Page 3 of Sexting the Billionaire

My heart pounds so loudly I'm certain the entire restaurant can hear it. I manage a small nod, already rehearsing my surprised-but-not-too-surprised expression.

"These past two years have been... significant. You've been a supportive, stable presence during an important phase of my career."

Supportive. Stable. Not exactly passionate.

"But I've been doing a lot of thinking lately," Camden continues, his voice shifting into the same tone he uses when laying out case law to junior associates. "About what I want, where I'm headed. About the kind of partner I need beside me."

The word "need" hangs in the air between us. Not want. Not love. Need.

"And the thing is, Cassie..." He pauses, reaching out to take my hand in what feels like a practiced gesture. "I've outgrown us."

The words don't register at first. They bounce off my champagne-buzzed brain like hail against a window.

"What?" I finally manage.

"You're comfortable, Cassie. Predictable." His thumb brushes over my knuckles in a gesture that suddenly feels condescending rather than comforting. "I need someone who pushes boundaries—professionally and..." his eyes flicker over my body, "personally."

The restaurant seems to tilt around me. The romantic lighting now feels like a cruel joke, the champagne sour in my stomach.

"You're breaking up with me?" I hate how small my voice sounds. "On our anniversary?"

Camden at least has the decency to look slightly uncomfortable. "I thought it would be better to do this somewhere different rather than at home. Give you space to process."

"How thoughtful," I say, surprised by the sharp edge in my voice. "Did you also think it would be better to wait until I'd spent half my paycheck on this dress? Or until Mia spent weeks helping me pick out lingerie for tonight?"

He winces. "Let's not make a scene."

"A scene," I repeat. My eyes burn, but I refuse to cry. Not here. Not in front of him. "Were you ever going to propose? Or was that just something I made up in my head?"

Camden shifts in his seat, his discomfort growing. "Marriage was never really on the table for us, Cassie. I thought you understood that."

The realization hits me like a physical blow. He never saw me as forever material. All those hints he brushed off. All those conversations about the future he redirected.

"I think I should go," I say, reaching for my clutch.

"Don't be dramatic. At least finish dinner." His tone suggests he's being exceptionally reasonable. "We're adults. We can handle this maturely."

I notice him reaching into his pocket again and feel a fresh wave of disbelief as he pulls out a travel-sized toothbrush—my toothbrush from our bathroom—and sets it on the table between us.

"I packed a few of your things," he says, not quite meeting my eyes. "I thought it might be easier if you stayed with Olivia tonight while you... adjust."

He's planned this down to the smallest detail. Probably has for weeks. While I've been daydreaming about proposals, he's been choreographing our breakup.

Something cold and clarifying sweeps through me, washing away the shock and hurt. I stand up, smoothing my dress with hands that barely tremble.

"You know what, Camden? You're right." I pick up the toothbrush and drop it into my clutch. "You have outgrown us. But not in the way you think."

He blinks, clearly thrown by my sudden composure.

"I've spent two years dimming my light for you. Making myself smaller. Safer. More palatable to your sophisticated tastes." I pick up my champagne glass and drain it in oneunladylike gulp. "So thank you for setting me free before I forgot who I really am."

"Cassie—"

"Don't worry about my things. I'll arrange to have them picked up." I step away from the table. "Oh, and Camden? She's going to bore you too, eventually. Once she figures out what you really want is just a prettier reflection of yourself."

I turn and walk out of the restaurant with my head high, feeling the stares of other diners like pinpricks on my skin. The maître d' looks alarmed as I pass, but I manage a tight smile that keeps him from approaching.

It isn't until I reach the parking lot that I allow myself to stop, leaning against my car as the cool night air hits my flushed face. With trembling fingers, I pull out my phone and pull up Camden's contact.

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