8. Cassie
CASSIE
ELEVATOR CONFIDENTIAL
F our weeks into my new job, I've developed a serious split personality disorder.
By day, I'm Cassandra Monroe, consummate professional and Creative Director of Lumière.
I lead meetings with steady confidence, present bold concepts with clear vision, and act like someone who definitely hasn't sexted her boss.
By night (and lunch breaks, and occasional bathroom retreats), I'm Cassie, the woman engaged in the most exhilarating relationship—albeit via texts—of her life with a man she can't have.
What's the most inappropriate thought you've had during a board meeting?
Roman texts while I'm eating lunch at my desk.
I nearly choke on my salad, fingers hovering over the screen.
We've established rules—texting for personal conversations only, no work discussions, nothing constituting harassment if discovered. But the line between appropriate and inappropriate shifts daily, like drawing in sand during high tide.
Shouldn't you be paying attention to quarterly projections?
I dodge the question.
I'm capable of multitasking. Answer the question, Cassie.
It's still jarring when he uses my first name in texts, knowing that in person it's all "Ms. Monroe" and "Mr. Kade" with careful professional distance.
Fine. Last week's financial review. You rolled up your sleeves. I briefly considered climbing across the conference table.
His response takes longer than usual. Have I finally crossed a line?
Then:
I wondered why you dropped your pen four times. Good to know my forearms have that effect on you.
I grin at my phone like an idiot, then quickly school my expression as Taylor walks by my office.
The last thing I need is for anyone to suspect what's happening. The creative team already whispers about why the CEO takes such an interest in Lumière's relaunch. If they knew the truth...
Your turn,
I text back.
Most inappropriate work thought.
During your presentation yesterday. That little frown you get when you're concentrating. Made me wonder what other expressions I could put on your face.
Heat floods my cheeks.
This is edging dangerously close to the invisible boundary we've established. The texts have been getting progressively more suggestive over the past week, like we're engaged in an elaborate game of chicken.
Who'll break first?
Who'll suggest taking this beyond texts?
Not me, I remind myself sternly. This job is too important. Mia's tuition depends on it. My career trajectory depends on it. My self-respect depends on it.
Mr. Kade, I'm shocked, I reply, keeping it light. What would HR say?
They'd say I should fire myself immediately. And then possibly seek professional help.
I laugh out loud, then cover it with a cough when a designer glances my way.
Back to work, boss. Some of us have deadlines.
Dinner tonight?
I freeze, staring at those two words. This is new. Definitely crossing from text relationship to real relationship territory. This is?—
Professional dinner,
He adds before I can respond.
To discuss the presentation for the executive team next week. 7pm at Maris.
The clarification sends conflicting waves of relief and disappointment through me. Of course it's professional. What was I thinking?
I'll be there,
I respond, keeping it neutral.
I force myself to put my phone in my desk drawer and actually focus on work for the rest of the afternoon.
The Lumière rebrand is coming together beautifully, the creative team energized by my vision for authentic luxury that celebrates imperfection rather than manufactured perfection.
At 6:30, I'm putting the finishing touches on my presentation when a knock sounds at my office door.
"Come in," I call, assuming it's the janitor who's become accustomed to my late hours.
Instead, Zara steps into my office—Roman's executive assistant who has made it abundantly clear she finds my rapid rise suspicious.
"Ms. Monroe," she says coolly. "Still here?"
"Just finishing up," I reply with professional politeness. "Did you need something?"
"Mr. Kade asked me to inform you that he's running late for your dinner meeting. He suggests you meet him at Maris at 7:30 instead."
She delivers this message with the enthusiasm of someone announcing a tax audit.
"Thank you for letting me know," I say, matching her formal tone.
Zara lingers in the doorway, her perfectly shaped eyebrows arched in what might be curiosity or might be disdain. It's hard to tell with her.
"Mr. Kade doesn't usually take such a... hands-on approach with brand directors," she observes. "You must be very impressive."
Suspicion? Jealousy? Simple curiosity? I can't tell, but alarm bells ring.
"Lumière is a priority," I say carefully. "Its performance affects the entire Elysian portfolio."
"Mmm," Zara hums noncommittally. "Well, enjoy your dinner. Maris has excellent... oysters."
