The Secret Contender

Chapter Two

The airport hummed with life—a symphony of hurried footsteps, whispered conversations, and the occasional clatter of luggage wheels. Michael, a ruggedly handsome officer, perched on a lobby chair, a business magazine cradled in his lap. The glossy cover bore the face of Gilbert Monroe, a near-death survivor and billionaire tycoon. Eight years had passed since that fateful incident, yet its imprint lingered in the collective memory. Michael couldn’t shake it off; guilt gnawed at him like a relentless predator.

His sister’s safety had been his responsibility that night, but he’d drowned his vigilance in alcohol. Maria’s face haunted him—the way she’d vanished into the abyss of danger, leaving him powerless. The scars of that night ran deeper than any bullet wound.

Across from him, a bevy of beautiful women sat, their eyes drawn to Michael like moths to a flame. His physique was sculpted, his attire bespoke of privilege. He was impossible to ignore—a walking enigma in a sea of transient travelers.

Then it happened—the air crackled with anticipation. Ladies whispered, their voices carrying the name that echoed through Alaba Airport. Gilbert Monroe. Then Michael’s smirk was a blade unsheathed. His prey had arrived. He rose, a predator in plainclothes. Five men trailed behind him, their uniforms crisp, their loyalty unwavering. They mirrored his every move, eyes trained on Gilbert, who was unperturbed, eyes fixed on his convoy as if the world hadn’t tilted on its axis.

But Michael knew better. The man before him was no ordinary billionaire. Gilbert’s empire held secrets darker than midnight, alliances forged in shadows. His bodyguards sensed the shift in the air, and stepped forward to shield their charge. And Michael’s wry smile revealed his power—the ID badge in his pocket.

“Police Inspector Michael Roldan,” he announced, the words a velvet threat. The bodyguards blanched. Everyone in Alaba knew this name—the enigmatic officer who cracked cold cases like safes, who wove justice from thin air. His reputation was legend: whispered in dank alleys, celebrated in hushed corridors of power.

Unsolved cases sought him out—the desperate cries of victims echoing in his sleep. Privately or publicly, he unraveled mysteries, leaving criminals trembling. His name was a talisman for the law-abiding citizens, and a specter haunting the wicked. As Michael locked eyes with Gilbert, he wondered: Would this case—the billionaire’s near-death, be the one that finally consumed him? Justice was a hungry beast, and Michael was its relentless hunter.

"Mr. Monroe?” Michael’s voice was a blade unsheathed—calm, yet cold enough to frost the air. Gilbert stepped forward, drawn by the gravity of the moment, and leaned in to catch his Chief bodyguard’s whispered counsel. Then he smiled, his eyes locking onto Michael’s with an intent that spoke of secrets buried deep.

“And who are you?” Gilbert’s question hung in the charged silence. A lot had changed since he’d left Alaba—the world had spun on its axis, yet some constants remained. Gilbert was one of them. The man looked good—no visible scratches, no scars to tell the tale of a near-fatal accident. His haughtiness, however, had blossomed over the years, nurtured by the luxuries of overseas living. Rosy lips and perfectly coiffed hair framed his face, but there was a shift. The playfulness that once danced there had vanished, leaving behind a chiseled mask.

“Michael Roldan,” Michael announced, producing his ID with the precision of a magician revealing a hidden card. “National Police Investigation Department.”

“A police officer?” Gilbert arched an eyebrow. “What brings you to me I assure you, I’m a law-abiding citizen.”

Michael’s smirk was a cryptic riddle. He removed his sunglasses, wiping the lenses meticulously. “I’ve worked on countless cases, Mr. Monroe,” he said. “Enough to understand that those who appear responsible often harbor the darkest secrets…”

“Are you implying I’m a criminal?” Gilbert’s eyebrow climbed higher.

“That would be defamation, Sir,” Michael replied, his tone unyielding. “I’m merely sharing my work experience.”

“What do you want?” Gilbert’s impatience crackled like static.

