The Stolen Pulse Chapter 1

I was born broken, a secret buried so deep even the people who raised me never knew.

The summer I turned eighteen, Arthur and Eleanor Townsend finally found their biological son.

At the welcoming gala held in his honor, Preston Townsend raised his crystal flute toward me. The room was drowning in champagne and old New York society perfume, but the moment our glasses chimed, a cold, synthetic cadence rang inside my skull:

“Ding. Target detected: Damian Townsend. Prime masculine magnetism identified. Initiate Plunder?”

Preston’s silent scream reverberated through my mind, raw and rabid:

“Plunder it! Strip him of everything! Why should an imposter enjoy a life that belongs to me? I want it back. I want his face, his charm, his entire damn existence!”

“Directive confirmed. Plunder sequence initiated. Irreversible.”

A heartbeat later, a faint, unfamiliar warmth coiled deep in my pelvis, while Preston’s features seemed to sharpen beneath the crystal chandeliers.

He offered me a practiced, radiant smile. "Looking forward to learning from you, little brother."

I met his triumphant gaze, letting the corners of my mouth lift into a polite, practiced curve.

"Welcome home, Preston."

* * *

The moment that toast ended, Preston looked as though an invisible sculptor had chiseled his jawline. His silhouette cut through the room with an effortless, hypnotic masculinity that pulled every eye in the ballroom toward him.

The whispered murmurs rippled across the velvet drapes:

"Is that really the boy they found in that rundown foster home?"

"I heard he arrived looking like a stray. A few weeks in the Townsend estate, and he looks like an aristocrat."

"Blood will tell. Townsend genetics are undeniable."

"Damian’s always been striking, but tonight... he almost fades into the background, doesn't he?"

I caught my reflection in the gilded mirrors along the gallery wall. My features were the same, yet the sharp, magnetic authority that once defined me had been blunted. I looked like an antique blade slipped into a dull scabbard—functional, neat, but stripped of its luster.

Arthur Townsend didn’t waste a second. He took Preston by the shoulder, guiding him toward a circle of venture capitalists. "This is Preston. Our true blood. The eldest son of the Townsend family."

Preston stood in the center of the orbit, bathing in the admiration. Every few seconds, his eyes darted to me, glittering with venomous satisfaction.

I ignored him, set my untouched flute on a passing waiter’s silver tray, and stepped out onto the terrace.

The autumn wind off the Hudson was crisp. As I leaned against the stone balustrade, a young woman in an emerald silk dress glanced over and smiled. For the first time in eighteen years, my body answered with a faint, involuntary flutter.

When I was fifteen, I discovered I wasn't like other boys. While my prep school peers bragged about athletic records, late-night conquests, and the empires they would inherit and populate, I had slipped away to a discrete private clinic on the Upper East Side.

The diagnostic report had been clinical and merciless: Congenital vasculogenic erectile dysfunction. Irreversible nerve apathy. Physiologically incapable of consummation.

From that afternoon on, I carried that truth like a lead weight in my chest. Whenever the Townsends arranged our mandatory annual executive physicals, I paid off a private doctor to falsify the urological panels.

I knew my family too well. The Townsends didn’t raise children; they curated assets. If Arthur and Eleanor discovered that their golden heir was physically incapable of producing the next generation, my arranged engagement to Audrey Locke would be dissolved by sunrise. I would have been discarded like a cracked porcelain vase.

Later that evening, on my way to the restroom, I heard muffled, ecstatic laughter around the marble corridor.

Preston was leaning against the service exit, tracing his fingers along his sculpted jaw, his breathing ragged with adrenaline.

"System, did it work?"

That frozen mechanical voice answered in the air:

“Prime masculine magnetism plunder complete. Transfer rate: 100%. Target Damian’s aesthetic halo has been substantially degraded.”

Preston’s voice shook with manic excitement. "It’s permanent, right? He can never take it back?"

“Directive finalized. Irreversible.”

Preston’s fingers grazed a faint, jagged line near his temple—the faded scar left by a drunken foster father years ago. "No more 'gutter trash.' No more girls looking at me like I’m a sewer rat."

He let out a low, breathless laugh. "Damian Townsend... your time is up. You sat on my throne for eighteen years while the world treated you like a prince. Now your magnetism is mine. Next, I’ll take your engagement to Audrey. I’ll take your authority, your pedigree, and that high-and-mighty look you give everyone."

I stood silently in the shadow of the pillar, listening to every syllable.

He was so profoundly happy.

When a predator watches a beast swallow poisoned bait, the worst mistake is to make a sound. Preston believed he had stolen my beauty, completely blind to the reality that some gifts demand a price you cannot survive.

And the face was never what I wanted anyway.