Page 172 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

“I understand.”

I softened, offering him a small smile.

“Good.”

I pulled the door closed and started the engine.

Through the open window, I added, “Bye, Cassian.”

He leaned down, his forearms resting on the window frame, his face close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.

“See you tomorrow,” he said softly. His gaze traced over my features, lingering, memorizing.

“You look beautiful.”

I didn’t respond. I just put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb, watching him in my rearview mirror. He stood there, hands in his pockets, growing smaller as I drove away.

Tomorrow was D-day. My team was ready. We’d planned for every possible disaster.

We just hadn’t planned for the right one.

Chapter 28

Ihad a tradition.

I didn’t stay at any of my events for more than an hour.

It had been this way for so long I couldn’t even remember how it started. Some forgotten gala, some long-ago disaster, some chain of events that had seared this rule into my bones. All I knew was this: if I stayed past the hour, something went wrong. A crisis would emerge. A disaster would unfold. The night would unravel in ways no amount of planning could prevent.

So the tradition was born. One hour. I’d arrive, work the room, check every detail, make sure everything was running like clockwork. And then I’d leave, and Naija would take over.

In exchange for that responsibility, she got the next two days off. Paid. Non-negotiable. It was a tiny tradition within the larger one. And every time those two days rolled around, I was reminded just how much I depended on her. How she held things together when I couldn’t.

The car door shut behind me.

For a moment, I didn’t move. I just stood there, looking up.

The hotel rose against the evening sky, all glass and clean lines, the fading light caught in its surface. The entrance had been transformed since my last visit. A deep burgundy carpet ran from the curb to the entrance. The sign above the doors was simple—elegant, understated—but the name etched into the polished metal made my chest tighten.

Garcia.

This was it. Months of work. Countless meetings, revisions, sleepless nights. A chance to prove myself to Mrs. Garcia, to show her that cutting me loose had been a mistake.

I took a breath. Checked my watch. The hour was starting now.

I walked toward the entrance. The guests weren’t here yet, but the space hummed with pre-event energy. Hotel staff glided through the glass doors. Servers balancing trays of champagne flutes. A photographer crouched near the entrance, testing angles against the fading light, his camera clicking in rapid bursts at nothing.

“Wow.”

The whisper was soft, barely audible, but it reached me.

I turned.

Cassian was standing right beside the door. As if he’d been waiting. As if he’d stationed himself there the moment he’d arrived.

He stood still, staring, his jacket unbuttoned over a crisp white shirt, his hands at his sides, his expression caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. He took a half-step toward me, lips parting.

My eyes locked on his suit.