Chapter 85 I'm hungry
Greyson
The O'Malley Construction logo gleamed from the bronze plaque in the lobby of Cassie's building, a reminder of a project I'd overseen two years ago when life had felt manageable and my marriage had still seemed salvageable. The Sandhurst Heights development had been one of our flagship projects they were luxury penthouses for Johannesburg's elite, built with the kind of attention to detail that justified the astronomical price tags.
I'd stood in this same lobby eighteen months ago with the development team, discussing final touches and client satisfaction surveys. I'd never imagined I'd be back here as a desperate husband trying to engineer a reconciliation with a wife who wanted nothing to do with me.
The building manager, James Thadeus, recognized me immediately when I walked into his office on the ground floor. We'd worked together during the construction phase, sharing late-night conversations about architectural details and construction deadlines. He was a good man,professional, discreet, the kind of person you could trust with sensitive information.
"Mr. O'Malley," he said, standing to shake my hand. "I wasn't expecting to see you. Is this about the warranty work on the penthouse units?"
"Actually, it's more personal than that." I took the seat he offered, trying to project calm confidence instead of the desperation that was eating me alive.
"My wife owns one of the penthouses. Cassie O'Malley. I'm hoping you might be able to help me with something."
His expression shifted slightly, becoming more guarded. "What kind of help?"
"I want to surprise her. She's been going through a difficult time, and I thought... I thought maybe I could prepare something special for when she gets home from work tonight. A gesture to show her how much she means to me."
It wasn't entirely a lie. Cassie was going through a difficult time, and I did want to show her how much she meant to me. The fact that she'd explicitly told me to stay away was a detail I chose not to share with James.
"You'd need access to her apartment for that," James said carefully.
"Exactly. I know it's irregular, but given that my company built this building, given our professional relationship..." I let the implication hang in the air between us.
James was quiet for a long moment, clearly wrestling with protocol and personal loyalty. Finally, he sighed and opened his desk drawer.
"I can give you a master key for maintenance purposes," he said. "Mr. O'Malley, if this goes sideways, if she files a complaint about unauthorized access..."
"She won't," I said, though I had no way of knowing if that was true.
"This is about saving my marriage, James. Sometimes you have to take risks for love. She's the one ."
He handed me the key card with obvious reluctance. "Two hours," he said. "That's all I can give you without it showing up in the security logs as unusual. And if anyone asks, you were here to inspect the HVAC system."
I thanked him and took the elevator to the parking garage, my heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and guilt. This was wrong I knew it was wrong. Cassie had drawn clear boundaries, and I was about to violate every single one of them. But I was also running out of options, running out of ways to prove to her that I was worth a second chance.
The drive to the gourmet market in Rosebank gave me time to plan. Cassie's favorite meal had always been simple but elegantbfresh seafood, good wine, something that spoke to comfort rather than extravagance. I selected prawns and scallops, ingredients for risotto, a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from her favorite vineyard in Stellenbosch. Flowers seemed too obvious, too much like an apology when what I wanted to offer was a future.
My phone rang as I was loading the groceries into my car. Daisy Chapman, Cassie's assistant at the agency, was calling me back.
"Mr. O'Malley," her voice was professional but cautious. "You asked about Mrs. O'Malley's schedule today?"
"That's right. I wanted to plan something special, but I need to know when she'll be free."
"Sir, I'm not sure I should be sharing her calendar information. She's been very clear about maintaining professional boundaries lately."
Professional boundaries. Code for keeping her personal life separate from anything that might involve me.
"Daisy, I'm still her husband. We're going through a rough patch, but I'm trying to make things right. Surely you can understand that?"
There was a pause, and I could hear her internal debate playing out in the silence. Daisy had always liked me we'd chatted during the few times I'd picked Cassie up from work, and she'd seemed genuinely happy about our marriage.
"She's in client presentations until at least seven tonight," she said finally. "The Johannesburg Creative Awards campaign is being finalized, and you know how she gets when she's in creative mode."
I did know. When Cassie was deep in a project, the rest of the world ceased to exist. She'd work until she found the perfect solution, regardless of time or exhaustion. It was one of the things I'd always admired about her her complete dedication to excellence.
"Thank you, Daisy. This means more than you know."
"Mr. O'Malley?" Her voice was softer now, more personal. "I hope... I hope you two work things out. She's been different since you left. Sadder. We all miss seeing her happy. "
The words hit me like a physical blow. Cassie had been putting on a brave face at work, maintaining her professional facade while dealing with our separation and the loss of our baby. The thought of her sitting in meetings, presenting campaigns, pretending everything was fine while her world fell apart made me sick with guilt.
