Page 8 of Sexting the Billionaire

She's right. It doesn't matter if Camden responds or not. The message wasn't really for him—it was for me. For the woman I've been suppressing to make him comfortable. For the creative, passionate person I used to be before I started making myself smaller.

As we settle in with the last of the wine and an action movie with improbable physics, a strange sense of liberation washes over me. I'd walked out of that restaurant feeling like Camden had taken something from me. Now, with my unfiltered thoughts sent out into the universe, I feel like I've taken something back.

But in the quiet moments between explosions and witty one-liners, that small voice returns. The old Cassie, the careful one, wonders if I've just made a terrible mistake. Have I gone too far? Was that really me writing those things?

The wine has turned my internal filter off completely, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this isn't exactly who I am either.

I'm not the woman who picks up strangers in bars or lets them touch me in dark corners. But maybe I'm also not the woman who needs to be quiet during sex or follow a schedule for intimacy.

Maybe I'm somewhere in between—bold enough to know what I want but still hoping to find someone who will appreciate all of me, not just the parts that are convenient or comfortable.

My phone, forgotten on Olivia's bookshelf, sits silently in the dark.

The message sent, not to Camden's number that I'd memorized but thought I'd forgotten, but to another number entirely—one digit off, one mistake away from changing everything.

3

CASSIE

THE LAST HUMILATION

Morning arrives like a sledgehammer to my skull. I crack one eye open and immediately regret it.

Sunlight streams through Olivia's non-existent curtains with aggressive intensity. My mouth tastes like wine-soaked gym socks, and my head pounds like a bass drum.

I'm still wearing last night's dress, now impressively wrinkled and sporting what appears to be a splash of red wine across the bodice. So much for half my paycheck.

"Morning, sunshine!" Olivia chirps, appearing with two coffee mugs and looking irritatingly fresh-faced. "How's the head?"

"Somewhere between 'hit by a truck' and 'please let me die quietly,'" I groan, accepting the coffee like it's a lifeline. "How are you so... functional?"

"Years of practice," she shrugs, perching on the armrest. "Plus, I stopped drinking when you started composing erotic literature to your ex."

Oh god. The text. Last night comes rushing back in humiliating technicolor.

"Please tell me I didn't send that," I whisper, though I already know the answer.

"You absolutely did," Olivia confirms cheerfully. "And it was magnificent."

I bury my face in my hands. "I need to check my phone."

Olivia retrieves it from the bookshelf where she'd stashed it last night. "No response, in case you're wondering. Probably shocked him into silence."

I scroll through my notifications—three missed calls from Mia, a "thinking of you" text from other friends, and nothing from Camden.

Then I remember with a jolt of mild relief that I'd probably gotten his number wrong anyway. The bourbon bottle we'd moved on to after the wine is currently taking its revenge on my ability to form coherent thoughts, but I vaguely recall squinting at my phone, uncertain about the digits.

"I think I messed up his number," I admit. "I was pretty gone by then."

"Probably for the best," Olivia says. "This way you get the catharsis without the awkward aftermath."

I nod, wincing as the movement sends pain ricocheting through my skull. "I need to go get some of my stuff today. Clothes, my laptop, work files. The essentials."

"Want me to come with? I can be your emotional support person slash bodyguard."

"Thanks, but I need to do this myself." I take a fortifying sip of coffee. "Besides, he'll be at work. In and out, ten minutes tops."

"Okay, but I'm on standby if needed. One SOS text and I'll be there with reinforcements and possibly a bat."

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