Page 58 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

I had built my media and PR agency from nothing, fresh out of college, working brutal hours to earn every client, every campaign, and every shred of our reputation.

Now, I was three years behind.

That was the cruelest part. This was my empire, and I was the stranger walking through its gates.

I needed a strong dose of coffee before I could face the day, and Naija was already waiting with it. But she wasn’t alone.

Another woman stood beside her.

Cassian’s mother.

I’d seen pictures. I’d heard the stories.

None of it prepared me for finding her waiting for me at eight in the morning, looking perfectly at home in a place I was still struggling to recognize as mine.

She surged forward and pulled me into a hug the second our eyes met.

What is it with people in Cassian’s life and unsolicited hugs?

She released me a moment later, smoothing her expression into a polished smile. “Alessia, darling.” Her gaze travelled over my face, lingering a second too long. Her brow creased. “Are you all right? You look a little… worn out.”

What is it with people in Cassian’s life not liking me?

“What are you doing here?” I walked straight past Camilla Sterling and stopped beside Naija, taking the coffee from her with a quiet thank-you before turning back to her. “At eight in the morning, no less.”

She didn’t seem offended by my bluntness. If anything, her smile grew more practiced. “I’m here to talk to you, of course. Now, let’s go to your office.”

“We’ll talk here.” I crossed to the couch near the entrance and sat down, then gestured toward the chair opposite me. “Sit.”

For the briefest moment, her pleasant expression cracked. Her eyes hardened, her mouth tightening with unmistakable irritation before the smile returned.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Alessia.” Her voice had lost its warmth. “Let’s go.”

She moved toward the door again.

I didn’t move.

Naija did.

She shifted into the doorway, calmly cutting off Camilla’s path. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sterling, but I can’t let anyone into the office without my boss.”

I took a slow sip of my coffee.

At least my taste in coffee hasn’t changed.

Camilla stared at Naija. The polished socialite disappeared from her face, replaced by something colder and far less forgiving. She took a step toward my assistant, her eyes narrowing into a warning that would have made most people retreat.

Naija didn’t.

“Camilla.”

My voice was low enough to stop her.

Her glare shifted toward me.

I leaned back against the couch, coffee still warm between my fingers, and met her eyes without giving her an inch. My expression remained pleasant. My voice even carried the sweetness of a polite request.

The steel underneath it was anything but polite.