Chapter 4 You're Not Him

Morning brought clarity and, with it, doubt. I stood in my dressing room, examining the faint bruise on my neck where Rowan's teeth had grazed my skin. Last night felt like a fever dream – perhaps I'd been infected by whatever was coursing through his system.

"Ms. Rothschild?" Elise's voice came through the intercom. "Dr. Chen has the test results you requested."

"Send him to my office. I'll be there in five minutes."

I covered the mark with concealer and changed into a structured charcoal suit. Armor for the day ahead.

Dr. Chen waited in my office, tablet in hand, his expression professionally neutral.

"How is he?" I asked, taking my seat behind the desk.

"Stable. Temperature normal. No further seizures."

"And the tests?"

He handed me the tablet. "Interesting findings. He shows traces of several experimental compounds – nothing I could identify in standard databases. I've sent samples to a specialized lab for further analysis."

I scrolled through the results, noting the molecular structures flagged as anomalies. "Any indication what these might do?"

"Based on their structure, possibly neural modification. Some appear similar to compounds used in treating PTSD or memory disorders, but significantly altered."

I set the tablet down, remembering Rowan's delirious words. Don't send me back to the lab.

"Thank you, Doctor. Keep monitoring him and let me know immediately if anything changes."

After he left, I pulled up the security feed from Rowan's chamber. He was awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring directly at the camera as if he knew I was watching. His left hand absently rubbed his right shoulder – an oddly familiar gesture that didn't fit with the memory I had of him.

Rowan had always been right-handed.

I zoomed in the camera, focusing on his hands as he reached for the water glass. He used his left hand, gripping it with a casual confidence that only came from years of practice.

The Rowan I knew had been strictly right-handed. He'd even teased me about my ambidexterity, calling it my "secret superpower."

I felt a chill run through me despite the warmth of the room.

The intercom buzzed. "Ms. Rothschild, your father is on line one."

My father. Of course he would have heard about my auction purchase by now.

"Put him through," I said, steeling myself.

"Cassia." His voice filled the room, cold and clipped as always. Alexander Rothschild, financial titan and the man whose approval I'd spent a lifetime chasing. "I understand you made quite the spectacle of yourself last night."

"Good morning to you too, Father."

"Ten million for a disgraced ex-fiancé? The board members are concerned you've lost your grip on reality."

I kept my tone level. "The board members should concern themselves with the quarterly projections, not my personal expenditures."

"When your personal expenditures make headlines, they become company business." I could picture him at his desk, spine rigid, disapproval radiating from every pore. "Have you forgotten what that man did to you? To our family name?"

"I haven't forgotten anything."

"Then what possessed you to bring him into your home?"

I chose my words carefully. "Let's call it... closure."

"Closure," he repeated flatly. "And I suppose this has nothing to do with your mother's anniversary next week."

The mention of my mother sent a familiar pain through my chest. Five years since her death, and he still wielded it like a weapon.

"This has nothing to do with her," I said coldly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a company to run."

"Cassia—" I disconnected the call before he could finish.

My hands trembled slightly as I reached for my coffee. My father had always had that effect on me – reducing me to a child seeking approval with just a few well-placed words.

I returned my attention to the monitor, watching Rowan eat the breakfast that had been delivered to his chamber. He used his fork with his left hand, twirling pasta with practiced ease.

Something was very wrong.

I summoned Marcus to my office.

"I need you to pull something from the archives," I said when he arrived. "The security footage from my engagement party three years ago. The one at the Sinclair Hotel."

"The backup servers or cloud storage?"

"Both. I want to compare."

While he worked on retrieving the footage, I returned to watching Rowan. He'd finished eating and was now doing push-ups on the chamber floor, movements fluid and controlled despite his illness the night before.

His recovery seemed impossibly quick. Another anomaly to add to the growing list.

"Found it," Marcus said, pulling up the old footage on a secondary screen. "What specifically are you looking for?"

"Just watch him," I instructed, pointing to the younger Rowan on screen, laughing, champagne glass in hand as he chatted with guests. "Focus on his hands, his movements."

We watched in silence for several minutes. The Rowan in the old footage gestured expressively with his right hand as he spoke, signed a guest book with his right hand, adjusted his tie with his right.

"Now look at this," I said, switching to the live feed where Rowan was now reading a book, turning pages with his left hand.

Marcus's brow furrowed. "He's using different dominant hands."

"Exactly."

"Could be an injury that forced him to adapt?"

I shook my head. "There's more. Pull up the footage from last night, when he was delirious."

Marcus brought up the medical emergency recording. We listened as Rowan mumbled in his fever.

"Replay that," I instructed. "Focus on his accent."

Marcus played it again, then looked at me. "French? But Mr. Vale didn't speak with an accent."

