6. Roman
ROMAN
THE GAME BEGINS
T hirty minutes into the Thursday executive meeting, it happens.
Zara slides a portfolio onto the conference table with her usual efficiency.
"The final Creative Director candidates for Lumière, as requested."
I nod without breaking rhythm on the quarterly projections I'm dissecting for the board.
Multi-tasking is practically my superpower—a necessity when running a multi-billion-dollar company at forty.
I flip open the portfolio with more interest than the situation warrants.
The first page has the standard resume header: Cassandra Monroe. Nothing remarkable there.
But her contact information catches my eye, and the world stops spinning.
That phone number.
I know that number.
I've had explicit conversations with that number. I've opened that number's messages more times than I care to admit in the past forty-eight hours.
It's her.
My mystery texter.
The woman with the emerald dress and spectacular photo.
The woman who wants to be bent over kitchen counters and pressed against walls.
She's applying to be my Creative Director.
"Roman?"
I glance up to find everyone staring at me.
Right. The meeting. The projections.
The fact that I'm supposed to be leading this discussion rather than having an existential crisis over a job applicant.
"Continue," I say to Jenkins, who looks mildly terrified at having had to prompt me. "The Asian market expansion won't execute itself."
I close the portfolio, but the image of that phone number remains imprinted on my retinas. It's confirmed. Not coincidence. Not wishful thinking.
The universe really is this perverse.
"She's waiting in Conference Room C," Melissa from HR tells me three hours later, looking slightly intimidated. I don't blame her.
I rarely involve myself in hiring below VP level, but something about this particular candidate has me... invested.
"Her credentials?" I ask, as if I haven't already memorized her file.
"Impressive conceptually, though not as experienced as some other candidates in terms of leadership roles," Melissa says. "But her portfolio is exceptional. Fresh perspective while honoring brand heritage. Exactly what Lumière needs."
"Make her wait twenty minutes," I instruct, ignoring Melissa's surprise. "I want to review her materials again."
It's a lie. What I need is twenty minutes to get my head straight. Twenty minutes to remind myself that I am Roman Kade, not some hormonal teenager. Twenty minutes to prepare for meeting the woman whose sexual fantasies I've been imagining fulfilling for the past two days.
I spend fifteen of those minutes on emails, deliberately focusing my mind elsewhere. The remaining five I allow myself to consider the cosmic joke that's unfolding.
This job candidate is undoubtedly my mystery texter.
The question now is: what exactly am I supposed to do with that information? Pretend I don't know? Acknowledge it? Make some kind of wall-related comment to see if she faints?
Christ. I'm losing my mind.
I straighten my tie, button my jacket, and head to Conference Room C with the steady stride that's become part of my brand.
Roman Kade doesn't rush.
Roman Kade doesn't fidget.
Roman Kade certainly doesn't wonder what a potential employee would look like as he takes her against the wall.
I open the door with practiced authority, and there she is.
Cassandra Monroe.
She stands as I enter, professional and poised in a sleek pencil skirt and silk blouse. Her dark hair falls in soft waves past her shoulders, and even from across the room, I can see those expressive eyes—not the brown I had imagined, but a deep green with hints of amber.
Even better than I'd pictured.
"Ms. Monroe. Apologies for keeping you waiting."
I watch her face carefully as I speak, looking for any flicker of recognition at the sound of my voice.
And there it is—a momentary widening of those eyes, a slight paling of her complexion. Gone so quickly anyone else would miss it, but I've made a career of reading people's micro-expressions across negotiating tables.
She knows.
Or at least, she suspects.
The game is on.
"Your portfolio is impressive," I continue, as if I haven't noticed her momentary panic. "Particularly your vision for repositioning Lumière while maintaining its core aesthetic."
"Thank you," she says, and I'm impressed by how steady her voice remains despite the storm I can see brewing behind her eyes. "I believe Lumière needs to evolve without losing what made it special in the first place."
I study her with deliberate intensity, partly because it's my usual interview technique and partly because I'm genuinely fascinated by how she'll handle this situation. Most people wilt under direct scrutiny.
Cassandra Monroe straightens her spine and meets my gaze head-on.
She's stunning—not in the conventional, glossy way of the women I usually date, but in a way that makes it impossible to look away.
There's intelligence in her eyes, determination in the set of her jaw.
And when she licks her lips nervously, I find myself tracking the movement with embarrassing focus.
"Tell me about your previous experience as a Creative Director." The question most likely to trip her up.
She doesn't hesitate. "I haven't held that title officially," she admits. "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."
No embellishment.
No desperate overselling.
Just honest recognition of her experience and value. Something shifts in my chest—respect, certainly, but also a more dangerous emotion I refuse to name.
"Why weren't you given proper recognition for your contributions?" I ask, genuinely curious now.
Again, she surprises me. Instead of a diplomatic non-answer, she gives me raw truth.
"Because I didn't demand it," she says simply. "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."
And just like that, the mystery texter and the job candidate merge completely in my mind. The woman who talked about making herself smaller to fit into someone else's life. The woman who is now refusing to diminish herself any longer.
