But "Cass"?
I'd told her to call me Cassian. Had insisted on it, actually, tired of the formal "Mr. Barone." But I'd never said she could shorten it. Never given her permission to use the nickname reserved for my inner circle.
Yet she'd said it like it was natural. Like we had that kind of intimacy.
Unless she'd known all along who I was. Unless coming to work for me had been deliberate.
"Cass," she gasped again, her back arching beneath me. "Don't stop—"
I gave her what she asked for, but my mind was racing even as I finished. That nickname—so casual, so intimate—was proof.
She'd known who I was before walking into my office. She'd researched me. Learned about me. Come to me with purpose.
The question was why.
Afterward, she slipped on my discarded shirt and walked to the window. I watched her from the doorway, admiring the way the city lights illuminated her silhouette.
She'd done this before. In Miami. Borrowed my shirt, walked to the window, stood with her back to me while she processed what we'd done.
The same pattern. The same choreography.
How could she not remember?
"Regrets?" I asked, watching for any sign of recognition.
She shook her head but didn't turn. "Complications."
I approached, stopping just short of touching her. "We're adults. We can handle complications." I paused, testing. "We've handled them before, haven't we?"
She stiffened, just slightly. "What do you mean?"
"This." I gestured between us. "It doesn't feel new. Feels like something we're repeating."
She finally looked at me, her expression guarded again. "Does it matter?"
"Yes." I stepped closer. "It matters."
"Why?" Her voice was carefully neutral. "What difference would it make if we had… done this before?"
Everything. It would change everything.
"Because I don't like mysteries," I said instead. "Especially ones standing in my shirt, in my apartment, after sleeping in my bed."
Not an answer. A deflection.
I studied her face, searching for truth—though not about whether she remembered. She did. The evidence was overwhelming: the birthmark I'd kissed in Miami, the nickname only my inner circle used, the way she'd borrowed my shirt and walked to this exact spot like muscle memory.
No, the question wasn't whether she knew.
It was what else she was hiding. What secret was worth all this pretense? What had brought her back to me after almost three years, hiding behind a new name and manufactured credentials?
"You called me Cass," I said quietly, watching her reaction. "When we were together. No one calls me that except close friends and family."
Her throat worked as she swallowed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Don't apologize." I stepped closer. "I'm just wondering where you heard it before."
Panic flashed in her eyes, quickly masked. "I—I don't know. It just came out."
