Actually, it was a blessing that she hadn't seen Quentin immediately. She was a mess of contradictions.
Should she ask him if he was truly a good person? How did he know her seafood allergy by heart? What about the rose garden he spent years cultivating? And most importantly... why, in her previous life, had everything he built for her ended up in Javier's hands?
He knew nothing of her past life. If she asked, he would think she was losing her mind. But deeper than the confusion was a gnawing fear: she was terrified of the answers he might give.
Amanda sat in the lounge until the office lights began to dim. She watched the employees filter out in groups until the lobby was nearly empty. Finally, the VIP elevator chimed. A group of executives emerged, led by a tall, commanding figure.
Even from a distance, Amanda recognized Quentin. Her heart gave a happy little leap, and she instinctively began to run toward him.
"Hold on! Where do you think you're going?"
A sharp voice cut through her excitement. A beautiful woman, dressed in a crisp, expensive suit, blocked her path. Carla Smith, one of the senior assistants, scanned Amanda's casual attire and lack of an ID badge with cold eyes.
"You aren't an employee. Who let you in here?"
Amanda, her momentum stalled, looked at Carla. Through her mask, her eyes turned icy. "I'm here to see someone."
Carla frowned, looking at Amanda's covered face with suspicion. She opened her mouth to call security, but a voice from the executive group intervened.
"Assistant Smith, stand down."
Secretary James had recognized the "intruder" immediately. He stepped forward, bowing respectfully. "Madam."
Quentin, who had been reviewing a document with his team, looked up at the word Madam. There she was—ponytail swaying, a mask hiding her face, but her eyes glaring at Carla with unmistakable fire.
A wave of surprise and genuine warmth washed over him. He handed his files to an aide and walked straight to her. "Why are you here? Bored at home?"
His voice was lower than usual, carrying a sweetness that made the nearby staff exchange stunned glances. The cold Director was suddenly melting.
Amanda pouted behind her mask. "I came looking for you," she mumbled.
Quentin's lips curled into a faint smile. He reached out and gently took her wrist. "Perfect timing. I was just heading to dinner. Join me?"
Carla Smith's face paled. "General Manager, you have a formal gala to attend in twenty minutes!"
Quentin didn't even turn around. "Secretary James?"
"I'll handle the apologies and the rescheduling, sir," James replied instantly, already pulling out his phone.
Carla watched them walk away, her knuckles white as she turned to James. "Who was that girl?"
James looked at the jealousy radiating off the assistant and smiled thinly. "That's your boss's boss. Try to remember her face."
In the backseat of the Bentley, Quentin still hadn't released Amanda's hand. He noticed the white medical tape wrapped around her palm and his brow furrowed. "What happened to your hand?"
Amanda tried to pull away, but his grip was firm. "It's nothing. Just a thorn."
"A thorn? From where?" Quentin's voice was urgent. He'd spent the day worrying about her at the villa; the idea of her being hurt—even slightly—set him on edge.
Amanda shrugged nonchalantly. "I had too much free time this morning. I went to the garden to pick some roses to relieve the boredom."
Quentin's face darkened. He pulled out his phone. "I specifically told Butler Wayne to have that entire garden cleared today."
He assumed she had gone out there to finish the job herself because she hated the flowers so much.
"Don't you dare," Amanda said, grabbing his arm to stop the call. She tilted her chin up, her eyes flashing with a playful, arrogant light. "Change of plans, Tin. I've decided I like that garden. If you pluck a single branch, I'll pull out a strand of your hair for every rose lost."
Quentin stared at her for a long beat, stunned by her sudden possessiveness. Finally, he let out a long, ragged sigh of relief and patted her head. "If you like it... then it stays."
Amanda beamed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She was so busy feeling victorious that she didn't realize she was putting Quentin's heart through a wringer. One day she hated them; the next she was threatening his hair to protect them.
"So," Quentin said, leaning back into the leather seat. "Where are we eating?"
"Anywhere is fine," Amanda replied smugly. "You choose... Uncle."
The word "Uncle" hung in the air. Quentin's eyes narrowed, a predatory glint replacing his previous gentleness. He leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear. "You really love calling me that, don't you? Is that because of how much you screamed it last night?"
Amanda's smug expression shattered. Her cheeks turned a violent shade of crimson, the heat spreading down to her neck.
Feeling cornered and flustered, she did the only thing she could think of: she grabbed his forearm and bit down.
"Ow!" Quentin hissed, though he didn't pull away. He looked at the girl currently gnawing on his expensive suit sleeve with a mix of amusement and exasperation. "Were you born in the year of the Dog? The marks on my neck have barely faded, and now you're starting on my arm?"