6. Cassian
CASSIAN
The woman beside me is explaining something about market trends in contemporary art.
Her name's already slipped my mind—Victoria?
Veronica? She works for some auction house in Midtown, every article of clothing she has on currently is dark blue, and she hasn't stopped talking since she cornered me near the entrance.
"The key is identifying emerging voices before they peak," she's saying, champagne glass moving in wide arcs that nearly clip a passing server. "Once an artist hits the mainstream, the returns flatten. You want to buy early, hold for five years, then?—"
I'm not listening.
My eyes move across the gallery, cataloging faces out of habit. Stefan Valley holding court near the bar. Naomi Okafor is taking notes on her phone. A cluster of artists I don't recognize, dressed in black like it's a uniform, are discussing something with intense hand gestures.
And then I see her.
Back corner, away from the crowd, wearing a black dress that fits her like it was made for her, natural hair falling in curls around her face, one hand holding champagne she's not drinking.
Amara.
Every thought in my head goes silent.
She's more beautiful than I remembered, which is saying something, because I remember her exactly.
Six years should have dulled the impact and made the reality less heart-wrenching than the photograph I've been carrying.
But standing here, seeing her in three dimensions, watching her breathe and exist in the same room as me, it's like getting kicked in the teeth all over again.
Her dark skin shines underneath the gallery light. Her brown eyes are wide, staring directly at me. That expression I know too well, the one she gets when she's deciding whether to run or stand her ground.
The woman beside me is still talking. "—contemporary abstraction, specifically work that challenges spatial relationships?—"
"Excuse me," I say.
I don't wait for her response. My feet are already moving, carrying me across spotless concrete toward the woman who vanished from my life without explanation six years ago.
She watches me approach, and to my relief, she doesn't run or look away. Just stands there with her chin up, shoulders back, like she's preparing for impact.
I stop three feet away, close enough to see the faint shimmer of something on her eyelids, but far enough that I'm not crowding her.
"Amara."
"Cassian." Her voice is steady. Quieter than I remember, but steady. "Hi."
Hi. Six years of silence, and she leads with hi.
"I saw your name on the exhibition announcement," I reveal, tilting my head slightly. "Didn't expect to see you here tonight."
"Private preview. Katheryn invited me."
"Katheryn Caldwell. The founder."
"Yes."
"You know her well?"
"Well enough." She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. The movement draws my attention to the bracelet on her wrist: bright pink plastic beads, completely out of place with the sophistication of everything else she's wearing. "She's curating my show."
"I know, I saw. Lead artist. Congratulations."
"Thank you."
The conversation is stiff, formal, two strangers making polite small talk at a party. Like we didn't spend eight months inseparable in college. Like I didn't wake up one morning to find her gone without a trace.
I study her face, searching for some indication of what she's thinking. But Amara's always been good at hiding. She meets my gaze straight on, no flinching, no visible discomfort beyond the tension in her shoulders.
"Your work," I continue after clearing my throat. The awkward silence is potent enough to kill. "I looked it up. It's extraordinary."
She perks a brow. "You looked it up."
"After I saw the announcement."
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to see what you've been doing."
"For six years you wanted to see, or just recently?"
Her tone isn't accusatory. It's wary, like she's testing the parameters of this conversation to figure out how much honesty it can hold.
"Both," I admit.
She takes a sip of champagne, wets her bottom lip afterwards.
Her hand is steady on the glass, no tremor, no tell.
The Amara I knew in college wore every emotion on her face, and her eyes back then could reveal every one of her emotions, down to the slightest upset. This version's learned to hide better.
"You've been looking for me," she whispers.
It's not a question.
"Yes, I have." No use lying about it now.
"How hard?"
"Hard enough to know you didn't want to be found."
Her jaw tightens. Just slightly, just enough that I notice. "Maybe I had reasons."
"I'm sure you did. You want to tell me what they were?"
"Not particularly."
The bluntness stings. I absorb it, file it away with every other unanswered question I've accumulated over six years.
Before I can respond, a hand slides onto my arm. Familiar weight, expensive perfume, the touch of someone who thinks she has rights she doesn't.
"There you are," Raylin says, materializing at my elbow. "I've been looking everywhere for you."
I shrug off her hand from my arm. Not gently, but not harshly either. "What the hell are you doing here?" I hiss out.
"Cassian, darling, I work with Dior. Do you really think I'd miss out on an event like this one?" she asks, shaking her head at me as if I'm a simpleton for asking that question.
But I know the real reason why she's here. She must have heard about Amara's return to New York as well.
