The Maybach glided to a stop in front of a mansion that could only be described as "capitalism incarnate." The kind of house that didn't just whisper "money"—it screamed it in six languages and made you feel poor for blinking near it.
I stepped out slowly, as if afraid the marble driveway might charge me rent just for standing on it.
The place looked like a modern art museum and a Bond villain lair had a very expensive baby. Glass panels, black stone, gravity-defying terraces, and a waterfall wall that seemed to exist for the sole purpose of saying, Yes, I can afford unnecessary beauty. Suffer. The entire front facade gleamed like it had been bathed in the tears of bankrupt millionaires.
I stared.
"Holy hell," I muttered. "Is this where I live?"
Shan stepped beside me, casually adjusting his cufflinks like this was all very normal. "Welcome home, Mr. Moreaux."
"You sure I'm not hallucinating?" I asked, tilting my head at a sculptural tree installation that was suspiciously better-looking than me. "Because this feels like the inside of a billionaire's Pinterest board."
"You designed it yourself. According to the architect, you insisted on 'dominating the skyline with taste.'"
"…Sounds pretentious enough to be true."
As we approached the entrance, the massive doors—tall enough to let in a giraffe on stilts—swung open automatically. No sound. Just quiet, smooth intimidation.
And then, as if I'd stepped into a fever dream or a royal fanfare, there they were.
Two rows of people. Maids in pristine uniforms, hair tucked neatly under caps. Bodyguards in black suits, sunglasses on despite it being dusk, probably judging me silently through their earpieces. A few had that polite smile that said, I could kill a man with my pinky but today I'm doing hospitality.
They all stood straight as arrows, heads bowed slightly.
One of the older maids stepped forward. "Welcome home, Mr. Moreaux. We're glad to see you up and walking again."
I blinked. "Oh. Uh. Thanks."
And then they bowed.
All of them.
In sync. Like I was a returning war general or a final boss in a luxury RPG.
I instinctively stepped back half a step. "Okay, that's… mildly terrifying."
Shan leaned in. "You instituted the bowing. Said it was important to 'maintain the aura of a man who owns planets.'"
"…I was really into drama, wasn't I?"
"You once called your private elevator 'The Throne Ascent.'"
I rubbed a hand over my face. "God, I hope I kept a diary. I need to apologize to it."
Inside, the mansion was even more ridiculous. Vaulted ceilings. Floating staircases. Floor-to-ceiling windows that displayed the city like it was mine for the taking. I caught a glimpse of a glass wine cellar that looked like a space pod for alcohol. And the chandelier? It didn't just hang, it hovered. I swear it was defying gravity with sheer wealth.
The head maid kept pace beside us as we entered the grand foyer. "Would you like to change before dinner, sir? The chef has prepared your usual."
Shan gave her a look. "He might not remember what his usual is."
She didn't miss a beat. "Very well. We'll offer a sampling platter. The chef suggests the wagyu sliders, quinoa truffle salad, or—if you're in the mood for comfort—duck-fat fries with parmesan dust."
I stared at her. "I don't know if I want to kiss your chef or fight him."
"Fight him," Shan said. "He takes it as a compliment."
We continued walking, my footsteps echoing lightly against the marble floors. Every room we passed was like a statement piece: a reading nook with a personal fireplace, a piano lounge that no one in their right mind would touch unless they were wearing silk gloves, and an indoor koi pond with koi that probably had their own health insurance.
"This house," I said finally, "feels like I lost a bet with a Greek god."
Shan chuckled. "You said once, 'If you're going to be rich, do it with vengeance.'"
"I was terrifying," I murmured. "Also kind of awesome."
One of the younger maids gave a quick bow and whispered, "It's good to have you back, sir."
Something about that made me go still for half a second. There was… warmth in her voice. Relief, even. Like they hadn't just been maintaining the house—they'd been waiting.
I cleared my throat. "Thank you."
The words felt a little awkward in my mouth. But I meant them.
Shan tilted his head at me. "Look at that. Three 'thank yous' in one day. You're setting a new record."
