Dark hair. Sharp wit. A smile that had made me forget, for one night, who and what I was.
Celia, she'd called herself. A fake name. I'd given her one, too—Antonio.
We'd talked for hours. Danced. Ended up in my suite overlooking the ocean. The way she'd felt beneath me, the sounds she'd made, the taste of her skin—
I'd left before dawn. A call from my father's lawyer—urgent, unavoidable—had pulled me from her warmth before the sun rose. I'd meant to leave my number, some way for her to reach me. But by the time I'd handled the crisis and returned to Miami two days later, the conference had ended. She was gone.
No way to find her. No last name. Just "Celia" and the ghost of vanilla on my sheets.
Citrus and vanilla.
Then I remembered something else—the way she'd bitten her lower lip in the elevator today, that same nervous tell. The full curve of that lip I'd traced with my thumb before kissing her senseless against a marble wall.
My eyes snapped open, the glass nearly slipping from my hand.
It couldn't be.
I pulled out my phone, my fingers moving with cold precision. "Marco. Change of priority. I need to know if Isla Quinn was in Miami two years ago. Specifically, the weekend of the petroleum conference. The Palms Resort."
"That's… specific," Marco said carefully. "You want to tell me why?"
"Just find out. Credit card records, hotel registrations, travel history. I need confirmation by morning."
"On it. Boss, if she—" Marco stopped himself, then continued more carefully. "If she's the woman from Miami, the one you never talked about but couldn't forget—this changes everything."
I said nothing. The silence confirmed what Marco already suspected.
"Understood." His voice carried weight I rarely heard from him—concern, not just for business, but for me. "I'll have the information by dawn. But Cassian? If it's her, and she's been working for you for weeks without saying anything—" He let that hang. "There's a reason. Might not be one you want to hear."
"That's what I need to find out."
"I know." A pause. "Be careful. Not with the information—with her. She got to you once. Could do it again."
Another pause, then Marco's tone shifted. "One more thing—Matteo was asking questions about her today. Wanted to know who the new assistant was, how long she'd been working for you.”
My grip tightened on the glass. "What did you tell him?"
"Nothing. Said she was cleared through HR, standard hire. But boss, he's getting nosy. Asking about operational details, personnel changes. More than usual."
"Keep him at arm's length," I said tersely. "And Marco? Don't mention Isla to anyone. Especially not family."
"Understood."
I hung up, tension coiling tighter in my shoulders. Matteo asking about Isla. That was new. And concerning.
My cousin had always been ambitious, always circling for an opening. But if he was paying attention to my personal staff, to the people closest to me…
He was looking for leverage. Or weakness.
I'd give him neither.
I stared at my reflection in the darkened window.
Celia. Isla.
If they were the same woman, if she'd walked into my office knowing exactly who I was, then this wasn't about needing a job. This was calculated. Intentional.
The question was why.