Raylin's wearing red tonight. Deep crimson, dramatic in a way that demands attention, cut low enough to turn heads.
The fabric clings in all the deliberate places.
Her eyes sweep from me to Amara, and the assessment happens fast. The way someone evaluates a competitor they didn't expect to find on the field.
"Oh… Sorry." She pauses. "I didn't realize you were busy." The apology in her tone is tissue-thin, transparent enough that even someone across the room could see through it. "Hello again, Amara. It's been too long."
Amara's expression doesn't shift, besides the slight raising of her brows. "Raylin."
"I've heard so much about your work in Europe," Raylin continues, voice pitched just a shade too bright.
"Everyone tonight has been gushing about it.
Such a shame you used a pseudonym back then, though.
" She tilts her head, studying Amara with narrowed eyes.
"You should have been relishing the attention all this time.
Building your name. Isn't that what artists want? "
"Thank you, but that's not really my focus."
"What is, then?"
"Creating art that speaks to people, no matter their background."
"Such talent," Raylin replies, enunciating each syllable.
The tension between them crackles. Raylin clears her throat, patting me on the arm yet again. Even though I don't want her touching me like that in front of Amara.
"I didn't know you were into the art scene, Cassian," Amara says, gaze flicking to me.
"Black Lake's exploring collaborations. My father wants us to reconnect with culture."
"Ah, that explains it. This is work-related." Raylin turns to Amara. "You know Cassian. He doesn't care much about these events. Trying to convince him to show up to one is like pulling teeth."
"Well, he didn't take much convincing to show up to this one."
I almost smile. There's the Amara I remember. Dry wit when the situation calls for it.
Raylin's hand finds my arm again. I remove it again.
"We should go," Raylin says, ignoring the rejection. "Dinner reservation's in twenty minutes."
"I didn't agree to dinner," I reply swiftly.
"I told you about it this morning."
"You mentioned it. I didn't agree."
Her smile tightens, the embarrassment beginning to blossom underneath. "Cassian?—"
"I'm staying."
Silence. The smile falls completely from her face. The vein in her forehead makes a brief appearance. Then, she glances at Amara before returning her sight to me.
"Fine. I'll see you later, then." She leans in, presses a kiss to my cheek that I don't return, and walks away with her head high. Immediately, she greets someone else loudly and engulfs them in a hug, doing her best to rebound after that horrifically painful interaction.
Amara watches her leave. When she looks back at me, she lets out a breathy laugh.
"She's persistent, huh? Always has been."
"I think she's delusional."
"Are you two?—"
"No."
Amara blinks slowly before nodding slowly. "Noted."
"We're not anything. She wants us to be. I don't."
"You don't owe me explanations, Cassian."
"Maybe not. But I'm giving you one anyway."
She studies me. I can see her processing, deciding how much of this conversation to believe, how much to let matter. Eventually, a small frown forms on her face.
"Why are you really here?"
"I told you. Work."
"There are a hundred galleries in New York. You happened to pick this one, on this night, for a private event that requires an invitation you shouldn't have."
She's right. I shouldn't have an invitation. But money and the Griffin name opened Katheryn Caldwell's door the same way it opens every door in this city and the world beyond.
"I wanted to see you."
She shakes her head slightly, and I notice how she absentmindedly touches the pink bracelet on her wrist. "Why?"
"Because you disappeared and I spent six years wondering what the hell I did wrong. Seeing your name on that announcement felt like getting my heart ripped out of my chest all over again."
She flinches. Actually flinches, as if there's anything surprising in what I just said.
"Cassian, what?—"
"You don't have to explain now. But I'm not walking away without answers this time. I'm done pretending you didn't matter."
Her hand tightens on the champagne flute. The pink bracelet shifts, catching the light.
"I can't do this right now," she breathes out, eyes scanning the surrounding room before settling on mine again. "This is my night. My exhibition preview. I'm not going to let you turn it into something else."
"I'm not trying to."
"Then give me space." She sets the champagne down on the tray of a passing server. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Cassian. You and your... friend."
"Raylin isn't my friend."
"Whatever she is to you, then. It doesn't matter." Amara meets my eyes one last time. There's steel there. And sadness. "It was good seeing you."
She walks away, her black dress disappearing into the crowd, curls bouncing with each step. I watch her go. My chest feels hollow, ribs pressing inward like the architecture of me is collapsing.
But she's here. In New York, working with Sapphire Studios. She's not a ghost anymore, not some figment of my imagination that I cling to on the loneliest nights. I have her within reach.
And I'm going to see her again, whether she wants it or not.