Chapter 19
She just stood there, beaming at me with a sheepish, unblinking smile. She offered no explanation. Just that smile.
When the silence hit the one-minute mark, I gave a single, curt nod and moved to shut the door.
“Wait!” she blurted, her hand slapping against the wood to stop it. The smile returned, even brighter. “I need a place to stay.”
“Go to a hotel.” I tried to close the door again.
This time, her other hand darted out and clasped mine, her gaze locking onto mine with sudden, dramatic intensity. “Please.”
I recoiled, snatching my hand back. She seized the split-second advantage, darting past me into the apartment and dragging her two suitcases in behind her before I could react.
I turned and marched back to the kitchen, retrieving my phone from the disaster zone of my cocktail attempts. She followed, a persistent presence behind me.
“What are you doing?” She asked, her voice light, as if we were discussing the weather.
“Calling the cops to report a trespasser.” I didn’t look up, my thumb hovering over the screen. “How did you even get into the building? I specifically told Mark not to let you up.”
She straightened, pride flashing across her face. “Like I told you before, my tears work wonders.”
I shook my head, pulling up the emergency call screen. Her hand shot out and snatched the phone from my grip.
I slowly looked up from my empty hand to her face. “I am going to count to three.”
She immediately set the phone down on the marble countertop, pushing it toward me as if it were hot. “The pipes burst in my apartment. The entire place is flooding. I need somewhere to stay for a few days.”
I slid my hands into my pockets. “Again. Go to a hotel.”
“And waste money?” She scoffed. “Please. I have a daughter who’ll happily let me stay with her.”
“Tell her I said hello. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” I ignored her and returned to my cocktail disaster zone.
“Don’t be so heartless! This place is huge. Just treat me like a piece of furniture and stash me in a spare room.”
“I’d prefer actual furniture. My couch has been annoying me lately.” I selected a clean glass and poured the final, hopeful batch of my cocktail.
This one has to be good.
I took a cautious sip, and immediately regretted every life choice that led me to this moment.
The liquid hit my tongue, a vile conspiracy of flavors that made my entire body recoil. I fought the instinct to spit it across the room, every muscle rebelling against the taste.
“You want to spit that out so badly, don’t you?” she observed, leaning against the island.
I shot her a glare, forced a convulsive swallow, and then downed the entire glass in one defiant gulp. I slammed the empty glass onto the counter before attacking the mess, scrubbing every surface with sharp, impatient strokes.
“Oh, I’ll help!” she chirped, already moving toward the counter.
“The last room at the end of the hall,” I said, not looking up from wiping down the counter. “Go. Dump yourself there.”
A radiant, victorious smile broke across her face. “I knew there was a heart in there somewhere.” She spun around and practically sprinted down the hallway with her suitcases.
My hands dropped to my sides. I leaned against the counter and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the distant sound of a door opening and the unmistakable thump of her suitcase being set down.
A deep, certain feeling took root in my gut.
I was going to regret this.
I was right.
I regretted it deeply.
In just one week, she had managed to be more disruptive than my most high-maintenance client. She operated on a frequency of pure, restless interference. She couldn’t just be; she had to do.
Constantly.
She moved my bookshelves three inches to the left for “better energy flow.”
She reorganized my kitchen pantry by color and existential mood.
I came home one evening, worn down by a brutal day, and froze.
In the center of my living room, where my clean-lined, charcoal grey sofa had been, sat a monstrosity. It was oversized, upholstered in a violent floral print, and adorned with a pile of garish velvet cushions.
She was perched in the center of it, beaming. “You’re welcome!” she announced, spreading her arms as if presenting a conquered kingdom.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t even speak. I just stared at the foreign object in my space, at her proud smile, and felt a fuse blow somewhere behind my eyes.
That was two days ago. My current strategy was a campaign of sheer, silent negation.
I moved through the apartment as if the new furniture, the repositioned shelves, the inexplicable bowl of potpourri on the coffee table, and she were simply ghosts.
Phantom data. I did not acknowledge, react, or engage.
I was pretending my own home was a hotel haunted by a particularly invasive poltergeist.
“Didn’t Felicity say she was joining us?” Naija asked as we shuffled forward in the cafe line.
I checked my phone, finding a waiting text. I typed out a quick reply before tucking my phone away and looked back at Naija. “She can’t make it. Someone just brought in an injured bird.”
