Page 91 of Sexting the Billionaire

"That's impossible," I say, my voice controlled despite the anger simmering beneath the surface.

"Our design team began work on the interlocking hardware system last year even before we changed Creative Directors. There are dated prototypes, design notes, meeting minutes."

"Which we've submitted to the patent office," Jenkins confirms. "But Grant's documentation appears... comprehensive."

Comprehensive. A diplomatic way of saying they've created an elaborate fiction designed specifically to damage us. To damage me.

"This is industrial sabotage," I state flatly. "Maxwell Grant has a history of targeting our intellectual property. He's exploiting the patent system to delay our product launch and create market uncertainty."

A murmur runs around the table. I've said what most of them are thinking but wouldn't dare voice aloud. Grant's antagonism toward Elysian—toward me specifically—is well known but rarely directly acknowledged.

"What you're suggesting is serious, Roman," Charles Whitaker, our longest-serving board member, says carefully. "Do we have evidence beyond speculation?"

"Fifteen years of pattern recognition isn't speculation," I reply, unable to keep the edge from my voice entirely. "But you're right—we need concrete evidence."

I pull up the images Zara prepared, displaying them on the screen behind me. Side-by-side comparisons of our design versus Grant's claimed patent.

"Look at the precision of these similarities," I say, using the laser pointer to highlight specific elements. "Not just the general concept, which could be coincidence, but the exact dimensions, the specific angle of the clasp mechanism, the proprietary alloy we developed."

"Which means?" another board member prompts.

"Which means they had access to our internal documents." I let the implication hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "We have a security breach."

The tension in the room shifts palpably, from concern about a competitive maneuver to the more immediate threat of internal betrayal.

"Do we have suspects?" Whitaker asks.

I hesitate, remembering Cassie's angry face last night when I excluded her from this meeting. The hurt in her eyes when I refused to let her defend her team’s design. The guilt that's been gnawing at me ever since has nothing to do with the board's concerns and everything to do with the growing realization that I handled it badly.

"It's too early to speculate," I say finally. "I've authorized a comprehensive security audit of our systems and design department."

The board doesn't need to know that I've already narrowed the list of possible leaks to three people, none of whom include Cassie Monroe. Not because I'm sleeping with her, but because I know her integrity. Because I trust her.

Trust. A foreign concept in my professional vocabulary until recently.

"And Ms. Monroe?" Jenkins asks, as if reading my thoughts. "As Creative Director, she should be involved in the investigation."

"Ms. Monroe was notified of the situation last night," I say, the memory of our argument flashing through my mind. "She'll be fully briefed on our strategy once we determine the appropriate response."

It's the corporate version of the truth, sanitized and strategically incomplete. What I don't say is that I'd deliberately kept her out of this meeting to protect her—a decision made with good intentions that backfired spectacularly.

"I suggest we proceed with our launch as planned," I continue, steering the conversation back to business. "File a counter-claim, issue a statement refuting Grant's allegations, and demonstrate confidence in our legal position."

For the next hour, we discuss strategy, contingencies, and damage control. By the time we adjourn, I've convinced the board to maintain our scheduled timeline while our legal teamprepares for battle. It's a victory, but a hollow one. Maxwell Grant has achieved exactly what he wanted—creating chaos, consuming our resources, and living rent-free in my head.

As the board members filter out, Whitaker lingers behind, closing the door to ensure privacy.

"This feels personal, Roman," he says, his tone shifting from board member to the mentor he once was. "More than the usual competitive hostility."

"It is personal," I admit, something I'd never say to the others. "It always has been with Grant."

Whitaker sighs, settling back into his chair. "You never did tell me what happened between you two. One minute he was grooming you as his protégé, the next you were sworn enemies."

The memory surfaces unwillingly—late nights in Grant's office, learning the intricacies of luxury brand management from a man I'd once admired. Before I understood the price of his mentorship.

"We had different values," I say, the understatement of the century. "Different approaches to business."

"And to Catherine," Whitaker adds, more perception in his aging eyes than I'd like.

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