Chapter 28
Ihad a tradition.
I didn’t stay at any of my events for more than an hour.
It had been this way for so long I couldn’t even remember how it started.
Some forgotten gala, some long-ago disaster, some chain of events that had seared this rule into my bones.
All I knew was this: if I stayed past the hour, something went wrong.
A crisis would emerge. A disaster would unfold.
The night would unravel in ways no amount of planning could prevent.
So the tradition was born. One hour. I’d arrive, work the room, check every detail, make sure everything was running like clockwork. And then I’d leave, and Naija would take over.
In exchange for that responsibility, she got the next two days off. Paid. Non-negotiable. It was a tiny tradition within the larger one. And every time those two days rolled around, I was reminded just how much I depended on her. How she held things together when I couldn’t.
The car door shut behind me.
For a moment, I didn’t move. I just stood there, looking up.
The hotel rose against the evening sky, all glass and clean lines, the fading light caught in its surface.
The entrance had been transformed since my last visit.
A deep burgundy carpet ran from the curb to the entrance.
The sign above the doors was simple—elegant, understated—but the name etched into the polished metal made my chest tighten.
Garcia.
This was it. Months of work. Countless meetings, revisions, sleepless nights. A chance to prove myself to Mrs. Garcia, to show her that cutting me loose had been a mistake.
I took a breath. Checked my watch. The hour was starting now.
I walked toward the entrance. The guests weren’t here yet, but the space hummed with pre-event energy.
Hotel staff glided through the glass doors.
Servers balancing trays of champagne flutes.
A photographer crouched near the entrance, testing angles against the fading light, his camera clicking in rapid bursts at nothing.
“Wow.”
The whisper was soft, barely audible, but it reached me.
I turned.
Cassian was standing right beside the door. As if he’d been waiting. As if he’d stationed himself there the moment he’d arrived.
He stood still, staring, his jacket unbuttoned over a crisp white shirt, his hands at his sides, his expression caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. He took a half-step toward me, lips parting.
My eyes locked on his suit.
Or more specifically, the color of his suit.
“Alessia, you look—”
“We’re matching.” The words cut him off, sharp with surprise. I finally dragged my eyes from his jacket to meet his gaze.
He blinked. Looked down at himself. At his suit. His pink suit. Then back at me, a flush creeping up his neck. He wiped a hand self-consciously over his lapel. “You wear pink on important days.” The words came out sheepish, almost a mumble.
My eyebrows rose. “So you decided to copy me?”
He wasn’t meeting my eyes, studying the carpet instead.
“It’s not really copying. I went shopping.
And they happened to have a pink suit. And I happened to try it on.
And I happened to look very good in it.” The repetitions piled up, each one less convincing than the last. “So I decided to wear it.” He shrugged.
I nodded slowly, letting him squirm for exactly one more second. “I can’t argue with that, now can I?”
His eyes finally found mine, crinkling at the corners with relief and something warmer. “It is a good explanation, isn’t it?”
I shook my head at him, a smile tugging at my lips, and turned to leave.
I’d made it a few steps when his voice stopped me.
“Alessia.”
I found him still standing at the same spot when I turned, but something in his expression had shifted. The playful warmth was still there, but underneath it, something deeper.
His eyes held mine, unwavering. “You look magnificent.” A step forward. “Stunning.” Another step. “Mesmerizing.” Another. “Breathtaking.”
He was closer now, close enough that I could see the steady rise and fall of his chest, the absolute focus in his gaze.
“If you give me two minutes,” he continued, his voice low, serious, “I can google and find more synonyms. Enough to make you understand exactly how you look right now.” Another step. We were almost touching. “But what I really want to say is…”
He stopped. Smiled. That smile that transformed his whole face, that made him look young and hopeful and utterly, disarmingly sincere.
“Is that you look beautiful, Alessia. You just look… beautiful.”
I straightened, my spine locking into place.
My pulse stumbled, then rearranged itself into something faster, less steady.
My gaze jumped from one of his eyes to the other, searching for an escape, a way to deflect.
But his eyes stayed steady on mine. That smile didn’t waver.
He just stood there, waiting, open, offering nothing but the truth.
I cleared my throat. “Cassian.”
“Hmm?” The sound was soft.
