Page 185 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

I settled deeper into my seat, completely at ease. I used the name that had become a weapon.

“Oh, do pray tell, Baylee.”

His hand slammed against the desk again. Harder this time. The wood groaned. “Stop calling me that!”

Cassian pulled my chair closer, angling himself between me and the desk, his hand still wrapped around the armrest. It was a small instinctive movement. “Michael.” His voice was low. A warning.

I glanced at him. That was the first time I’d heard him use Michael’s name. But then again, Cassian was probably simply unsure which last name to reach for, since the man in front of us had just been stripped of the one he’d hidden behind for decades.

“Shut up! Both of you, just shut up!” His hands curled into fists at his sides. He stared at me with a concentrated hatred, his eyes throwing daggers at me with such force I could feel their cold, sharp fury, like he could cut me down if only he looked hard enough.

“You two will never understand.” His voice cracked on the word. “You will never understand what it’s like when your mother tells you that you haven’t lost your father’s love. That someone will love you like that again.” A bitter, humorless laugh escaped him. “Only for that person to not give two fucks about you.”

“Jameson Hartley.” He spoke the name like it was poison on his tongue. “He had everything. Power. Money. A legacy that opened doors before he even reached them. I looked at him and thought—that’s who I want to be. That’s who I will become.”

His eyes grew distant, lost in memory. “That’s all he was. Fine. He wasn’t ambitious. He didn’t want more. He was content in that tiny apartment, content with his ordinary little life, content to be nothing.” His voice dripped with contempt. “I hated him for that.”

Then he started pacing again, faster this time, his footsteps quick and restless against the floor.

“And then Jameson came into our lives. This was my chance. Someone worth becoming. Someone worth impressing.” His voice rose. “I looked up to him. I tried everything to earn his approval, his respect, his love. I studied his life. I watched what he did, what he wore, how he spoke, the people he surrounded himself with, and I copied him.”

He ticked the achievements off on his fingers, one by one, presenting evidence in a case he had spent his whole life preparing for.

“Top of my class. Valedictorian. The same college he went to—on full scholarship. Never asked him for a single penny. I became the perfect child.” His voice cracked. “But no matter what I did, he just never loved me. He loved my mother, that was clear. But me? I was just… there.”

Cassian shifted closer. I shot him a quick glance. Don’t. Let him talk. He held my gaze for a heartbeat, then gave the smallest nod.

Michael’s pacing grew more agitated. “When he died, I thought… maybe now. Maybe he was just someone who couldn’t show it, but deep down, he did love me. Maybe the will would prove it.” A sound escaped him. Half laugh, half sob. “But then we read it.”

He stopped. Stood still. When he spoke again, his voice was low, hollow.

“He left everything to my mother. Everything. There was no mention of me. Not a single word. It was like I didn’t exist to him.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “A decade. A decade of trying to earn his love. And at the end, I had nothing to show for it.”

His voice dropped to something barely audible.

“Not even his name.”

He started laughing.

“That was the day I realized,” he said, his voice carrying that same hollow quality, “that you don’t just get what you want by sitting there. By trying your best. By hoping someone will notice.” His eyes found mine, and there was something ancient in them. Something wounded. “No. You’re supposed to take it. You’re supposed to fight for what you deserve.”

“And I did. Jameson might not have loved me, but my mother did. She named everything after me. Every account. Every property. Every trust.” A bitter smile. “I think she felt guilty. Her husband had spent years pretending I didn’t exist, so she made sure I would never have to worry about anything.”

Then he looked at me and smirked.

“Do you know how many things you can do when you have that kind of power, Alessia?”

I said nothing.

“You can take the name you’ve been desperate for your whole life. Just like that.”

He snapped his fingers. “Throw some money at the right people, and suddenly”—his smile widened—“I was Michael Hartley.”

He paused, his gaze turning inward. “With that much power, I found every single kid who’d ever made fun of my last name. Every one of them. The ones who taunted me, whispered behind my back, made me feel like I was garbage.” His voice dropped, soft and dangerous. “And I made sure they never said another word. About me. About anything. I made them afraid of me.”

“I erased every trace of Michael Baylee. Every record. Every mention. Every little piece of proof that he had ever existed.”

He stopped.