"I'm going to try," I said. "I'm going to do everything I can to make this right."
"You better do that ."
" Thanks Daisy."
By six-thirty, I was back in Cassie's building with bags of groceries and a heart full of nervous energy. The elevator ride to her floor felt endless, each ding of passing floors marking another step toward either redemption or complete disaster.
Her penthouse was exactly as I'd imagined it would be clean, sophisticated, completely devoid of the warm touches that had made our shared apartment feel like home. This was the space of someone who was protecting herself, who had chosen aesthetic perfection over emotional comfort.
I moved through her kitchen with practiced efficiency, preparing the risotto base, cleaning the prawns, setting up a timeline that would have everything ready when she walked through the door. The familiar rhythm of cooking was meditative, almost calming. For the first time in weeks, I felt like I was doing something constructive instead of just wallowing in regret.
I stood in her living room, looking out at the Johannesburg skyline through those massive windows, and tried to imagine how she'd react when she walked through the door. Anger, certainly. Probably accusations about stalking, about violating her privacy, about being exactly the kind of controlling man she'd accused me of becoming.
Maybe, underneath the anger, there might be recognition. Recognition that I was finally fighting for her instead of running. Recognition that I was willing to risk her fury for the chance to prove I could be the man she needed.
My phone buzzed with a text from Dr. Mitchell: "Remember what we discussed about respecting boundaries. Good intentions don't justify crossing lines that others have drawn."
I stared at the message for a long moment, then deleted it without responding. Dr. Mitchell was right, of course. This was exactly the kind of behavior that had driven Cassie away in the first place my inability to respect her autonomy when it conflicted with my needs.
I was here now, had crossed lines that couldn't be uncrossed. The only way forward was through.
At seven-forty-five, I heard the distinctive beep of a key card being used at the front door. My heart started racing, adrenaline flooding my system as I heard the click of her heels on the marble foyer floor.
"What the hell?"
Her voice carried a mixture of shock and fury that made my stomach clench. I stepped into the foyer to face her, taking in her appea, her blazer wrinkled from a long day, exhaustion written in the lines around her eyes.
"Hello, Cassie."
"How did you get in here?" She set down her purse and keys with deliberate care, like she was trying to maintain control of her temper. "How did you even know where I live?"
"The AirTag on your keys," I said, deciding that honesty was the only way forward.
" I akso know the building manager from when we constructed this place."
Her face went through several expressions in rapid succession—surprise, violation, rage, and something that might have been hurt.
"You've been tracking me Christianson O'Malley."
"Yes."
"You broke into my home."
"Yes."
"You ambushed me after I explicitly told you to stay away."
"Yes."
The stark admissions seemed to deflate some of her anger, replacing it with something that looked like resignation.
"Why?"
she asked, and her voice was quieter now, tired. "Why would you do this, Grey? Why would you violate my privacy and my trust when I've already told you we're done?"
" I'm desperate," I said, stepping closer. "I've spent five weeks in therapy trying to understand why I run when things get difficult, and I've realized that losing you is the only thing I'm actually afraid of. I needed to prove to you that I'm capable of fighting for us instead of abandoning us when things get complicated."
She looked past me into the living room, taking in the candle-lit table, the smell of dinner cooking in the kitchen, the obvious effort I'd put into creating something romantic and intimate.
"You cooked," she said, and there was something unreadable in her voice.
"Seafood risotto. Your favorite. I remembered."
"You remembered." She repeated the words like they were foreign, like the concept of being remembered was something she'd forgotten how to expect.
We stood in her foyer staring at each other, the weight of everything unsaid settling between us like a living thing. I could see her internal debate playing out on her face the part of her that wanted to throw me out warring with the part that was touched by the gesture despite herself.
"This doesn't fix anything," she said finally. "A romantic dinner doesn't undo the damage you caused when you abandoned me."
"I know that... it's a beginning. Maybe it's proof that I'm finally ready to do the work—the real work—of earning your forgiveness."
She was quiet for a long moment, studying my face like she was trying to read something written there in a language she'd forgotten how to speak.
"One dinner," she said finally. "One conversation. Grey, if you ever violate my boundaries like this again if you ever break into my home or track my location or ambush me when I've asked for space we're done. Permanently. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
She nodded and walked past me toward the kitchen, pausing to smell the risotto before turning back to face me.
"It smells good," she admitted reluctantly.
"It tastes better," I said, and for the first time in five weeks, she almost smiled.
Almost.
"Is that a wince I see."
"I'm hungry. "