The Secret Contender

Chapter Two

The airport buzzed with life, a medley of hurried footsteps, hushed voices, and the occasional clatter of luggage wheels. Michael, an officer, sat in the lobby with a business magazine in hand. The glossy cover displayed Gilbert Monroe, a near-death survivor and billionaire tycoon. Though eight years had passed since that fateful incident, its shadow lingered. Guilt clung to Michael like a relentless predator.

He had failed to protect his sister, Maria, that night, succumbing to the haze of alcohol. Her face, her disappearance into danger, haunted him. The scars of that night ran deeper than any wound.

Across from him, a group of women stole glances at Michael, drawn by his striking presence. His sculpted physique and tailored attire exuded privilege. He was an enigma among the bustling travellers.

Then, the atmosphere shifted, electric with anticipation. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, carrying a name. Gilbert Monroe. Michael’s smirk sharpened like a blade. His quarry had arrived. Rising from his seat, he moved with predatory intent. Five officers in crisp uniforms flanked him, their eyes locked on the unperturbed tycoon.

Michael knew Gilbert wasn’t ’t merely a billionaire. His empire harboured secrets forged in shadows. As his bodyguards bristled and stepped forward, Michael’s hand grazed the ID badge in his pocket, his quiet declaration of power.

“Senior Police Inspector, Michael Roldan,” he announced, his voice a velvet threat. The bodyguards stiffened, instantly recognizing the name whispered in alleys and exalted in corridors of power. Michael’s reputation preceded him. He was a legend who unravelled cold cases with eerie precision, leaving criminals trembling and victims vindicated.

As Michael met Gilbert’s gaze, a question loomed: Would this case—the billionaire’s near-death—be the one that consumed him? Justice was a ravenous beast, and Michael, its tireless hunter.

"Mr. Monroe?" Michael’s voice sliced through the air. Gilbert, drawn to the gravity of the moment, whispered to his chief bodyguard, then smiled, a smile hiding buried secrets.

“And who are you?” Gilbert’s question carried a weight of its own. Time had changed much, but he remained a constant. His flawless appearance betrayed no trace of past trauma, only arrogance honed by luxury. The playful glint in his eyes had hardened into a calculated mask.

“Michael Roldan.” Michael presented his ID with practised precision. “National Police Investigation Department.”

“A police officer?” Gilbert raised an eyebrow. “I assure you, I’m a law-abiding citizen.”

Michael’s smirk hinted at untold stories. “My experience tells me the most respectable façades often conceal the darkest truths.”

“Are you accusing me?” Gilbert’s tone sharpened.

“That would be defamatory,” Michael replied evenly. “I’m just stating an observation.”

“What do you want?” Gilbert asked, impatience crackling in his voice.

“I want justice,” Michael said, his words heavy with purpose. “I want to reopen old wounds.”

“For what?” Gilbert pressed, his irritation evident.

“You’re a key witness in the cold hit-and-run case from eight years ago,” Michael explained. “I need your cooperation.”

“Here? In public?” Gilbert glanced at the onlookers, a scoff escaping his lips.

“You’re hard to track down,” Michael replied coolly. “I had to seize the moment.”

“Then speak to my lawyers,” Gilbert said, turning to leave. But Michael’s firm grip stopped him. Gilbert’s gaze met Michael’s, catching the glint of pain in the officer’s eyes—a pain fueled by unanswered questions and a hunger for truth.

“Even if I wanted to help you,” Gilbert’s voice carried an air of controlled confidence, “I don’t recall the event you’re referring to. I’ve been studying in London since high school.”

Michael stood rooted, his world shifting underfoot. “Are you not Gilbert Monroe, son of Dylan and Zain Monroe, the billionaire moguls?”

“I am,” Gilbert replied with measured certainty. His unyielding gaze bore into Michael’s. “But you’re mistaken about the accident. I’ve been away from Alaba for ten years. It’s impossible for me to have been here eight years ago.”

“That’s impossible,” Michael insisted, the weight of his memories anchoring him in disbelief.

“Perhaps it’s a case of mistaken identity,” Gilbert offered, briefly resting a hand on Michael’s shoulder. The touch jolted something deep within Michael—a flicker of recognition from a long-buried memory- that same touch, the night of the accident, when alcohol blurred the edges of truth.

“We went to the same school,” Michael murmured, his voice taut with a blend of sorrow and anger.

“Inspector Roldan, has someone put you up to this?”

“No.”

“I’ve heard about you,” Gilbert said, his tone layered with respect and veiled caution. “I admire your work, but don’t tarnish it with this.”

With that enigmatic remark, he turned and strode away, leaving Michael standing in the heavy silence of unresolved truths. Gilbert’s convoy awaited, a sleek car surrounded by watchful security. As the door opened, Gilbert glanced back at Michael. Their eyes locked, a fleeting exchange weighted with untold histories and silent regrets before Gilbert disappeared into the car, leaving Michael with the sting of loss, as if Gilbert was slipping through his fingers for a second time.

