Page 117 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

“Your office is an hour away in the opposite direction.”

Another blink. “I’m… sightseeing?” he offered, the last word lifting uncertainly.

I tilted my head. “Cassian.”

“Yes?”

“Are you stalking me?”

His eyes widened. “No! I am not stalking you. According to the definition, stalking requires persistent, unwanted pursuit, knowing your whereabouts, and causing reasonable fear. This,” he gestured between us, “I just… I came to this café, hoping I might see you here. That’s all. And it’s the first time it’s actually happened, so it doesn’t count as anything. Trust me, I’ve checked.”

His own words seemed to echo back to him. His eyes widened in pure, unadulterated horror. He glanced frantically around the cafe as if looking for an emergency exit. “I’ve… made this extremely awkward,” he admitted, panic creeping into his face. “I should go.”

He snatched his coffee from the table and fled the cafe, muttering what sounded like, “…stupid…idiot.”

Naija appeared at my side. “Was that Cassian who just… fled?”

My eyes stayed fixed on the door he’d vanished through. “He’s a dork,” I said, the realization settling with strange comfort.

I glanced at Naija to find her staring at me, completely puzzled.

“He’s not just a silent, broody guy,” I clarified, feeling a lightness in my chest. “He’s also a dork.”

A small, unexpected smile touched my lips.

“Good to know,” I said, more to myself than to her. I took my coffee from her hand. “That makes me feel significantly better about my past self’s taste.”

I led the way out of the café, the strange, lingering smile still on my face.

Some days, everything just clicked. Meetings were productive, clients were satisfied, and the world operated with a smooth, satisfying rhythm.

For the first time in months, I was having one of those days.

The calm I’d carried home from a good day evaporated the instant I saw her emerging from my bedroom. In her hand was my sword, held with an ease that made my stomach drop.

My feet locked in place. The air drained from my lungs.

“Why on earth do you have a sword in your room?” she asked.

I didn’t hear her. My entire world had narrowed to her hand wrapped around the hilt of my sword.

The violation went deeper than her taking it. She had entered my private space and touched something that was never hers to touch.

A memory, sharp as the blade she held, sliced through me. Aldric Quinn’s methodical footsteps would pause outside my door. The knob would turn without a knock. His flat, assessing stare would sweep across every shelf and drawer, confiscating any book, any sketch, any thought that hadn’t passed his muster.

Anything that was fun.

My room was never a sanctuary. It was a checkpoint, a cell he periodically inspected to make sure the prisoner hadn’t smuggled in a soul.

And now his daughter stood in his place. The same entitled invasion. The same casual annihilation of a boundary.

The good day was ash in my mouth. The only thing left was a cold, quiet fury.

“Get out.”

I spoke with icy finality, my attention fixed on the sword in her hand.

She blinked, confusion replacing her curiosity. “What?”