problem," I

Damien. The Zurich transfer spooked them. Too much

pped to him

k nobody noticed? Som

job, Rowe. Keep the board quiet. Keep

rt nod. But as he left, the

. My reflection followed me in the glass walls, but I barely recognized him. Damien

nd penthouses, I was still the ghost

, I had built myself into Damien, and no one had questioned it beca

as a crack I had

able in Paris. Not dazzled, not intimidated. Searching

maybe she c

wled endlessly, indifferent to my secrets. Somewhere down there, Meera

her flowers, a parting gift, and disappear

e, her honesty, her fire, I

nted something real. And that was

an old contact in Athens. Three words that

is h

pounding once, twice, before sl

The actu

real

anymore. He was flesh and

s, if she looked too closely now..

s, the city roa

a mistake. Meer

e, I wasn't re

t