Page 92 of Sexting the Billionaire

I don't respond. Even after all these years, the mention of her name creates a tightness in my chest that I resent.

"Whatever history you share," Whitaker continues when I remain silent, "don't let it cloud your judgment. Grant's trying to provoke you into an emotional response. Don't give him the satisfaction."

"I'm aware," I say, my tone making it clear the subject is closed.

Whitaker nods, understanding the dismissal. As he reaches the door, he pauses. "One more thing, Roman. There are... whispers. About you and the new Creative Director."

My blood runs cold, but my expression remains impassive. "Whispers?"

"Nothing concrete," he assures me. "Just the usual industry gossip. But in light of this situation with Grant, it might be prudent to be... especially professional."

"I'm always professional," I say, the words automatic and hollow even to my own ears.

"Of course." Whitaker's expression is carefully neutral. "Just something to consider."

After he leaves, I remain seated, staring at the scattered papers on the conference table without really seeing them. The meeting with the board, Grant's latest attack, the reminder about Cassie—it all swirls together into a familiar cocktail of pressure and isolation.

Zara enters without knocking, her efficiency both comforting and irritating in my current mood.

"The security team has the list of potential breaches," she says, placing a folder in front of me.

"Thank you," I say, not touching the folder. "Anything else?"

Zara hesitates, which is so unlike her that I look up sharply. "Several industry contacts have called to... inquire about your relationship with Ms. Monroe."

So Whitaker wasn't exaggerating. The whispers have become audible.

"What did you tell them?"

"That I don't comment on your personal life," she says, her tone suggesting the callers received a considerably frostier version of that statement. "But Roman..."

The use of my first name, rare from my meticulously professional assistant, catches my attention.

"Be careful," she says simply. "Grant's looking for leverage. And you've never been this... exposed before."

The word choice is deliberate. Exposed. Vulnerable. Compromised by emotions I've spent a lifetime controlling.

"I'll handle it," I say, dismissing her with a nod.

But as the door closes behind her, I wonder if that's true. Can I handle this—the collision of professional threats and personal entanglements? The terrain is unfamiliar, dangerous in ways I'm not equipped to navigate.

I reach for my phone, scrolling to Cassie's unanswered calls. Three times she tried to reach me during the meeting. Three times I chose the board over her, reinforcing exactly what she accused me of last night.

Before I can overthink it, I type a message:Meeting just ended. Can I see you tonight?

Her response comes more quickly than I expected, and more graciously than I deserve:My place. 8pm. Bring food—I haven't been able to keep much down today.

The mention of her feeling ill sends a different kind of concern through me. She's been pale lately, tired, turning down coffee and wine. My mind catalogs the symptoms clinically, but I push the conclusion away. That's a complication neither of us is ready to consider.

By the timeI arrive at Cassie's apartment that evening, I've spent hours preparing what to say—about the board meeting, about keeping her out of it, about the rumors already spreading through the industry. I've rehearsed explanations and apologies with the same meticulous attention I give to quarterly earnings calls.

All of which evaporates the moment she opens the door, looking pale and vulnerable in oversized sweats, her hair piled messily on top of her head.

"You look terrible," I say, then immediately regret my lack of filter.

She gives me a wan smile. "Always the charmer. Did you bring food?"

I lift the bag from her favorite Thai place, suddenly uncertain if spicy curry was the right choice given her nausea. "Is this okay? I can order something else if?—"

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