"Shut up, Shan."
He grinned. "Welcome home, Mr. Moreaux."
I looked up at the floating chandelier again, at the home I was supposed to own, the life I was supposed to remember.
"Yeah," I said softly.
---
The study smelled of ink, old books, and power.
I sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up, brows furrowed as I typed with practiced precision. I don't know where this business report came from, but the numbers made sense in my head like a muscle memory I'd always known. Every calculation clicked, every forecasted trend just… appeared. My fingers moved faster than my thoughts. It wasn't effort. It was instinct.
I was halfway through drafting a reply to someone titled "Head of Acquisitions – Eastern Block" when the door creaked open.
Shan stepped in, unusually hesitant. For once, he didn't open with a schedule or coffee or passive-aggressive reminders to eat. His tone was laced with unease.
"Mr. Moreaux… your father called."
I looked up from the laptop screen, raising a brow. "He remembered I exist? How delightful. Was it by accident?"
Shan blinked, lips twitching like he wasn't sure whether to wince or smile.
"He wants you to visit the old family mansion."
I leaned back in the chair, exhaling a sharp breath through my nose. "Why?"
Shan didn't answer, because really—what answer could excuse a father who hadn't visited his son in the hospital after a near-fatal gunshot?
My gaze turned distant, then wry. "How strange. I always thought he preferred pretending I was a tax write-off."
Shan hesitated. "If you don't want to go, I can cancel—"
"No," I cut in, my tone calm but steely. "Let's go tomorrow. Let's see what they're up to."
I stood up, moving toward the bar cart without looking. My hand landed exactly on the decanter of whiskey—second from the left, the one with the aged blend. I poured two fingers with the precision of muscle memory. Then paused.
How did I know where that was?
How did I know the exact drawer that contained the hidden thumb drive marked Kyros Project?
How did I know that my father's mansion had a panic room disguised as a wine cellar?
I sipped the whiskey. "I shouldn't know all this."
Shan tilted his head. "It's coming back to you, sir. Bit by bit. It's a good sign."
I didn't reply. I walked toward the bookshelf and pulled out an antique volume, fourth from the right. A click. A small compartment opened at the bottom—inside, a sleek, fingerprint-locked keycard.
I stared at it.
"I've never been in this study before the accident," I murmured.
Shan didn't blink. "You're remembering more than you think. The mind's a tricky thing. Near-death trauma can bury details deep… then bring them back without warning."
I turned the keycard over my hand. It felt familiar. Not like a memory returning—but like something inside me was guiding myself step by step.
Like I belonged here.
Like I was Lucien Moreaux.
Even if I wasn't.
Shan watched me quietly, then added, softer than before, "Your family didn't come to the hospital. Not once. The media didn't catch wind of your condition, but they knew. They just… didn't care."
I set the keycard down with eerie calm.
"They don't know what you've become, sir," Shan continued. "They still think you're a rebellious heir, not a tech billionaire with investments deep enough to crash markets if you so much as sneeze."
I smirked, though my eyes stayed cold. "Keep it that way."
Shan blinked. "Sir?"
"The money. The empire. Keep it hidden."
I walked back to the desk and sat.
The man who settled there didn't look like someone recovering from trauma. He looked like a chessmaster resetting the board, mumbled Shan to himself.
"Let them think I'm the same disappointing son," I said, almost idly. "It'll make it more fun when the disappointment bites back."
Shan nodded with quiet pride. "Yes, Mr. Moreaux."
I turned back to my screen, but Shan lingered at the door. Watching. Wondering.
So much had changed. The way Lucien spoke now was sharper. The humor, darker. The stillness in his body—like a man watching the world through bulletproof glass.
But Shan didn't question it.
He just thought Lucien Moreaux had come back stronger. And he felt pretty much at ease.
"It never even crossed his mind that his master had died-and that another soul now lived inside that body."
And I'm that soul, Lucien Chakma aka Lu; now living as his CEO, Lucien Malric Moreaux.
---