Chapter 113 Fly away

Chapter 113 Fly away
Cassie
The city was a lie. Johannesburg, that glittering, granite-and-glass promise of anonymity, had sold me a false dream. I’d flown there seeking solace in its faceless crowds, hoping the relentless energy of millions would drown out the single, screaming voice of betrayal inside my head. Instead, every honking taxi, every snatch of conversation from a passing stranger, every cramped, anonymous hotel room had become an amplifier for my pain. The city that pretends to sleep doesn’t care if you can’t. Truth be told it's a front ,it just moves on, a relentless tide, leaving you stranded and gasping on the shore of your own misery.
For two days, I’d been a ghost haunting my own life. I’d let Greyson’s calls go to voicemail until my mailbox was full, a digital monument to his desperation. Each text message notification was a fresh jolt of agony—a flicker of hope that he had the perfect, impossible explanation, immediately followed by the crushing weight of reality. He had lied. He had used me. The man whose touch had felt like coming home had been a corporate spy, a honey trap laid by his own father. The hollow feeling in my chest wasn’t just emptiness; it was the void left where my trust used to be, a black hole sucking all the light out of the world.
I couldn’t run anymore. The flight home was a blur of stale air and turbulence, each jolt mirroring the chaos in my soul. The woman in the window seat next to me tried to make pleasant conversation about the weather, her words a meaningless buzz against the roaring in my ears. I simply nodded, my face a mask of polite indifference, while inside, I was rehearsing the confrontation to come. What does one say to the architect of their ruin?
I walked into my house two hours later than my flight was supposed to land. A petty, pointless act of defiance. Let him wait. Let him sweat. The front door closed behind me with a soft, definitive click that echoed through the silent entryway like a gunshot. The familiar scent of lemon polish and the faint, lingering note of the citrus candle I loved should have been comforting. Instead, the homely smell felt like a taunt, a reminder of a peace that had been violated.
My overnight bag slid from my numb shoulder, landing on the hardwood floor with a soft, final thud... then I saw him.
Greyson was on my couch, his large frame seeming to dwarf the familiar furniture. He wasn’t lounging; he was coiled, a spring of tension waiting for release. His elbows were on his knees, his head bowed as if in prayer or defeat. The soft glow of the single lamp he’d turned on carved deep shadows under his eyes and along the stubborn set of his jaw. He looked… ravaged not in the sexy way. This wasn’t the face of a cool, calculating betrayer.
This was the face of a man who had been through a war. For a terrifying, traitorous moment, a lance of pure concern pierced through the armor of my anger. The instinct to go to him, to smooth the worry from his brow, was so powerful it left me breathless. I viciously shoved it down. That instinct was what had gotten me here.
He must have sensed my presence, the shift in the air of the room. His head lifted slowly, as if it were almost too heavy to bear. His eyes, those deep, eyes aI’d gotten lost in so many times, found mine. They were bloodshot, haunted.
"Cassie."
He breathed my name. It wasn’t a greeting; it was a benediction, a plea, an exhalation of pure, unadulterated pain. The sound of it, so raw and vulnerable, threatened to unravel me. He stood, a fluid movement that spoke of a pent-up energy finally unleashed, but he didn’t move toward me. He just held my gaze, a silent supplicant waiting for my judgment.
"What are you doing here, Greyson?" My voice was a stranger’s flat, cold, scraped clean of all the warmth he used to inspire. I wanted to summon the fury that had fueled me for days, to hurl accusations like knives, but standing here, in the reality of his presence, the anger had burned out, leaving only a fine, cold ash of weariness in its place.
"I had to see you." His voice was hoarse, raspy from disuse or emotion. "I had to explain. I couldn't let you… I couldn't let you think what you must be thinking."
A sound escaped my lips ,a dry, brittle thing that was meant to be a laugh but held no humor.
"Explain what? The nuances of corporate espionage? The technicalities of how you managed to spy on me with even more intimacy than my ex-fiancé ever did? Tell me, Greyson, was it a game? See how much of my soul you could collect before I figured out it was all just… data for your father?" I was shaking, the cold in my veins giving way to a sudden, feverish heat.
He flinched physically, recoiling as if I’d landed a physical blow. The pain in his eyes was stark and immediate. "I didn't know, Cassie. You have to believe me. I swear to God, on my life, I didn't know."
