Chapter 115: 115

Beth sat on the edge of the bed, sipping her margarita. The salt on the rim bit at her lip, but she barely noticed.

This spot.

This exact place three months ago was where she’d sat when the real Kingsley had barged in, furious and unraveling, to confront her.

“What did you do to her, Beth?” he had shouted, voice cracking with fury.

She hadn’t answered. Not with words.

Thomas had stepped from the shadows then, silent as a breath, and driven the syringe into Kingsley’s neck.

“Wh… what the hell..?” Kingsley had whispered, staggering backward, his eyes wide with shock.

His body crumpled to the floor with a sickening thud, limbs twitching, breath ragged.

The last thing he saw before the darkness closed in was her, kneeling beside him, her manicured fingers brushing against his damp cheek.

“You should’ve listened, darling,” she had whispered, sweet as poison.

He blacked out.

That night was slick with rain, the kind that misted up windows and blurred intentions. Manhattan had long since surrendered to the hush of midnight when Beth Rowe, immaculate in silk and vengeance, stood poised in the dimly lit foyer of her mansion, her wine glass half full and her conscience bone dry.

Kingsley lay crumpled on the Persian carpet behind her, unconscious, his breath shallow, limbs slack like a discarded doll. Thomas, her silent enforcer, waited near the edge of the staircase. In his gloved hands, he still held the empty syringe that had dropped the titan.

Beth turned slowly, eyes cold and precise.

“Thomas,” she said, her voice like ice cracking across a pond, “tell the others to stay in their quarters. No one leaves.”

He nodded once and disappeared into the hallway.

Beth knelt beside Kingsley’s prone figure, brushing a strand of damp hair from his brow. “You should’ve listened, darling,” she whispered again, though the satisfaction in her voice now was sharp as broken glass. “Now I’m going to fix what you’ve ruined.”

Ten minutes later, the mansion had gone silent. The staff were tucked away under Beth’s order, none brave enough or foolish enough to question the odd timing.

With smooth precision, Beth gestured toward Kingsley. “Help me carry him. Gently, Thomas. No bruises.”

Together, they hauled Kingsley’s unconscious body out of the service entrance and into the back of her matte-black Escalade. His weight was dead, his body too heavy in her arms for someone she once claimed to love. She didn’t flinch. Love, after all, was never the goal. Control was.

As Thomas closed the car door behind him, Beth slid into the driver’s seat, wiped a speck of lint from her coat, and exhaled. Her nails, lacquered obsidian, tapped twice against the wheel.

Then she pulled away from the curb like a queen riding into war.

The ride to Staten Island took just under an hour. The facility she funded was nestled behind a gated perimeter, veiled in anonymity. To the outside world, it was just another biotech institute in a borough that people barely paid attention to. But to those on the inside, like Beth, it was a temple of psychological manipulation, cutting-edge memory technology, and unregulated potential.

The guard at the gatehouse recognized her car immediately. No ID check. No words. Just a nod and the slow rise of the security barrier.

She drove straight to the private entrance near the east wing. A tall woman in a white coat stood waiting under the soft glow of overhead floodlights. Dr. Elise Hartford. Lead researcher. Cool, brilliant, and just morally flexible enough to take Beth’s money without asking too many questions.

Beth stepped out of the car. “He’s in the back,” she said simply.

Elise opened the rear door and peered in. “He’s… sedated?”

“Thoroughly.”

Dr. Hartford nodded, motioning for the orderlies behind her to approach. “Let’s get him inside. Use the gurney.”

Beth stood in the shadows as they transferred Kingsley’s lifeless form into the building, her arms crossed tightly, her face unreadable.

Inside, the air smelled of antiseptic and cold ambition. Machines hummed low like distant thunder. The facility’s sterile white corridors were a stark contrast to the chaos she’d orchestrated to bring Kingsley here. She followed Hartford down a hallway to a secured room outfitted with biometric locks.

“Room 4B,” Hartford said, tapping in a code. “This one is fully insulated. No devices, no signals, no windows. He’ll be monitored constantly.”

