Page 80 of Sexting the Billionaire

"Furniture, mostly. Beautiful, hand-crafted pieces that took months to complete." Roman's voice takes on a reverent quality I've never heard before. "He taught me that value isn't just in the final product, but in the process—the care, the attention to detail, the love you put into creating something lasting."

The contrast between this philosophy and the ruthless efficiency Roman is known for at Elysian isn't lost on me. "He sounds wonderful."

"He was. When he died my sophomore year of college, I almost dropped out." Roman plates the omelettes with careful precision. "My father told me grief was no excuse for weakness. That the business world wouldn't wait for me to 'process my feelings.'"

"That's not weakness," I say, accepting the plate he hands me. "That's being human."

Roman meets my eyes, something vulnerable and raw in his gaze. "I didn't know how to be both—human and a Kade. So I chose the latter."

The admission hangs between us, heavy with implications. So much about Roman suddenly makes sense—his relentless drive, his exacting standards, his difficulty with vulnerability. He learned early that showing emotion meant showing weakness, and weakness wasn't tolerated.

"Is that why you cook?" I ask softly. "To reconnect with that part of yourself?"

He considers this, leaning against the counter with his own plate. "I suppose it is. It's one of the few things I do that doesn't have to be perfect. That can just be... enjoyed for what it is."

I reach across the counter to take his hand, threading my fingers through his. "Thank you for telling me this."

"It's not exactly cheerful breakfast conversation," he says, deflection evident in his tone.

"It's honest. And I'd rather have your honesty than polite breakfast chat any day." I squeeze his hand. "Besides, it helps me understand you better."

"And does understanding lead to forgiveness?" he asks, something tight and uncertain in his voice.

"Forgiveness for what?"

"For being demanding. Controlling. For the parts of me that are more my father than my grandfather." He won't quite meet my eyes. "The parts that made you hesitate when Grant made his offer."

So that's what this is about. The insecurity lingering beneath the surface of his revelation.

"Roman, look at me." I wait until those blue eyes meet mine. "I didn't hesitate because of you. I hesitated because of me. Because I have my own patterns of losing myself in relationships with powerful men, and I needed to be sure I wasn't repeating that mistake."

It's my turn for uncomfortable honesty, the kind that makes my stomach clench with vulnerability. "With Camden, I mademyself smaller because that's what he wanted. I'm terrified of doing the same with you, even though what you want is the exact opposite."

"Which is?"

"For me to be bigger. Bolder. More." I swallow against the tightness in my throat. "But the pressure to be more can be just as confining as the pressure to be less, if I'm doing it for someone else instead of for myself."

Understanding dawns in his eyes. "That's why you needed time."

"I needed to be sure I was choosing you—choosing us—because it's what I want, not because I'm falling into another pattern." I offer him a small smile. "And for what it's worth, you're nothing like your father. At least not the version you just described."

"No?" His skepticism is evident.

"You push people because you see their potential, not because you're looking for their flaws," I say with conviction. "There's a world of difference between demanding excellence and demanding perfection. You understand that distinction better than you give yourself credit for."

Something in his posture relaxes, a tension I hadn't fully registered until it dissipates. "When did you get so insightful, Ms. Monroe?"

"Somewhere between the accidental sexting and finding out my boss is secretly a gourmet chef." I take a bite of the omelette, which is predictably perfect. "Speaking of which, this is delicious. Your grandfather would be proud."

He smiles, a genuine expression that transforms his face from handsome to breathtaking. "He would have liked you."

"Because of my sparkling personality?"

"Because you see me," he says simply. "The real me, not the CEO or the Kade legacy. Just... Roman."

The words hit me with unexpected force, a truth I hadn't fully articulated even to myself. That's what draws me to him—not his power or wealth or even his ridiculous good looks, but the glimpses of the man beneath all those trappings. The man who makes breakfast on Sunday mornings and talks about his grandfather with reverence and looks at me like I'm something precious and substantial all at once.

"Well," I say, my voice not quite steady, "the real you makes an exceptional omelette."

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