4. Roman #2
Comfortable and predictable? That's the best critique he could come up with? Amateur hour. Anyone with half a brain knows those are code for “I'm too insecure to handle a woman with actual depth and complexity.” Are you ok?
Honestly? No. But I'm more angry than sad now.
Good. Channel that anger. Use it. Men like Camden mistake their own mediocrity for your inadequacy. It's their favorite magic trick.
Exactly! I spent two years making myself smaller to fit into his perfect life. No more.
The marketing team is ready for you," Zara says after a quick knock on my office door she pokes her head in. I notice she is eyeing me with barely concealed curiosity. "And Max Dover has called twice about the Maxwell Grant situation."
"Tell Dover I'll call him back this afternoon," I say, standing and straightening my jacket. "And have the final candidate picks I selected to interview for the Lumière Creative Director position sent to my office for further review tonight."
"Already done," Zara replies, efficiency personified as always.
"Perfect." I follow her out, leaving my phone on my desk. Whatever this strange text exchange is, it will have to wait.
Throughout the marketing meeting, I find my thoughts drifting back to the unknown texter. There was something refreshing about her anger, her refusal to be diminished any longer. It's the kind of authentic reaction I rarely encounter in my carefully curated world.
When I finally return to my office three hours later, I have twenty new emails, fourteen meeting requests, and three texts from my sister about our niece's upcoming birthday. But it's the message from the unknown number that I check first:
I should probably stop bothering you with my relationship drama. You're being surprisingly supportive about this whole thing, but I'm sure you have better things to do than counsel a stranger through a breakup.
For some reason, the thought of ending this peculiar exchange leaves me oddly disappointed. Before I can analyze why, I type:
Actually, counseling strangers through breakups is my preferred alternative to reviewing quarterly projections. Besides, I'm invested now. I need to know if you steal Camden's pretentious coffee mug or set his designer socks on fire.
The response is immediate:
Tempting options. But I'm going with taking the high road. Mostly because arson is a felony and his socks probably cost more than a week’s worth of groceries.
I laugh out loud, startling myself with the sound. When was the last time I genuinely laughed during a workday?
The high road is vastly underrated, I reply. Though I maintain that the coffee mug is fair game.
There's a pause before the next message arrives:
Can I ask you something? Why are you still talking to me? Most people would have blocked my number after that first text.
It's a fair question, and one I've been asking myself for the past few hours. Why am I continuing this conversation? What is it about this stranger that has captured my attention?
Because you're the first genuine thing that's happened in my day I type, then delete it immediately. Too revealing.
Because you seem to have excellent taste in revenge fantasies I try instead but delete that too.
Finally, I settle on something closer to the truth:
Your text was the most honest communication I've received in months. No agenda, no calculation, just raw truth. It's refreshing.
I hesitate before hitting send. It reveals more than I intended, but something about this anonymous exchange makes me willing to be more forthright than usual.
The response takes longer this time, as if they're also weighing their words carefully:
Well, in that case... Camden only ever wanted the 'presentable' version of me. The one who would look good at firm dinners and never draw undue attention. But there's a whole other side he never saw. Or never wanted to see.
I find myself surprisingly eager to know more about this person, this stranger who accidentally texted me their most unfiltered thoughts.
Some men need instruction manuals. Others just know how to read a woman's body like it's the only language that matters. You don't need closure, sweetheart. You need someone to ruin you for every other man.
I type it without thinking, then stare at my screen in mild horror, slightly shocked at my boldness.
Where did that come from? This isn't how Roman Kade communicates, and it most certainly isn't how the CEO of a luxury brand conglomerate talks.
This is something else entirely—a side of myself I rarely acknowledge, let alone express.
Though if I'm being honest, it's exactly how I'd speak if we were face to face. If I could use the full arsenal—the voice that's been compared to aged whiskey, the eyes that women have described as "dangerous," the way I move into someone's space until they can feel the heat coming off my body.
The three dots appear, disappear, appear again as they compose their response. I find myself holding my breath.
Who are you?
Three words, but they hit like a physical force. Who am I? In this moment, I'm not Roman Kade, business magnate and fashion industry CEO. I'm just a man having the most interesting conversation in recent memory with someone who has no preconceptions about me.
Someone who appreciates honesty. And wall sex
I respond, unable to resist adding that last bit.
