Chapter 3 #2
"Marco. I need surveillance on Isla Quinn. Home, movements, contacts. Everything." I paused. "And find out if she has family in Brooklyn. Someone she might be caring for."
A beat of silence on the other end. "Boss, that's—significant resources for an assistant. Background check is one thing, but full surveillance?" He chose his words carefully. "Is there a security concern I should know about?"
"Call it instinct."
"Your instincts are usually about threats or opportunities." Another pause. "Which is she?"
"I haven't decided yet." The truth. "Just do it, Marco. Quietly."
"Understood. I'll have someone on her by morning." He hesitated. "Cassian—be careful. Whatever this is."
I ended the call without responding. Marco's concern was noted. And ignored.
I drained my scotch, the burn in my throat nothing compared to the fire she'd ignited. Something wasn't adding up with Isla Quinn. The gap in her employment history. The lies about her mother. The way she affected me.
And that scent—vanilla, flowers, something else I couldn't name but recognized on some primal level. It haunted me, teasing at memories just beyond my grasp.
I'd uncover her secrets. All of them. And when I did, I'd decide whether to keep her close… or eliminate the distraction she represented.
Either way, the power remained mine. For now.
Three hours later, I stood at the window of my penthouse, a fresh scotch in hand that I hadn't touched. Sleep was impossible. My mind kept circling back to her—the way she'd looked at me in that elevator, the scent of vanilla that had filled the confined space.
Vanilla and citrus.
I closed my eyes, letting the memory surface fully this time.
A hotel bar in Miami. Three years ago. The petroleum conference I'd attended more out of obligation than interest. I'd been sitting alone, nursing a drink, when a woman had slid onto the barstool beside me.
Dark hair. Sharp wit. A smile that had made me forget, for one night, who and what I was.
Celia, she'd called herself. A fake name. I'd given her one, too—Antonio.
We'd talked for hours. Danced. Ended up in my suite overlooking the ocean. The way she'd felt beneath me, the sounds she'd made, the taste of her skin—
I'd left before dawn. A call from my father's lawyer—urgent, unavoidable—had pulled me from her warmth before the sun rose.
I'd meant to leave my number, some way for her to reach me.
But by the time I'd handled the crisis and returned to Miami two days later, the conference had ended. She was gone.
No way to find her. No last name. Just "Celia" and the ghost of vanilla on my sheets.
Citrus and vanilla.
Then I remembered something else—the way she'd bitten her lower lip in the elevator today, that same nervous tell. The full curve of that lip I'd traced with my thumb before kissing her senseless against a marble wall.
My eyes snapped open, the glass nearly slipping from my hand.
It couldn't be.
I pulled out my phone, my fingers moving with cold precision. "Marco. Change of priority. I need to know if Isla Quinn was in Miami two years ago. Specifically, the weekend of the petroleum conference. The Palms Resort."
"That's… specific," Marco said carefully. "You want to tell me why?"
"Just find out. Credit card records, hotel registrations, travel history. I need confirmation by morning."
"On it. Boss, if she—" Marco stopped himself, then continued more carefully. "If she's the woman from Miami, the one you never talked about but couldn't forget—this changes everything."
I said nothing. The silence confirmed what Marco already suspected.
"Understood." His voice carried weight I rarely heard from him—concern, not just for business, but for me.
"I'll have the information by dawn. But Cassian?
If it's her, and she's been working for you for weeks without saying anything—" He let that hang.
"There's a reason. Might not be one you want to hear. "
"That's what I need to find out."
"I know." A pause. "Be careful. Not with the information—with her. She got to you once. Could do it again."
Another pause, then Marco's tone shifted. "One more thing—Matteo was asking questions about her today. Wanted to know who the new assistant was, how long she'd been working for you.”
My grip tightened on the glass. "What did you tell him?"
"Nothing. Said she was cleared through HR, standard hire. But boss, he's getting nosy. Asking about operational details, personnel changes. More than usual."
"Keep him at arm's length," I said tersely. "And Marco? Don't mention Isla to anyone. Especially not family."
"Understood."
I hung up, tension coiling tighter in my shoulders. Matteo asking about Isla. That was new. And concerning.
My cousin had always been ambitious, always circling for an opening. But if he was paying attention to my personal staff, to the people closest to me…
He was looking for leverage. Or weakness.
I'd give him neither.
I stared at my reflection in the darkened window.
Celia. Isla.
If they were the same woman, if she'd walked into my office knowing exactly who I was, then this wasn't about needing a job. This was calculated. Intentional.
The question was why.
I thought back to that night—the intimacy, the connection, the way she'd looked at me like I was just a man, not a name or a title or a threat.
When I returned to Miami two days after that call pulled me away, I'd tried to find her.
Searched the hotel's guest registry for "Celia"—nothing.
Asked the conference organizers, the bar staff, and anyone who might have seen her.
No one remembered a woman matching her description, or they'd seen too many to single out one.
The name had been fake. Just like mine. We'd both been playing pretend, and when reality intruded, the fantasy dissolved.
Eventually, I'd forced myself to let it go. One night. One memory. Nothing more.
Except it had been more. And some part of me had known that even then.
But if she'd come back…
I pulled up the security footage from earlier tonight, watching her leave the building and hail a cab. Studying her profile, her movements, comparing them to fragmented memories from three years ago.
The more I looked, the more certain I became.
It was her.
My jaw clenched. She'd been in my office for a week, sitting outside my door, taking my calls, lying to my face about who she was and what we'd been to each other.
Why?
Money? Blackmail? Some scheme I hadn't uncovered yet?
Or something else?
I set down the scotch, my decision made.
Let her think she was safe. Let her think I hadn't recognized her, that her secret was secure.
I'd play along, keep digging, find out exactly what game she was running.
And when I had all the pieces—when I knew her real angle—I'd make my move.
She'd learn that deceiving Cassian Barone was the most dangerous game she could have chosen to play.