The way she says "oysters" makes it sound like "midnight trysts in the supply closet." I maintain my professional smile until she leaves, then slump back in my chair.
Great. Now Roman's assistant thinks we're having an affair. Just perfect.
The extra time gives me time to stop by Olivia’s apartment to change, swapping my work dress for something slightly more sophisticated but still professional—a black jumpsuit with architectural detailing that says "I understand design" without screaming "I'm trying to seduce you."
Maris is exactly the type of restaurant you'd expect Roman Kade to frequent—exclusive without being ostentatious, popular with business elite rather than celebrities.
I give his name to the ma?tre d', who leads me to a private booth in the back with the reverence usually reserved for royalty.
"Mr. Kade called to say he's running slightly behind," the ma?tre d' informs me. "May I bring you something while you wait?"
"Sparkling water, please," I say, resisting the urge to order liquid courage in the form of expensive wine.
Ten minutes later, I'm still alone, scrolling through emails on my phone and trying not to look like I've been stood up, when a commotion at the front of the restaurant catches my attention.
Roman has arrived, and the entire staff seems to be falling over themselves to greet him. He moves through the restaurant with that effortless confidence that seems to part crowds like the Red Sea. Several diners actually turn to watch him pass, whispering behind menus.
And then he's at our table, all six-foot-something of expensive suit and subtle cologne and devastating good looks.
"Ms. Monroe." His tone is formal, though his eyes hold warmth absent from his voice. "Apologies for the delay."
"Mr. Kade," I reply with equal formality. "No problem at all."
He slides into the booth across from me, and immediately the air between us feels charged with the electricity of our text conversations—conversations that don't match the professional personas we're currently inhabiting.
"I've taken the liberty of pre-ordering," he says as a waiter appears with wine. "I hope you don't mind."
"Not at all." I accept a glass of what is undoubtedly ridiculously expensive wine. "Though I should warn you I'm more of a taco truck than tasting menu person."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Noted for future reference."
The meal progresses with discussion of the Lumière relaunch—genuine, productive conversation about brand positioning and market strategy.
Roman is brilliant, insightful, and surprisingly willing to be challenged on his assumptions.
I find myself forgetting about our text relationship as we dive deep into the creative vision.
"You've impressed the team." Roman speaks as dessert arrives—something artistic involving chocolate and gold leaf. "They weren't sure what to expect from someone without Creative Director experience."
"And now?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Now they're converts to the Church of Cassandra," he says with a slight smile. "Especially after you stood up to Jenkins in the budget meeting. I believe his exact words were 'thank god someone finally has balls around here.'"
I laugh, relaxing a bit as the wine and good food work their magic. "Jenkins needed to understand that cutting corners on materials undermines the entire luxury positioning. You can't claim premium quality while using subpar components."
"I agree completely." Roman studies me with those intense blue eyes. "You're exactly what Lumière needed. What Elysian needed."
The compliment warms me more than it should. "Thank you. That means a lot."
A comfortable silence falls as we both focus on dessert. It's strange how easy it is to talk to him now, how the initial awkwardness has given way to something that feels almost like friendship—albeit friendship with an undercurrent of simmering attraction neither of us acknowledges out loud.
"May I ask you something personal?" Roman says suddenly.
I tense slightly, uncertain where this is going. "That depends on how personal."
"Why fashion? What drew you to this industry?"
Not what I was expecting. I consider the question while finishing the last bite of chocolate decadence.
"My sister, actually. Mia. She's been obsessed with design since she could dress herself. I used to make clothes for her dolls because we couldn't afford store-bought ones."
Roman looks genuinely interested. "And that led to design school?"
"Eventually. I was planning on something more practical—business or accounting. But my mom got sick during my senior year of high school."
Roman's expression softens. "I'm sorry."
"She's in remission now. Has been for years. But spending months in hospital rooms with her, watching her fight so hard to stay alive... it changed my perspective. Life's too short to do something that doesn't light you up inside."
"So you followed your passion instead of practicality," he concludes.
"And now I'm helping Mia do the same," I say with a small smile. "She's in design school, following her dream. She's brilliant—going to be far better than I am someday."