After His Amnesia: I Let the Billionaire Go

Chloe Grayson would revisit that afternoon a thousand times in her mind, wondering if skipping that yacht party might have spared her the agony of having the same heart broken twice.

June in St. Marina arrived with a sun so savage it felt capable of liquefying the pavement.

Chloe stood on the pier in ten-centimeter stilettos, the sea breeze molding her skirt against her legs and revealing a slender length of pale calf.

She squinted at the three-story yacht anchored in the distance. Its white hull reflected a blinding glare, and champagne towers glinted with golden bubbles in the heat, crowded by guests already populating the decks.

"Chloe, quit daydreaming! Come on!"

Katelyn, a friend she’d known for barely a month in the industry, gave her a sharp tug. Chloe snapped back to reality and forced a faint smile.

This was her third month in the world of minor-league modeling.

"Model" was a generous term. She was a freelancer without a proper agency, drifting from one high-end social gathering to the next just to get her face seen. With luck, she’d land a small commercial; without it, she was just there to fill space and enjoy the free drinks.

Today’s party was hosted by the head of a media company, and rumor had it the guest list was stacked with the elite. It had taken all of Katelyn’s connections to secure two invitations.

"Vincent Lane might actually show up today," Katelyn whispered, her eyes shining with an intense, predatory light. "The only son of the richest man in The Federation. True old money. A few scraps from his table would be enough to set us up for life."

Chloe had no real concept of "old money."

She only knew that her father was a wealthy man and her sister, Kayla Grayson, was a pampered heiress, while she—the illegitimate daughter—had spent eleven years in that household being treated with less dignity than the family dog.

The yacht’s interior was even more ostentatious than the outside, featuring leather sofas, crystal chandeliers, and white-shirted waiters flanking the champagne towers.

Chloe scanned the room. She recognized a few minor influencers and the faces of several trust-fund regulars who frequently graced the entertainment tabloids.

"Vincent isn't here yet," Katelyn said, looking around restlessly. She suddenly grabbed Chloe’s arm. "Come on, let’s go say hello to Mr. Fischer first."

Mr. Fischer was the media mogul hosting the event. A man in his forties, his dress shirt strained against a prominent beer belly. He was laughing with a group of young women when Chloe and Katelyn approached. His eyes lingered on Chloe for a few predatory seconds before he beamed and ushered them to sit.

Chloe endured two glasses of champagne. Mr. Fischer’s hand "accidentally" brushed her waist three times. Each time, she shifted half an inch away without letting her smile falter for a second.

These past three months had taught her a great deal: how to let men feel like they were getting away with something without actually giving them anything; how to maintain a presence among social climbers without looking cheap; how to swallow disgust and wear a face of pure, willing compliance.

"Is it true Young Master Lane is coming?" Katelyn asked, her voice dropping into a soft, honeyed lilt as she leaned toward Mr. Fischer.

Mr. Fischer let out a booming laugh. "He is. He just messaged me. He’ll be here once the tender brings him in."

Hardly had the words left his mouth when a sudden commotion broke out on the deck.

Chloe looked up instinctively. Through the glass window, she saw a crowd surging toward the entrance.

The sun was too bright to make out the face of the man at the center, but she saw a tall, lean silhouette casting a long shadow. He moved with a measured, unhurried pace, and the crowd parted for him automatically, like water before a prow.

The cabin doors swung open, and the man stepped inside.

The champagne glass nearly slipped from Chloe’s hand.

That face.

The slight arch of the brow, the deep-set eyes, the straight bridge of the nose. His lips were set in a thin, expressionless line, radiating a detached, weary coldness that suggested the entire party was beneath his notice.

But Chloe had seen that face smile.

It was March on Koh Samui, where the evening beach was dyed a bruised orange by the sunset.

Aaron Conway had been riding a battered motorcycle, leaving a trail of dust behind him. He had turned back to shout at her, "Chloe, hurry up! I’m taking you to a secret spot!"