"He spoke French – business level, not fluent. And certainly not with that particular regional inflection." I stood, decision made. "I'm going to speak with him. Have Dr. Chen meet me there with equipment for DNA sampling."

Twenty minutes later, I entered Rowan's chamber, Dr. Chen behind me with his medical case. Rowan looked up from his book, expression wary.

"Making house calls now, Doctor?" he asked, setting the book aside.

"Just a quick follow-up," Dr. Chen replied pleasantly. "How are you feeling today?"

"Better. Though I'm sure the cameras have told you that already."

I remained near the door, watching their interaction. Rowan submitted to the examination with a detached compliance that seemed foreign to his character. The Rowan I knew would have questioned every procedure, demanded to know the results of previous tests.

"I'll need another blood sample," Dr. Chen said, preparing a syringe. "And if you don't mind, a cheek swab for additional testing."

"Looking for something specific?" Rowan asked, eyes flicking to me.

"Just thorough," I replied. "We wouldn't want you having another seizure."

He extended his arm – his left – for the blood draw. "Your concern is touching."

After Dr. Chen finished and left, I remained, studying Rowan as he rolled down his sleeve.

"Something on your mind, Cassia?" he asked without looking up.

"You're left-handed now."

His movements paused, almost imperceptibly, before resuming. "I've always been ambidextrous."

"No, you haven't." I stepped closer. "You were strictly right-handed. You couldn't even hold a fork properly in your left hand."

He smiled thinly. "People change."

"Not that fundamentally." I moved to stand directly in front of him. "Last night you spoke French in your sleep. A southern dialect. You never spoke French that way before."

"Perhaps I took lessons during my... sabbatical."

I crossed my arms. "Who are you?"

He laughed, the sound lacking any real humor. "I'm Rowan Vale. The man who left you at the altar. The man you paid ten million dollars to own."

"No." I shook my head. "You look like him. Your DNA will probably match his. But you are not him."

Something cold flickered behind his eyes. "Then who am I?"

"That's what I intend to find out."

He stood suddenly, closing the distance between us. I held my ground, refusing to show the unease crawling up my spine.

"You're reaching, Cassia," he said softly. "Seeing differences because you can't face the truth – that the man you loved willingly walked away from you."

"The man I loved didn't bite," I countered. "He didn't fight. He negotiated, manipulated, charmed. You..." I gestured at him, "You're all sharp edges and rage."

"Maybe I'm what you made me." He reached out, fingers brushing my cheek in a touch so gentle it was more unsettling than if he'd grabbed me. "You're not the only one who changed after that day."

I stepped back. "I'm running a full DNA workup. Genome sequencing, cellular structure analysis, everything."

"Do whatever makes you feel better," he said, returning to his seat and picking up his book – with his left hand. "It won't change what happened."

I turned to leave, then paused at the door. "One more thing. Why did you mention a lab when you were delirious? What lab, Rowan?"

His face remained impassive, but I caught the slight tensing of his shoulders. "I don't remember saying anything about a lab."

"You said, 'Don't send me back to the lab.' What did that mean?"

"Fever dreams," he dismissed. "Meaningless."

But his eyes told a different story.

Back in my office, I found Elise waiting with a stack of documents requiring my signature.

"How is your... guest?" she asked carefully.

"Recovering," I replied, taking the papers.

"There's something else," she said, hesitating. "The catering company called about the board dinner tomorrow night. They need final approval on the menu."

I'd forgotten entirely about the quarterly board dinner – a tradition my father insisted upon to "maintain proper corporate culture."

"Approve whatever they suggested," I said distractedly, my mind still on Rowan.

"And will Mr. Vale be joining the dinner?" Elise asked, her tone carefully neutral.

I looked up sharply. "Of course not."

"I only ask because your father called again while you were out. He... insisted on meeting your 'acquisition' in person."

Of course he did. Alexander never could resist examining my failures up close.

"Tell him Mr. Vale is still under medical observation. He won't be receiving visitors."

Elise nodded and left, closing the door softly behind her.

I turned back to my monitor, watching Rowan read his book with practiced left-handed ease. The familiar stranger wearing my ex-fiancé's face.

My computer chimed with an incoming message from Dr. Chen: preliminary DNA results showed a perfect match to the Rowan Vale samples we had on file from before our engagement. Identical markers across the board.

I stared at the results in disbelief. He was Rowan. But he wasn't.

The bathroom mirror caught my attention – specifically, the condensation forming at its edges despite the room's cool temperature. I approached it, noticing letters appearing in the fog, as if drawn by an invisible finger:

YOU DON'T WANT TO FIND ME. YOU WANT TO OWN ME.

I touched the glass, the words smearing beneath my fingertips. A security glitch? A trick of the light?

Or a message from a man who both was and wasn't the one I'd lost.

"You are him," I whispered to my own reflection. "But you're not him."

The mirror offered no answers, only my own confused expression staring back.