Page 11 of Sexting the Billionaire

I walk out of the bedroom, out of the apartment, closing the door with a soft click that feels more final than any slam could have been.

It isn't until I'm back in my car that the full weight of what just happened hits me. I grip the steering wheel, waiting for the tears to come, for the breakdown that seems inevitable after such humiliation.

But instead of tears, laughter bubbles up—slightly hysterical, edge-of-sanity laughter. The kind that starts deep in your belly and rises until you're gasping for air.

Because really, what are the odds?

Anniversary dinner breakup followed by walking in on him with someone else less than twelve hours later? It's so perfectly, cinematically awful that it crosses over from tragedy into absurdist comedy.

By the time my laughter subsides, something has shifted inside me. The last lingering doubt, the tiny voice wondering if I could have done something differently, if I could have been enough—it's gone, burned away by the sheer absurdity of catching Camden in the act.

I start the car, pull away from the curb, and don't look back at the building that was my home until yesterday.

Whatever comes next—joblessness, apartment hunting, starting over—it has to be better than the life I was trying to conform into.

Curiosity gnaws at me as I sit at a red light. The mystery number from last night—the one who got my wine-fueled rage manifesto—I never found out who I'd accidentally texted. Without thinking, I tap on that thread and hit the call button.

It rings once, twice, then connects to voicemail.

"You've reached Roman. Leave a message."

My blood freezes. The phone slips from my suddenly numb fingers, clattering against the dashboard as the light turns green.

The only Roman I know of is Roman Kade.

TheRoman Kade.

Have I just sent an explicit sexual fantasy to one of the most powerful men in New York City?

The honking behind me jolts me back to reality. I grab my phone, my hands shaking as I end the call, set the device aside, and drive forward.

My phone buzzes with an incoming message. Probably Mia texting to check on me again. I'll look at it later, when I'm somewhere that doesn't feel like my world has just tilted completely off its axis.

Right now, I just need to drive.

Away from Camden, away from this morning's disaster, away from the knowledge that I've just made the most mortifying mistake of my entire life.

4

ROMAN

THE MAN BEHIND THE NUMBER

The text arrived around eleven last night, while I was on a conference call with Hong Kong.

By the time I'd finished dealing with a shipping crisis threatening to derail our entire fall launch, I was too exhausted to check personal messages.

When I wake at 5 AM Tuesday morning, the unexpected waits for me. I notice that I have unread text messages on my phone, but they will have to wait until I get into the office.

When I finally settle in my office I stare at the text message that's lit up my phone, blinking twice to make sure I'm not hallucinating. The time stamp shows 11:14 PM, an unknown number, and... Jesus.

The photo makes me set down my coffee before I spill it.

Holy fucking hell.

It's cleavage, yes, but this isn't some amateur selfie taken in a dirty bathroom mirror.

The lighting is soft but deliberate, highlighting the slope and swell of breasts that look like they were sculpted by Michelangelo himself.

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