Page 13 of Sexting the Billionaire

Completely by accident.

By the time we break for coffee, I've made a decision that is completely uncharacteristic of me. I'm going to respond.

Back in my office, I close the door—something I rarely do during business hours—and pick up my phone. I catch my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Manhattan. The perfectly styled dark hair, the strong jaw, the way my suit fits like it was made for my body—which it was.

I'm used to getting what I want. Women. Deals. Acquiescence from competitors. But this situation is different. I'm not the pursuer here; I'm the accidental recipient of something not meant for me.

I stare at the message again, considering my response. Then I type:

Wrong number, sweetheart. But whoever Camden is, he's clearly an idiot. Also—impressive fantasies. Do tell me more about these kitchen counters and the wall sex scenario. And thanks for the preview, by the way. That dress does incredible things for your tits.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself, immediately questioning my own judgment. What am I doing? This is precisely the kind of impulsive behavior I've avoided while building my entire empire.

And yet, there's something oddly liberating about it.

A conversation with no agenda, no expectations, no careful calculation of how this interaction might benefit my business interests or social capital.

Just words.

Honest words, sent by a stranger who doesn't know who I am.

I set my phone down on my desk and try to focus on the initial stack of résumés for the Creative Director position at Lumière. We need someone who can revitalize the brand without completely alienating the existing customer base. Someone who understands the delicate balance between innovation and tradition.

My phone remains stubbornly silent. Of course. Why would this person respond? They've just poured out their anger and sexual fantasies to someone they thought was their ex, only to discover they sent it to a complete stranger. They're probably mortified.

I'm surprised by my own disappointment.

When my phone finally buzzes twenty minutes later, I reach for it with embarrassing eagerness.

Oh my god. Wrong number. I'm so sorry. Please delete and forget you ever received that.

I smile despite myself, and I know the effect of that smile—how it's melted resistance in boardrooms and bedrooms alike. So they're embarrassed, as expected. But they've responded, which means the conversation isn't over.

No need for apologies. Your Camden sounds like he deserved every word. And for what it's worth, I think a woman who texts like that needs someone who can actually deliver on those kitchen counter fantasies.

Send. Too forward?

Maybe.

But there's a strange freedom in this anonymous exchange that I find oddly addictive.

A longer pause this time before the response arrives:

Still mortified, but thanks for the affirmation. And for the record, yes, he absolutely deserved every word.

What's this feeling? Now I want to know more… Tell me what happened with Camden

I ask, genuinely curious.

I smile again, leaning back in my chair. This is the most genuine interaction I've had in months, possibly years. And with a complete stranger who has no idea they're texting with Roman Kade, CEO of the Elysian Group and, according to last month'sFortuneprofile, one of the most eligible bachelors in the city.

Bold of you to assume I want to detail my humiliation with a stranger.

The response is quick now, playful. Good. We're finding our rhythm.

Your secrets are safe with me, sweetheart.

As she tells me the story, I find myself getting more invested than I should. I’m grateful that no one can see how this conversation is affecting me.

---