Page 117 of Sexting the Billionaire

The upper floors contain five bedrooms, including a primary suite with an attached sitting room that would make a perfect nursery. As we tour each space, I can see Cassie mentally placing furniture, imagining configurations, building our life in these rooms.

"There's one more feature I think you'll appreciate," the agent says, leading us up a final flight of stairs. "The previous owners converted the attic into a studio space. It gets wonderful natural light."

She opens the door to reveal a large, open room with skylights and exposed beams. The walls are painted a clean white, the original floorboards sanded and sealed to a warm honey color.

"This could be your home workspace," I say to Cassie, watching her eyes widen as she takes in the possibilities. "Your own design studio."

"And yours too," she counters, squeezing my hand. "A place for us both to create."

After touring the basement with its wine cellar and laundry room, we find ourselves back in the main living area. The agent discreetly steps away to take a call, giving us a moment of privacy.

"What do you think?" Cassie asks, her expression carefully neutral. "Too traditional for you?"

I look around, seeing beyond the current owners' decor to the space itself—the generous proportions, the quality construction, the sense of history anchoring it to the city.

"I think," I say slowly, "that I can picture our family here."

Cassie's face lights up, but she tempers her reaction. "Are you sure? We can keep looking. I know it's not the sleek, modern place you initially wanted."

"I'm sure." I pull her close, one hand resting lightly on the subtle curve of her stomach. "This isn't just about my preferences anymore. It's about building something together—something that honors both our pasts and creates space for our future."

Olivia appears beside us, eyes suspiciously bright. "So? Is this the one?"

Cassie looks up at me, a question in her gaze. I nod, feeling more certain with each passing moment.

"Yes," Cassie says, her smile radiant. "I think we've found our home."

Olivia claps her hands, delighted. "I knew it! The energy in this place is perfect for you two. Now, who's ready to talk about nursery colors?"

The congratulatory textfrom Maxwell Grant arrives later that evening, after we've signed the preliminary offer on the brownstone and celebrated with dinner at Cassie's favorite Italian restaurant.

Word travels fast in this industry. Perhaps we could meet next week? Recent developments warrant a face-to-face conversation.

I show the message to Cassie, who frowns slightly. "What 'recent developments' could he possibly mean?"

"I have no idea," I admit. "But I'm curious enough to find out."

"Do you trust him?" she asks, curling against me on the couch in my penthouse—soon to be our former residence.

"Not remotely," I say, stroking her hair. "But sometimes knowing your enemy's next move is worth the discomfort of sitting across from them."

The meeting, when it happens, takes place on neutral ground—a private room at the Yale Club, where neither of us holds the home-court advantage. Grant arrives precisely on time, dressed impeccably as always, but with an unfamiliar solemnity in his bearing.

"Roman," he says, extending his hand. "Thank you for agreeing to this."

I shake his hand briefly, my suspicion undimmed by his apparent civility. "What's this about, Maxwell?"

He gestures to the chairs arranged by the fireplace. "Please. This will take a few minutes."

Once seated, he studies me with an intensity that's familiar from our early days as mentor and protégé. "I understand congratulations are in order. but for the forthcoming addition to your family."

"Thank you." My response is clipped, wary. "Though I find your sudden interest in my personal life... concerning."

"Not sudden." He sighs, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I've followed your career closely since our... parting of ways. With more attention than was perhaps healthy."

The admission catches me off guard. "Why are we here, Maxwell?"

"Because fatherhood has a way of clarifying one's perspective." He reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws an envelope. "As I imagine you're discovering."

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