Chapter 2

Luke drew closer to the lounge area, and the noise around him rose as if he were turning up a dial—laughter louder, glasses clinking faster.

A few cocktail tables stood near the bar. He tossed his jacket over a chair back, loose and comfortable, like he was in his own living room.

His friends crowded around him. Every one of them was dressed sharp, but their faces carried the same bored excitement—as if today wasn’t a wedding, but their playground.

“Check this out.” Luke pulled out his phone. The screen was painfully bright. He lifted it into the middle of the group like a trophy. “Limited edition. I already paid the deposit. After the wedding I’m doubling the garage—those old ones don’t fit anymore.”

Someone whistled. Someone else clapped like it was a performance.

Luke flipped through photos. The supercar’s lines and paint gleamed with a cold shine on the screen. Then he opened an e-contract and paused his finger on the price on purpose, making sure everyone saw it.

Laughter and flattery stacked up, layer after layer, like foam holding him afloat.

I didn’t want to get anywhere near them, but there was only one path between the entrance and the lounge. Guests needed drinks, napkins, directions—so I kept getting pushed here.

I put on a busy face, poured a few glasses of champagne, and set them on my tray.

Luke glanced at me. The interest in his eyes was obvious—not admiration, but the kind that says, Finally, something I can play with. He turned to his friends with a grin, deliberately raising his voice. “You guys hear this? That new gate guy at the estate—always hanging around in front of Claire.”

“That him?” someone asked, looking over. Their gaze landed on me like I was a cheap tool being priced.

“Staff said so,” another shrugged. “Said he thinks he can get the bride. Pretty funny.”

I wasn’t pursuing Claire. That was just the version they’d chewed up and passed around.

But gossip doesn’t need truth. Gossip only needs to be entertaining.

Luke put his phone away and stepped toward me. He lifted a hand and curled his finger at me like he was calling a dog. “Hey. Noah, right? Come here.”

I steadied the tray and walked two steps closer, keeping my tone strictly professional. “Sir, what do you need?”

“I need you to learn to read the room.” He nodded at my tray. “That one. Give it to me.”

I handed him the champagne.

Luke took the glass but didn’t drink. He swirled it once—then suddenly lifted his foot and nudged, the tip of his shoe landing square on the top of my foot.

It wasn’t hard, but it was enough to throw my stance off. The tray wobbled. The champagne almost spilled.

I caught it in time, but pain spread dull and hot across my foot.

Luke grinned wider. “Stand up straight, gateboy. Don’t embarrass yourself at my wedding.”

His friends laughed again. Some even looked toward the bridal passage nearby, like they were waiting for Claire to notice.

Claire was only a few meters away, standing with her friends and the makeup artist while someone adjusted her skirt.

She lifted her eyes toward us. Her gaze paused for a beat—like she was checking whether it affected the schedule—then she turned back and kept talking.

Seeing her watch coldly from the side only made Luke more smug.

“You like her?” he asked softly, but loud enough for everyone to hear. “Then you’d better get smarter.”

I set the tray down on the side table, held my breathing steady, and forced my voice to stay flat. “Sir, according to the schedule the groom needs to be in the dressing room in fifteen minutes. You should head over now.”

It was the most decent solution I could think of—get him out of here, end this while I could still keep it under control.

But my words hit a nerve.

Luke’s eyes sank. Half the smile drained from his mouth. “You telling me what to do?”

He shoulder-checked me on purpose. The impact rocked me, and the sauce from a plate of appetizers on the table splashed—just a little—onto the side of his polished shoe.

“Oh, damn.” Luke lifted his foot, inspecting the dark spot with exaggerated seriousness. “Look what you did.”

He shoved the shoe toward me. His voice jumped up, sharp and commanding. “Kneel down. Wipe it clean. Now.”

The area went quiet for a heartbeat—then the laughter came back even louder.

Someone said, “Training the gateboy before the wedding isn’t a bad idea.”

I didn’t move.

I looked up at him, keeping my tone steady. “Sir, this is the guest area. It’s not appropriate. We can go back to the dressing room. I’ll have someone bring you a new pair to change into.”

Luke’s face turned cold all the way through. Like he’d finally found an excuse to take the show higher.

He stepped straight onto my shoe. “Not appropriate? You’re a gateboy and you’re talking to me about appropriate?”

I tried again to steer it back to the schedule. “Your father—Mr. Gregory—doesn’t like the process getting messy either.”

“Don’t mention my father.” Luke’s hand snapped up—no warning—and slapped across my face.

I didn’t dodge.

Not because I was slow, but because in that moment I was still choosing not to let this blow up.

The slap grazed past my ear. My vision jerked sideways. A hard ring filled my head.

Then the second punch landed near the bridge of my nose. My sight flashed black at the edges.

Warm liquid surged out, running along my upper lip.

I tasted metal. It dripped onto my white shirt and spread into a red bloom.

Someone sucked in a breath—then laughed, excited, like they’d just been handed a better show.

Luke’s friends closed in. One shoved my shoulder. Another kicked the side of my calf, forcing me down.

My foot slipped in the wet grass. I dropped to one knee, palm pressing into mud.

