Chapter 163 The Confession

Chapter 163 The Confession
Cole：POV

I stood there in handcuffs, watching Charlotte push that wheelchair toward me, and something inside me snapped. Not fear anymore. Not panic. Just... exhaustion.

Over twenty years of playing David Grant, and it all came crashing down in a single morning.

"Since you've all gotten this far," I heard myself say, my voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd, "you probably don't know how long it took me to become David after the plastic surgery, do you? Or how I completely replaced him?"

Steel's hand tightened on my arm, but I ignored him. What was the point of staying silent now? They already had everything—the evidence, the witnesses, the fucking DNA test. Might as well tell them how brilliant I'd been.

"Four years," I said, louder now, turning to face the cameras. The reporters leaned in, microphones thrust forward like weapons. "It took me four goddamn years to become David Grant."

I saw Charlotte flinch, her hands gripping the wheelchair so tight her knuckles went white. Good. Let her hear this. Let her understand what I'd sacrificed, what I'd endured to build this life.

"The surgery was just the beginning," I continued, my voice gaining strength. "You think changing a face is enough? You think a few cuts and some stitches can turn one man into another?"

I laughed.

"I had my vocal cords surgically altered. Do you know how much that fucking hurts? They cut into my throat, restructured everything, so I could sound like him. Then I spent months, practicing every inflection, every laugh, every goddamn sigh David Grant ever made."

Alice was taking notes, her pen flying across her tablet. Steel looked like he wanted to shut me up, but I could see the curiosity in his eyes too. They all wanted to know. They all wanted to understand how I'd pulled it off.

"I studied him like he was a fucking doctoral thesis," I said. "The way he walked—David had this slight limp from a childhood injury. I practiced that limp until it became natural, until I didn't have to think about it anymore.

The way he held his coffee cup—left hand, two fingers through the handle. The way he rubbed his temples when he was stressed. Every. Single. Detail."

I turned to face Charlotte directly now, ignoring the cameras, ignoring the crowd.

"Your precious father had a birthmark on his left shoulder blade. Did you know that? Shaped like a crescent moon. I had that tattooed onto my skin. And that scar on his chin from a skateboarding accident when he was twelve? I had a surgeon recreate it. Every mole, every freckle, every imperfection—I replicated them all."

Charlotte's face had gone pale, but her eyes blazed with fury. Michael moved closer to her, protective, but she held up a hand to stop him.

"For four years, I lived in seclusion," I continued. "A rented house in Nevada, far from anyone who might recognize me. I hired acting coaches—the best money could buy—to help me perfect David's mannerisms.

I watched hours of video footage Susan had secretly recorded during our university years. I studied psychology texts to understand how trauma might change someone's personality, so I'd have an excuse for any inconsistencies."

The crowd was silent now, hanging on every word. Even the livestream comments had slowed to a trickle as people absorbed what I was saying.

"I learned everything about Emily Caldwell too," I said, and I saw Charlotte's jaw clench. "David had told me so much about her over the years—how they met, their first date, the way she liked her coffee, her favorite flowers. I memorized it all. I knew exactly how to make her fall for me all over again."

"You're a monster," Charlotte whispered, but I heard her.

"I'm a survivor," I shot back. "You want to know the hardest part? It wasn't the surgery. It wasn't the voice training or the mannerism practice. It was waiting."

I paused, letting the weight of that word sink in.

"I had to wait for the perfect moment to make my move. David was always careful, always surrounded by people. But then he got assigned to that two-month business trip to Seattle. Remote location, minimal security, perfect opportunity."

Steel's grip on my arm tightened, but I kept talking. What did I have to lose now?

"I told David I was in Seattle too. Coincidence, right? Old friends reuniting. He was so fucking happy to see me. Invited me to his hotel room for drinks. Stupid, trusting David."

My voice dropped lower, more dangerous.

"I drugged his drink. Nothing fancy—just enough to make him drowsy, compliant. Then Susan and I took him. We'd rented a warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Soundproof. Isolated. Perfect."

I could hear gasps from the crowd now, horrified whispers spreading like wildfire.

"The first thing I did was destroy his kneecaps," I said flatly, watching Charlotte's face contort with disgust and rage. "Couldn't have him running away, could I? Susan was good with a hammer. Very precise. Very thorough."

"Jesus Christ," someone in the crowd muttered.

"Then we moved him to that psychiatric hospital in Millbrook. Small facility, easy to bribe. The staff there were more than happy to take our money and keep quiet. We told them David was a violent patient, prone to outbursts. They believed us."

I turned back to the cameras, my voice taking on an almost conversational tone.

"During those two months David was supposed to be in Seattle, I was transforming. Susan performed the final surgeries—replicating every scar, every mark David had acquired since our university days. She was meticulous. Brilliant, really."

Steel finally found his voice. "Mr. Stone, I strongly advise you to stop talking."

I ignored him.

"When I returned to San Francisco as 'David Grant,' I had everything planned perfectly.”

"You destroyed him," Charlotte whispered, tears streaming down her face now. "You took everything from him. His life, his family, his identity."

"I took what should have been mine!" I roared, and the crowd flinched back. "I was a Stone! I had Stone blood in my veins! But because my mother was a nightclub whore, because I was born on the wrong side of the sheets, I got nothing! Nothing but scraps and pity money!"