Page 19 of Sexting the Billionaire

The words echo in the room, and I realize too late how they might sound to a CEO who has overseen Lumière's current direction. But instead of offense, I see interest spark in those steel-blue eyes. The temperature in the room seems to rise by several degrees.

"Bold assessment," he says, leaning forward slightly. The movement brings him closer, and I catch the scent of his cologne—something expensive and woodsy with undertones of sandalwood. "Most candidates praise our current strategy."

"Most candidates tell you what they think you want to hear," I counter, my heart pounding but my voice steady. "I'm telling you what Lumière needs."

A charged silence follows, during which I wonder if I've just talked myself out of this job before I even had it. But then Roman Kade does something completely unexpected.

He smiles.

It's brief, just a flash of perfect teeth before his professional mask returns, but it transforms his face from intimidating to... well, still intimidating, but in a completely different way.

Dangerous in a way that makes heat coil in my stomach.

"Your answer was the most honest communication I've received in months. No agenda, no calculation, just raw truth. It's refreshing."

Wait. What?

The words hang in the air, and I feel all color drain from my face.

No. It can't be. The universe cannot possibly be that cruel or that ironic.

He continues the interview, asking pointed questions about my design philosophy, my approach to team management, my five-year vision for Lumière. I answer on autopilot, my mind racing between professional responses and absolute panic.

"One final question, Ms. Monroe," he says after what feels like hours. "Why should I hire you over candidates with more experience?"

I take a deep breath, pushing aside my personal crisis to focus on this moment. This opportunity.

"Because I see Lumière for what it could be, not just what it was or what it is now. And because I'm not afraid to fight for that vision, even if it means telling the CEO his brand has lost its way."

Roman Kade studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he stands, signaling the end of our interview.

"Thank you for your time, Ms. Monroe. HR will be in touch soon."

I stand on legs that feel surprisingly steady, considering the circumstances. "Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Kade."

He extends his hand, and I have no choice but to take it.

The moment our skin makes contact, electricity shoots through my entire body. His grip is firm, his hand warm and slightly rough—not the soft palm I expected from a man who probably hasn't done manual labor in decades.

His thumb brushes over my knuckles in what could be an accident but feels very intentional.

Heat floods my cheeks, my chest, pools low in my belly. I've never had such a visceral reaction to a simple handshake.

Our eyes meet, and this time I don't imagine the hunger I see there. It's raw, undisguised, and it makes me momentarily forget how to breathe.

"I look forward to hearing your decision," I manage, withdrawing my hand perhaps a bit too quickly.

"As do I," he replies, with what might be the ghost of a smile.

I leave his office in a daze, barely registering Melissa's cheerful chatter as she escorts me back to the elevator. My mind is too busy spinning elaborate conspiracy theories, each more ridiculous than the last.

It cannot be him. The odds are astronomical. And even if by some cosmic joke it is him, he clearly doesn't recognize me from a random text conversation with no names attached.

Right?

I'm overthinking this. Stress and post-breakup paranoia combining into delusion. Next, I'll be suspecting Camden of orchestrating this whole situation just to mess with me.

As the elevator descends, I force myself to focus on the positive. I just interviewed for my dream job. I held my own with Roman Kade himself. I was honest, confident, and unapologetically myself.

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