“I want to reopen my old wounds.” Michael’s words hung heavy, like the scent of rain before a storm. “To give you justice.”

“What is this about?” Gilbert’s impatience deepened, lines etching his forehead.

“You’re a key witness in the cold Hit and Run case from eight years ago. I’m here to ask for your cooperation…”

“Like this? In public?” Gilbert scoffed, glancing around at the curious onlookers.

“You’re a busy man, hard to catch,” Michael replied, confidence radiating. “I had to take my chances.”

“Then you can speak to my lawyers.” Gilbert turned to leave, but Michael’s grip tightened on his hand. He spun back, noticing the shift in demeanor. Michael’s eyes sparkled with hidden pain—a gnawing ache that haunted him awake and asleep, a phantom demanding answers.

“Even if I wanted to help you," Gilbert’s voice held a veneer of confidence, "I don’t remember the event you’re talking about. I’ve been studying in London since high school.”

Michael stood there, bewildered, his world tilting on its axis. “Are you not Gilbert Monroe, son of Dylan and Zain? The billionaire and business moguls, Zain and Dylan Monroe?” His words hung in the air, a fragile bridge connecting past and present.

“I am indeed Gilbert,” came the reply, Gilbert’s voice etched with certainty. His eyes bore into Michael’s, unyielding. “But you’re mistaken about the accident. I’m returning to Alaba after ten years. That means I couldn’t have been here eight years ago.”

“That is impossible,” Michael persisted, the weight of memory pressing down on him.

"No. Perhaps it’s a case of mistaken identity,” Gilbert reasoned, his hand brushing Michael’s shoulder. Something shifted inside Michael—a tremor of recognition. He remembered that touch—the night of the accident, when he and his friend got him drunk.

“We went to the same school.” Michael’s voice wavered, anger and sorrow entwined.

“Inspector Roldan, did someone send you to do this?”

“No.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you," Gilbert’s gaze held a hidden depth, “and I respect what you do. So don’t mess it up.”

With those enigmatic words, he turned and walked away, leaving Michael bewildered, caught in the undertow of fate.

Gilbert was led to a waiting convoy—one sleek car flanked by security men. The door opened, and he glanced back at Michael. Their eyes met—a silent exchange of histories, regrets, and unspoken truths. Then Gilbert stepped into the car, and it pulled away. Michael gnashed his teeth, watching the security men disperse to their various vehicles. A lump grew in his throat—it was hard to watch Gilbert leave, as if he were slipping through Michael’s fingers for the second time.

Back in his office, Michael glared at the ceiling, as if seeking answers from the indifferent plaster. His hand dipped into his pocket, retrieving a worn photograph—the edges softened by countless touchings. Maria’s eyes stared back at him, forever frozen in that moment before tragedy struck. He sighed, the weight of eight years pressing down on his shoulders. Had he waited for Gilbert’s return in vain? The survivor held the key, but the lock remained elusive.

“I’m sorry, Maria,” Michael whispered to the photograph. “Even after all this time, I’ve failed to find your killer.”

“Are you talking to your sister’s picture again?” Ebert, his grizzled friend and partner, leaned against the doorframe. His eyes held a mix of sympathy and exasperation.

Michael tucked the photograph away. “Gilbert is back,” he replied, weariness etching lines on his face. “But my hopes have been shattered once more. Gilbert has Amnesia”

“Gilbert Monroe has amnesia?” Ebert raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a dead end.”

“Maybe you should let sleeping dogs lie,” Ebert suggested, ever pragmatic.

“I don’t think it’s amnesia," Michael mused. “His memory was wiped—deliberately.”

“The Monroes are deadly vipers," Ebert warned. “You shouldn’t mess with them. They own this city.”

“That’s precisely why I need to dig deeper," Michael insisted. "What if his parents caused the accident?”

“Why would they subject their own son to such a situation?”

“I’m running out of hypotheses.”

“The more reason you should let the past go.” Ebert’s hand landed on Michael’s back, a silent comfort. “Anyway, I’m taking leave tomorrow. A friend of mine, Gia, is flying back from Hong Kong.”