The lie was so smooth, so utterly convincing in its delivery, that it stole the air from my lungs. How could he stand there, in the home we’d shared moments in, and look at me with such naked anguish and still lie? The sheer audacity of it was breathtaking.
"Then why is he here?" The question left my lips as a whisper, but it was charged with the force of a scream. It was thick, clogged with tears I refused to shed. "Why is Jake here, Greyson? In my city. At my office. Smirking like he’s won some prize you two cooked up together. Explain that."
He didn’t hesitate. He took a step forward, then another, closing the distance between us. The air crackled. I could smell him now,the faint, clean scent of his soap mixed with the unique, essential scent that was just him. It was a fragrance that had once been my sanctuary. Now it felt like a weapon. He reached for my hand, his fingers hovering just inches from mine. I snatched my hand back, clutching it to my chest as if burned. My entire body went rigid, a statue of pure resistance.
He dropped his hand, a ,hurt flashing in his eyes before he masked it. He simply held his palms up, a gesture of surrender. "Jake isn't here, Cassie. He hasn't been here since he shot you . I made sure of it."
The world tilted. "What?" The word was a puff of air. "No. I saw… his car. The black Audi. It was in the driveway yesterday."
He looked at me then with an intensity so profound it felt like he was seeing straight through my eyes and into the fractured pieces of my soul. "That was my car, Cass. The new company car. I've been parked in your driveway, waiting for you, for two days. I slept in the damn driver's seat last night because I was afraid if I left for a hotel, I’d miss you."
The revelation didn’t dawn; it crashed over me, a tsunami of shame and disorientation. The black Audi. The familiar shape I’d seen from my taxi, the one that had confirmed my worst fears… it had been his. My mistake. My catastrophic, heart-shattering error. The foundation of my rage for the past 48 hours crumbled into dust, leaving me standing on the edge of terrifying uncertainty. My knees buckled. The strength drained from my body, and I sank onto the nearest armchair, my legs simply giving out.
I dropped my face into my hands, not to cry, but to hide. The weight of my false accusation was a physical pressure on my shoulders. I had judged him, convicted him, and sentenced him, all based on a shadow I’d misidentified.
"Cassie," his voice was soft, a low murmur that washed over me. "You look like you haven't slept or eaten in a week. Please. Just… just sit. Let me get you something. We can talk. Or not talk... you need to eat."
He didn’t wait for my permission. He moved into my kitchen with a familiarity that was both comforting and agonizing. I heard the quiet opening of the refrigerator, the clink of a bowl, the hum of the microwave. He was performing a simple, domestic act, and the sheer normalcy of it in the midst of our emotional hurricane was utterly surreal.
He returned a few minutes later with a plate. It wasn't just thrown together; it was arranged. A grilled chicken breast, still steaming, a handful of roasted vegetables glistening with olive oil, a small portion of quinoa. It was a meal prepared with care. He placed it on the coffee table in front of me. The aroma, savory and wholesome, cut through the sterile scent of my despair. My stomach, which had been a hard knot of anxiety, gave a treacherous, hungry rumble.
"I'm not going to leave," he said, his voice firm yet gentle. He retreated to the couch, giving me space. "So you might as well eat. I can wait."
The food was a masterpiece of normalcy, and my body, betraying my tumultuous heart, needed it. With trembling fingers, I picked up the fork. The first bite was like ash in my mouth, but the second held the ghost of flavor. The third was actually good. The silence in the room was heavy, but it was no longer hostile. It was filled with the unspoken words that hung between us, a thick, palpable fog. The only sound was the soft clink of my fork on the ceramic plate. He watched me, his gaze a tangible weight, but he kept his promise. He didn’t speak. He just let me exist, let me fuel my body for the battle to come.
When the plate was clean, he rose silently, took it, and placed it in the sink. The domesticity of the act was its own kind of agony. He returned to his spot, a mirror of his earlier position elbows on knees, leaning forward, his fate in my hands.
I took a deep, shuddering breath, finding a small, still center within the storm. "Now," I said, and my voice was my own again, tired but clear. "You tell me everything. From the beginning. The whole truth. No more omissions, Greyson. I need to know what I’m forgiving… or what I’m walking away from."
