Chapter 22
Alessia looked at me across the expanse of her desk and waited.
I had planned this meeting down to the minute.
I’d rehearsed every sentence—in the mirror, in the car, in the hollow silence of our room—until the words had lost all meaning.
I had mapped her possible reactions: the polite refusal I would acknowledge with a gracious nod, the professional indifference I would meet with unwavering focus, the outright dismissal I would absorb without a single visible flinch.
I had not prepared for the simple, devastating reality of her presence—the way the air in her office seemed thinner, making my rehearsed opener evaporate on my tongue.
My mind was a flat, white screen of static.
My gaze kept snagging on the familiar curve of her jaw, the way a single strand of hair had escaped her twist, the impossible familiarity of her hands resting on the polished table.
I couldn’t look away long enough to find the words I’d buried in my memory.
She blinked once, slowly. Then her gaze flicked to the slim silver watch on her wrist.
“You have fifteen minutes left.”
The words were a bucket of ice water. They yanked me back.
I inhaled a sharp, audible breath that filled my lungs and seemed to push the fog aside. I shook my head once, a quick physical jerk to dislodge the last of the stupor.
Get it together. This is it. This is everything.
I cleared my throat, the sound rough in the quiet room. My fingers, which felt strangely disconnected, found the edge of the black portfolio I’d brought. Without another word, I slid it across the polished surface of her desk.
“I’m here about a restaurant,” I said, forcing my voice into the steady, low register I used for boardrooms. “We’re opening it inside one of my hotels.
The launch is in a few months. The kitchen, the staff, the menu—that groundwork is done.
What isn’t done is the story. How it’s introduced to the world. We need a PR strategy for the launch.”
Her gaze dropped to the file, then lifted back to my face. No reaction yet. Just sharp, professional attention.
She opened the folder. Her eyes scanned the first page.
Then she went utterly still.
Her spine straightened, her shoulders pulling back.
She lifted her eyes to me. The professional mask was still there, but beneath it was a flicker of something else.
Surprise.
“This collaboration is with the Garcias?”
“Yes.”
She didn’t blink. “The Garcias.”
I took my time with my reply. I knew exactly why she was reacting this way. The Garcias were legends. A family-run culinary empire that had never, in three generations, collaborated with an outside brand.
When Mrs. Garcia had approached me with the proposal shortly after the divorce, it had felt like a sign. A miraculous opportunity to create something legitimate, something that would put me directly in Alessia’s professional orbit.
I’d leapt at it.
But I’d soon discovered that Alessia was no longer working for the Garcias. The news made no sense. She’d worked with them for years and had always admired Mrs. Garcia. I’d pressed for an explanation, but she’d been politely immovable.
“We wish her the best,” was all she’d said.
“Yes,” I said again, meeting her gaze directly. “The one and only.”
She leaned back in her chair, the file still held in her hands. “Mrs. Garcia agreed to have me on this? She’s with the Russos now.”
“She is,” I confirmed. “But I asked for you.”
Alessia blinked, a rare flash of genuine surprise crossing her features. “You asked for me?”
I nodded, holding her gaze. “Yes. I told her either you were the one doing the PR, or I was backing out.”
“Mrs. Garcia, with all respect, this collaboration only makes sense for me if Alessia Quinn is the one who brings it to life. She’s the only one who understands what we’re both trying to build here. If that’s not possible, then I wish you the best, but I’ll have to step away.”
She tilted her head, her gaze sharpening with skepticism. “And she just… agreed?”
“Oh, absolutely not.” I shook my head, a dry, quiet laugh escaping me. “She said a lot of things to me. Something along the lines of ‘Who are you to give me ultimatums?’ and a very clear ‘Go fuck yourself, Sterling.’”
Alessia’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile she quickly suppressed.
“But I kept trying,” I continued, my voice dropping, becoming more earnest. “I called. I emailed. I laid out, in excruciating detail, why you were the only logical choice. That you’re the best in this business. That we’d be fools not to hire you.”
“And that worked?” The doubt was still there, but now it was laced with curiosity.
I gave a slight, humble shrug. “It helped that Mr. Garcia was on my side.”
Confusion flickered across her face, sharp and immediate. “Why would he be on your side?”
I hesitated, the next admission feeling more vulnerable than the business proposal. “Actually,” I said, choosing my words with care, “we’ve been spending our weekends together. At their estate upstate. We… do gardening together.”
