Page 93 of Sexting the Billionaire

"It's perfect," she says, stepping back to let me in. "I'm starving. Which is a nice change from this morning."

Her apartment is in creative chaos—sketches and fabric swatches covering every surface, mood boards leaning against walls, half-empty mugs of tea stationed strategically throughout the space. It's the physical manifestation of her mind, beautiful in its orderly disorder.

I set the food on the kitchen counter, watching as she moves around the space with a familiarity that makes something twist in my chest. Despite spending many nights here over the past weeks, I'm still a visitor. She belongs here in a way I never will—surrounded by color and texture and creativity, all the mess and joy of real living that's absent from my pristine penthouse.

"About last night," I begin, unable to wait any longer. "I handled it badly."

She pauses in the act of opening containers, glancing up at me with surprise. "No defensive posturing? No corporate justifications? Who are you, and what have you done with Roman Kade?"

"I'm trying to apologize," I say, finding it harder than expected. "I should have included you in the meeting. It was your design being discussed."

"Yes, you should have." She hands me a plate, her expression softening slightly. "But I understand why you didn't. The board would have scrutinized every interaction between us, looking for signs of favoritism or bias."

"That doesn't make it right." I follow her to the couch, careful not to displace any of her design materials. "I was trying to protect both of us, but I ended up undermining you professionally. It won't happen again."

She studies me for a long moment, then nods, accepting my apology without making me grovel. Another thing I love about her—she doesn't use vulnerability as a weapon.

"So what happened? With Grant's patent claim?"

As we eat, I explain the board meeting, the evidence of a security breach, the strategy moving forward. She listens intently, asking sharp questions that reveal her deep understanding of both the creative and business implications.

"It's a delaying tactic," she concludes. "He doesn't actually think he'll win the patent dispute. He just wants to disrupt our launch timeline and make us look vulnerable to investors."

"Exactly." I'm not surprised by her insight, but her calm analysis is impressive, nonetheless. "But there's something else. Something personal."

"Between you and Grant? Obviously." She sets her barely-touched food aside. "I've seen how he looks at you. Like he's calculating exactly where to plant the knife."

I hesitate, unsure how much of my history with Grant I'm ready to share. It's ancient history, or should be. Water under a very old, very burned bridge.

"We have a complicated past," I say finally. "He was my mentor when I first entered the industry."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Seriously? I can't imagine you as anyone's protégé."

"I wasn't always Roman Kade, CEO," I remind her with a wry smile. "I started as a junior brand manager at his first company. He recognized something in me, took me under his wing."

"What happened?" she asks, curling her legs beneath her on the couch.

"The usual. Student surpassed the teacher. I had ideas he didn't agree with. We parted ways." The sanitized version, carefully edited to remove the most painful parts.

But Cassie, as always, sees right through me. "And the real story? The one that explains why he looks at you like he'd enjoy watching you bleed?"

I set my own plate aside, no longer hungry. "There was a woman. Catherine. She was... important to me."

"Your ex," Cassie says, not a question. "The one who left you for Grant."

I look up sharply. "How did you know that?"

"Industry gossip. Olivia has sources everywhere." She reaches for my hand, her touch unexpectedly gentle. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

But I find that I do want to. For the first time, I want someone to know this story—not the polished corporate version, but the messy, humiliating truth.

"She was my fiancée. We met at business school, built our early careers together. She was brilliant—creative, ambitious, fearless. When I was hired at Grant Industries, Grant took an interest in both of us. He mentored me directly, but saw her potential too—kept tabs on her work even though she was with a different firm."

Cassie’s hand tightens around mine, anchoring me as the memories surface.

"I was working eighty-hour weeks, trying to prove myself. Catherine and Grant started collaborating on a special project.I didn't see what was happening until too late." Bitterness curls around the edges of my voice.

I try to temper it. “One day she was wearing my ring, the next she was handing in her resignation—leaving her firm—and moving to Grant industries with her brilliant new concept.”

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