Page 116 of Sexting the Billionaire

For a moment, Sterling is quiet. But not because he’s changed.

He just doesn’t know how to argue with conviction.

“Congratulations,” he says flatly. “I hope it works out better for you than it did for me.”

I don’t say thank you.

I just leave.

And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I owe him anything.

The car slowsas we approach the address, and I spot Cassie and Olivia already waiting on the sidewalk.

Cassie at ten weeks is just beginning to show, her silhouette subtly altered in a way that catches my breath every time I notice. She's radiant today in a simple dress that skims her curves, hair pulled back in a casual knot, face animated as she listens to whatever outrageous thing Olivia is saying.

It immediately takes my mind off the tense meeting with my dad. After that visit I am more grateful then ever to have Cassie in my life.

I take a moment to simply watch her, to appreciate what I've been given against all probability. Then I step from the car into the warm afternoon light.

"There he is," Olivia announces, gesturing dramatically. "The man, the myth, the real estate skeptic."

"Olivia," I nod in greeting, managing not to roll my eyes. Her irreverence was jarring at first, but I've come to appreciate how she cuts through pretense—even mine. "I assume you've already toured the place?"

"Just the outside," Cassie says, reaching for my hand. "Liv insisted we wait for you before going in. Something about 'first impression energy.'"

"The way you first experience a space together matters," Olivia insists. "It sets the foundation for your life there. And speaking of foundations..." She gestures toward the brownstone with a flourish. "This one's rock solid. 1890s construction, completely updated systems, but with all the original architectural details preserved."

I study the facade—classic proportions, elegant stonework, large windows that would provide excellent natural light. "It has potential," I concede.

Olivia beams as if I've declared it architectural perfection. "Just wait until you see inside. The current owners are collectors of Asian antiques, so the decor isn't your style, but look past that to the bones of the place."

The real estate agent greets us at the door, her professional smile widening when she recognizes me. I'm used to the reaction—the subtle shift in attention, the extra deference—but it still prickles uncomfortably.

"Mr. Kade, Ms. Monroe, such a pleasure," she says, ushering us inside. "Ms. Ortiz mentioned you're looking for a family home. I think you'll find this property offers the perfect blend of classic character and modern convenience."

The entrance hall opens to a spacious living area with soaring ceilings, original moldings, and a fireplace that immediately captures Cassie's attention.

"Look at that mantelpiece," she breathes, crossing to run her fingers along the carved marble. "You could put candles here for the holidays. And stockings."

The casual mention of future traditions—our traditions—creates a warm pressure in my chest. I find myself imagining Christmas mornings here, our child growing up with seasonal markers that become cherished memories.

"The kitchen was completely renovated two years ago," the agent continues, leading us through the space. "Viking appliances, marble countertops, but they preserved the original butler's pantry."

I note the quality of the renovation—high-end fixtures, thoughtful layout, excellent craftsmanship. It meets my standards for functionality while incorporating the character Cassie craves.

"Tell them about the garden," Olivia prompts, practically bouncing with excitement.

The agent smiles. "Yes, the property includes a private garden—quite rare for Manhattan. It's a blank slate right now, but the possibilities are endless."

She leads us through French doors to a surprisingly spacious outdoor area, walled for privacy and dappled with afternoon sunlight filtering through mature trees.

Cassie gasps softly beside me. "Roman, look—there's room for a swing set. And a sandbox. And maybe a little vegetable garden?"

I can see it too—our child taking first steps on the soft grass, weekend afternoons spent outdoors, family dinners at a table under the trees. The vision is so vivid it almost feels like a memory.

"The asking price is at the upper end of your budget," the agent says delicately as we move back inside. "But the owners are motivated. They've already relocated to the West Coast."

"We'll need to see the upstairs," I reply, unwilling to reveal my growing interest.

---