Chapter 3

I wiped the blood off my face and started thinking. With this many people and this much chaos, it was the best time to look for the key.

I needed a believable reason to leave the lawn—one that wouldn’t get questioned even if a staff member disappeared for a few minutes.

Blood was the perfect excuse.

I held down the radio button and said quietly to someone on my team, “I’m going to the main house restroom to clean up. I’ll be right back.”

No questions. Just, “Make it quick.”

I turned and followed the gravel path along the edge of the lawn toward the manor.

It was only a few dozen meters. Behind me, the laughter and clinking glasses faded, replaced by the cold smell of air-conditioning from inside.

I slipped into a side-door bathroom and cranked the tap. Cold water ran over my fingers, dulling the metallic stink of blood.

With paper towels I wiped my nose and upper lip until the redness was gone, then rubbed at the last faint mark on my shirt collar until it blurred.

All I knew was that Gregory kept the key on him. But “on him” was a wide net.

When I left the bathroom, I didn’t go back to the lawn. I cut around the crowd by the side entrance and headed toward the VIP side of the main house.

Thanks to my position, I knew the layout by heart now. The VIP area sat deep inside the manor—a relatively sealed corridor lined with several reception rooms. A separate door marked the corridor entrance, with security posted there. Outsiders didn’t get in.

But I wasn’t an outsider.

I grabbed a bottle of red wine from a catering cart in the back and walked up to the VIP door. I recognized the guard on the left—one of the Ashtons’ men.

“Aiden,” I said, casual. “They stuck you here? Lucky. Outside’s going insane.”

Aiden snorted. “I’d rather be out there watching the show. This place is boring. What do you want?”

I lifted the wine. “A VIP asked me to let it breathe early and put it in the VIP room.”

He rolled his eyes. “They’re so high-maintenance.”

They moved aside, and I went in.

I followed the corridor inward and soon reached a door with Gregory’s name on it. I knocked once. No answer. Then I badged in—every security guy had the same access card.

The lounge was empty, just as I’d expected. Thick carpet. Oil paintings on the walls. Curtains drawn tight, the light softened and muted.

I set the wine on the table and started the sweep, in order.

First: the closet. I opened it. Two spare suits and a dress shirt hung neatly inside, garment bags flat and unbulging. I checked quickly, put everything back exactly where it was, and closed the door without a sound.

Second: the drawers. The cabinet beside the meeting table had three. I pulled the top one first—several pens, a box of spare tie-clip clasps, and two phone charging cables. The second drawer held folders: “Wedding Schedule,” “Guest List,” and what looked like donation summaries for a medical foundation. I didn’t need the contents—only whether there was space to hide something. The third drawer was mostly empty: a stack of envelopes and a spare key.

Third: the briefcase. A low-profile leather bag sat beside the sofa, zipper pull turned inward. I didn’t yank it open. I pinched the zipper with two fingers, eased it open two centimeters, and slipped my fingers into the inner pocket. Tablet. paper contracts. a few business-card holders. I zipped it back up and set the bag exactly as it had been—down to the angle of the handle.

Fourth: the gift boxes on the table. Two of them—one tied with a deep-blue ribbon like a VIP keepsake, the other a small white box, maybe a spare ring case or cufflinks.

I lifted a corner and glanced in: jewelry, or greeting cards with congratulatory notes.

The conclusion was clear: the key wasn’t in this lounge. Not in the coat, not in the briefcase, not in the boxes.

That left one direction—Gregory kept it on his body.

“On the body” usually meant two places: a pocket, or hidden in some small accessory.

A pocket could be ruled out with a single clean touch, given the right angle. An accessory would take a closer moment.

I turned to leave. My hand had just reached the doorknob when hurried footsteps came from outside—fast, sharp, laced with alcohol and anger, like someone owned the corridor.

The next second, the door slammed open.

Luke barged in. “Dad, listen, I can’t stand—”

His suit jacket sat crooked, his bow tie loosened by half an inch, and his face still carried that resentful flush from earlier.

He saw me standing there and froze for a beat. Then his eyes sank, as if he’d just found a match he could use to start another fire.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” He stepped in and kicked the door shut behind him. His voice stayed low, but it was more dangerous than it had been on the lawn. “Who let you in?”

I snapped back into “Noah Kyle”—shoulders tucked in slightly, gaze unfocused. “I—I was delivering wine… I got the wrong room.”

Luke stared without moving, like he was scanning me from head to toe.

He advanced a step. I retreated half a step, keeping the distance inside my reaction range—making my retreat look like fear, not guard.

His breath reeked of alcohol. He jabbed a finger toward the door. “Get out. Now.”

Relief loosened something in my chest.

If he let me walk, this risk ended here—and I could go back into the crowd and keep moving.

I nodded, quiet. “Okay. I’m leaving.” I turned toward the door, not too fast, not too slow—deliberately clumsy, deliberately resigned.

The doorknob was right there. My hand was about to close on it when wind hissed behind me.

Luke lifted his foot to kick me from behind.

If I’d been an ordinary man, the kick would have landed hard in my side, slammed me into the door—maybe even dropped me to my knees.

But my body moved before my brain did.

Years of training had made “attack from behind” almost pure reflex. I slipped diagonally forward, sank my weight, and let his kick cut through empty space.

His foot struck nothing. The sole scraped the carpet with a dull, ugly sound.

We both stopped.

He stood frozen, surprise flashing into instant suspicion.

And in that same instant I knew I’d made a mistake: once the hypnosis was gone, my reactions became too correct—professional correct. And in a place like this, that kind of correctness was a tell.

Luke drew his foot back slowly, his face tightening. “You… what are you?”

I didn’t answer.

Any explanation would only make it worse.

I could only keep acting—but he didn’t believe it anymore. He lunged, one hand grabbing for my collar, the other moving toward my waist. The search motion was too practiced; he wasn’t just trying to humiliate me. He was checking for a weapon, for anything that shouldn’t be there.

“Don’t move,” Luke said, voice tight. “Who sent you?”

I cursed under my breath—not at him, at myself.

Of course. The moment the hypnosis lifted, problems started.

That one evasive step had slapped the truth in his face: I wasn’t ordinary.

I shifted back half a step and turned my body, sliding my front out of his grip.

I made it look like dodging, not fighting—but my elbow was already set at the perfect angle.

Luke got angrier. He thought I was mocking him, his words forced out through clenched teeth. “Stop playing dumb! No normal guy moves like that. Who the hell are you?”

He seized my collar, knuckles whitening, twisting the fabric into hard folds.

I could smell the alcohol on him. I could also hear footsteps in the corridor outside pause for a moment, like someone had stopped to change shifts.

If Luke yelled, everything I’d built today would turn into a joke. Worse—men like Gregory didn’t offer second chances.

I lifted my hand, fingers rising slightly. My weight sank. My body coiled like a compressed spring.

There was only one conclusion left: no way around it. If I wanted to stay in play, Luke had to shut up first.

I grabbed his wrist, then twisted and pressed down in one smooth motion.

Luke’s body pitched forward. His expression changed instantly—

but it was too late.