Page 143 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

She was in her element. A force of pure, distilled focus.

She didn’t glance my way.

Last week had been our final one-on-one meeting.

I’d arrived early that day, a knot of irrational dread in my stomach. I hated that the meetings were ending. They’d become my only sanctioned access to her—a structured, professional hour where I could just be in the same room, listening to her voice, watching the way she’d tap her pen against her lower lip when she was thinking. Even if all we discussed were timelines, press kits, and seating charts, it was something.

After that, we had only one big, final group walkthrough left. Then the project would run on its own momentum, and I’d have no more reasons to be in her orbit.

I’d been pacing a trench into the carpet outside her office door, my mind a riot of useless things I wanted to say, while inside, she was finishing another meeting. When the door finally swung open, I turned too quickly, my body snapping to attention.

And then I froze.

“Rohan?” Surprise sharpened my voice.

“Sir!” he squeaked, then cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. “What are you doing here? Isn’t your meeting with Ms. Quinn scheduled for…” He frantically checked his watch. “…in one hour and seven minutes?”

“It is,” I confirmed, my eyes narrowing. I took a step closer. The air around him seemed to vibrate with guilty energy. “But what are you doing here? Didn’t you take a personal day? Something about your grandmother being… sick?”

Rohan’s hands came together in a nervous, prayer-like clasp. He looked down at his interlocked fingers as if they might contain a script.

“She is sick,” he said, then paused, his brow furrowing in deep concentration. “…of me.”

He frowned down at his own words.

Before either of us could stammer another word, Alessia appeared in the doorway. She leaned against the frame, her hands tucked casually into the pockets of her trousers, her expression one of mild, amused exasperation.

“He’s here to sign a modeling contract,” she stated, her voice cutting through the thick awkwardness. “His grandmother is the one who encouraged him to try it. The shoot’s on a weekend, so no work hours are impacted.”

Her gaze flicked between Rohan’s mortified face and my stunned one.

“So, now that’s settled,” she said, her gaze landing squarely on me, all business, “shall we?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She pushed off the doorframe and disappeared back into her office.

I turned to Rohan, who looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

“You could have just told me the truth instead of the… sick grandmother performance.”

He nodded vigorously, eyes wide.

“You’re absolutely right, sir. My apologies. Next time.”

I gave a curt nod, accepting the apology, and turned to follow Alessia. I’d taken two steps when my brain processed his last two words.

My head swiveled back.

“Wait. Next time?”

But Rohan was already halfway down the hall, his pace suspiciously brisk. He pulled his phone to his ear and adopted a suddenly, suspiciously cheerful voice.

“Yes, Grandma! On my way! So excited!”

I shook my head, a baffled smile tugging at my lips despite myself, and entered her office. The door clicked shut behind me, sealing me into the quiet, familiar space for what I knew would be the last scheduled hour I would ever have with her alone.

Today, she was here to finalize the press logistics—a technical, granular process of walking the raw space with Naija. They were mapping the choreography of chaos: checking sightlines for cameras, timing the flow of guests, marking where light would fall and where shadows would hide. It was the blueprint of a moment, and she was its architect.

Naija murmured something, pointing toward the far wall where the Garcia family would be presented. Alessia nodded immediately, her gaze already calculating, her mind adjusting the invisible grid. There was no hesitation. No second-guessing. Just a sequence of clean, efficient decisions, one flowing into the next like a well-rehearsed dance.