He began to talk. He didn’t just state facts; he painted a picture of a gilded cage, of a life lived under the thumb of a manipulative, brilliant, and ruthless father. He spoke of casual dinners where his father would ask, seemingly offhand, about my business, my stress levels, my innovations. He recounted his own pride in me, how he’d happily shared my successes, never imagining that each piece of information was a bullet being loaded into a gun.
He told me about the private investigator he’d hired on a whim, a nagging doubt born of his father’s a little too specific questions. He described the sickening feeling in his gut when the report landed, not on my ex-fiancé, but on his own father’s shell corporations and covert communications with Jake. His voice broke as he described the final, explosive confrontation in his father’s office, the shredded documents, the cold, calculating admission he’d received in return.
"My father… he didn't see you as a person. He saw you as an obstacle. And he saw me as his most useful tool," Greyson said, his voice raw with a mixture of fury and self-loathing. "Every time I bragged about you, every time I told him how clever you were, he was just… mining for weaknesses. I handed him the pickaxe myself. I swear to you, Cassie, with everything I am, I would never have knowingly hurt you. Not a single hair on your head. Not ever."
Tears, hot and silent, finally spilled over and traced paths down my cheeks. They weren’t tears of relief. They were tears of devastation. The truth was so much worse than the simple lie I had constructed. He wasn’t a villain. He was a pawn. A beloved, trusting pawn who had been played by a master. His betrayal was one of ignorance, not malice, but the damage was identical. The trust was just as broken.
The most terrifying question, the one that had been eating away at the core of me, finally forced its way out. My voice was a fragile thread. "Was any of it real, Greyson? All the time we spent together… the late nights, the mornings, the things you whispered… was any of it true? Or was it all just part of the role?"
He didn't even blink. He leaned forward, his gaze locking onto mine with a ferocious honesty that left no room for doubt. "Yes. Every single second of it. Every laugh, every argument, every time I held you… it was the most real thing I have ever known in my entire life. I fell in love with you, Cassie. I am so desperately, irrevocably in love with you that the thought of you looking at me like I’m a stranger is killing me."
My heart was a wild, frantic thing beating against my ribsbat the truth of his words. They should have been a balm. They were a fresh wound... love hadn’t stopped this from happening.
Another connection, a darker thread, suddenly pulled taut in my mind. "How long?" I asked, the question cold and sharp. "How long have you known Jake?"
He went perfectly still. The question had blindsided him. A shadow passed over his face, and he took a deep, fortifying breath, as if steeling himself for a blow he knew was coming. The pause itself was an answer. It was a chasm of withheld truth.
"Since university," he finally said, the words heavy with resignation. "We were in the same business program. We weren't friends, not really. More like… rivals. He was always sharp, always ambitious. I lost touch with him after graduation. I had no idea he was the one you were… that he was the one who…" He couldn't finish. He didn't need to.
The air left my lungs in a rush. University. They had a history. A past. A connection that existed in a world completely separate from me. It wasn’t a random, recent business alliance. It was a thread that had been woven through the tapestry of his life long before I entered it, and he had never once thought to mention it. This wasn’t an omission by his father; this was an omission by him.
I stood up abruptly, needing space, needing to get away from the overwhelming reality of him. I walked to the large window overlooking the dark, quiet street. My reflection in the glass was a pale, haunted ghost superimposed over the peaceful neighborhood. The world outside was still and orderly. Inside, my world was chaos.
The soft, insistent buzz of my phone shattered the silence. The sound was jarring, an intrusion from a reality beyond this room, beyond this crisis. I crossed the room and picked it up from where it had fallen from my bag.
The screen glowed with a single message. It was from my father.
Fly to Capetown. Immediately. We need to talk.
The words were cold, commanding, devoid of the usual warmth of his texts. A new kind of dread, cold and slick, coiled in my stomach. I looked from the phone’s glowing screen back to Greyson. He was watching me, his expression one of open fear and desperate hope. The man who had just blown up his life, his relationship with his father, his entire future, for me. The man who had just bared his soul and declared his love.
The man who had, for months, omitted a crucial, devastating connection to the man who had tried to destroy me.
Two truths, equally real, equally painful, warred within me. And now, a third variable had been introduced. My father. The one stable rock in my life. What truth was waiting for me in New York?
I didn’t know what to believe. I didn’t know how to feel. The only thing I knew with any certainty was that the ground beneath my feet was still crumbling, and the fall was far from over.