CHAPTER ONE
The Night That Took His Name
The rain was falling hard that night, the kind that blurred the road and swallowed the sound of tires. Jordan Blackwood drove alone, his hands tight on the steering wheel, his mind louder than the storm outside.
The argument replayed in his head like a curse he could not escape.
"You cannot expose this," his father had said, standing tall behind his polished desk. His voice was calm, but his eyes were not. "You have no idea what you are interfering with."
"I know exactly what I am interfering with," Jordan had replied. "Children are being sold. Lives destroyed. I will not protect you anymore."
Victor Blackwood had smiled slowly, as if Jordan were still a child throwing empty threats. That smile burned in Jordan's chest now as the rain hammered against his windshield.
Jordan's phone vibrated on the passenger seat.
An unknown number.
Turn back.
His heart slammed hard against his ribs. He pressed the brake.
Nothing happened.
The pedal sank uselessly beneath his foot. Panic surged through him. He pressed again, harder. Still nothing.
"No," he whispered.
The steering wheel jerked violently. Sparks flew beneath the car as metal scraped against asphalt. The headlights caught a sharp bend in the road too late.
The world tilted.
Jordan fought for control, but the car was no longer his. It spun, slammed, rolled. Glass shattered around him. Pain exploded through his body, then the darkness rushed in, thick and merciless.
A groan escaped his lips before he even realized he was awake.
His head felt like it had been split open. Every breath burned. Rain dripped onto his face, cold and relentless.
"He is alive," a man's voice said nearby. "Thank God."
Jordan tried to open his eyes. Light stabbed at him, forcing a cry from his throat.
A lantern flickered into view. A young woman knelt beside him, her hands trembling as she brushed wet hair away from his face. Her clothes were soaked with rain and mud.
"Papa," she whispered. "He is badly injured."
"We must move him," the older man replied. "If we leave him here, he will die."
Jordan wanted to speak, to ask who they were, to beg them not to leave him. His mouth moved, but no words came out.
Strong arms lifted him. Pain tore through his chest, sharp and blinding. His vision faded again as the sound of rain dissolved into silence.
When consciousness returned, it came slowly.
Birdsong drifted through the air. Warmth touched his skin. The ache in his body was still there, but it had softened.
Jordan opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was low and cracked, patched with uneven wooden boards. Sunlight slipped through the gaps, painting thin lines across the room. The smell of herbs and smoke filled his nose.
This was not a hospital.
He pushed himself up slightly and immediately regretted it. His head pounded. His heart raced.
Where am I?
The question formed in his mind, but it brought no answers.
A curtain moved, and the girl from the roadside stepped inside. She carried a bowl of water and froze when she saw his eyes open.
"You are awake," she said softly.
Her voice was gentle, cautious. She stepped closer, setting the bowl down.
"Where am I?" Jordan asked.
His voice sounded strange to his own ears, rough and unfamiliar.
"You are in Oakridge Village," she replied. "My father and I found you last night. Your car was destroyed."
Memory stirred.
A car. Rain. Pain.
Nothing else.
"I am Jordan," he said slowly. The name came without effort, but it felt distant, like it belonged to someone else.
The girl studied him carefully. "Do you remember anything else?"
He closed his eyes, searching his mind. Faces flickered in darkness. A tall building. A man with cold eyes. A desk made of glass.
The images shattered before he could grasp them.
"No," he admitted. "I do not remember my life."
Something passed through her expression. Not fear. Not pity. Just understanding.
"My name is Beth," she said. "You were unconscious all night. My father treated your wounds."
She hesitated, then added, "You can stay here until you are well."
Jordan nodded, though fear crept into his chest. A man without a past was a man without protection.
Outside the room, footsteps paused.
Frederick Hale stood by the door, listening. His hands were rough, stained by years of farm work, but they shook now. He had seen many injured men in his life. None with eyes like this one.
Eyes that looked expensive.
Eyes that belonged to trouble.
Beth stepped aside as Frederick entered. He studied Jordan closely, his jaw tight.
"You are lucky," Frederick said. "Another few minutes in that rain and you would not be breathing."
"Thank you," Jordan replied. "I owe you my life."
Frederick nodded but said nothing. His gaze lingered on Jordan's bruised face, on the faint scar near his temple, on the strange sense of familiarity that unsettled him.
Beth spoke softly. "Papa, he does not remember anything."
Frederick's chest tightened.
Memory loss.
Fate had a cruel sense of humor.
"Rest," Frederick said finally. "We will talk later."
As he turned to leave, his eyes fell on Jordan's torn jacket. Something slipped from the pocket and landed on the floor.
A black leather wallet.
Frederick picked it up. Inside was a single card, sleek and metallic, bearing a name that made his breath catch.
Blackwood Corporation.
Frederick's hands trembled.
Years ago, another name had haunted him. Another night. Another road. Another child taken and never returned.
Smith.
Frederick closed the wallet and slipped it into his pocket before Beth could see.
Inside the small room, Jordan stared at the ceiling, unaware that his forgotten past had already found him.
Unaware that the man who saved his life had every reason to hate the blood running through his veins.
And far away, in a city of glass and power, Victor Blackwood sat calmly in his office, convinced his son was dead.
He was wrong.
Jordan Blackwood was alive.
And one day, he would remember everything.