The silence in the conference room was deceptive like the hush before a storm. Mr. Dime stood at the head of the long obsidian table, his reflection fractured in the sleek glass surface. Across from him sat the core stakeholders of Draxon International. Shareholders. Backstabbers. Opportunists. Every face wore the mask of professionalism, but their eyes? Their eyes whispered betrayal, hunger, calculation.
"Gentlemen. Ladies," Dime began, his voice unshaken, even commanding. "Before we move forward with the expansion into the Northern Delta Territories, I suggest we discuss the latest audit particularly the creative accounting in the Braveston logistics division."
Murmurs. Then stony silence.
A woman with sharp features and deep auburn lipstick a new face leaned forward. "That's quite the accusation, Mr. Thorne."
"It's not an accusation, Magritte," Dime said evenly. "It's a fact. And I have the numbers to prove it."
Gasps. Dexter, red-eyed and tense, flinched slightly. Landon Crick gritted his teeth. Magritte, calm as ever, only arched a brow.
"I assume this is the part where you show us all you've outmaneuvered us again?" Magritte said, with a lazy elegance that masked steel.
Mr. Dime smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "No. This is the part where I give you all a chance to save yourselves before the media does what I won't."
Silence.
The truth was Dime's wealth had tripled. His name now whispered across five continents. His holdings were buried under aliases and foreign subsidiaries. What began as a revenge saga had slowly transformed into something greater: dominion.
But power had a price.
Later that evening, as he stepped into his private elevator, he caught a reflection in the glass that wasn't his own. For a split second, Elias Thorne the man whose life he now lived flashed back at him. Youthful. Reckless. Haunted.
The vision was gone in a blink.
He entered the penthouse. Magritte stood there, uninvited but not unwelcome.
"You're overexerting," she said.
"And you're not sleeping at all," he replied, taking off his coat. "We all have our vices."
She came closer. Too close.
"You're winning, Dime. But not all battles are boardroom fights. Some are quieter. Closer. Like this one."
She kissed him unexpected, slow, and intense. A test? A distraction? Or something real?
His heart beat like thunder.
"I don't know what this is," he said against her lips.
"It doesn't have to be anything," she whispered. "But whatever it is… it might be the only real thing you have left."
In that moment, the empire, the enemies, the elaborate schemes they all quieted.
But outside, chaos brewed. A rogue financial leak. An unexpected betrayal. A name from the past Lewis resurfacing with classified files and an ultimatum.
And tomorrow, the world would watch.
The morning air over the city was heavy with tension. Dime watched the skyline from his penthouse, still dressed in the tailored slacks from last night, shirt unbuttoned halfway. Magritte was gone. No note. No scent of perfume lingering. Just silence.
His phone vibrated.
Unknown Number. "He's alive. And he remembers everything. Meet me at warehouse 19B. Alone." Dime stared at the message. Lewis.
How?
The files. The scandal. The buried incident with the Duchess Corporation.
Jude walked in, pale, holding a slim folder marked "URGENT."
"We have a problem," Jude said. "Three actually. One, Dexter's trying to pull off a silent board vote. Two, Landon's meeting with a Russian delegation under the table. And three Magritte's missing from her hotel. Her tracker stopped near the docks."
Dime didn't flinch. "Then it's time we stop playing defense."
He took the folder, skimmed its contents. The financial leak had spread like wildfire. Whispers on Wall Street now had teeth. The audit was due in forty-eight hours. If he couldn't spin this narrative, someone else would write it for him.
Dime changed clothes charcoal-grey suit, obsidian cufflinks, watch set to Pacific time and left without another word.
At the Warehouse 19B 10:11 AM. It was quiet. The kind of quiet that begged to be shattered.
Lewis stepped from the shadows, still tall, still grizzled from combat years. His eyes betrayed something pain? Loyalty? Guilt?
"You didn't die," Dime said flatly.
Lewis didn't smile. "Neither did you."
Dime stiffened.
"What do you mean?"
Lewis stepped closer. "The boat accident. Elias Thorne didn't die . He was taken. Drugged. Reprogrammed. You think you're Dime? You think this is all just some cosmic fluke?"
"I am Dime."
"You were," Lewis said. "But memory is a strange beast. And I have the proof."
He threw down a flash drive.
"Names. Places. Audio logs. They didn't kill Elias. They built him into a shell and when that shell failed, you woke up. The body is Thorne's. But the soul... the soul remembers more than you think."
Dime bent slowly, picked it up.
"Why are you helping me?"
"Because I owe Elias. Because I owe you. And because if Dexter wins this vote, *everything* burns."
Dime stepped forward.
"Then let it burn," he whispered.
That Night Draxon Headquarters,The boardroom buzzed.Dexter stood at the head now, all sharp features and cold confidence. "Mr. Thorne is absent. I move the motion to vote him out due to negligence."
The vote began.
But just before the gavel fell Dime walked in.
Powerful. Composed. Alive.
"Let's make this fair," he said. "Vote, yes. But vote after I release the real financial records, including Dexter's off-shore holdings and Landon's bribes to foreign agencies."
The room fell silent.
He plugged in the flash drive.
And then?
Chaos.
Screens lit up. Numbers spilled like blood. Names, payments, transactions, private meetings. Everything.
The vote was canceled. A special audit was ordered. Dexter was placed on probation. Landon stormed out.
And Dime no, Elias stood taller.
He wasn't just climbing now.
He was ruling.
But in the shadows, Magritte was watching.
And next… she'd make her move.