Page 173 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

Or more specifically, the color of his suit.

“Alessia, you look—”

“We’re matching.” The words cut him off, sharp with surprise. I finally dragged my eyes from his jacket to meet his gaze.

He blinked. Looked down at himself. At his suit. His pink suit. Then back at me, a flush creeping up his neck. He wiped a hand self-consciously over his lapel. “You wear pink on important days.” The words came out sheepish, almost a mumble.

My eyebrows rose. “So you decided to copy me?”

He wasn’t meeting my eyes, studying the carpet instead. “It’s not really copying. I went shopping. And they happened to have a pink suit. And I happened to try it on. And I happened to look very good in it.” The repetitions piled up, each one less convincing than the last. “So I decided to wear it.” He shrugged.

I nodded slowly, letting him squirm for exactly one more second. “I can’t argue with that, now can I?”

His eyes finally found mine, crinkling at the corners with relief and something warmer. “It is a good explanation, isn’t it?”

I shook my head at him, a smile tugging at my lips, and turned to leave.

I’d made it a few steps when his voice stopped me.

“Alessia.”

I found him still standing at the same spot when I turned, but something in his expression had shifted. The playful warmth was still there, but underneath it, something deeper.

His eyes held mine, unwavering. “You look magnificent.” A step forward. “Stunning.” Another step. “Mesmerizing.” Another. “Breathtaking.”

He was closer now, close enough that I could see the steady rise and fall of his chest, the absolute focus in his gaze.

“If you give me two minutes,” he continued, his voice low, serious, “I can google and find more synonyms. Enough to make you understand exactly how you look right now.” Another step. We were almost touching. “But what I really want to say is…”

He stopped. Smiled. That smile that transformed his whole face, that made him look young and hopeful and utterly, disarmingly sincere.

“Is that you look beautiful, Alessia. You just look… beautiful.”

I straightened, my spine locking into place. My pulse stumbled, then rearranged itself into something faster, less steady. My gaze jumped from one of his eyes to the other, searching for an escape, a way to deflect. But his eyes stayed steady on mine. That smile didn’t waver. He just stood there, waiting, open, offering nothing but the truth.

I cleared my throat. “Cassian.”

“Hmm?” The sound was soft.

I let a small smile break through. “You look nice.”

I turned and walked away before I could see his reaction, but his laughter followed me, warm, genuine and utterly delighted. And despite every effort to maintain my composure, my smile widened into a grin I couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried.

Guests started arriving.

Within minutes, the rhythm shifted. Doors opened every few seconds, releasing waves of conversation and laughter. Voices filled the space, layering over the low hum of the music. Cameras flashed near the open kitchen, capturing the gleaming counters and the chefs in their pristine whites.

I didn’t move from my position near the bar.

Before the first guest had crossed the threshold, I’d already walked the entire room twice. Checked the lighting—photographers would complain if the kitchen counter caught a glare or, worse, fell into shadow. Confirmed with the chef exactly when the first tasting plates would go out. Circled the room with Naija, ensuring every journalist had a press kit and an unobstructed view of the open kitchen, the heart of the evening.

Now, the room was filling exactly as it should.

Influencers clustered near the bar, capturing the signature cocktails from every angle before taking the first sip. A journalist I recognized from a major food publication had staked out a position near the open kitchen, notebook ready. And near the center of the dining room, a knot of investors had gathered around Cassian and Liam.

“I’m thinking of traveling somewhere.”

I turned. Naija had materialized beside me, drink in hand, surveying the room.