Page 22 of Sexting the Billionaire

Roman Kade certainly doesn't wonder what a potential employee would look like as he takes her against the wall.

I open the door with practiced authority, and there she is.

Cassandra Monroe.

She stands as I enter, professional and poised in a sleek pencil skirt and silk blouse. Her dark hair falls in soft waves past her shoulders, and even from across the room, I can see those expressive eyes—not the brown I had imagined, but a deep green with hints of amber.

Even better than I'd pictured.

"Ms. Monroe. Apologies for keeping you waiting."

I watch her face carefully as I speak, looking for any flicker of recognition at the sound of my voice.

And there it is—a momentary widening of those eyes, a slight paling of her complexion. Gone so quickly anyone else would miss it, but I've made a career of reading people's micro-expressions across negotiating tables.

She knows.

Or at least, she suspects.

The game is on.

"Your portfolio is impressive," I continue, as if I haven't noticed her momentary panic. "Particularly your vision for repositioning Lumière while maintaining its core aesthetic."

"Thank you," she says, and I'm impressed by how steady her voice remains despite the storm I can see brewing behind her eyes. "I believe Lumière needs to evolve without losing what made it special in the first place."

I study her with deliberate intensity, partly because it's my usual interview technique and partly because I'm genuinely fascinated by how she'll handle this situation. Most people wilt under direct scrutiny.

Cassandra Monroe straightens her spine and meets my gaze head-on.

She's stunning—not in the conventional, glossy way of the women I usually date, but in a way that makes it impossible to look away. There's intelligence in her eyes, determination in the set of her jaw. And when she licks her lips nervously, I find myself tracking the movement with embarrassing focus.

"Tell me about your previous experience as a Creative Director." The question most likely to trip her up.

She doesn't hesitate. "I haven't held that title officially," she admits. "But I've been doing the work for years. At my previous position, I led the rebranding of three major client campaigns without the title or compensation to match."

No embellishment.

No desperate overselling.

Just honest recognition of her experience and value. Something shifts in my chest—respect, certainly, but also a more dangerous emotion I refuse to name.

"Why weren't you given proper recognition for your contributions?" I ask, genuinely curious now.

Again, she surprises me. Instead of a diplomatic non-answer, she gives me raw truth.

"Because I didn't demand it," she says simply. "I let others take credit because I was afraid of being seen as difficult or ambitious. That's not a mistake I'll make again."

And just like that, the mystery texter and the job candidate merge completely in my mind. The woman who talked about making herself smaller to fit into someone else's life. The woman who is now refusing to diminish herself any longer.

I find myself straightening in my chair, responding to her newfound confidence with what feels disturbingly like admiration.

"And what would you do differently at Elysian?" I keep my voice neutral.

"I would bring authenticity back to Lumière," she says without hesitation. "The brand has lost its soul trying to chase trends instead of setting them. I would create designs that speak to who our customers really are, not who they pretend to be."

Her words hang in the air, bold and borderline insulting to the company's current strategy—my strategy. Yet instead of annoyance, I feel something close to exhilaration.

When was the last time anyone spoke to me with such unvarnished honesty? When was the last time anyone risked my disapproval to tell a truth I needed to hear?

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