She leaned forward, elbows on the desk, her gaze piercing. “I’m sorry, did you just say you do gardening with Mr. Garcia? As in Mrs. Garcia’s husband.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
Ever since I’d forcibly carved balance into my life, I’d discovered vast, echoing stretches of free time.
Weekends, in particular, were a void. Before, they belonged to Alessia.
She used to fill them with her plans, her energy, her quiet companionship on the couch.
Lazy mornings, aimless drives, her head in my lap while she read.
I’d sacrificed them to the altar of Velaré without a second thought, not realizing I was burning the only light I had.
Now, with the light gone, the emptiness was absolute. So I’d dug out the crisp, forgotten business card from Mr. Garcia and called. I’d asked if his offer to teach a rookie still stood.
As it turned out, gardening suited me. The patience of it. The tangible result of consistent, careful effort. The silence that wasn’t empty, but full of growing things. Every weekend since, I’d been there, kneeling in the dirt beside a man who spoke more about soil pH than stock prices.
That was how I spent my days, at least. The nights were a different story—quieter, longer, filled with the kind of thoughts gardening couldn’t prune away.
Alessia looked down at her desk, a slow, disbelieving shake of her head. “I don’t even know what the most shocking part of this entire conversation is,” she murmured, more to herself than to me.
You letting me sit across from you.
She gave a slow, definitive nod, as if confirming something to herself. “Maybe this,” she murmured under her breath. Then her gaze lifted to mine, clear and decisive. “I’m in. Send the contract to Naija.” She pushed the file back across the desk toward me.
My mouth opened. Closed. My brain stuttered, trying to process the simple, impossible sentence.
She’s in?
“You’re in?” The words blurted out before I could filter them.
“Yeah.” She nodded and shifted her attention to her computer screen, her fingers already moving toward the keyboard. The meeting, for her, was clearly over.
I stayed seated, rooted to the chair, staring at her in disbelief. The rehearsed scenarios in my head—the polite refusals, the counterarguments, the gradual persuasion—dissolved into pixelated dust. She was right. This was the most shocking part.
“Are you… sure?” I heard myself ask, the question absurd even as I said it.
Her eyes lifted from the screen to mine. “Am I sure?”
I nodded, a frantic motion. “Yes. I thought you were going to say no. I had a whole speech prepared. To outline the mutual benefits. It’s a good speech,” I added, almost defensively. “Mr. Garcia helped me workshop it.”
I paused. “It’s only fifteen minutes long.” I glanced at my watch instinctively. “We don’t have that now. I guess I can shorten it?”
I ran a hand through my hair, mentally scrolling through the bullet points. “I’ll have to cut some parts, then.”
I frowned, staring into the middle distance. That was tricky. The flow was deliberate. The data on market penetration was crucial, but was it more crucial than the case study on brand synergy? Maybe I could merge the introductory anecdote with the…
She took a deep, measured breath, the kind meant to center herself, and offered me a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Cassian.”
My eyes, which had been fixed on the perplexing problem of the speech, found hers.
“Yes?”
“Leave.”
I moved without thought. I was on my feet in an instant, the chair scraping softly behind me. I crossed the room, my hand finding the cool metal of the door handle.
Then I stopped. My fingers tightened on the brass. I turned back.
She was still watching me, her expression unreadable.
I looked at her, and said the last line of my prepared speech. The only line that truly mattered. The words came out quiet, stripped of any pitch, utterly sincere.
“Thank you for letting me see you, Alessia.”
A real, unguarded smile touched my lips then, born of pure, relieved gratitude. My eyes held hers for one last, fleeting second.
“You look beautiful.”
I love you.
The three words didn’t leave my mouth. They stayed where they lived now, in the space behind my ribs, a constant, beating fact. But I let them shine in my eyes.
Then I turned and left.
At Velaré, outside my office, Liam was waiting. He wasn’t leaning against the wall in his usual, casual slouch. He stood rigid, his expression grim, his jaw clenched tight enough to grind stone.
He looked at me, his eyes dark with a familiar, weary tension. “Dad’s here.”
That explained the storm cloud hovering around him.
“Where is he?”
He jerked his chin toward my office door. “Inside. Waiting. Said he wants to talk to both of us.”
I’d expected this. Ever since I’d pulled out of Hartley’s deal and severed all ties, I knew he’d come. He wasn’t a man who accepted rejection, especially not from someone he’d considered a puppet.
Before we went in, Liam asked, his voice low, “How did it go with Alessia?”