Beth entered the room and looked around. Clinical. Bright. Empty except for a bed, a medical station, and a reinforced observation mirror.

“He won’t remember anything?”

“Not yet,” Hartford said cautiously. “The research is still in Phase 4. But we’re very close. Our latest prototype isolates memory clusters using neural pathway tagging. In layman’s terms, we can target specific memories by identifying where they light up in the brain and interrupting their retrieval process.”

Beth’s lips curled in satisfaction. “And you can make sure he forgets Katherine. All of her.”

“In time. The treatment must be calibrated carefully. We can’t do a full wipe; that would make him unstable. But once the procedure is ready, we’ll isolate the memory nodes associated with this woman, Katherine. Then we’ll disrupt and erase.”

Beth walked over to the bed and looked down at Kingsley’s face. Peaceful. Innocent. A lie.

She placed a hand on his cheek.

“You’ll wake up a new man,” she said, smiling thinly. “And I’ll make sure you never crave her again.”

Hartford cleared her throat. “The process will take approximately six months. We’ll keep him sedated for the first stage. Minimal stimulation. We’ll simulate an accident story for the final memory realignment if needed. Our people will be discreet.”

Beth nodded. “Send me weekly updates.”

“Of course.”

Beth turned back toward the door but paused at the threshold. “Doctor?”

“Yes?”

“If anyone finds out about this, your funding evaporates.”

Hartford didn’t blink. “Understood.”

As Beth’s SUV slid back into the blackness of the night, leaving no trace behind, inside Room 4B Kingsley lay beneath a sheet, his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. Monitors beeped quietly. A sedative IV dripped in a steady rate.

A camera above the bed panned to track his motionless form. A screen blinked softly nearby with the words:

SUBJECT: ROWE, KINGSLEY — STATUS: STABLE.

STAGE 1: HOLDING.

Behind the mirrored observation wall, technicians observed silently.

And far above, in her mansion fortress, Beth Rowe toasted herself with another glass of Syrah.

She was already writing her perfect ending.

…

The following morning, light spilled gently through the wide glass panels of Beth’s penthouse, casting soft, golden beams across her pristine marble floors and designer furniture. It was a perfect New York morning—clean, quiet, unassuming. The kind that could lull anyone into believing that everything in the world was exactly as it should be.

Beth Rowe knew better.

She sat at her glass dining table in a white silk robe, legs crossed, sipping green tea from an ivory porcelain cup. Her hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail, and a faint smudge of eyeliner framed her ice-blue gaze. The soft hum of classical music drifted from the built-in speakers, and the city skyline sprawled beyond her windows like a conquered kingdom.

Her phone rang once, an unfamiliar number, and she pressed Accept without hesitation.

A male voice came through, low and smooth, like velvet lined with steel.

“It’s done,” he said. “I found him.”

Beth didn’t move. Her fingers remained wrapped around her teacup, but her pulse ticked faster beneath her skin.

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be. The resemblance is uncanny. He’s in upstate Jersey, working on a construction crew. Name’s Jordan Ellis. Ex-model, fell on hard times. No criminal record, no baggage. Just the right face and a desperate need for money.”

Beth’s lips curved upward.

“How desperate?”

“Living in his truck desperate.”

She finally set the teacup down.

“I want to see him. Today.”

The line crackled faintly. “He’s skeptical. Doesn’t trust suits. I told him you were just a media executive looking for talent.”

“Then keep that story,” Beth replied coolly. “Tell him we’re considering him for a commercial campaign. Something upscale. Tell him I’m the director. I want to meet him face to face. No handlers, no team. Just him, me, and you. Two o’clock. Choose a secure place.”

“Already done. There’s an old industrial warehouse I use sometimes. Off the books. Quiet. Corner of 12th and Kennedy in Bayonne.”

“I’ll be there.”

She ended the call and stared into the smooth surface of her untouched tea. Her reflection stared back—beautiful, composed, untouchable. Perfect.

By one-thirty that afternoon, Beth had traded her silk robe for a charcoal-gray pantsuit and black heels. Her makeup was flawless, severe. Her driver took her out of Manhattan without question, following the subtle instructions she’d programmed into the car’s GPS herself.