“I didn’t know you had friends.”

“She was my girlfriend’s friend, but we’re practically best friends now.”

“Does Priscilla approve of this?”

“I tell my wife everything. But she doesn’t approve,” Ebert remarked. “Gia is gorgeous, and wealthy. Priscilla is kind of jealous.”

“I’d be jealous too if I were a woman.”

“Speaking of women, I’ve never seen you with any,” Ebert teased.

Michael’s sorrow deepened. “How can I think of myself when my sister’s murderer roams free?” he asked, his voice raw. Ebert stepped closer, a silent witness to Michael’s unyielding pursuit of justice.

Gilbert sat in his spacious office, the view of the park a mere backdrop to the storm brewing within. Michael’s words echoed—no mistaken identity, no convenient escape. His parents held secrets, veiled truths that danced just out of reach. Was it a hidden sibling, a relative erased from memory? The enigma gnawed at him, a puzzle with missing pieces.

Lost in thought, he barely noticed the door swing open. Alika, his stunning fiancée, stepped in. Her presence was a distraction he didn’t need. Gilbert’s fingers found an idle file on the table, and he flipped it open, pretending to read. Alika settled into a chair, her eyes searching his face.

“What brings you here, Alika?” His voice was cool, detached.

“You came to the office without seeing me first,” she complained, hurt flickering in her gaze.

Gilbert’s eyes remained on the file. “The Monroes don’t waste time on trivialities.”

“I’m a triviality?” Alika’s voice wavered.

“Checking on you isn’t more important than business,” he replied, the words like shards of ice.

“I’m your fiancée,” she reminded him.

“Why make a fuss over this marriage? It’s a mere business arrangement—a lifeline for your company teetering on the brink of bankruptcy.”

“This arrangement means a lot to me,” Alika insisted.

“If you imbue it with meaning, don’t expect me to bear the weight of your emotions.”

“Did someone break your heart in the past?”

“No,” Gilbert’s denial was swift.

“But why are you breaking mine, Gilbert?”

“You’re breaking your own heart, Alika. Our engagement is a contract, devoid of love. If you persist, I’ll have to discuss this with my parents.”

“Please don’t tell them,” Alika pleaded.

“We’ve reached a consensus, then.” Gilbert’s gaze held hers, unyielding.

“Yes,” Alika replied, her voice flat.

“I must work now. Please leave.”

“Any plans for tonight?”

“Dinner with you and your parents at my house. Didn’t they inform you?”

“No.” Alika’s eyes widened.

“You should go and prepare. Punctuality matters.” Gilbert’s dismissal hung in the air, and as Alika left,

The office door swung open, and Kimora swept in, files clutched in her manicured hands. She wore a short dress and a matching coat—a deliberate choice that Alika’s disapproving frown couldn’t ignore.

“Can’t you knock?" Alika’s voice dripped with tension, her gaze sharp. She knew Gilbert’s history with Kimora—the tangled threads of their past.

“I didn’t know there was someone in here,” Kimora replied, her tone unapologetic.

“You still should have knocked.” Alika’s menace hung in the air like a storm brewing.

“I’ll come back later.” Kimora pivoted, ready to retreat.

“Do you always postpone work for trivialities, Ms. Delano?” Gilbert’s voice cut through the tension.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I thought you were busy.” Kimora’s response was swift, her eyes avoiding Alika’s glare.

“From now on, don’t think on my behalf.” Gilbert’s dismissal was curt. He gestured for Kimora to hand over the files.

“These are the recent marketing strategies set for next quarter.” Kimora’s explanation was efficient. “Kindly review them and revert if changes are needed.”

“I’ll summon you when I’m done,” Gilbert said, dismissing her. Alika watched Kimora’s exit, her mind churning with suspicion.

“I have work to do,” Gilbert stated, his attention already shifting.

“See you tonight.” Alika’s farewell held a hint of dejection. She hurried after Kimora, catching up as they stepped into the elevator together.

