Page 36 of Sexting the Billionaire

The museum steps are lined with photographers and fashionable attendees, creating a gauntlet of scrutiny for newcomers like me. I spot Olivia already working the crowd near the entrance. She catches my eye and gives me a subtle thumbs-up.

No one knows who I am, of course. I'm not a celebrity or an industry icon. But as Lumière's Creative Director, I represent the brand, and by extension, Elysian. The thought straightens my spine and lifts my chin as I enter the museum's grand hall.

The space has been transformed into a winter wonderland, with crystal installations catching and refracting light in mesmerizing patterns.

Waiters circulate with champagne and elegant hors d'oeuvres while New York's elite engage in the complicated social dance of seeing and being seen.

I accept a glass of champagne and scan the room, recognizing fashion editors, designers, and the occasional celebrity. No sign of Roman yet, which gives me time to?—

"Ms. Monroe." The familiar voice comes from behind me, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. "I'm glad you could make it."

I turn to find Roman standing closer than professional courtesy would dictate, looking devastatingly handsome in a tuxedo that makes the other men in the room look like they're wearing rentals.

"Mr. Kade," I respond, proud of how steady my voice sounds despite my racing heart. "Beautiful event."

His eyes make a deliberate journey from my face down my dress and back up, the appreciation unmistakable.

"Beautiful indeed."

A flush rises to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the champagne I've barely tasted.

"The crystal installations are remarkable." I deliberately misinterpret his comment. "They must have taken weeks to create."

"Months," he confirms, amusement flickering in his eyes. He knows exactly what I'm doing. "But worth every moment of planning, wouldn't you say?"

There's a double meaning in his words, or maybe I'm just imagining it because every interaction between us seems charged with subtext these days.

"Absolutely," I agree, taking a sip of champagne to hide my expression. "The effect is quite... stimulating."

A slight quirk of his eyebrow is the only indication that he's caught my meaning. "I should make the rounds," he says, regret evident in his tone.

"Save a dance for me later?"

The thought of being in Roman's arms, even in the formal context of a charity gala dance floor, sends my pulse racing again.

"If your schedule permits," I say noncommittally.

"I'll make sure it does." His voice drops slightly, for my ears only.

"That dress deserves proper appreciation."

Before I can formulate a response that won't get me fired, he's gone, moving through the crowd with the easy confidence of someone who knows he belongs at the top of every social hierarchy.

I exhale slowly, feeling like I've just survived some kind of exquisite stress test. One brief conversation and I'm already flustered. How am I supposed to make it through an entire evening?

"You must be Cassandra Monroe."

I turn to find an elegant woman in her fifties appraising me with sharp eyes. It takes me a moment to place her—Vivienne Larson, Fashion Director at Style Authority magazine and legendary industry kingmaker.

"Yes," I confirm, offering my hand. "It's an honor to meet you, Ms. Larson."

"Vivienne, please." She shakes my hand with surprising strength.

"I've been hearing interesting things about your vision for Lumière."

My professional instincts kick in immediately, pushing aside my Roman-induced fluster. "All good things, I hope?"

"Refreshingly bold," she says, studying me like I'm an unusual specimen.

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