The ride was quiet. She scrolled through her calendar, approving and rescheduling meetings with flicks of her manicured fingers. Every tap reminded her she was in control. She was no longer simply Kingsley Rowe’s wife. She was the architect of a new order. Her order.

By the time the car pulled up outside the designated location, a half-abandoned warehouse pressed between two dusty brick buildings, Beth was ready. The area was fenced off and monitored by cameras. Old, yes. But secure.

A tall man waited by the steel door, hands in his coat pockets. Reed. Ex-military. Ex-private intelligence. Now, her a problem solver.

He gave a curt nod as she stepped out of the vehicle.

“He’s inside,” he said. “A bit nervous. But curious.”

Beth didn’t respond. She walked past him, heels clicking against the cracked concrete, and entered the building.

The interior smelled of metal, sawdust, and faint oil. It was bare save for a few chairs and a long metal table.

And him.

The man sitting at the table looked up as she entered.

Beth paused. For a brief second, even she had to catch her breath.

It was uncanny.

The man, Jordan Ellis, stood slowly, eyeing her. He had Kingsley’s face, Kingsley’s bone structure, and the same eyes—but a bit duller. His hair was longer and unkempt. The jaw was a little broader. His body was slightly leaner, more rugged. But with the right grooming, the right tailoring…

He was Kingsley.

“Miss Rowe,” Reed said softly behind her, “meet the double.”

Beth stepped forward, eyes scanning Jordan like a jeweler examining a flawless diamond. She circled him once, slowly, thoughtfully. He stiffened under her gaze.

“This is weird,” Jordan said. “I’m not used to this kind of thing.”

“No,” Beth said with a faint smile. “But you’re going to get used to it.”

He raised a brow. “So what’s the deal? Commercial work, right? Modeling?”

Beth tilted her head. “Something like that.”

She gestured toward the chair.

“Sit. Let’s talk.”

Jordan hesitated, then complied. She sat across from him and folded her hands on the table.

“I want to hire you,” she said. “Not for a commercial. For something more… nuanced.”

Jordan frowned. “What do you mean?”

She leaned in, her voice honeyed and deliberate.

“I want you to become someone else.”

He laughed nervously. “You mean, like acting?”

“I mean living. Full-time. You’ll take on a new identity. I’ll teach you the mannerisms, provide wardrobe, housing, and everything you need. You’ll be compensated generously. Seven figures.”

Jordan’s face stiffened. “Hold on. Are you asking me to be, like, a body double?”

“I’m asking you to be Kingsley Rowe.”

Silence fell like a bomb.

Jordan blinked, confused. “The billionaire guy? Wait, what? Isn’t he, like, your—”

“Husband,” Beth said simply. “Yes.”

“Isn’t that… I don’t know. Fraud?”

“Not if no one finds out.”

Jordan leaned back, eyes narrowing. “Why would you even need someone to pretend to be him?”

Beth smiled—slow, measured, serpentine.

“Because my husband is unavailable for a while. But the world doesn’t need to know that. Business must continue. Appearances must be kept. And more importantly, I need control of certain assets that only he can authorize. His voice. His face. His presence. You’ll help maintain stability while I handle the real business behind the curtain. It’s just for six months. After that, you will leave a rich man.”

Jordan looked like he was about to speak, then closed his mouth. His eyes flicked to Reed, who said nothing.

Finally, Jordan exhaled. “This is insane.”

Beth stood up.

“What’s more insane is passing up a chance to go from a truck to a mansion overnight. To eat the best food, wear the best clothes, and sleep on the softest sheets. You’ll be protected, trained, and guarded. And all you have to do is follow instructions.”

She paused.

“And trust me.”

Jordan watched her carefully. Something in his expression shifted. It wasn’t greed exactly. More like hunger. The hunger of someone who’d been starving a long, long time.

“Seven figures?” he asked finally.

“Plus bonuses.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “And if I say no?”

Beth’s smile didn’t fade.

“Then you go back to sleeping in your truck. And I find someone else.”

He looked around the warehouse. Then back at her.

“…When do we start?”