“I heard you and Gilbert briefly dated in high school,” Alika ventured. “What I don’t understand is why you’re still here.”

“I work for him,” Kimora replied matter-of-factly.

"Stay away from him,” Alika’s warning was sharp.

“He’s just my boss,” Kimora retorted.

“Don’t play dumb with me.”

Kimora’s patience waned. “I’m a shareholder. My father bought shares in this company.”

“I don’t care about your father’s stake,” Alika shot back.

“What are you so afraid of? Gilbert doesn’t even remember me,” Kimora’s words tumbled out, urgency coloring her tone.

"Fine. I’ll allow you to work here as long as you don’t cause trouble.”

“As you wish,” Kimora said, her exit swift and purposeful.

The elevator doors closed, and Alika’s smile held the satisfaction of a predator who had cornered her prey. Those who crossed her path faced the ruthless edge of her determination. But she didn't need to engage in a direct battle with Kimora. She already understood her place. But beneath the polished exterior, insecurity gnawed at Alika. She was easily intimidated by those she perceived as having an upper hand, especially now that her family teetered on the brink of ruin. Now more than ever, her resolve was unwavering. She had to become Mrs. Monroe to resurrect her family’s grandeur. And anyone who dared stand between her and this dream was marked as an enemy.

free from Alika, Kimora swept into her office, collapsing into the armchair like a storm-weary traveler. Penny, now her personal assistant, followed, placing a cup of iced tea on the table before easing into a head massage for Kimora.

“Why so stressed, Mm?” Penny’s voice was gentle.

“I saw him, but his so-called fiancée, Alika, was there.” Kimora’s grimace betrayed her unease as she replayed her conversation with Alika.

“What bothers me is that Alika isn’t a pushover. She exudes class and wields a status above mine.”

“You mean she’s leagues ahead of you?”

“She’s a snob—a particularly mean one. She didn’t say it outright, but her threats were crystal clear.”

“Gilbert is quite the catch. I understand why you’re all vying for him.” Penny’s fingers worked magic on Kimora’s tense shoulders.

“But I can’t forget him. Maybe if he remembers our past, he won’t want to marry Alika anymore.”

“Perhaps his family orchestrated his memory wipe. If that’s the case, they won’t tolerate any meddling, Kimora.”

“But I won’t let him marry someone else—not after the sacrifices I’ve made to keep him.”

“Sacrifices? What do you mean?”

“I turned away countless suitors for him, Penny. Back then and now, Gilbert is my forever.”

“Hold on to hope. Dreams have a way of surprising us…”

“Do you think the rumors about his memory are true?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re clueless.”

“I’d rather not pry. But I’m saddened by Maria’s death.”

“Don’t speak of that backstabber. She tried to steal Gilbert from me.”

“Respect the dead, Kimora,” Penny reminded her gently. “And let’s hope the police catch the culprit soon.”

“Yes, they should. Perhaps then I’ll stop dwelling on the past.” Kimora’s smile held shadows, secrets, and a determination that matched Alika’s.

But little did both women know that somewhere in Alaba, someone greater, someone challenging was landing. As the sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the private airstrip. The sleek jet descended gracefully, its engines humming in anticipation. As the wheels touched the tarmac, the pilot expertly guided the aircraft to a halt. The doors swung open, revealing the world beyond—a world that awaited the arrival of Gia Zande, Keith Zande’s vivacious granddaughter.

And there she was—a vision of youth and exuberance. Gia bounded down the steps, her heels clicking against the metal. Her eyes were wide, taking in the vastness of the open space. The wind teased her chestnut hair, lifting tendrils like playful fingers. Her smile was infectious, a beacon of joy that seemed to light up the entire airstrip.

Ditching her suitcase unceremoniously, Gia raced forward. Keith stood there, a stoic figure in contrast to her effervescence. His weathered face softened as she approached. The lines etched by years of business deals and family legacies seemed to ease, replaced by a grandfatherly pride.