5. Cassie
CASSIE
T here's a special kind of irony in interviewing for your dream job three days after your life implodes. Like showing up to a fashion show in designer heels while your apartment burns. "Everything's fine! Pay no attention to the smoke!"
"You're fidgeting." Olivia slaps my hand away from my collar. "Stop it. You look amazing."
We're standing outside the towering glass edifice that houses Elysian, the luxury brand conglomerate that owns everything from high-end watches to fashion labels I can't afford to window-shop.
Including Lumière, the once-iconic brand that's in desperate need of revitalization. The brand that's looking for a new Creative Director.
The brand that, according to the listing I found three bottles of wine into our post-Camden pity party, wants someone with "fresh perspective" and "innovative vision."
"This is insane." I smooth down my skirt for the fifth time. "I'm not qualified for this. I've never been a Creative Director before."
"But you should be," Olivia says firmly. "Your portfolio is incredible. Your concepts are exactly what they're looking for. And most importantly," she grabs my shoulders, forcing me to meet her eyes, "you're no longer dimming your light to make some mediocre man feel bright."
She's right. My application portfolio contains designs I never showed Camden. Ideas he would have called "too much" or "trying too hard." The real me, professionally speaking.
"Besides," Olivia continues, "the worst they can say is no. Then you're exactly where you are right now, except with free fancy water from their reception area. Win-win."
I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. "Wish me luck."
"You don't need luck. You need confidence." She gives me a gentle shove toward the revolving door. "Text me when you're done. I want every detail about the fancy water."
The Elysian lobby is designed to intimidate. Soaring ceilings, stark white marble, and a reception desk that looks carved from a single block of ice.The receptionist, similarly elegant and intimidating, directs me to the 34th floor with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
I repeat my new mantra silently as the elevator ascends: I am creative. I am talented. I am no longer making myself smaller.
The HR representative who greets me, Melissa, is unexpectedly warm.
"Cassie Monroe! Great to meet you in person. Your portfolio really stood out."
I blink in surprise. "It did?"
"Absolutely. The Lumière brand needs someone who understands both its heritage and where it needs to go next. Your concepts showed that balance."
She leads me through a sleek corridor.
"The interview process has three stages: first with me, then with the design team, and finally with Mr. Kade himself if you make it that far."
My heart skips. Roman Kade, the notoriously exacting CEO, rarely involves himself in hiring below the executive level. His participation signals how important this position is.
No pressure or anything.
"Mr. Kade is very particular about the creative vision across all our brands," Melissa explains as we enter a minimalist conference room. "Especially Lumière, which was one of his first acquisitions."
The first two parts of the interview go surprisingly well. I speak with passion about my vision for Lumière—maintaining its elegant simplicity while introducing more contemporary elements. I emphasize authenticity and connection over mere brand recognition.
Words flow from me with unexpected ease, as if I've suddenly been granted permission to speak my mind after years of careful self-censorship. Maybe Camden breaking up with me was an accidental gift—freedom from the constant low-grade anxiety of being "too much."
After nearly two hours of questions, concept discussions, and impromptu design challenges, Melissa returns with a startled expression.
"This is unexpected." She sounds awed. "Mr. Kade would like to meet you. Now."
My stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles. "Now? I thought that was only if?—"
"If you made it to the final round, yes," she finishes, clearly impressed. "Apparently you have. Follow me."
We ascend to the 40th floor, where the atmosphere shifts from merely elegant to rarefied. Everything is either glass or the kind of wood that probably has its own insurance policy.
"Wait here," Melissa instructs, leaving me in yet another intimidating conference room. "He'll be with you shortly."
Shortly turns out to be twenty minutes—twenty minutes in which I go from nervous to anxious to slightly annoyed back to nervous again. I'm rehearsing answers to potential questions when the door finally opens.
And the world stops.
Roman Kade strides in like he owns the place. Which he does.
God, he's beautiful.
Six-foot-two of lean muscle wrapped in a designer suit that likely costs more than my car.
His dark hair has just enough wave to look effortlessly perfect rather than over-styled.
Olive skin that suggests Mediterranean ancestry somewhere in his bloodline.
Steel-blue eyes that seem to miss absolutely nothing as they sweep the room before landing on me.
His features are sharp—defined cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, a nose that's just shy of aquiline. He moves with the kind of fluid confidence that comes from knowing you're the most influential person in any room you enter.
"Ms. Monroe. Apologies for keeping you waiting."
Deep. Smooth. Slightly raspy around the edges.
Exactly like the voicemail greeting I heard when I tried to figure out whose number I'd accidentally texted.
No. No, no, no.
His voice wraps around my name like silk, and I feel something low in my belly tighten in response. Is this the same man who said those things in our text exchange? The same person who called me "sweetheart"?
There must be thousands of men with voices like that in this city. Millions, even. The chances of Roman Kade, billionaire CEO, being the random person I drunk-texted about wall sex are astronomically low. Cosmic-lottery low.
And yet.
"Your portfolio is impressive," he continues, seemingly unaware that I'm having an internal meltdown. His eyes lock onto mine, and there's something there—a heat, an intensity that feels like more than professional interest.
"Particularly your vision for repositioning Lumière while maintaining its core aesthetic."
I force myself to respond, to sound professional despite the screaming in my head.
"Thank you. I believe Lumière needs to evolve without losing what made it special in the first place."
He studies me with unnerving intensity, those steel-blue eyes missing nothing. They linger for just a moment too long on my lips before returning to meet my gaze.
"Tell me about your previous experience as a Creative Director." His tone gives nothing away.
Here it is—the question I've been dreading. The one that could end this interview instantly.
"I haven't held that title officially." I choose honesty over embellishment. "But I've been doing the work for years. At my previous position, I led the rebranding of three major client campaigns without the title or compensation to match."