In the solitude of his office, Michael leaned back, his eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling as though it might offer answers. His fingers found the photograph in his pocket, and ts edges softened from wear. Maria’s face stared back at him, her innocence preserved in time. A sigh escaped him, heavy with the burden of years. Had he waited for Gilbert’s return only to grasp at empty shadows? The survivor held the key, yet the lock remained elusive.

“I’m sorry, Maria,” Michael whispered. “Even after all this time, I’ve failed you.”

“Talking to her again?” Ebert’s grizzled voice interrupted. He leaned against the doorframe, his expression a mix of exasperation and sympathy.

Michael slipped the photograph back into his pocket. “Gilbert is back,” he said, his voice tinged with exhaustion. “But it’s another dead end. He claims to have amnesia.”

Ebert raised a sceptical brow. “Amnesia? Sounds like a convenient excuse,” Michael mused, his voice low. “or his memory was deliberately erased.”

Ebert’s eyes narrowed as he continued. “The Monroes are dangerous, Michael. They don’t just own this city; they control it. You’re walking into a pit of vipers.”

“That’s exactly why I have to dig deeper,” Michael countered. “What if his parents orchestrated the accident?”

“Why would they endanger their own son?”

Michael exhaled sharply. “I’m running out of theories, but I won’t stop.”

Ebert placed a comforting hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Sometimes, the past needs to stay buried. For your own sanity.”

Breaking the tension, Ebert added, “Anyway, I’m taking leave tomorrow. My friend Gia’s flying in from Hong Kong.”

“I didn’t know you had friends.”

“She’s a friend of my ex-girlfriend’s, but we’re close now.”

“Does Priscilla approve?”

“I tell my wife everything. She doesn’t approve, though,” Ebert admitted with a grin. “Gia’s gorgeous and wealthy—Priscilla’s jealous.”

“I’d be jealous too, if I were her.”

Ebert’s grin widened. “Speaking of jealousy, I’ve never seen you with a woman.”

Michael’s expression darkened. “How can I think of myself when Maria’s murderer walks free?”

Ebert fell silent, a steadfast presence as Michael remained consumed by his unyielding pursuit of justice.

Gilbert sat in his office, the park view a mere backdrop to the storm within. Michael’s words echoed, no mistaken identity. Did his parents have secrets? Was it a hidden sibling, a forgotten relative? The mystery simmered as the door swung open.

Alika, his fiancée, entered, her presence an unwelcome distraction. Gilbert feigned focus on a file, avoiding her searching gaze.

“You came here without seeing me first,” she said, hurt flickering in her voice.

Gilbert barely glanced up. “The Monroes don’t dwell on trivialities.”

“Am I a triviality?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Our engagement is a business arrangement, a lifeline for your failing company. Nothing more.”

“That’s why it matters to me,”

“Then don’t expect me to carry your emotions,” Gilbert replied coldly.

“You’re breaking my heart.”

“You’re breaking it yourself,” he retorted. “Persist, and I’ll involve our parents…”

“Don’t tell them,” she pleaded. “I will leave. Are there any plans for tonight, though?”

“Dinner at my house. Invite your parents.”

Dejected, Alika turned to leave. Then Kimora entered, files in hand, her mini dress drawing Alika’s silent ire.

“You should knock…” Alika snapped.

“I am sorry,” Kimora replied evenly.

“Go back and knock,” Alika ordered. Kimora began retreating, but Gilbert intervened.

“Don’t delay work for trivialities, Ms. Delano.”

Kimora nodded and stepped forward, handing over the files. “Here's next quarter’s marketing strategies. Please review them and revert as needed.”

“I’ll call you if changes are required,” Gilbert said curtly. Kimora left immediately, making Alika pursue her.

In the elevator, Alika confronted Kimora. “I know you and Gilbert dated in high school. But why are you still here?”

“I work for him,” Kimora replied simply.

“Stay away from him,” Alika warned.

“He’s just my boss,” Kimora retorted.

“I won’t tolerate trouble from you,” Alika said sharply.

“As you wish,” Kimora said, her exit brisk. Alika smiled, satisfied in her power yet burdened by insecurities. She was determined to become Mrs. Monroe, no matter who opposed her. But beneath her polished exterior, fear of failure gnawed at her resolve.

Meanwhile, Kimora returned to her office, collapsing into her chair. Penny, her assistant, placed iced tea on the table and began a soothing head massage.

“Why the stress?” Penny asked.

“Alika was there,” Kimora muttered, replaying their tense interaction.

“She’s not easy to deal with,” Penny noted.

“But if Gilbert remembers our past, he might rethink marrying her.”

“Kim, if his family is involved,” Penny warned, “they won’t tolerate interference.”

“I won’t let him marry someone else either,” Kimora insisted. “Not after what I’ve sacrificed for him.”

“What sacrifices?” Penny asked.

“I rejected countless suitors for him. Gilbert is my forever.”

“Then hold on to hope. Dreams can surprise us.” Penny said. But as Kimora grappled with thoughts of Alika, Gia Zande, Keith Zande’s vivacious granddaughter, their formidable rival, stepped off a sleek jet Her chestnut hair danced in the wind, her infectious smile lighting up the scene as she raced forward, embracing her grandfather, whose weathered face softened with pride.