Chapter 141 Angry
Cassie
I didn't remember the walk back to my penthouse. Didn't remember riding the elevator or unlocking my door. I found myself standing in my living room, shaking, gasping for air like I'd been drowning.
Greyson and Ella. Dante and Sophia. In the span of fifteen minutes, I'd been confronted with every betrayal, every loss, every wound I'd tried to leave behind in this city.
My phone rang. I looked at the screen through blurry eyes, expecting Greyson, dreading the conversation we'd need to have.
It was Aiden Massa.
For a moment, I considered ignoring it. Considered throwing my phone across the room and surrendering to the breakdown that was building behind my ribs like a pressure system.Some deeply ingrained sense of professionalism made me answer.
"Hello?" My voice came out raw, barely controlled.
"Cassie." Aiden's smooth, cultured voice filled my ear. "I'm in town. I know the gala isn't until Saturday but I thought we could celebrate tonight. Let me take you to dinner. There's this excellent place in the West Village—"
"I..." I couldn't do this. Couldn't put on the mask, couldn't be the polished professional right now. "I can't. It's not a good time."
There was a pause. When Aiden spoke again, his voice had shifted, the business veneer falling away to reveal something more human underneath. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Everything. I just I can't talk about it."
Another pause, longer this time. "Then don't talk. What's your address?"
"What?"
"Your address, Cassie. I'm bringing dinner to you."
I should say no. Should maintain the professional boundary. Should not let my new business partner see me like this—vulnerable, broken, human.
"Tribeca," I heard myself say. "Three-fifty Warren, penthouse level."
"I'll be there in an hour."
He hung up before I could protest.
I stood in my silent penthouse, phone still pressed to my ear, and finally let the tears fall. I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the hardwood floor, knees pulled to my chest, and cried for the first time in three years. I cried for my broken engagement and my broken trust. I cried for the sister I'd lost and the niece I'd never be able to fully love. I cried for Greyson and whatever we'd had that was clearly over now. I cried for myself, for the woman I'd been before New York broke me.
When the tears finally subsided, I felt empty but somehow lighter, like I'd been carrying a weight I'd forgotten about until it was gone.
I pulled myself up, washed my face, changed into yoga pants and an oversized sweater—comfortable clothes that felt nothing like armor. I didn't try to fix my makeup or style my hair. Aiden was going to see me as I actually was: exhausted, heartbroken, human.
Fifty-three minutes after his call, my doorman buzzed up to announce a visitor. I pressed the button to allow him up, then opened my door and waited.
When Aiden Massa stepped off the elevator, he looked nothing like the polished businessman I'd negotiated with over the past three months. He was wearing jeans and a black sweater, his usually perfectly styled dark hair slightly windblown, and he was carrying several bags from what I recognized as one of the best Italian restaurants in the city.
"I brought options," he said simply as he approached. "Wasn't sure what you'd want."
His eyes took in my appearance the puffy eyes, the skinny jeans, the oversized sweater—but his expression didn't change. No judgment, no pity, just quiet acceptance.
He didn't ask what was wrong. Didn't press for explanations. Didn't offer platitudes or false comfort. He simply walked past me into the penthouse, found my kitchen with surprising efficiency, and started unpacking food.
"Plates?" he asked, already opening cabinets.
"Left of the sink," I said, my voice still rough from crying.
I watched as Aiden Massa—heir to a shipping empire, the man known for being ruthless in negotiations and impossible to impress—moved around my kitchen setting out pasta, salad, bread, and cannoli for dessert. He found wine glasses, opened a bottle of Barolo he'd brought, poured two generous glasses.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the stool at my kitchen island.
I sat.
We ate mostly in silence, the only sounds the clink of silverware and the distant hum of the city beyond my windows. Aiden made occasional observations about the food, the view, the Yankees' chances next season—safe topics that required minimal engagement and no emotional energy.
The food was delicious, though I barely tasted it. But the act of eating, of going through familiar motions, was oddly grounding. And Aiden's presence—solid, undemanding, comfortable—made the cavernous penthouse feel less empty.
When we'd finished eating, he started clearing plates without asking, loading my dishwasher with methodical precision.
"You don't have to—" I began.
"I know," he interrupted gently. "But I'm going to anyway."
I watched him rinse dishes and wipe down counters, this powerful man who commanded a shipping empire performing domestic tasks in my kitchen, and felt something unknot in my chest.
"Thank you," I said softly.
Aiden turned to face me, leaning back against my counter with his wine glass in hand. "For dinner?"
"For not asking."
He nodded slowly, studying me with those sharp dark eyes that seemed to see more than most people. "Everyone has ghosts, Cassie. New York seems to be where yours live. I don't need to know the details to understand that coming back here cost you something."
The simple acknowledgment, free of pity or curiosity, made my eyes sting again.
"I'm going to go," Aiden continued, setting down his wine glass and grabbing his jacket from where he'd draped it over a chair. "You need rest. But I'll pick you up at noon tomorrow—we have that lunch meeting with my senior team before the gala. Can you handle that?"
I straightened, feeling professionalism slide back into place like armor I was so used to wearing it felt like a second skin. "Yes. I'll be ready."
"Good." He paused at my door, studying me once more. "For what it's worth, Cassie—whatever happened here, whoever hurt you and you're stronger than they made you feel. I saw that strength during our negotiations. I saw how hard you worked, how you never gave up even when my team threw obstacle after obstacle in your path. That woman is still here. She didn't disappear just because you came back to New York."
The words settled over me like a balm, soothing wounds I hadn't realized were still so raw.
"I wouldn't have chosen you as a partner otherwise," Aiden added. "I don't work with people who break easily. And you, Cassie Hunter, are not easily broken."
Then he was gone, leaving me alone with the remnants of our dinner and the realization that maybe, just maybe, I'd found an unexpected ally in the last place I'd thought to look.
I walked to my windows, staring out at the city that held all my worst memories. The lights stretched endlessly in every direction, millions of lives intersecting and diverging, millions of stories of love and loss and betrayal and survival.
My phone buzzed. A text from Greyson: "We need to talk."
Another text, this one from a number I didn't recognize: "Cassie, it's Dante. I'm sorry about running into you like that. I know it must have been difficult. If you want to talk, I'm around."
I deleted both messages without responding.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges—the meetings, the gala, the inevitable confrontations with my past. But tonight, I'd survived. I'd stumbled, but I hadn't fallen completely.
Aiden was right. I wasn't easily broken. I'd proven that over the past three years by building a career, by closing impossible deals, by working harder than anyone else to prove my worth. I'd proven it by getting on a plane and coming back to the city that had destroyed me.
I'd proven it by still being here, still standing, still fighting.
I finished my wine, rinsed the glass, and walked to my bedroom. I had work to do tomorrow—contracts to review, people to impress, a reputation to uphold. I was Cassie Hunter, the youngest division head in Hunter Maritime's history. I was my father's daughter, raised to handle anything.
Even if "anything" included facing the sister who'd betrayed me and the man who'd broken my heart.
Even if it included seeing the beautiful innocent child who existed as a permanent reminder of that betrayal.
Even if it meant accepting that Greyson had apparently decided that one Hunter sister was much like another.
I would handle it. Because that's what I did.
I was, after all, very good at my job. And for the past three years, surviving had been my full-time occupation.
Tomorrow, I'd go back to work.
Tonight, I'd allow myself to be human and cry it out . maybe—just maybe—that was enough.