There were plenty of guests around, but it was like everyone silently agreed this was acceptable entertainment. No one stopped it. A few even lifted their phones—but afraid of catching the bride on camera, they pointed them at me instead.

I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. Blood smeared across my skin, bright red.

The ringing in my ears grew heavier. I forced my breathing steady, fighting not to go down.

If I went down, I’d lose control. And if I lost control, they’d drag me straight out of the estate—then I’d truly have nowhere to go.

That was when sound came from the stage side of the lawn.

Not tuning—an actual rehearsal segment.

The opening of the wedding march rose up, clean and bright, cutting through the noise of the crowd like a thin wire, stabbing straight into my eardrum.

In that instant, it was like someone pressed a hand over the ringing. The world snapped into focus.

Something yanked me back into place.

Not a fragment of memory—but an entire wall collapsing, revealing a room that had always existed behind it.

My heartbeat didn’t speed up. It steadied—like a pendulum finding its rhythm again. The pain was still there. The blood was still running. But the blank space in my head filled in at once, tight as a lock clicking shut.

I remembered—my name, my identity, everything from before I lost my memory.

More importantly, I remembered this: my amnesia wasn’t an accident. I designed it.

The Winston family’s public image—charity, medical foundations, organ-donation advocacy—was just packaging.

Behind the scenes, they trafficked organs: selecting people, matching tissue, shipping product. The money ran through foundations and shell companies, washed clean, then flowed back into their pockets.

My name wasn’t Noah Kyle. My real identity was an operator in a government black-ops system. My job was simple—go in, get evidence, send the people and the entire chain into court.

Six months ago, our team obtained an encrypted database. It contained donor lists, transaction records, and money flows—enough to take the Winston family down in one sweep.

But the database was locked, and we couldn’t brute-force it.

The moment the system detected an attempt to crack it, it would trigger self-destruction—wiping everything in seconds. Hackers were useless.

What we lacked wasn’t skill. It was the key.

To open the database, we needed a key—carried by Gregory Winston in the form of a chip.

That old bastard never kept critical items in a safe or an office. He carried them on him.

The biggest problem was that Gregory rarely showed his face. Most people didn’t even know what he looked like. Normal methods couldn’t get close to him.

But he had two favorite things: money, and his son.

We quickly found a window—Gregory’s son was marrying the Ashton family’s daughter. They called it an alliance, but the deeper purpose was laundering money through the Ashton name.

One thing was certain: Gregory would appear at his son’s wedding.

At first I considered approaching Gregory as a servant or bodyguard—but his security paranoia was extreme. He had fixed cooks, drivers, and a full detail. Anyone trying to get near him would be background-checked to the bone.

So I had to come in through the Ashtons.

Of course, the Ashtons weren’t easy either. Rich people are just as wary.

So I hypnotized myself. “Noah Kyle” was a cover identity I’d prepared in advance.

I locked away my memories and turned myself into someone with no traceable past, someone who looked harmless.

Professionals are easy to spot. Only if I truly forgot would I stop leaking the habits of my trade.

The trigger to break the hypnosis was the wedding march at the ceremony—once the music started, everything would come back.

As the music moved forward, so did my consciousness.

I saw myself again, my real name sharp as a newly polished blade: Ronan Cade.

Luke was still cursing, his voice crashing down from above me. “Playing dead? Get up. Kneel right. Wipe my shoe.”

He raised his hand to hit me again.

I didn’t lift my head to curse back. I didn’t stand to fight. Years of training took over—my arm moved on instinct. Before his fist came down, I caught his wrist.

The movement was light, but precise—like the angle had been calculated.

My fingers locked at the junction of bone and tendon. With a slight squeeze, his punch froze in place, as if it had been pinned.

Luke’s expression stiffened. His body jerked, trying to yank his hand back—but it wouldn’t move. For a moment, uncertainty flashed in his eyes, like he’d just realized: the man in front of him wasn’t exactly the useless nobody he’d imagined.

I froze too—because a heartbeat later I realized I couldn’t expose myself now.

The next second I let go. My shoulders slumped. My breathing turned ragged, as if that grab had only been reflex, pure luck.

I even shrank back a little, giving him the posture of fear—handing him his sense of control again.

Luke hesitated for half a beat, then embarrassment turned to rage. He lunged forward—only for someone beside him to grab his arm. “Luke, don’t take it too far. The ceremony’s about to start.”

That was when Claire finally stepped closer.

She didn’t look at the blood on my face. She didn’t ask what happened. “What are you doing? The makeup artist is looking for you.”

Luke pointed at me like I was a stain. “He’s in the way.”

Claire’s eyes landed on me for less than a second. Like she was handling something too trivial to waste time on, she tossed out a casual line. “If you don’t like him, throw him out. Don’t make a scene here.”

I lowered my head at once, voice kept small. “I’m sorry, miss. I’m sorry, sir. I’ll clean it up. I won’t block the way.”

I pushed my posture as low as it could go—not for their pride, but for my position.

As long as I stayed on-site, I still had a chance.

Luke snorted like he’d finally won, then turned away.

Claire went back to her process.

I re-hung my radio, pressed the talk button, and reported, “Entrance is normal,” in a steady voice—like nothing had happened.

Then, in my head, I repeated the objective like a final order.

I was going to get the key.