The first thing he saw was the ceiling fan. It spun lazily above him, its blades creaking as if mocking the storm that had stirred inside his head. Elias Thorne or Mr. Dime as he was now known lay flat on a silken bed, its ivory sheets tangled around his legs. His chest rose and fell with rapid uncertainty as memories no, flashes tugged at his mind like insistent shadows. A boat. Water. Screams. Fire? A girl's hand reaching for him through smoke. Then...nothing.
He jolted upright.
The room was foreign but luxurious, dressed in gold-accented cream, adorned with art that spoke of money, heritage, and status. A low hum played from a speaker somewhere, soft jazz pouring into the atmosphere like perfume.
He touched his head, fingers brushing across sweat-slicked hair. He wasn't just disoriented. He was scared. "Who the hell is Magritte?" he whispered to himself.
A knock came at the door. Before he could answer, Jude the ever-composed assistant to Elias Thorne stepped inside, tablet in hand and concern lining her dark, perceptive eyes.
"You're awake."
Dime squinted. "How long was I out?"
"Two days. You collapsed during your executive meeting." Jude's voice was efficient, but gentler than usual. "We called in a doctor. He said you were under severe mental and physical strain. What happened?"
"I..." Dime hesitated. He could lie. He should lie. But what was the point anymore? "I remembered something. Something that didn't make sense. Water. Flames. A ship."
Jude tilted her head. "You mean the accident?"
His throat dried. "What accident?"
She hesitated. "The one that claimed Elias Thorne's life. Twenty-five years ago. You… you were presumed dead, Elias. But you came back."
He swallowed hard. "No. I didn't come back. I became him."
Jude took a careful step forward. "What do you mean?"
"I was Mr. Dime. Office drone. Invisible. Then I woke up in Elias Thorne's body. But now… I think I was Elias Thorne all along. Or maybe I'm both."
Jude's silence was louder than any scream.
"And Magritte?" he asked quietly. "Who is she?"
Jude blinked, clearly rattled. "No one. At least, not that we know. But you muttered that name repeatedly in your sleep."
There was a weight to the name. A pulse. He could feel it deep in his ribs. He didn't know what it meant, but he was certain of one thing: Magritte mattered
By noon, he was dressed in a tailored three-piece charcoal suit. His eyes, though weary, burned with quiet resolve.
"Let's get moving," he told Jude.
"We've got two items high on the list," she replied, following him down the hallway toward the private elevator. "The scandal from Duchess Corp, and Dexter's camp pushing for a leadership vote. They're using the footage of you leaving that hotel with Miss Camilla as leverage."
He sighed. Camilla.
Camilla had been a representative from Duchess Corporation, elegant and vicious behind her veneer of professionalism. The night in question, he had been drugged spiked drink, blurred vision, twisted memory. She had helped him into his room, and left. But the cameras caught only what they needed: him, stumbling with her. In her arms.
It was enough for rumors. Enough for scandal. Enough to cause his betrothed, Valerie Dexter, to go silent for the first time in weeks.
"I want every frame of footage analyzed. Sound, timestamps, metadata."
"It's already in motion," Jude said. "And Lewis is back."
He paused. "Lewis?"
"Your new friend. Ex-military. He tracked Camilla's actual movements that night. She made three phone calls one of them to someone on Dexter's internal team."
The elevator opened directly into the underground garage. The engine of the waiting car purred to life.
"Looks like someone wanted me out of the game," Dime murmured, stepping in.
The meeting with Lewis was set in a private café downtown. The man was large, scarred, and gruff in all the ways that said *don't mess with me*. He wore a dark shirt, sleeves rolled, military tattoos visible on his forearms. A man who didn't waste time.
"You owe me scotch," Lewis said as Dime approached.
"You owe me the truth," Dime shot back, taking a seat.
Lewis nodded. "Fair."
They shook hands.
"So," Lewis began, leaning back. "Camilla. Duchess Corp's golden girl. Her real name is Amara Velden. She was trained as a handler in influence operations. Her file's thicker than your company's corruption report."
Dime didn't flinch. "Did Dexter hire her?"
"No paper trail. But she received two deposits from an offshore account linked to a holding company used frequently by Landon Crick's people."
Of course. Landon. The man who bullied him as Dime and stood to lose everything under Thorne's reforms.
"You're sure it's Landon?"
Lewis nodded. "I'd bet my pension."
"Then we hit him hard. Quietly. Make him think we're still blind."
Lewis's grin was all teeth. "That's why I like you, Elias."
He almost corrected him. Almost told him he wasn't Elias not really. But the line between Dime and Thorne was no longer clear. Maybe he *was* Elias Thorne now. The question was… what kind of Elias would he become?
That evening, Dime returned to the estate.
He found Jude organizing files in the study, and Valerie Dexter his betrothed waiting for him in the parlor, arms folded, eyes dark.
"Valerie," he said.
"You slept with her," she said coldly.
"I didn't."
"You left the hotel with her."
"I was drugged. And set up."
She gave a hollow laugh. "You always were good with stories, Elias. Even twenty-five years ago."
He blinked. "What?"
"You don't remember?" she stepped closer. "We were supposed to announce our engagement at the gala. But you never showed. You boarded a ship to escape. And then it sank. You left me humiliated. Alone."
Valerie
"No. Save it. This time, you'll marry me. And you'll make up for what you did. I don't care if you remember or not."
Dime felt the chill crawl into his spine. This wasn't about love. It never was.
It was about control.
She turned to leave, then paused.
"Oh, and Magritte?" she said with a smirk. "She's the reason you ran the first time."
The door clicked shut behind her.
He stood still, her words echoing like gunshots. Magritte. The name returned like a fever dream.
What had happened twenty five years ago?
And why was everyone afraid of her name?
That night, he sat alone in his office. The city lights glittered beneath him, a constellation of ambition and lies.
Jude entered quietly. "Can't sleep?"
"No."
She studied him. "You asked earlier who is Magritte?"
He nodded.
"She was your mother's ward," Jude said softly. "No one spoke of her much. She vanished the same night you did."
Dime felt his breath catch.
"And her connection to me?"
"She knew your secrets. She… might be the only person who really knew the real Elias Thorne."
He looked out the window.
"Then I need to find her."
Jude placed a file on his desk. It was thick, and red-stamped "CLASSIFIED."
"She might not want to be found."
He opened the file. A black-and-white photo stared back.
Magritte.
Sharp eyes. Sad smile.
I know you, his mind whispered.
Somewhere deep inside him, a memory stirred.
And then another.
A voice. A scream. Fire. Betrayal.
It was starting.
He wasn't just remembering his past.
He was about to relive it.