Page 144 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

I didn’t need to be here.

Everyone in the room knew it. The hotel’s project manager kept glancing at me, puzzled. Garcia’s sommelier, there to discuss the wine display, gave me a polite, confused nod. Even Naija, an hour ago, had caught my eye for a brief, knowing moment before turning wordlessly back to her tablet. My presence was an anomaly. A CEO had no business shadowing a PR walkthrough.

Any other day, I would have made up a reason. Just checking on the structural progress. Wanted to see the lighting mock-ups. Thin excuses that no one believed, least of all me.

But not today.

Today, I had a reason. A legitimate, concrete, and terrifyingly important reason to be here.

Every year, like clockwork, Alessia would get sick around this time. There was no medical explanation, no predictable date. Just the certainty that, as the leaves turned, she would be felled for exactly one brutal day. A total system crash. She’d be reduced to a feverish, shivering bundle on the couch, incapable of fetching her own water.

Before me, Felicity had been her guardian. Once I was in her life, it became my sacred, unshakable duty. I used to clear my entire week, a silent vigil, waiting for the signs while desperately hoping that this year, the pattern would break, while simultaneously being ready for when it didn’t.

My eyes were locked on her when I saw it—a slight, involuntary shiver, a subtle tension in her shoulders.

Then she sneezed.

I was at her side before the echo faded, my hand hovering just behind her back, not quite touching.

“I’ll get the car ready,” I said to Naija, my voice low and urgent. “Stay with her. I’ll be right back—”

Alessia turned her entire body toward me, her eyes narrowing in pure confusion.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re sick.”

Her eyebrows shot up. Then a slow, incredulous smile spread across her face.

“Are you… manifesting right now, Cassian?”

“What? No.” I shook my head, horrified at the suggestion. “You sneezed.”

She kept looking at me, that amused, impressed curve still on her lips.

“Good catch. I can see why you’re the boss.” She turned, plucking her tablet from the table. “I’m not sick. I sneezed because of the dust. Speaking of which…”

She strode off, already issuing instructions.

I kept my eyes on her, my internal alarm still faintly blaring.

“Do you think it’s today?” I asked Naija without looking away.

“Could be,” Naija hummed, noncommittal. She tapped her own tablet awake and opened a calendar. My eyes scanned it.

“We’re two days into the week. Nothing has happened yet.” She shrugged. “Could be today. Could be tomorrow.”

The entire week on Naija’s calendar was meticulously blocked out with contingency plans—tasks redistributed, meetings shifted—all designed for the precise moment Alessia would go offline.

My gaze snagged on the weekend.

“Spa day?” I read aloud.

Naija didn’t miss a beat.

“I deserve to relax.”

“But why does it say ‘Use Alessia’s card’?”