8. Cassie #2
A strange expression crosses Roman's face—something almost wistful. "You're close to her."
"She's my favorite person in the world," I say simply. "What about you? Did you always know you'd go into the family business?"
Roman's expression shutters slightly. "Not always, no. But that's a story for another time." He signals for the check. "It's getting late, and we both have morning meetings tomorrow."
I blink at the sudden shift, wondering what I said wrong. But before I can puzzle it out, he's paying the bill and helping me with my coat, the perfect gentleman despite the abrupt end to our dinner.
"I'll have my driver take you home," he says as we step outside into the cool night air.
"That's not necessary," I protest. "I can get a cab."
"It's nearly midnight," he points out. "And my car is already here."
Sure enough, a sleek black Mercedes idles at the curb, driver standing at attention beside it.
"Ms. Monroe needs to be taken home," Roman instructs the driver. "Then you can return for me."
"Very good, sir," the driver responds, opening the back door with practiced efficiency.
I hesitate, suddenly uncomfortable with the idea of riding in Roman's personal car while he waits on the sidewalk. It feels too intimate somehow, despite the professional context of our dinner.
"You're overthinking this," Roman says softly, reading my expression with uncanny accuracy. "It's just a car ride, Cassie."
The use of my first name, spoken low enough that only I can hear it, sends a shiver down my spine. This is the first time he's called me Cassie in person.
"Thank you for dinner," I say, trying to regain my professional composure. "And for the ride."
"Of course." He steps back, hands in his pockets. "Good night, Ms. Monroe."
"Good night, Mr. Kade."
The drive home is surreal—plush leather seats, privacy partition, the lingering scent of Roman's cologne in the enclosed space. I rest my head against the window, trying to sort through my conflicted feelings.
This can't continue indefinitely. The text relationship, the charged in-person interactions, the constant dance between professional and personal. Something has to give eventually.
My phone buzzes as we turn onto my street.
You looked beautiful tonight. Just so you know.
I stare at Roman's text, heart racing. This is definitely crossing a line. We both know it.
Before I can decide how to respond, another message appears:
Too far?
I can almost see his expression as he sent that—the slight uncertainty beneath the confident exterior. It makes him seem more human, more accessible.
Not too far, I reply. Just far enough to make tomorrow's budget meeting interesting.
Looking forward to it. Sweet dreams, Cassie.
The car pulls up outside my building, the driver appearing to open my door with the same deference he showed Roman. I thank him and hurry inside, my mind spinning with the implications of tonight's subtle shift in our dynamic.
The next morning brings a reality check in the form of an emergency production meeting. The factory in Milan has issues with the new sustainable leather we're sourcing for the upcoming collection.
By the time I've handled the crisis, responded to seventeen urgent emails, and prepped for the budget meeting, I've almost managed to convince myself that last night's dinner was purely professional.
Almost.
Until I step into the elevator at 9:55, rushing to make the 10 AM budget meeting, and find myself alone with the one person I've been simultaneously avoiding and hoping to see all morning.
"Ms. Monroe," Roman says formally as the doors close, though his eyes hold a warmth that makes my stomach flip. "Running late?"
"Production emergency," I explain, pressing the button for the 38th floor even though it's already lit. "Milan is having issues with the new leather supplier."
"Anything I should be concerned about?" His tone is purely professional now.
"No, it's handled. Just a minor setback."
We lapse into silence as the elevator ascends. Ten floors. Fifteen. Why is this elevator so slow? And why does the enclosed space make Roman's cologne seem more potent, more distracting?
"I enjoyed dinner last night," Roman says suddenly, his voice lower than before.
"So did I," I admit, staring straight ahead at the illuminated floor numbers. "The food was excellent."
"The company was better."
I glance at him, finding his gaze already on me, intense and unreadable. "Mr. Kade?—"
"We're alone, Cassie." His voice wraps around my name like a caress.
"That's probably not a good thing," I say, trying for lightness but hearing the breathlessness in my own voice.
"Probably not," he agrees, making no move to create more distance between us.
The elevator jolts, causing me to stumble. Roman's hand shoots out to steady me, gripping my elbow.
The contact, even through clothing, sends electricity racing through my veins.
"Careful," he murmurs, not releasing my arm though I've regained my balance.
Time slows as we stand there, his hand on my arm, barely a foot between us.
His eyes drop to my lips for just a fraction of a second, but it's enough to make my breath catch.
"Roman," I say softly, not even sure what I'm trying to communicate.
He takes a half step closer, his free hand coming up to rest against the elevator wall beside my head. Not trapping me, not quite, but definitely invading my personal space in a way that makes my heart race.
"Tell me to step back," he says, his voice rough around the edges.
I should. I absolutely should. Instead, I find myself tilting my face up toward his, drawn like a magnet to its opposite pole.
"This is a terrible idea," I whisper, even as I make no move to create distance.
"The worst," he agrees, leaning incrementally closer. "Tell me to stop, Cassie."
The elevator dings as we reach our floor, startling us both. Roman steps back instantly, composure snapping into place like an elastic band.
The doors slide open to reveal a small crowd waiting to board, including Zara, who takes in our positions with raised eyebrows.
"Mr. Kade," she says coolly. "The budget meeting is about to begin."
"We're on our way," Roman replies, his voice betraying none of the tension that had filled the elevator moments before. "Ms. Monroe had a production issue to brief me on."
I follow him off the elevator on unsteady legs, my heartbeat still erratic from our near... whatever that was. Near-disaster. Near-kiss. Near-career suicide.
Throughout the budget meeting, I feel Roman's eyes on me whenever I speak. I keep my presentation professional, my responses measured, my demeanor calm despite the chaos inside me.
It's only when the meeting ends and everyone files out that I allow myself to exhale fully. What just happened in that elevator? And what would have happened if we hadn't reached our floor when we did?
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I gather my materials. I already know who it's from.
Five more seconds in that elevator and the budget meeting would have started without us. Next time, I'm pressing the emergency stop button.
I glance across the now-empty conference room to where Roman stands by the window, his back to me, phone in hand.
This has officially spiraled beyond my control. Beyond both our control, perhaps. The question is: what am I going to do about it?
What can I do, when everything I want conflicts with everything I've worked for?
I leave without responding to his text, needing time to think, to breathe, to decide if I'm willing to risk everything for whatever this is between us.
But as I wait for the elevator—a different elevator, because I'm not completely self-destructive—I find myself typing a response before I can talk myself out of it.
And I might have let you. Good thing one of us still remembers we're supposed to be professionals. (Though I'm starting to forget why that matters)
I hit send, then immediately shove my phone back in my pocket like it's radioactive.
What happens next is anyone's guess, but one thing is certain.
This job will be the death of me—one elevator ride at a time.