Chapter 28 #2
I tilted my head. “Didn’t you fire an employee last week? Because she got pregnant?”
The news had circulated briefly before Michael buried it.
Ivy—talented, experienced, invaluable—had been let go the moment she announced her pregnancy.
Finding her a new position had been almost too easy.
Her qualifications spoke for themselves.
Michael had handed his competitors a gift, too blind to see the value he was discarding.
He sighed, the sound of a man forced to explain simple truths to a child. “I don’t understand you young people. She’s going to be a mother. She shouldn’t be working. She should be at home, taking care of herself and preparing for the child.”
“I don’t understand you.” My voice dropped, quiet enough that only he could hear, intimate as a knife slide.
“Why are you standing here, offering your worthless opinions about things that don’t concern you, when you should be at home?
Sitting alone. Thinking about the miserable, empty life you’ve built. Waiting for your death.”
His jaw tightened. His eyes held mine, and I could see it clearly—the imaginative ways he was destroying me in his head. “Miss Quinn, you’re being awfully rude right now. It would be wise for you to reconsider your tone.”
“Huh.” I crossed my arms, considering. “Let me think about it.” I paused for exactly one second. “Nope. I’m fine with my own thing.”
“Miss Quinn—”
My voice hardened, the playful edge vanishing entirely. “I’ve tolerated your presence longer than you deserve. So here’s the wise choice for you: leave willingly, right now, and the whole crowd here won’t get to watch security drag you out.” I smiled, sharp and final. “What do you say?”
His mouth tightened, the words visibly pressing against his teeth, fighting to get out. But something in my expression—or perhaps the gathering attention of nearby guests—made him think better of it.
He turned and walked away.
I watched him go, noting the stiffness in his shoulders, the controlled fury in every step. At the entrance, Cassian and Liam had appeared, their expressions grim as they watched Michael approach. They stopped him. Words were exchanged—too far to hear, but Michael’s face told the story.
His face darkened further before he pushed through the doors and disappeared.
“Alessia.”
I turned. Mrs. Garcia stood beside me, a glass of champagne extended in my direction. Her eyes followed Michael’s retreating form.
“Cassian was preparing to go to him,” she said calmly, “while you were talking. I stopped him.”
I took the glass. Sipped. Watched Cassian’s rigid back. “Why?”
Her eyes remained fixed on the entrance long after Michael had disappeared.
“Michael looks like a cartoon character when he’s angry.
His whole face just… scrunches up. Twists.
” She demonstrated, a small, exaggerated grimace.
“A few more minutes, and I’m sure steam would have started coming out of his ears. ”
She glanced at me, warm approval in her gaze. “I had a feeling I might get to see that if you kept talking to him.” A pause. “You did not disappoint.”
I tipped my glass toward her. “Glad to be of service.”
I glanced back at the entrance. Cassian was watching me—had been watching me, apparently—and when our eyes met, he smiled.
He took a step toward me, as if pulled by instinct, then stopped.
His gaze shifted to the woman beside me.
He paused. Nodded once, a small acknowledgment, and turned away, falling into step with Liam to work the room.
“I’m going to ask you something.” I turned to face Mrs. Garcia fully. “And I need the real answer. Not whatever press-friendly bullshit you have rehearsed.”
She raised an eyebrow, unruffled. “Depends on the question. But if it’s about Gerald—” She held up a hand. “Then no, he does not dye his hair. He just doesn’t get gray hair. It’s genetic.”
I stared at her.
She sighed, a long-suffering sound. “Fine. I dye it for him. So technically, not a lie.”
I shook my head, a smile tugging despite myself. Then I met her eyes, the humor fading.
“Tell me the real reason you decided to collaborate with them.” I held her gaze. “With Cassian.”
Mrs. Garcia studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she took a slow sip of her champagne, buying time, considering her answer.
Finally, she spoke.
“You know,” she said softly, “many, many years ago… I was kind of where he was.”
My brows drew together.
“No, I didn’t have a secretary pining after me.
” She added quickly, then sighed. “But I did neglect my marriage. Because of work. Generations before me had built this legacy, and there I was, struggling to keep it afloat. I panicked and threw everything into saving it.” Her eyes grew distant.
“And while I was doing that, I didn’t notice the cracks forming in my marriage. ”
“What happened then?” I heard myself ask, the words soft.