I see something flicker in his expression—approval? Surprise? His eyes seem to darken slightly, and I wonder if I'm imagining the way his gaze drops to my throat for just a second.
"Why weren't you given proper recognition for your contributions?" he asks, his tone giving nothing away.
I consider a diplomatic answer, the kind Camden would have approved of. Something about being a team player, about valuing the work over the title.
But Camden isn't here. And dimming myself got me nowhere.
"Because I didn't demand it. I let others take credit because I was afraid of being seen as difficult or ambitious. That's not a mistake I'll make again."
Roman Kade's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his posture—a subtle straightening of his already impeccable frame. There's definitely heat in his eyes now, something that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
"And what would you do differently at Elysian?" His voice is carefully neutral, revealing nothing.
"I would bring authenticity back to Lumière," I say with conviction. "The brand has lost its soul trying to chase trends instead of setting them. I would create designs that speak to who our customers really are, not who they pretend to be."
The words echo in the room, and I realize too late how they might sound to a CEO who has overseen Lumière's current direction. But instead of offense, I see interest spark in those steel-blue eyes. The temperature in the room seems to rise by several degrees.
"Bold assessment," he says, leaning forward slightly. The movement brings him closer, and I catch the scent of his cologne—something expensive and woodsy with undertones of sandalwood. "Most candidates praise our current strategy."
"Most candidates tell you what they think you want to hear," I counter, my heart pounding but my voice steady. "I'm telling you what Lumière needs."
A charged silence follows, during which I wonder if I've just talked myself out of this job before I even had it. But then Roman Kade does something completely unexpected.
He smiles.
It's brief, just a flash of perfect teeth before his professional mask returns, but it transforms his face from intimidating to... well, still intimidating, but in a completely different way.
Dangerous in a way that makes heat coil in my stomach.
"Your answer was the most honest communication I've received in months. No agenda, no calculation, just raw truth. It's refreshing."
Wait. What?
The words hang in the air, and I feel all color drain from my face.
No. It can't be. The universe cannot possibly be that cruel or that ironic.
He continues the interview, asking pointed questions about my design philosophy, my approach to team management, my five-year vision for Lumière. I answer on autopilot, my mind racing between professional responses and absolute panic.
"One final question, Ms. Monroe," he says after what feels like hours. "Why should I hire you over candidates with more experience?"
I take a deep breath, pushing aside my personal crisis to focus on this moment. This opportunity.
"Because I see Lumière for what it could be, not just what it was or what it is now. And because I'm not afraid to fight for that vision, even if it means telling the CEO his brand has lost its way."
Roman Kade studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he stands, signaling the end of our interview.
"Thank you for your time, Ms. Monroe. HR will be in touch soon."
I stand on legs that feel surprisingly steady, considering the circumstances. "Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Kade."
He extends his hand, and I have no choice but to take it.
The moment our skin makes contact, electricity shoots through my entire body. His grip is firm, his hand warm and slightly rough—not the soft palm I expected from a man who probably hasn't done manual labor in decades.
His thumb brushes over my knuckles in what could be an accident but feels very intentional.
Heat floods my cheeks, my chest, pools low in my belly. I've never had such a visceral reaction to a simple handshake.
Our eyes meet, and this time I don't imagine the hunger I see there. It's raw, undisguised, and it makes me momentarily forget how to breathe.
"I look forward to hearing your decision," I manage, withdrawing my hand perhaps a bit too quickly.
"As do I," he replies, with what might be the ghost of a smile.
I leave his office in a daze, barely registering Melissa's cheerful chatter as she escorts me back to the elevator. My mind is too busy spinning elaborate conspiracy theories, each more ridiculous than the last.
It cannot be him. The odds are astronomical. And even if by some cosmic joke it is him, he clearly doesn't recognize me from a random text conversation with no names attached.
Right?
I'm overthinking this. Stress and post-breakup paranoia combining into delusion. Next, I'll be suspecting Camden of orchestrating this whole situation just to mess with me.
As the elevator descends, I force myself to focus on the positive. I just interviewed for my dream job. I held my own with Roman Kade himself. I was honest, confident, and unapologetically myself.
Whether I get the job or not, that's a victory worth celebrating.
As the elevator reaches the lobby, I check my phone out of habit and see messages from Olivia:
How was the fancy water??? Did you dazzle them with your brilliance??
Another text immediately follows:
CASSIE WHERE ARE YOU??? I'm dying here!
I take a deep breath, trying to figure out how I'm going to explain any of this to her. How do you tell your best friend that you suspect you’ve just interviewed with—and shook hands with—the mystery man you accidentally sexted?
I stumble out of the revolving door into the bright afternoon sunlight, where Olivia is waiting with two coffees and an expectant expression.
"Well?" she demands, thrusting a cup toward me. "How did it go? Why do you look like you've seen a ghost?"
I open my mouth, close it, then open it again. The truth feels too surreal to speak aloud.
"I think," I say faintly, "I'm going to need something stronger than coffee."
"That good or that bad?" Olivia asks, linking her arm through mine.
"I honestly have no idea."
Because that's the truth. I've possibly either landed my dream job with the most attractive man I've ever met—a man who's already read my most explicit fantasies—or I've just destroyed my career in the most spectacularly awkward way possible.
Either way, I have a feeling my life is about to get very, very complicated.
Just when I feel like I’m in the clear, my phone buzzes.
As I glance down, I nearly trip.
Welcome to Elysian, Cassie. And no, sweetheart, I'm not Camden. I'm much more… perceptive.”
I know exactly who it is.
And the worst part?
My pulse doesn’t spike from fear.
It spikes because part of me wants him to say more.