Page 78 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

I stepped back from him, putting another inch between us. “So you can keep repeating the same shit again and again, Cassian. But it won’t make a difference.”

His shoulders dropped, and he stood there with nothing left to argue. He dragged a hand beneath his eyes, then looked at me again, tears clinging to his lashes.

“Is there anything… anything at all I can say to make you stay?” The words were a raw whisper, stripped of all hope.

My teeth pressed together. “No.”

He swallowed hard, the muscle in his throat working. Then came a single, slow nod of acceptance. A tear escaped, tracing a path down his cheek, and he wiped it away with a harsh, angry swipe of his hand.

Something twisted in my chest at the sight—a pang I refused to name. I shoved it down, deep. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me about that night?”

He shook his head, his voice hollow. “You already know I followed you in my car… and then I found you—” He broke off, unable to finish, the memory visibly paralyzing him.

“That’s enough.” I stopped him. “You don’t have to say anything else.”

I stepped forward and reached for my suitcase, ready to leave at last, when he spoke.

“I shouldn’t have stayed out so late that night.”

I paused. “What did you say?”

He didn’t look at me. His eyes were fixed on the floor, his voice distant… like he was confessing to himself more than to me. “I shouldn’t have gone out with the team. I shouldn’t have forgotten your party. I should have called you. I shouldn’t have waited for Cassandra. I shouldn’t have brought her home. I should have come straight home and talked to you. I should have hugged you. I should have thanked you. I shouldn’t have—”

“Wait.”

My mind had latched onto a single detail he’d let slip.

“Did you just say you brought Cassandra here?”

He finally looked up, caught off guard by his own admission. “Yes.”

I stared at him for a long second before speaking. “I asked you for every detail of that night. How did this particular detail vanish from your story?”

He blinked, thrown by the question. “Because it didn’t matter.”

“What do you mean, it didn’t matter?”

His confusion only deepened. “Why would it? You wanted to know why you left. I was the reason. She doesn’t matter.”

My head tilted. “Let me get this straight. You forgot the party I threw for you. You were out celebrating with your team—a team she is on. And then you finally came home at 2 a.m…. with her. And you thought that detail was irrelevant?”

He frowned. “She was drunk out of her mind. She kept puking. I waited for her to be done so I could drop her home, but she couldn’t even stand, let alone tell me where she lived. I was desperate to get home, so I brought her here to sober up. It’s not a big deal.”

It’s not a big deal.

When Cassandra had cornered me today, going on about her “profound connection” with Cassian, I’d dismissed it as the ramblings of a woman who had lost touch with reality.

But what if she hadn’t?

What if she’d been telling me the truth?

“So you coming home late at night with your mistress is not a big deal?”

He froze.

Every part of him went still, his eyes fixed on me.

His face contorted, his expression twisting into unmistakable disgust. He recoiled as though the suggestion itself had left a foul taste in his mouth.