Page 101 of Sexting the Billionaire

Partnership. The word catches me off guard. Not arrangement, not relationship, not even the more loaded boyfriend-girlfriend. Partnership implies equality, shared goals, mutual respect.

"We're going to need to figure out a lot of things," I say, sidestepping his question. "But right now, I need to shower and get ready for work. We have the Fairchild Institute reception tonight."

Roman checks his watch, frowning slightly. "I'd forgotten about that."

"It's okay if you need to cancel," I say quickly. "I understand if you need time to process?—"

"I'll be there," he interrupts. "Unless you'd prefer to go alone?"

"No, I—" I stop, gathering my thoughts. "I think we should stick to our original plan. Attend separately. Maintain professional boundaries in public."

"Agreed," he says, though something flickers in his expression. "At least until we've figured out how to handle the... larger announcement."

The baby. He means the baby. Our baby. The words still feel foreign, surreal, like I'm playing a part in someone else's life.

"I should go," Roman says, glancing at his phone again. "I've rescheduled my morning meetings, but I still have a board call at eleven."

"Of course." I follow him to the door, suddenly awkward. How do we say goodbye now? With everything changed and nothing yet settled?

Roman solves the dilemma by pulling me into his arms, pressing a kiss to my forehead that feels both protective and reverent. "We'll figure this out," he murmurs against my skin. "All of it."

"Promise?" I hate how small my voice sounds.

"Promise." He pulls back, his eyes meeting mine with unflinching certainty. "I'll see you tonight. Separately, but together."

After he leaves, I lean against the closed door, one hand drifting unconsciously to my still-flat stomach. There's nothing to feel yet, no physical evidence of the life growing inside me. But knowing it's there changes everything—how I see myself, how I think about the future, how I view the man who just walked out my door.

The Fairchild Institutereception is in full swing by the time I arrive, the grand ballroom of the Metropolitan Museum's modern wing transformed into a showcase of fashion innovation. As Lumière's Creative Director, my presence is expected, my attention solicited by donors and industry figures who've caught wind of our upcoming relaunch.

I navigate the crowd with practiced ease, accepting congratulations on my rapid rise at Elysian, deflecting questions about the rumors of Roman Kade's personal interest in my career. If they only knew.

I scan the room surreptitiously, looking for him despite my best intentions. He's not here yet—probably making a deliberately late entrance to ensure we're not seen arriving together.

"There's my brilliant sister," Mia's voice cuts through my thoughts as she appears at my elbow, resplendent in a vintage dress she's modified with her signature sustainable sequins. "Why do you look like you're about to face a firing squad instead of enjoying your professional triumph?"

"Just tired," I say automatically. "The launch preparations are intense."

Mia studies me with narrowed eyes. "You're a terrible liar, Cassie. Always have been. What's really going on?"

For one wild moment, I consider telling her everything—the pregnancy, Roman's surprising reaction, my swirling fears about motherhood and career. But this crowded reception is hardly the place for such revelations.

"Later," I promise. "When we're not surrounded by the entire fashion industry and their recording devices."

She accepts this with a nod, though her expression says we're not done with the subject. "Fine. But in the meantime, look alive. Camden just walked in, and he's heading this way."

My stomach drops. "What is he doing here?"

"Being obnoxious, most likely," Mia mutters. "Want me to spill wine on him? I've been practicing my 'accidental' elbow jabs."

Despite my anxiety, I laugh. "Stand down, attack dog. I can handle Camden."

But as he approaches, champagne in hand and smile firmly in place, I'm not so sure. There's something in his expression—a calculated gleam that sets my teeth on edge.

"Cassie," he greets me, as if we parted on good terms rather than with me slamming a door in his face. "You look lovely."

"Camden," I reply coolly. "I didn't realize Sullivan & Marsh had a connection to the Fairchild Institute."

"We represent several board members," he says smoothly. "But I'm here for the networking, same as everyone else."

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