4. Roman
ROMAN
THE MAN BEHIND THE NUMBER
T he text arrived around eleven last night, while I was on a conference call with Hong Kong.
By the time I'd finished dealing with a shipping crisis threatening to derail our entire fall launch, I was too exhausted to check personal messages.
When I wake at 5 AM Tuesday morning, the unexpected waits for me. I notice that I have unread text messages on my phone, but they will have to wait until I get into the office.
When I finally settle in my office I stare at the text message that's lit up my phone, blinking twice to make sure I'm not hallucinating. The time stamp shows 11:14 PM, an unknown number, and... Jesus.
The photo makes me set down my coffee before I spill it.
Holy fucking hell.
It's cleavage, yes, but this isn't some amateur selfie taken in a dirty bathroom mirror.
The lighting is soft but deliberate, highlighting the slope and swell of breasts that look like they were sculpted by Michelangelo himself.
The emerald green fabric—silk, from the way it catches the light—is positioned to create the perfect window, not showing too much but suggesting everything.
The delicate gold chain of a necklace draws the eye downward, creating a path that leads to the shadow between her breasts.
My mouth goes dry, and I run a hand through my carefully styled hair.
The strong jaw photographers beg for, the dark eyes the last woman I casually dated swore could ruin a woman with one glance—Forbes called me "devastatingly handsome with the Midas touch," but right now, in my half-buttoned Tom Ford and a pulse I can't control, I feel less like a billionaire and more like a teenager who just saw his first perfect pair of tits.
I notice the attention to detail in the photo—the way her bra creates just enough lift to make the curve irresistible without being obvious. The shadow of her collarbone. The faintest glimpse of what might be a tattoo peeking out from beneath the neckline.
When's the last time a single photo affected me this fast?
Then I read the message with the image, and my morning gets significantly more interesting.
‘You know what, Camden? While you're out finding someone who 'pushes your boundaries,' I'll be busy getting bent over kitchen counters and coming so hard I forget my own name.
You want to know what 'predictable' looks like?
It's the way you're going to wish you were the one pinning me against bedroom walls and hearing me beg for more…’
I continue reading, my eyes scanning over increasingly explicit descriptions. The message ends with a promise that they've already deleted "Camden's" number.
Well, not quite deleted, apparently. Unless I've recently changed my name to Camden, which I most certainly have not.
I can't stop looking at the photo. It's not just the obvious—though the curve of her breasts in that dress is admittedly spectacular.
It's the confidence in the framing, the deliberate choice to show just enough while holding back everything else.
This is a woman who knows her power.
And she accidentally sent it to me.
I set my phone aside, but the image is burned into my retinas. I try to focus on the spreadsheet that requires my attention before the 9 AM board meeting, but my mind keeps circling back to that photo paired with those explicit words.
Who is this woman? And why the hell am I so invested in a misdirected text?
My phone buzzes again—this time with a message from Zara, my executive assistant:
Board members arriving. Meeting in 5.
I smooth my suit jacket, close the spreadsheet, and gather the materials for the meeting. But as I stand to leave my office, I find myself picking up my phone again, staring at that photo one more time.
Throughout the meeting, I'm only half present. Marcus from Operations is droning on about supply chain inefficiencies when I lean back in my chair, fingers steepled, noting the way everyone shifts slightly when I move.
I know the effect I have in a room—six foot-two of lean muscle in a perfectly tailored suit, the kind of presence that makes people straighten their spines before I even speak.
It's a power I've cultivated even before my first day as CEO, though the height and my jawline were gifts through genetics.
"Marcus," I interrupt, my voice carrying that particular edge that makes junior executives shake in their shoes. "Has it occurred to you that the Milan warehouse shortage isn't a supply chain issue but a management problem?"
The room goes quiet. Marcus's face reddens. "Well, Mr. Kade, I was getting to?—"
"You've been getting to it for fifteen minutes." I turn my attention to the CFO. "Elena, what's our exposure if we terminate our contract with Giorgio's operation?"
"Minimal, sir. We have three backup vendors already vetted."