We reached the counter and placed our orders. My gaze drifted absently across the café, scanning the usual crowd, and then snapped back to a familiar silhouette tucked in a corner booth.
I blinked. The figure ducked, the quick movement confirming my suspicion.
I crossed the room in a few quick strides and stopped at the edge of his table. Cassian was bent low, his head under the table, intently studying the floor as if he’d dropped a diamond.
I cleared my throat.
He jolted, looking up with a convincingly wide-eyed expression of surprise. “Alessia!” He scrambled upright too quickly, catching his knee against the table leg in the process. A sharp wince crossed his face. “What a coincidence. What are you doing here?”
I just stared at him, my expression flat. “My office,” I said slowly, “is directly across the street.”
He glanced out the window, feigning a distracted squint. “Is it? God, it’s been so long, I must have forgotten.”
I waited for him to drop the act and tell me what he was actually doing there.
He didn’t.
“What are you doing here, Cassian?” I finally asked.
He blinked, as if the question were bizarre. “Getting coffee.”
“Your office is an hour away in the opposite direction.”
Another blink. “I’m… sightseeing?” he offered, the last word lifting uncertainly.
I tilted my head. “Cassian.”
“Yes?”
“Are you stalking me?”
His eyes widened. “No! I am not stalking you. According to the definition, stalking requires persistent, unwanted pursuit, knowing your whereabouts, and causing reasonable fear. This,” he gestured between us, “I just… I came to this café, hoping I might see you here. That’s all.
And it’s the first time it’s actually happened, so it doesn’t count as anything. Trust me, I’ve checked.”
His own words seemed to echo back to him. His eyes widened in pure, unadulterated horror. He glanced frantically around the cafe as if looking for an emergency exit. “I’ve… made this extremely awkward,” he admitted, panic creeping into his face. “I should go.”
He snatched his coffee from the table and fled the cafe, muttering what sounded like, “…stupid…idiot.”
Naija appeared at my side. “Was that Cassian who just… fled?”
My eyes stayed fixed on the door he’d vanished through. “He’s a dork,” I said, the realization settling with strange comfort.
I glanced at Naija to find her staring at me, completely puzzled.
“He’s not just a silent, broody guy,” I clarified, feeling a lightness in my chest. “He’s also a dork.”
A small, unexpected smile touched my lips.
“Good to know,” I said, more to myself than to her. I took my coffee from her hand. “That makes me feel significantly better about my past self’s taste.”
I led the way out of the café, the strange, lingering smile still on my face.
Some days, everything just clicked. Meetings were productive, clients were satisfied, and the world operated with a smooth, satisfying rhythm.
For the first time in months, I was having one of those days.
The calm I’d carried home from a good day evaporated the instant I saw her emerging from my bedroom. In her hand was my sword, held with an ease that made my stomach drop.
My feet locked in place. The air drained from my lungs.
“Why on earth do you have a sword in your room?” she asked.
I didn’t hear her. My entire world had narrowed to her hand wrapped around the hilt of my sword.
The violation went deeper than her taking it. She had entered my private space and touched something that was never hers to touch.
A memory, sharp as the blade she held, sliced through me.
Aldric Quinn’s methodical footsteps would pause outside my door.
The knob would turn without a knock. His flat, assessing stare would sweep across every shelf and drawer, confiscating any book, any sketch, any thought that hadn’t passed his muster.
Anything that was fun.
My room was never a sanctuary. It was a checkpoint, a cell he periodically inspected to make sure the prisoner hadn’t smuggled in a soul.
And now his daughter stood in his place. The same entitled invasion. The same casual annihilation of a boundary.
The good day was ash in my mouth. The only thing left was a cold, quiet fury.
“Get out.”
I spoke with icy finality, my attention fixed on the sword in her hand.
She blinked, confusion replacing her curiosity. “What?”
I lifted my gaze to hers, letting her see the ice there. “Get out of my home.”
Her brows drew in, confusion sharpening across her face. “What are you saying? I just asked—”
I didn’t wait for her to finish. I walked past her into the room, pulled her suitcase from the closet, flipped it open on the bed, and began dumping armfuls of her clothes inside.
Her voice, sharp with alarm, came from the doorway. “Alessia! What are you doing?”
“It’s pretty self-explanatory. I’m kicking you out.” I swept a pile of silk blouses off a hanger and into the growing chaos of the suitcase.
Her hand shot out and clamped around my wrist, stopping me. “Alessia, stop. I’m not leaving.”