His eyes had crinkled when he laughed, brighter than the sun itself.

A roar filled Chloe’s head, drowning out the ambient noise of the party. She stared at him, her hands trembling so violently that champagne splashed onto her skin, but she didn't feel the cold liquid.

After Aaron disappeared, she had searched every corner of Koh Samui she could remember. She had asked everyone they knew, but no one had any idea where he had gone.

He had simply vanished, like a fever dream that leaves nothing behind upon waking.

She had waited on the island for two months until she could no longer afford the rent and was forced to leave.

She had imagined every possible scenario since then. He was being hunted by enemies; he had a secret wife; he had gotten into trouble and fled in the night.

The most cliché theory was that she had been conned—that he had never loved her at all.

"That’s Vincent Lane," Katelyn hissed in her ear, her voice tight with excitement. "He’s gorgeous, right? Even better than his photos."

Vincent Lane.

Not Aaron.

Chloe heard her own voice, dry as parchment. "Vincent Lane... has he always lived in The Federation?"

Katelyn shrugged. "I heard he studied in the States for a while. Why?"

"Has he..." Chloe hesitated. "Has he ever been to Thailand?"

Katelyn looked at her as if she were an idiot. "Thailand? Why would someone like him go there? People like him go skiing in Switzerland or yachting in Monaco. Thailand? Do you think he’s some budget backpacker?"

Right.

Chloe looked down at her hands. These hands had spent two years scrubbing dishes, folding countless bedsheets, and hauling luggage for tourists in Thailand.

Back then, she couldn't even afford a rental deposit. She had lived in a tiny room converted from a stairwell closet, where a fan buzzed loudly all night long.

How could Vincent Lane and Aaron Conway be the same person? The heir to Lane Holdings, born with a silver spoon, would never wear twenty-baht flip-flops and live in a third-rate guesthouse for three months.

And yet, she couldn't be wrong about that face. She had slept in that man’s arms for three months on Koh Samui. His face was the first thing she saw every morning.

"Come on, move," Katelyn urged, pulling her forward.

Chloe was dragged along. As they passed the cabin entrance, she saw two women flanking him. A tall beauty in a red dress clung to his arm, while another girl with a sweet smile and a top-knot bun followed closely behind.

His gaze swept across the room, treating the crowd like a collection of irrelevant background scenery. When his eyes reached Chloe, they paused for less than half a second before moving on, entirely devoid of recognition.

Chloe felt as though a hand had constricted around her heart. She took an involuntary step forward, desperate to see him closer, to confirm if it really was him.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Katelyn snapped, hauling her back.

Chloe blinked, realizing she had strayed several steps toward him.

Vincent Lane was already being ushered away by his entourage, leaving her with nothing but the sight of his back.

"Don't get any ideas. A man like that is out of our league," Katelyn whispered. "I heard his list of women is endless. He plays hard and moves fast. Even famous influencers and starlets throw themselves at him, and he barely spares them a glance. Nobodies like us would just be asking for a humiliation."

Chloe said nothing, her fingernails digging into her palms.

That look he gave her... there really was nothing there.

She had imagined their reunion so many times. She had thought about what she would ask if she ever saw Aaron again.

She would ask why he disappeared, if he remembered those days, if he remembered her...

She clenched her fists.

But he wasn't Aaron.

He was Vincent Lane, the billionaire heir surrounded by beauties, who couldn't even spare a full second to look at her.

"Let's go over there," Katelyn said, pulling her back into the crowd. "We need to be seen. Maybe a real benefactor will take notice."

Chloe walked forward, but she couldn't help stealing one last glance back. Vincent was leaning against a sofa now, the woman in the red dress whispering in his ear. He gave a slight, nonchalant tilt of his lips.

That smile looked nothing like Aaron’s.

Chloe withdrew her gaze and took a deep breath.

Maybe it was just a resemblance.

Maybe they weren't the same person at all.

She told herself this, but it brought no relief.