Her gaze drifted somewhere far away. “Someone noticed and threw me a life jacket.” She met my eyes.
“I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t gotten that chance.
” She paused, letting that land. “So when I saw Cassian drowning, not in work but in regret, I decided to throw him one too. And see what he did with it. If he really was the man I thought he was. The one who tried so hard to make me like him because you liked me. The one who made you smile. The one who made you happy.”
She smiled, something knowing in her gaze. “And here you are.”
I cleared my throat, the words rising automatically. “I’m not here for him.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Still. He got you here, didn’t he?”
I scanned the room. Found him near the bar, mid-conversation with Liam and an investor. As if he felt my gaze, his eyes lifted and found mine. He held them, still talking, still engaged with whoever was in front of him, but his focus was on me.
I tore my gaze away and looked back at Mrs. Garcia. “Who threw you the life jacket?”
She turned, positioning herself directly in front of me. Then she looked over my shoulder, a soft, private smile playing on her lips. The pause stretched so long I thought she wouldn’t answer.
Then, softly, before she moved past me to join the man waiting behind us, she said:
“My husband.”
“Leaving?”
I stopped at the sound of his voice and turned.
My hour was almost up. I’d done my final sweep—checked every corner, confirmed every detail. The guests were seated, the first course was about to emerge from the kitchen. Naija and I had reviewed every contingency one last time. Everything was in place.
Now, I needed to leave. Before the jinx could find me.
“I don’t know if you know,” I started, “but I don’t stay—”
“Longer than an hour at any of your events.” He finished the sentence as he crossed the space between us, stopping just before me.
“So you do know.”
He nodded, his gaze moving slowly across my face.
“When we were together, I liked it. The tradition.” A small, wistful smile.
“It meant you’d be home sooner.” The smile faded.
“Now?” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t like it.
Hate it, actually. Hate it so much that I’m tempted to keep you here—past the hour, past the rule—just to prove to you that nothing will go wrong. ”
“Cassian.” My voice carried a warning.
His face broke into a smile. Bright, unguarded, utterly disarming. “I won’t.” He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and turned it to face me.
A timer. Five minutes.
“We have ten minutes left of your hour,” he said, pocketing the phone. “Spare five of them for me.” He extended his hand, palm up, waiting. “Dance with me.”
My brain stopped.
Literally stopped. The processing center shut down.
Dance?
I stared at his hand.
Open. Waiting. Trembling just slightly.
I looked at his face. Hopeful. Terrified. Brave.
Back at his hand.
After what felt like an eternity compressed into seconds, I finally met his eyes. “I don’t dance.”
His smile grew wider, impossibly warm. “You do with me.”
I do?
I crossed my arms. “I might have. But not anymore.”
He took a step closer, his hand still extended, unwavering.
“Come on. One dance. Five minutes.” He glanced at his pocket, where his phone ticked away the seconds.
“Well, four minutes now. And I don’t know exactly how many seconds.
” His eyes pleaded with me. “You can even stomp on my feet. As many times as you want.”
My lips twitched, betraying me. “That is a tempting offer.”
His eyes crinkled, hope blooming across his face. “Is that a yes?”
I looked at his hand again.
It would be a bad idea.
Very bad.
Ah, what the hell.
It was four minutes. Four minutes of my life. What could possibly happen in four minutes?
I placed my hand in his.
He didn’t waste a second. His fingers closed around mine, warm and sure, and he pulled me gently into the space between us.
His other hand found my waist—hesitant at first, then settling with a confidence that made my breath catch.
My hand rose to his shoulder, settling against the soft fabric of his pink suit.
The live music drifted through the walls, muffled but present, a distant heartbeat beneath the party happening without us.
Cassian guided me effortlessly, his hand warm on my waist, his steps sure.
Then he spun me—a sudden, unexpected twirl that pulled a laugh from my chest before I could stop it.
He caught me easily, drawing me back into his arms, his own laugh mingling with mine.
I was dancing in an empty hallway with my ex-husband. The man I didn’t remember marrying. The man who’d irritated me, annoyed me, cared for me, cried in front of me.
And I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember why this was supposed to be a bad idea.
We slowed. His gaze softened as the music mellowed, the tension draining from his shoulders with each passing moment.
“Thank you.”
I blinked up at him. “For what?”