Page 110 of Sexting the Billionaire

See you at 2:30.

I stand on shaky legs, smoothing down my carefully selected dress—a structured black sheath that exudes professionalism while strategically accommodating the slight changes in my body that aren't yet visible to others but feel monumental to me. Seven weeks pregnant, and already nothing fits quite the same.

At the sink, I rinse my mouth and reapply lipstick with hands that refuse to stop trembling. The woman in the mirror looks pale but determined, dark circles beneath her eyes barely concealed by makeup. I barely recognize myself lately—not just physically, but in the constant war between excitement and terror that has become my default emotional state.

Three days since Camden leaked the news of my pregnancy to the industry blog. Three days of relentless speculation, whispered conversations that stop when I enter rooms, and calls from journalists my assistant now screens with ruthless efficiency.

Three days of seeing my name and Roman's plastered across fashion publications with headlines like "Bedroom to Boardroom: How Cassandra Monroe Secured Her Position" and "Elysian Baby Drama: Kade's Career-Climbing Girlfriend."

Most vicious was the detailed timeline suggesting our relationship began weeks before I obtained my current role—a complete fabrication, but damaging nonetheless.

Roman's PR team has been working overtime to correct the narrative, but the damage was immediate. My meeting requests are suddenly being rescheduled. Design teams from other divisions are "forgetting" to include me in crucial conversations. Even my own team seems uncertain about my leadership, watching me with careful, measuring eyes.

My phone buzzes again:

I can see you overthinking from here. You've got this. The board is ready to be impressed.

Despite everything, a smile tugs at my lips. Roman, who has faced the brunt of the industry backlash with characteristic steely determination, somehow still finds energy to bolster my confidence.

In public, we've maintained strict professional boundaries—a futile attempt to separate our personal relationship from our professional one, though that ship has clearly sailed. But in private texts and stolen moments, he remains my strongest advocate.

I gather my presentation materials and head for the boardroom, walking the familiar path with deliberate confidence despite the anxiety churning inside me. Outside the heavy double doors, I take one last steadying breath.

Game face on. This presentation matters more now than ever—not just for the brand, but as proof that I deserve my position through talent, not romantic connection.

The room falls silent as I enter, fourteen pairs of eyes tracking my movement to the presentation area. I catch Roman's gaze briefly—professional, neutral, revealing nothing of the man who held me through tears last night as I read the cruelest of the tabloid headlines. Now he's all CEO, nodding politely as if I'm any other executive preparing to present.

"Good afternoon," I begin, my voice stronger than I feel. "Today I'm presenting the completed relaunch strategy forLumière, including the full product lineup, marketing approach, and revenue projections through the next three quarters."

For the next forty minutes, I lose myself in the work, in the one thing I know with absolute certainty: my design vision. I take the board through the reimagined brand aesthetic, the sustainable material sourcing, the innovative hardware that started this whole controversy with Grant. I show them market research supporting our shift toward "attainable luxury with purpose," and customer feedback confirming our direction.

By the time I reach the financial projections, showing a conservative 22% growth in the first year, I can feel the room's energy shifting. The initial skepticism has given way to genuine interest, even excitement from several board members. When I finish, the questions are substantive, focused on execution rather than concept—a sign they've bought into the vision.

"Impressive work, Ms. Monroe," Charles Whitaker says as the presentation concludes. "The board will review your recommendations and provide feedback by tweeks end, but speaking personally, I believe you've captured exactly what Lumière needs to reclaim its market position."

"Thank you," I say, gathering my materials with hands that finally feel steady. "I appreciate the opportunity to present my full vision."

As the board disperses, Roman approaches, maintaining a careful professional distance. "Excellent presentation," he says, voice pitched for others to hear. "The sustainability metrics were particularly compelling."

"Thank you, Mr. Kade," I respond with equal formality. "I look forward to your feedback."

The performance continues until we're alone in the elevator, where Roman's professional mask instantly dissolves.

"You were brilliant," he says, concern replacing the polite interest of moments before. "But you look exhausted. Are you sure you're feeling alright?"

"Just the usual morning-afternoon-evening sickness," I attempt a smile that feels shakier than I'd like. "Nothing some saltines and ginger ale won't fix."

His hand reaches for mine, a brief reassuring touch before the elevator doors open. "Home early tonight. Doctor's orders."

"Is that what you are now? A doctor?" I tease, though the genuine worry in his eyes touches something deep inside me.

"Whatever I need to be to make you rest," he says simply. His intensity would have intimidated me once. Now I recognize it for what it is—love expressed through protection, care translated into action.

Back in my office, I collapse into my chair, the adrenaline of the presentation fading into bone-deep fatigue. My assistant Taylor appears with the saltines and ginger ale I didn't have to ask for, confirming my suspicion that she's known about the pregnancy long before the media did.

"Your three o'clock canceled," she says, setting the supplies on my desk. "And there's someone waiting to see you. I told him you weren't taking drop-ins, but he insists it's important."

"Who is it?" I ask, dreading another journalist trying to sneak past our defenses.

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