I think about the photograph again—the confidence in that angle, the way the dress was positioned to show her best features. That doesn't look like someone who's spent years making herself smaller.
That looks like someone reclaiming her power.
Camden sounds like a man who can't handle all of you. And based on that photo, he's missing out on quite a lot.
Stop bringing up the photo! I'm dying of embarrassment.
Don't be. It's beautiful. You're clearly beautiful. And any man who makes you feel small around beauty like that is a fucking amateur.
Three dots. Four. Five. Then:
Can I tell you something? Since you're apparently my accidental confidant today?
Lay it on me, sweetheart.
The endearment has been slipping out without conscious thought. Something about this conversation feels intimate already, despite not knowing her name or face. Though I've seen enough to know Camden is a goddamn idiot.
I've never actually done half the things I just described in that text. That was wine and rage talking.
Something shifts in my chest. She's being vulnerable now, trusting me with the truth behind her bravado.
The best ideas sometimes are. But now I'm curious—what would sober, unfiltered you want?
I want someone who makes me feel desired, not tolerated. Someone who doesn't need instructions or schedules. Someone who has the confidence and just... knows.
Someone who pins you against walls because they can't wait one more second to taste you?
YES. Jesus. Yes.
The speed of her response sends heat through me. I'm in dangerous territory now, but I can't seem to stop myself.
Someone who looks at you the way I'm looking at your photo right now—like you're something worth savoring?
Oh god. How are you doing this to me?
Doing what, sweetheart?
Making me feel things through text messages. This is insane.
She's right. It is insane. I'm sitting in my corner office overlooking Manhattan, having the most explicit conversation of my professional life with a complete stranger whose cleavage I can't stop staring at.
Tell me what else you've been denied. What else has this Camden idiot failed at?
Everything. No morning sex because he'd already brushed his teeth. No shower sex because of water conservation. No sounds above a whisper because of the neighbors.
He had you on a quota system? That's not a relationship, that's a timeshare agreement.
Exactly! And he'd finish in precisely four minutes then act like he'd given me the moon.
Four minutes? Christ. I’d spend longer than that just appreciating the way your body would respond before I even thought about coming.
I hit send, then stare at what I just wrote. "Your body." Not "a woman's body." I made it personal. I'm imagining her specifically, spread out beneath me, that emerald dress hiked up...
Oh.
Oh?
Just... processing the image of someone who actually takes their time.
Time is everything, sweetheart. Time to explore what makes you moan. Time to discover which spots make you forget your own name. Time to build you up slowly until you're begging me not to stop.
I'm fully hard now, sitting at my desk in the middle of the afternoon, fantasizing about a woman I've never met based on one photograph and a series of increasingly explicit texts.
This is insane. This could be anyone. This could be a catfish, some elaborate joke, a scam. I don't care. Right now, all I care about is her next response.
I need a minute.
Trying hard to deny my words make you wet but it's not working?
Oh my god. You're terrible.
I'm just getting started. Take all the time you need. I'll be here, looking at your photo and thinking about all the ways I could make good on those kitchen counter promises.
Three dots again. Then:
I should go. This is... a lot. But thank you for being unexpectedly accommodating to a stranger who accidentally sexted you.
I smile at the screen, oddly reluctant to let this conversation end.
The accidental sexting was my pleasure. Good luck with everything... including finding someone who knows exactly what to do against a wall.
After a moment's hesitation, I add:
And for what it's worth, anyone who makes you feel you need to be smaller isn't worth your time. The right person will want all of you—especially the parts that don't fit neatly into their life.
I set my phone down and turn back to my laptop, aware that I've said too much, revealed too much of myself to this unknown person. This strange interlude is over, and it's time to return to being the man whose name represents excellence and exclusivity in the fashion world.
But as I scroll through the résumés for the Creative Director position, I find myself wondering about the person behind those texts. Who is she? What does she do professionally? What parts of herself did she diminish to please this Camden idiot?
And why do I care so much?
When my phone buzzes again an hour later, I'm embarrassed by how quickly I reach for it. It's not the unknown texter, though—just my sister confirming dinner plans for the weekend.
I set the phone aside, telling myself I'm not disappointed. This was a brief, strange connection—the kind of random interaction that flares bright and fades quickly. Nothing more.
I don't expect to hear from her again. But for the first time in longer than I can remember, I hope that I do.
Because Roman Kade is used to getting what he wants.
And right now, I very much want to continue this conversation.