The two parties faced one another in silence, tension rippling faintly in the air like the aftershock of a distant thunderclap. Riley, however, remained perfectly composed.
He had no intention of making a scene, not here, not now. His gaze briefly landed on the man standing beside Diana—a man who looked like him, moved like him, and smiled like him.
But Riley knew the truth.
That man was just a clone.
A tool. A stand-in. A piece of himself—yet not truly him.
Whenever Riley was with Diana or his wives, he always ensured that it was his real body present.
He would transfer his body, his true self, before any act of intimacy. No matter how skilled or lifelike his clones were, he had a strict rule: only his original self could touch the women he loved.
It would be a grotesque kind of betrayal—of himself—if his own replicas ended up bedding his lovers. That would be no different than being cuckolded by his own shadow.
