Page 216 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

Watching Michael sputter about calling his lawyer while they cuffed him was going to be one of those moments.

We stood in his house—his grand, empty, meticulously curated house—and I watched the officers read him his rights. Liam was already moving, calling for Cassandra, his voice echoing through the hallways. Cassian stayed beside me, close enough that his arm brushed mine, keeping me company while I watched the show.

The officers guided Michael toward the door. His face was red, his protests growing louder, more desperate. I watched every step. Every stumble. Every moment of a man who had spent decades believing he was untouchable finally learning otherwise.

I should have brought popcorn.

They were almost through the door when a voice cut through the chaos.

“Dad?”

I turned. Cassandra stood in the doorway, her eyes fixed on her father, her face pale. Liam was behind her, reaching for her, trying to talk to her, but she wasn’t listening.

“What’s happening?” Her gaze swept the room—the officers, the cuffs, the weight of something she didn’t understand pressing down on all of it. Her eyes stopped on Cassian. He shifted closer to me, almost imperceptibly, and her eyes tracked the movement.

“Cassian.” Her voice cracked. “What’s happening? Stop them. They can’t take my dad.”

Michael straightened, his composure snapping back into place. “They won’t be able to do anything. I’ll be back in no time, okay?”

Cassandra still looked unsure. Her eyes darted from face to face, looking for someone to explain, someone to fix this. Then they landed on me.

“Alessia.” Her voice hardened. “You’re behind this, aren’t you? If you hate me, come after me. Leave my father out of it.”

I felt Cassian shift beside me, ready to speak, but I stopped him from speaking.

Liam tried to speak, tried to reach her. She ignored him. Her focus was on me, blazing with the kind of loyalty her father had never deserved.

I looked at her. At the daughter who had spent her whole life trying to be what he wanted, who had never once been asked what she wanted. And then I looked at Michael.

“Tell me something, Baylee.”

His jaw tightened at the name. Good.

“What’s your daughter’s favourite food?”

He glared at me. Silent. Furious.

“Too hard? Okay, easier question then.” I tilted my head. “Name one of her friends.”

The glare stayed, but something else flickered behind it. Something uncertain.

“Still too hard? Alright, Baylee. The easiest one.” I smiled. “What’s your daughter’s dream? Since you love her so much, you must know. She must have told you. What is it?”

I waited.

His eyes darted to Cassandra. Then back to me. The glare was gone. Something else had taken its place. Something that looked like panic.

“That’s strange.” I let my smile widen, let it turn sympathetic, let it cut. “For someone who’s spent so much time telling everyone what a loving father he is, you don’t seem to know anything about your daughter at all.”

I turned to the officers. “You can take him away now. Baylee seems tired.”

He opened his mouth. I could see it—the words forming, the desperate attempt to claw back control. But they were already pulling him away, already dragging him through the door, already taking him somewhere his money and his power and his precious name couldn’t follow.

Oh no. Now I’d never find out what he was going to say.

I turned to Cassandra. She was still staring at the door where her father had disappeared, her expression hollowed out, like she didn’t know what to do with herself now that the man who had defined her entire life was gone. Her eyes drifted to me, unfocused, and she opened her mouth.

I didn’t let her speak.