7. Cassie #2
I collapse back into my chair, heart pounding. Okay, so we're acknowledging the text situation, but in cryptic, plausibly deniable ways. Great. Fantastic. Not confusing at all.
By the time the team meeting rolls around at 9:30, I've managed to regain my composure and professional demeanor.
I present my vision for Lumière confidently, making eye contact with each team member as I outline my approach to revitalizing the brand.
The team seems receptive, even excited by my ideas. Several designers approach me afterward with concepts they'd been hesitant to share under the previous leadership.
"Mr. Kade doesn't usually attend creative meetings," one of them whispers to me as we're leaving the conference room. "But he sat in the back the whole time you were presenting. Didn't say a word, just watched."
I resist the urge to look over my shoulder. "I'm sure he wants to ensure a smooth transition."
"Maybe," she says skeptically. "But I've been here three years, and I've never seen him so interested in a new hire."
Perfect. Just what I need—office speculation about why the CEO is taking such an interest in me.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of meetings, paperwork, and getting to know my team. I'm actually starting to feel like I might pull this off when my phone buzzes with a text just as I'm packing up to leave.
Working late tonight? I've scheduled a one-on-one at 7 PM to discuss your ideas in more detail. My office. -RK
My finger hovers over the screen. Is this a legitimate meeting or something else entirely? His office message earlier suggested he wasn't above mixing business with... whatever this tension between us is. But he's also been completely professional in every interaction since.
I'll be there
I reply, keeping it simple and professional.
At 6:55 PM, I stand outside his executive suite on the 40th floor, giving myself a final pep talk. Professional. Direct. No blushing. No thinking about walls.
His assistant is gone for the day, the outer office dimly lit and silent. I knock on his door with more confidence than I feel.
"Come in," his voice calls from inside.
Roman's office is exactly what you'd expect from a billionaire CEO—spacious, minimalist, with floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a spectacular view of the sunset over the city.
He sits behind a massive desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that should not be as distracting as they are.
"Ms. Monroe," he says, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Thank you for staying late."
"Of course." I sit down, spreading my portfolio on his desk. "I've prepared some initial concepts for your review."
"Always prepared," he observes, something like amusement flickering in his eyes. "But before we get to that, I think we should address the elephant in the room, don't you?"
My mouth goes dry. Here it comes.
"The text," he says simply.
"I am incredibly sorry about that," I begin, the words tumbling out in a rush. "It was unprofessional and inappropriate and completely accidental, and I promise it will never happen again, and?—"
"Cassie." He interrupts my rambling, using my first name for the first time. It stops me cold. "I'm not looking for an apology."
"You're... not?"
"No." He leans back in his chair, studying me with those intense blue eyes. "In fact, I hired you partly because of that text."
I stare at him, certain I've misheard. "I'm sorry, what?"
"That message showed me something I rarely see in this industry—complete, unfiltered honesty. No calculation, no agenda, just raw truth." He leans forward, his expression serious. "Do you have any idea how rare that is in my world?"
I shake my head mutely.
"Everyone wants something from me. Everyone carefully curates what they say to achieve some end goal. But you..." He gestures toward me. "You had no idea who I was. You spoke your truth without filters. And then, in your interview, you did the same thing. You told me my brand had lost its way."
"Because it has," I say, finding my voice again.
"Exactly." He smiles, and it transforms his face from intimidating to almost boyish. "That's why I hired you. Not because of the explicit content of your message, but because of the honesty behind it."
I exhale slowly, relief mixing with lingering confusion. "So... what does this mean? For us professionally, I mean."
"It means I expect the same honesty from you as my Creative Director that you showed in that text and in your interview. No holding back to protect my feelings or the status quo." His expression grows serious again. "But it also means we need clear boundaries."
"Absolutely," I agree quickly. "Completely professional relationship."
"With one exception," he adds, making my heart skip. "I'd like to continue our text conversations. Off the clock. No pressure, no expectations, just... honesty."
I blink at him, trying to process this bizarre request. "You want to... text me? About what?"
He shrugs, a surprisingly casual gesture from someone usually so composed. "Life. Work. Boundaries you wish people wouldn't push. Walls you wish they would."
My face heats instantly. "Mr. Kade?—"
"Roman," he corrects. "When we're alone, at least."
"Roman," I repeat, the name feeling strange and intimate on my tongue. "I'm not sure that's appropriate, given our professional relationship."
"Probably not," he agrees easily. "But I haven't been able to stop thinking about our conversation. Have you?"
The directness of the question catches me off guard. I could lie, but something about his steady gaze makes me choose honesty instead.
"No," I admit quietly. "I haven't."
"So we continue. Separately from work. Two people getting to know each other through texts, just as we started." He holds my gaze. "Unless you'd rather not."
I should say no. I should absolutely, definitely say no. This is my boss. My very powerful, very wealthy, very attractive boss who knows exactly what I want to be done to me against a wall.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "But with conditions. Nothing that interferes with work. Nothing inappropriate during office hours. And if either of us wants to stop, we stop. No questions asked."
"Agreed." He extends his hand across the desk. "Do we have a deal, Ms. Monroe?"
I hesitate only briefly before taking his hand. His palm is warm and slightly rough against mine, his grip firm but not domineering.
"Deal," I say, trying to ignore the electric current that seems to run from his hand straight to my core. "Now, about these concept boards..."
For the next hour, we discuss my vision for Lumière, professional masks firmly back in place. But underneath our business conversation runs an undercurrent of awareness, of possibility, of dangerous potential.
As I pack up to leave, he walks me to the door of his office. His hand finds the small of my back, a whisper of pressure that sends heat radiating through my body.
The touch is brief and professional, but deliberate enough that I know it's not accidental. His fingers linger a moment longer than necessary, as if he's reluctant to break the connection.
"Good night, Ms. Monroe," he says formally, his hand on the doorknob. "I look forward to your progress."
"Good night, Mr. Kade," I reply with equal professionalism.
I'm halfway to the elevator when my phone buzzes in my purse.
That dress has been tormenting me all day. The way it skims your curves made it nearly impossible to focus in our meeting. Professional boundaries have never been so difficult to maintain. Just so you know. -RK
I bite my lip, suppressing a smile as I step into the elevator. Two can play at this game.
Your forearms on display had the same effect on me. Just so you know.
As the elevator descends, I lean against the wall and close my eyes.
This is beyond risky.
This is potential career suicide.
But the ping of another text message has me reaching for my phone before the rational part of my brain can object.
I'll keep that in mind for tomorrow's budget meeting. Sleep well, Cassie.
I step out of the elevator into the quiet lobby, my head spinning with the contradictions of the day. Professional boundaries with explicit exceptions. My boss who isn't my boss in text messages. The most inappropriate appropriate relationship I've ever had.
As I push through the revolving door into the cool evening air, one thought rings clear through the confusion:
This job is going to be nothing like I expected.