Page 134 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

I entered the building, my footsteps sure on the polished floor. I stopped at the reception desk. A smile, genuine and unforced, touched my lips.

“Hello,” I said, my voice clear and calm in the quiet space. “I have an appointment with Alessia Quinn.”

Chapter 22

Alessia looked at me across the expanse of her desk and waited.

I had planned this meeting down to the minute. I’d rehearsed every sentence—in the mirror, in the car, in the hollow silence of our room—until the words had lost all meaning. I had mapped her possible reactions: the polite refusal I would acknowledge with a gracious nod, the professional indifference I would meet with unwavering focus, the outright dismissal I would absorb without a single visible flinch.

I had not prepared for the simple, devastating reality of her presence—the way the air in her office seemed thinner, making my rehearsed opener evaporate on my tongue. My mind was a flat, white screen of static. My gaze kept snagging on the familiar curve of her jaw, the way a single strand of hair had escaped her twist, the impossible familiarity of her hands resting on the polished table.

I couldn’t look away long enough to find the words I’d buried in my memory.

She blinked once, slowly. Then her gaze flicked to the slim silver watch on her wrist.

“You have fifteen minutes left.”

The words were a bucket of ice water. They yanked me back.

I inhaled a sharp, audible breath that filled my lungs and seemed to push the fog aside. I shook my head once, a quick physical jerk to dislodge the last of the stupor.

Get it together. This is it. This is everything.

I cleared my throat, the sound rough in the quiet room. My fingers, which felt strangely disconnected, found the edge of the black portfolio I’d brought. Without another word, I slid it across the polished surface of her desk.

“I’m here about a restaurant,” I said, forcing my voice into the steady, low register I used for boardrooms. “We’re opening it inside one of my hotels. The launch is in a few months. The kitchen, the staff, the menu—that groundwork is done. What isn’t done is the story. How it’s introduced to the world. We need a PR strategy for the launch.”

Her gaze dropped to the file, then lifted back to my face. No reaction yet. Just sharp, professional attention.

She opened the folder. Her eyes scanned the first page.

Then she went utterly still.

Her spine straightened, her shoulders pulling back.

She lifted her eyes to me. The professional mask was still there, but beneath it was a flicker of something else.

Surprise.

“This collaboration is with the Garcias?”

“Yes.”

She didn’t blink. “The Garcias.”

I took my time with my reply. I knew exactly why she was reacting this way. The Garcias were legends. A family-run culinary empire that had never, in three generations, collaborated with an outside brand.

When Mrs. Garcia had approached me with the proposal shortly after the divorce, it had felt like a sign. A miraculous opportunity to create something legitimate, something that would put me directly in Alessia’s professional orbit.

I’d leapt at it.

But I’d soon discovered that Alessia was no longer working for the Garcias. The news made no sense. She’d worked with them for years and had always admired Mrs. Garcia. I’d pressed for an explanation, but she’d been politely immovable.

“We wish her the best,” was all she’d said.

“Yes,” I said again, meeting her gaze directly. “The one and only.”

She leaned back in her chair, the file still held in her hands. “Mrs. Garcia agreed to have me on this? She’s with the Russos now.”