The party lasted until evening. As the sun began to dip, a barbecue was set up on the deck.

Chloe, exhausted from being dragged around to toast various strangers by Katelyn, felt the burn of alcohol in her stomach. She finally found an excuse to slip away to the stern for some air.

The sea breeze cleared her head slightly. She leaned against the railing, watching the horizon turn a bruised, dusty orange.

The sunsets on Koh Samui had been this exact color.

They had been poor then, limited to street food, supplemented by the leftovers she brought home from the restaurant where she worked part-time.

He had lost his memory then, remembering nothing of his past, yet he always smiled and said, "Someday, Chloe, when I’m rich, I’ll buy you a big house facing the ocean, and we’ll watch the sunset every single day."

She would tease him about his empty promises, and he would counter, "Fine, when I’m rich, I’ll buy you a whole room full of durian until you get a nosebleed from eating too much."

She would laugh until she couldn't breathe, chasing him around while he ran, only for him to stop, turn back, and catch her in his arms.

Standing on the deck, Chloe felt her eyes sting in the wind. She took a sharp breath and turned to head back inside, but after a few steps, a soft cry caught her attention.

"Oh—!"

She turned to see the girl with the top-knot bun sprawled on the deck. Her wine glass had shattered, and red wine was splattered across her skirt.

The woman in the red dress stood over her, looking down with cold disdain.

"Don't you look where you're going?" the woman said, her voice low but sharp enough to carry. "This is a Dior haute couture piece from this season. Do you have any idea what it costs?"

The girl’s eyes reddened as she stammered out apologies.

The woman in red sneered and was about to say more when a hand settled on her waist.

Vincent Lane had appeared out of nowhere. He held the woman close, his gaze lingering on the girl on the floor for a second. "Forget it," he said tonelessly. "It's just a dress."

His voice carried that same chilling indifference.

The woman in red softened, playfully hitting his chest. "You’re just saying that to defend her."

Vincent looked down at her, a faint, mocking smile on his lips. "Defend her? I don't even know who she is."

As he spoke, his gaze drifted to the side and landed on Chloe again.

Chloe stood ten feet away, staring right at him.

This time, his eyes stayed on her face a moment longer.

Long enough for Chloe’s heart to skip a beat.

Then, he withdrew his gaze and walked away with the woman in red.

As they brushed past, Chloe heard him murmur to the woman, "That girl... she looks a bit familiar."

Chloe froze.

"Familiar?" the woman’s voice trailed back. "Taking an interest in her now?"

"No," his voice grew distant. "I just can't remember where I’ve seen her before."

Chloe stood rooted to the spot, biting her lip until it nearly bled.

He couldn't remember.

He truly couldn't remember.

Two years ago, he had vanished completely, forgetting everything.

And she was left standing there, pinned by that single word—"familiar."

The cabin door closed behind him, cutting off the light.

Chloe looked down, her nails digging into her palms again.

She didn't know how long she stood there until Katelyn’s voice came from behind. "Chloe! There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere. Come on, Mr. Fischer said he’s taking us for a late-night snack. This is our chance!"

Chloe turned around, her face already masked with a practiced, elegant smile. "I'm coming."

She didn't look back.

So she didn't see the cabin door she thought was closed swing open again.

Vincent Lane stood in the doorway, his eyes traveling over the crowd to settle on the slender silhouette walking away.

He narrowed his eyes.

For a fleeting second, a blurred image flashed through his mind—a night market in Thailand, dim yellow streetlights, and a girl running ahead of him, turning back to laugh.

Then the image shattered, leaving nothing but a void.

"Young Master Lane?" the woman in red asked, leaning in. "What are you looking at?"

Vincent withdrew his gaze and gave a careless shrug. "Nothing."

He turned back inside, shutting the door on that retreating figure.

But that night, for reasons he couldn't explain, he dreamed of the sea.

There was a girl standing on the shore, her back to him.

He tried to walk toward her, desperate to see her face.

But she never turned around.

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