I find myself straightening in my chair, responding to her newfound confidence with what feels disturbingly like admiration.
"And what would you do differently at Elysian?" I keep my voice neutral.
"I would bring authenticity back to Lumière," she says without hesitation. "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."
Her words hang in the air, bold and borderline insulting to the company's current strategy—my strategy. Yet instead of annoyance, I feel something close to exhilaration.
When was the last time anyone spoke to me with such unvarnished honesty? When was the last time anyone risked my disapproval to tell a truth I needed to hear?
"Bold assessment," I say, leaning forward slightly. "Most candidates praise our current strategy."
"Most candidates tell you what they think you want to hear," she counters, her voice steady but her pulse visibly racing at her throat. "I'm telling you what Lumière needs."
I feel my lips curving into an involuntary smile before I can stop them. This woman is either going to be the salvation of Lumière or the death of my professional detachment. Possibly both.
"Honesty is refreshing," I say deliberately, watching for her reaction to the word from our text exchange. "Especially in an industry built on carefully calculated images."
There it is—that flash of recognition, quickly smothered beneath professional composure. She knows. I'm certain of it now.
I continue the interview, asking standard questions while wondering how this impossible situation will play out.
Part of me—the responsible CEO part—knows I should recuse myself from this hiring decision immediately.
There's a clear conflict of interest when I've exchanged explicit messages with a job candidate, even accidentally.
But another part—the part that's been bored to the point of numbness with the predictable, calculated interactions that make up my daily life—is selfishly intrigued by the chaos this woman has inadvertently introduced.
"One final question, Ms. Monroe," I say after exhausting my standard interview protocol. "Why should I hire you over candidates with more experience?"
She takes a deep breath, and I watch with fascination as she visibly chooses courage over caution.
"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."
I almost laugh out loud at her audacity. Instead, I stand, signaling the end of our interview. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Monroe. HR will be in touch soon."
She rises with surprising grace for someone who must be internally freaking out. "Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Kade."
I extend my hand, and there's a moment's hesitation before she takes it.
The moment our skin connects, electricity shoots through me with shocking intensity. Her palm slides against mine, cool at first but warming instantly at the contact. My grip tightens involuntarily, and I see her pupils dilate, her lips parting slightly on an indrawn breath.
I've shaken thousands of hands in my career. None of them have ever made my blood rush south with such immediate, primal response.
Our eyes meet, and heat surges between us—visceral, undeniable.
The connection is so intense I nearly pull her closer, professionalism be damned.
Instead, I allow myself one small acknowledgment—a slight quirk of my eyebrow that says Yes, I know exactly who you are, and I remember every word you wrote .
Her cheeks flush with color, the pink spreading down her throat toward the neckline of her blouse. I'm suddenly desperate to know how far that blush extends.
"I look forward to hearing your decision," she says, withdrawing her hand perhaps a touch too quickly, though her fingertips trail across my palm in a way that could be accidental but feels deliciously intentional.
"As do I," I reply, allowing myself the ghost of a smile.
She leaves my office with her dignity remarkably intact for someone who just interviewed with the accidental recipient of her sexual fantasies.
I wait until the door closes behind her before I sink back into my chair, adjusting myself subtly as I process what just happened.
I haven't had such an immediate physical reaction to a woman since college. Certainly not from a simple handshake. And definitely not during a job interview.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
The professional answer is clear: recuse myself from the hiring process and allow HR to make the decision based on qualifications alone.
That's what Roman Kade, responsible CEO, would do.
But fuck that.
I built this company from the ground up. I've always followed my gut, which is precisely why Elysian dominates its market. And right now, my gut is telling me that Cassandra Monroe is exactly what Lumière needs—her vision, her honesty, her refusal to play it safe.
The fact that she's also the woman who accidentally sent me the most arousing text I've ever received? Who stirred something in me with a simple handshake? That's a complication, certainly, but not one I'm willing to run from.
I never run from complications. I solve them. Usually on my terms.
I pull out my phone and stare at our text conversation from Tuesday. The explicit words, the photo in that emerald dress. The woman who just left my office wrote these things. Who unknowingly revealed her deepest desires to me—her future boss.
I should delete this conversation. I should absolutely, definitely delete it and pretend none of this ever happened. That would be the smart, professional thing to do.
But I've never been one to deny myself what I want. Not when it's within reach.
And Cassandra Monroe is very much within reach.
I've already decided she's getting the job—her talent and vision make that an easy call. But that doesn't mean I'm going to pretend our accidental connection never happened. Quite the opposite.
I want her to know exactly who she's been texting. I want her to face the same heat and tension I'm feeling. I want to see if the chemistry I just felt is a fluke or something worth pursuing, professional complications be damned.
I type:
Welcome to Elysian, Cassie. And no, sweetheart, I'm not Camden. I'm much more… perceptive.
My thumb hovers over the send button as common sense wages war with impulse. This is crossing a line. Several lines. Professional lines. Ethical lines. The kinds of lines that get CEOs hauled before HR committees and splashed across business tabloids.
But those eyes. That unflinching honesty. The electricity when our hands touched.
I hit send.
The game has officially begun.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I have no inkling how it will end.