Page 174 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

“I do have the next two days off.” She took a slow sip. “It’s a shame I won’t be here to see you barely scraping by while I’m gone.” She tsked softly. “I would have loved to witness that.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “You do remember who’s still the boss, right? I could just… not give you the days off. Pretend I never made that decision. It’s not like it’s in writing or anything.”

Naija didn’t even blink. “It is in writing.”

I stared at her.

“You should really be more careful,” she added, utterly unrepentant, “when you sign the things I put in front of you.”

Before I could respond, my gaze snagged on someone across the room.

Someone who absolutely should not be here.

“What the fuck—” The words escaped before I could stop them. I was already moving, weaving through clusters of guests, leaving Naija behind without explanation.

He was scanning the room, his assessing gaze moving from face to face, calculating. Then his eyes landed on me as I stopped directly in front of him.

“Michael.” I didn’t miss the tiny twitch of irritation at the corner of his mouth, the use of his first name, the denial of the respect he felt he was owed. “You weren’t invited.”

He smiled, all false warmth. “I suppose my invitation must have been lost somewhere. These things happen.” He reached out and patted my shoulder. “I understand.”

I looked at his hand on my shoulder. Then I dragged my gaze slowly up to meet his.

“Never touch me without permission again.”

His smile flickered—a micro-flinch of surprise, quickly suppressed—and tightened into something harder. His hand dropped.

“There was no mistake,” I continued, my voice even. “You weren’t invited. Plain and simple. Right now, you’re trespassing.” I tilted my head, studying him. “How did you even get inside?”

“It’s my son’s hotel.” The words came out smooth, but there was an edge beneath them. “It wasn’t that difficult to walk through the door.”

“Then it wouldn’t be that difficult to walk back out.”

His eyes narrowed, just a fraction. “I’m not allowed to congratulate my son? To wish Cassian well?”

“Of course you are.” I matched his pleasant tone with one of my own, the words coated in ice. “But if your son wanted you here, he would have invited you. Which he didn’t.” I took a half-step closer, reducing the space between us to something uncomfortable. “So you need to leave.”

I turned to call security, to have this parasite removed from the premises, when his voice stopped me.

“You really did a remarkable job with this.”

I turned back. He was surveying the room, an appraising look on his face. “The Garcias’ first collaboration. Two young men who nearly lost everything, clawed their way back, and now stand here partnering with a legacy.” He nodded, almost approving. “It has the perfect narrative. Loss, struggle, redemption.” His eyes found mine. “Why did you never work for me, Miss Quinn?”

The answer came instantly. No thought required. “Easy.” I held his eyes. “I don’t work with condescending, misogynistic, irritating fuckers.”

A sharp laugh burst from him. “My daughter never mentioned your sense of humor.”

I smiled, cold and thin. “You and your daughter share a talent for missing the obvious.”

The laughter died. His smile remained, but something colder moved behind his eyes. “Enlighten me, Miss Quinn. What makes me all those things you just said?”

I tilted my head. “Didn’t you fire an employee last week? Because she got pregnant?”

The news had circulated briefly before Michael buried it. Ivy—talented, experienced, invaluable—had been let go the moment she announced her pregnancy. Finding her a new position had been almost too easy. Her qualifications spoke for themselves. Michael had handed his competitors a gift, too blind to see the value he was discarding.

He sighed, the sound of a man forced to explain simple truths to a child. “I don’t understand you young people. She’s going to be a mother. She shouldn’t be working. She should be at home, taking care of herself and preparing for the child.”

“I don’t understand you.” My voice dropped, quiet enough that only he could hear, intimate as a knife slide. “Why are you standing here, offering your worthless opinions about things that don’t concern you, when you should be at home? Sitting alone. Thinking about the miserable, empty life you’ve built. Waiting for your death.”