Page 68 of Sexting the Billionaire

Whatever I decide, one thing is crystal clear: Maxwell Grant was right about one thing. This isn't just about my talent or my career. It's about connections—to Roman, to Mia, to my own sense of who I am and what I stand for.

The question is whether those connections make me stronger or whether they're just expensive, invisible chains.

15

ROMAN

There are exactly seventeen ways to fold a pocket square. I know because I've tried them all tonight, repeatedly, like a deranged origami enthusiast with a silk problem.

It's nearly midnight, and I'm standing in front of my closet mirror fussing with accessories like they hold the secrets of the universe.

Or at least the secret to not thinking about Cassie having breakfast with Maxwell Grant.

I toss the mangled silk onto my dresser, giving up the pretense that I'm getting ready for bed.

Sleep isn't happening. Not when my brain is running scenarios like it's a supercomputer with a processing addiction.

Best case: Cassie saw through Grant's manipulation and politely declined whatever outrageous offer he made.

Worst case: She's already drafting her resignation letter on Grant Industries letterhead.

Most likely case: Something in between that I can't predict because I don't actually know what happened, since I've been resisting the urge to text her all day like a teenager with impulse control issues.

"This is ridiculous," I announce to my empty penthouse. My voice bounces off the minimalist furniture like it's mocking me.

I'm Roman fucking Kade. I don't pace around my bedroom at midnight waiting for a woman to call. I make decisions. I take action. I control situations.

But that's precisely the problem, isn't it? This need to control everything is exactly what pushed Cassie to cancel our plans last night after I tried to manage her interaction with Grant.

I head to the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator door with more force than necessary. The bright light illuminates absolutely nothing I want to eat. I close it and open it again thirty seconds later, as if the contents might have magically transformed into something more appealing.

This is what I've been reduced to. Surveying refrigerator contents and folding pocket squares at midnight.

My phone sits on the counter, silent and judgmental.

I could text her. A casual check-in.

Professional curiosity about the meeting.

But I know myself too well. There would be nothing casual or professional about it. I'd be fishing for reassurance, for confirmation that she's not leaving—leaving Elysian or leaving me. And I promised to give her space.

Instead, I grab my laptop and head to my home office. If I can't sleep, I might as well work. At least that's familiar territory where I know exactly what I'm doing.

I pull up the Lumière financials, forcing myself to focus on quarterly projections rather than imagining Cassie across a breakfast table from Grant. The numbers blur together after fifteen minutes of staring at them, my mind drifting back to the same essential question: what did he offer her?

Whatever it was, it would be calculated to appeal to exactly what she wants. Grant's always been skilled at identifying people's deepest desires and exploiting them. It's what makeshim such a dangerous competitor—and why I need to come up with a counter-offer that doesn't make me look like I'm trying to buy her loyalty.

I open a new document and begin typing, ideas flowing more easily than expected. Not a desperate attempt to keep her at Elysian, but a genuine business proposal giving her the creative freedom she deserves while maintaining her connection to the company.

An independent brand division. Her own line under the Elysian umbrella, but with complete creative autonomy. A separate studio space away from corporate headquarters. Her name on the label. The financial backing of Elysian with none of the bureaucratic constraints.

The more I develop the concept, the more right it feels. Not just as a strategy to counter Grant, but as the perfect vehicle for Cassie's talent. I've seen how she comes alive when describing her vision for Lumière—imagine what she could do with a brand that was entirely her own creation.

Three hours later, I have a fully developed business proposal that's exciting. The kind of opportunity I would have killed for when starting out.

Will she see this as a genuine opportunity? Or will it look like I'm trying to manipulate her into staying, using business as leverage the way Grant undoubtedly tried to do?

My phone buzzes, startling me out of my thoughts. For a half second, my heart leaps thinking it might be Cassie, but it's Zara. At 3:17 AM. Which means either there's an emergency or she's developed even more concerning work habits than mine.

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