I let a small smile break through. “You look nice.”
I turned and walked away before I could see his reaction, but his laughter followed me, warm, genuine and utterly delighted. And despite every effort to maintain my composure, my smile widened into a grin I couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried.
Guests started arriving.
Within minutes, the rhythm shifted. Doors opened every few seconds, releasing waves of conversation and laughter. Voices filled the space, layering over the low hum of the music. Cameras flashed near the open kitchen, capturing the gleaming counters and the chefs in their pristine whites.
I didn’t move from my position near the bar.
Before the first guest had crossed the threshold, I’d already walked the entire room twice.
Checked the lighting—photographers would complain if the kitchen counter caught a glare or, worse, fell into shadow.
Confirmed with the chef exactly when the first tasting plates would go out.
Circled the room with Naija, ensuring every journalist had a press kit and an unobstructed view of the open kitchen, the heart of the evening.
Now, the room was filling exactly as it should.
Influencers clustered near the bar, capturing the signature cocktails from every angle before taking the first sip.
A journalist I recognized from a major food publication had staked out a position near the open kitchen, notebook ready.
And near the center of the dining room, a knot of investors had gathered around Cassian and Liam.
“I’m thinking of traveling somewhere.”
I turned. Naija had materialized beside me, drink in hand, surveying the room.
“I do have the next two days off.” She took a slow sip. “It’s a shame I won’t be here to see you barely scraping by while I’m gone.” She tsked softly. “I would have loved to witness that.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “You do remember who’s still the boss, right? I could just… not give you the days off. Pretend I never made that decision. It’s not like it’s in writing or anything.”
Naija didn’t even blink. “It is in writing.”
I stared at her.
“You should really be more careful,” she added, utterly unrepentant, “when you sign the things I put in front of you.”
Before I could respond, my gaze snagged on someone across the room.
Someone who absolutely should not be here.
“What the fuck—” The words escaped before I could stop them. I was already moving, weaving through clusters of guests, leaving Naija behind without explanation.
He was scanning the room, his assessing gaze moving from face to face, calculating. Then his eyes landed on me as I stopped directly in front of him.
“Michael.” I didn’t miss the tiny twitch of irritation at the corner of his mouth, the use of his first name, the denial of the respect he felt he was owed. “You weren’t invited.”
He smiled, all false warmth. “I suppose my invitation must have been lost somewhere. These things happen.” He reached out and patted my shoulder. “I understand.”
I looked at his hand on my shoulder. Then I dragged my gaze slowly up to meet his.
“Never touch me without permission again.”
His smile flickered—a micro-flinch of surprise, quickly suppressed—and tightened into something harder. His hand dropped.
“There was no mistake,” I continued, my voice even. “You weren’t invited. Plain and simple. Right now, you’re trespassing.” I tilted my head, studying him. “How did you even get inside?”
“It’s my son’s hotel.” The words came out smooth, but there was an edge beneath them. “It wasn’t that difficult to walk through the door.”
“Then it wouldn’t be that difficult to walk back out.”
His eyes narrowed, just a fraction. “I’m not allowed to congratulate my son? To wish Cassian well?”
“Of course you are.” I matched his pleasant tone with one of my own, the words coated in ice. “But if your son wanted you here, he would have invited you. Which he didn’t.” I took a half-step closer, reducing the space between us to something uncomfortable. “So you need to leave.”
I turned to call security, to have this parasite removed from the premises, when his voice stopped me.
“You really did a remarkable job with this.”
I turned back. He was surveying the room, an appraising look on his face.
“The Garcias’ first collaboration. Two young men who nearly lost everything, clawed their way back, and now stand here partnering with a legacy.
” He nodded, almost approving. “It has the perfect narrative. Loss, struggle, redemption.” His eyes found mine.
“Why did you never work for me, Miss Quinn?”
The answer came instantly. No thought required. “Easy.” I held his eyes. “I don’t work with condescending, misogynistic, irritating fuckers.”
A sharp laugh burst from him. “My daughter never mentioned your sense of humor.”
I smiled, cold and thin. “You and your daughter share a talent for missing the obvious.”
The laughter died. His smile remained, but something colder moved behind his eyes. “Enlighten me, Miss Quinn. What makes me all those things you just said?”