I nod, making the decision that everyone else in this room has been dancing around for weeks. "Then we cut ties. Effective immediately." I fix Marcus with a look that's made fortune 500 executives sweat. "Next time, lead with solutions, not problems."
"Yes, sir. Of course."
They all nod, murmur agreements, and take notes like good little soldiers. It's the same dance we do every week—me cutting through their hesitation and bureaucracy with decisive action, them pretending they were just about to suggest the same thing.
But part of my mind keeps circling back to that text. To that photo. When was the last time anyone caught me this off guard?
People tell me what I want to hear. What they think will benefit them. Even my so-called friends measure their words carefully, aware of what my friendship might mean for their business interests or social standing.
But this woman—whoever she is—sent me her raw truth. Her anger. Her desire. Her body.
Completely by accident.
By the time we break for coffee, I've made a decision that is completely uncharacteristic of me. I'm going to respond.
Back in my office, I close the door—something I rarely do during business hours—and pick up my phone. I catch my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Manhattan. The perfectly styled dark hair, the strong jaw, the way my suit fits like it was made for my body—which it was.
I'm used to getting what I want. Women. Deals. Acquiescence from competitors. But this situation is different. I'm not the pursuer here; I'm the accidental recipient of something not meant for me.
I stare at the message again, considering my response. Then I type:
Wrong number, sweetheart. But whoever Camden is, he's clearly an idiot. Also—impressive fantasies. Do tell me more about these kitchen counters and the wall sex scenario. And thanks for the preview, by the way. That dress does incredible things for your tits.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, immediately questioning my own judgment. What am I doing? This is precisely the kind of impulsive behavior I've avoided while building my entire empire.
And yet, there's something oddly liberating about it.
A conversation with no agenda, no expectations, no careful calculation of how this interaction might benefit my business interests or social capital.
Just words.
Honest words, sent by a stranger who doesn't know who I am.
I set my phone down on my desk and try to focus on the initial stack of résumés for the Creative Director position at Lumière.
We need someone who can revitalize the brand without completely alienating the existing customer base.
Someone who understands the delicate balance between innovation and tradition.
My phone remains stubbornly silent. Of course. Why would this person respond? They've just poured out their anger and sexual fantasies to someone they thought was their ex, only to discover they sent it to a complete stranger. They're probably mortified.
I'm surprised by my own disappointment.
When my phone finally buzzes twenty minutes later, I reach for it with embarrassing eagerness.
Oh my god. Wrong number. I'm so sorry. Please delete and forget you ever received that.
I smile despite myself, and I know the effect of that smile—how it's melted resistance in boardrooms and bedrooms alike. So they're embarrassed, as expected. But they've responded, which means the conversation isn't over.
No need for apologies. Your Camden sounds like he deserved every word. And for what it's worth, I think a woman who texts like that needs someone who can actually deliver on those kitchen counter fantasies.
Send. Too forward?
Maybe.
But there's a strange freedom in this anonymous exchange that I find oddly addictive.
A longer pause this time before the response arrives:
Still mortified, but thanks for the affirmation. And for the record, yes, he absolutely deserved every word.
What's this feeling? Now I want to know more… Tell me what happened with Camden
I ask, genuinely curious.
I smile again, leaning back in my chair.
This is the most genuine interaction I've had in months, possibly years.
And with a complete stranger who has no idea they're texting with Roman Kade, CEO of the Elysian Group and, according to last month's Fortune profile, one of the most eligible bachelors in the city.
Bold of you to assume I want to detail my humiliation with a stranger.
The response is quick now, playful. Good. We're finding our rhythm.
Your secrets are safe with me, sweetheart.
As she tells me the story, I find myself getting more invested than I should. I’m grateful that no one can see how this conversation is affecting me.
He broke up with me at our two-year anniversary dinner. Called me 'comfortable' and 'predictable,' like I'm a worn-out sofa. Then I found out this morning he's been cheating for months.
I wince. That's... spectacularly awful. I've ended my share of relationships, but even I have better timing than that. I sit up straighter.