Chapter 144 Tracking
Cassie
I woke to the pale gray light of dawn filtering through my bedroom curtains, my body sore from yesterday's punishing workout and my mind still heavy with everything that had happened. For a moment, I lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself that I didn't have to go. That I could send a text to Matt saying I'd changed my mind, that Greyson didn't deserve my time or my forgiveness.
That would be the coward's way out. whatever else I was, I wasn't a coward.
I rolled out of bed, wincing as my arm brushed against the sheets. The marks from Greyson's fingers had darkened overnight five distinct bruises in the shape of his grip, purple and ugly against my skin. Evidence. I stared at them for a long moment, took a photo with my phone, Sent it to Matt , then covered them with a long-sleeved white crew neck sweater. Casual but put-together. Armor that didn't look like armor.
The shower was scalding, the way I liked it, washing away the sweat and tension from a mostly sleepless night. I'd tossed and turned, replaying the gym scene over and over, analyzing every word, every gesture, every moment that had led to his hand on my arm and that look in his eyes.
I dried my hair, pulled it back into a sleek ponytail, applied minimal makeup. Professional. Controlled. The woman who'd closed the Massa deal stared back at me from the mirror—not the woman who'd cried on her kitchen floor last night.
By six-thirty, I was dressed in dark jeans, ankle boots, and that white sweater, looking like I was heading to a casual business brunch rather than a confrontation with the man who'd assaulted me less than twenty-four hours ago. I grabbed my phone, my keys, and the small crossbody bag I used when I didn't want to be weighed down by my usual work tote.
The address Matt had texted me last night was in Brooklyn. I'd never been to his place before our social circles had only overlapped through my divorce, and I'd always kept a certain distance from Grey's friends. Now I wished I'd paid more attention to the address before I'd agreed to come.
The car service picked me up at six-forty-five. The driver was a quiet man in his fifties who didn't try to make conversation, which I appreciated. I watched the city slide past my window—Manhattan giving way to Brooklyn, the buildings changing from sleek high-rises to more modest brownstones and brick apartment buildings.
We crossed into a neighborhood I didn't recognize, streets that felt different from the gentrified areas I usually frequented. The buildings here were older, more worn, marked with graffiti that looked territorial rather than artistic. Small shops with metal grates still pulled down. Groups of men standing on corners even at this early hour, watching cars pass with calculating eyes.
Something felt wrong. The air itself seemed charged with tension, with warning. I should have paid attention to that instinct. Should have told the driver to turn around. But I was too focused on the confrontation ahead to listen to the alarm bells ringing in my subconscious.
My phone buzzed with a notification just as we pulled up to Matt's . I glanced at the screen and felt my breath catch.
It was an alert from a business news site I subscribed to: "Hunter Maritime's Secret Weapon: How Cassie Hunter Became the Brains Behind Every Major Territory Acquisition."
The article had just dropped. Someone—probably , Dante's colleague who'd been digging into our contracts—had leaked the story. And it was everywhere. Not just the business news site, but Forbes, Bloomberg, the Wall Street Journal. All running versions of the same story: the youngest division head in Hunter Maritime history, the woman who'd been quietly revolutionizing the company's territorial strategy, the force behind every major rebranding and acquisition over the past three years.
My phone started ringing immediately. My father. My mother. Maria My Assistant. Three members of the board and dozens of text messages flooding in from business contacts, competitors, even a few reporters who'd somehow gotten my personal number.
The article painted me as a strategic genius, a woman who'd been operating in the shadows while others took credit. It detailed deals I'd closed, territories I'd acquired, partnerships I'd built. It was everything I'd worked for, finally being recognized.
It had just made me a target.
I silenced the calls and looked up at Matt's building. It was a nice brownstone, well-maintained, with window boxes that had probably held flowers in the summer. But something about the street itself made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
A man leaning against a lamppost across the street was watching me. Not casuallywatching me with the kind of focused attention that spoke of more than idle curiosity. And now that I looked more carefully, I could see others. Two men sitting on a stoop three doors down. Another standing in a doorway, smoking a cigarette. A fourth leaning against a car, his eyes tracking my every movement.