9. Cassie
CASSIE
DANGEROUS IN DIAMONDS
" I can't breathe," I whisper, staring at my reflection in Olivia's mirror.
"That's how you know it fits perfectly," Olivia says, circling me like a fashion predator assessing her kill. "If you can breathe in a gala dress, it's too loose."
The dress is a midnight blue creation Olivia "borrowed" from the fashion magazine where she works. Borrowed being industry code for "smuggled out under threat of termination if discovered."
"I can't wear this." I can't stop staring at how the fabric transforms my usual practical self into someone far more dangerous. "It's too much."
"It's exactly enough," Olivia counters, adjusting the neckline that dips low enough to make my mother clutch her pearls from three states away. "The Elysian Annual Charity Gala is the fashion event of the season. Everyone who's anyone will be wearing their most spectacular outfit."
"But I'm not just attending. I'm representing Lumière. I need to look professional."
Olivia rolls her eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't get stuck. "Honey, at fashion events, 'professional' means 'make everyone else weep with envy while pretending you just threw this on.'" She steps back to admire her handiwork. "Mission accomplished."
The dress is admittedly spectacular—architectural in structure with unexpected cutouts that reveal just enough skin to be interesting without crossing into scandalous territory. The fabric catches the light when I move, creating the illusion that I'm wrapped in liquid starlight.
"What if I run into Roman?" I ask, voicing my real concern.
It's been three days since The Elevator Incident, as I've come to think of it.
Three days of carefully maintained professional distance during the day and increasingly heated text exchanges at night.
Three days of looking everywhere but at each other during meetings while sending messages that make me blush in the privacy of my apartment.
"You're definitely going to run into Roman," Olivia says with infuriating calm. "He's hosting the event. And when you do, he's going to take one look at you in this dress and forget how to speak English."
"That's what I'm afraid of." I smooth the fabric nervously. "Things are already complicated enough."
Olivia perches on the edge of her bed, fixing me with her therapist stare—the one that makes me feel like she's reading my mind and finding it highly entertaining.
"Let me get this straight," she says. "You're worried that your impossibly hot boss, who has made it very clear he's attracted to you, might be... more attracted to you?"
When she puts it like that, it sounds ridiculous. "I'm worried about crossing lines that shouldn't be crossed."
"What lines haven't you crossed already?" Olivia demands. "You've been having text foreplay for weeks!"
"It's not foreplay," I protest weakly. "It's just... conversation."
"Mm-hmm. Conversation that has you blushing at your phone and sleeping with it under your pillow." I throw a decorative pillow at her, which she dodges with practiced ease.
"I do not sleep with my phone under my pillow."
"The notification sound woke me up when I crashed on your couch last weekend," she says smugly. "At 2 AM. And your response time was suspiciously fast for someone supposedly asleep."
"That's the beauty of having my own place now—no roommates to question my late-night texting habits," I retort, but my defense is weak and we both know it.
Busted.
"Fine. But textual chemistry is different from real-world chemistry. Tonight will be the first time we're in a social setting together, not just work."
"And you're worried the textual chemistry might manifest physically?" Olivia waggles her eyebrows suggestively.
"I'm worried about a lot of things," I admit. "Losing my job. Ruining my career. Becoming gossip fodder for the entire fashion industry."
"Cassie," Olivia says, suddenly serious. "When was the last time you felt this way about someone? This excited, this challenged, this alive?"
I consider the question honestly. "Never."
"Then stop overthinking and just experience it," she advises. "Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe everything will happen. But you'll never know if you're too busy catastrophizing to actually live in the moment."
She's right, annoyingly so. And beneath all my practical concerns lurks an undeniable truth: part of me wants something to happen tonight.
Part of me has been thinking about nothing but Roman since that moment in the elevator when his eyes dropped to my lips and the air between us seemed to crackle with electricity.
"Fine," I concede. "I'll wear the dress. But if I get fired and become a cautionary tale in HR training videos, I'm blaming you."
"I'll accept full responsibility," Olivia says solemnly. "Now hold still while I finish your makeup. We need to emphasize those eyes. They're your secret weapon."
An hour later, I'm stepping out of the car at the Metropolitan Museum, where the Elysian Annual Charity Gala is being held.
The event raises millions for arts education in underserved communities—a cause that actually matters, unlike most fashion industry charity events that seem designed primarily for Instagram opportunities.
The museum steps are lined with photographers and fashionable attendees, creating a gauntlet of scrutiny for newcomers like me. I spot Olivia already working the crowd near the entrance. She catches my eye and gives me a subtle thumbs-up.
No one knows who I am, of course. I'm not a celebrity or an industry icon. But as Lumière's Creative Director, I represent the brand, and by extension, Elysian. The thought straightens my spine and lifts my chin as I enter the museum's grand hall.
The space has been transformed into a winter wonderland, with crystal installations catching and refracting light in mesmerizing patterns.
Waiters circulate with champagne and elegant hors d'oeuvres while New York's elite engage in the complicated social dance of seeing and being seen.
I accept a glass of champagne and scan the room, recognizing fashion editors, designers, and the occasional celebrity. No sign of Roman yet, which gives me time to?—
"Ms. Monroe." The familiar voice comes from behind me, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. "I'm glad you could make it."
I turn to find Roman standing closer than professional courtesy would dictate, looking devastatingly handsome in a tuxedo that makes the other men in the room look like they're wearing rentals.
"Mr. Kade," I respond, proud of how steady my voice sounds despite my racing heart. "Beautiful event."
His eyes make a deliberate journey from my face down my dress and back up, the appreciation unmistakable.
"Beautiful indeed."
A flush rises to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the champagne I've barely tasted.
"The crystal installations are remarkable." I deliberately misinterpret his comment. "They must have taken weeks to create."
"Months," he confirms, amusement flickering in his eyes. He knows exactly what I'm doing. "But worth every moment of planning, wouldn't you say?"
There's a double meaning in his words, or maybe I'm just imagining it because every interaction between us seems charged with subtext these days.
"Absolutely," I agree, taking a sip of champagne to hide my expression. "The effect is quite... stimulating."
A slight quirk of his eyebrow is the only indication that he's caught my meaning. "I should make the rounds," he says, regret evident in his tone.
"Save a dance for me later?"
The thought of being in Roman's arms, even in the formal context of a charity gala dance floor, sends my pulse racing again.
"If your schedule permits," I say noncommittally.
"I'll make sure it does." His voice drops slightly, for my ears only.
"That dress deserves proper appreciation."
Before I can formulate a response that won't get me fired, he's gone, moving through the crowd with the easy confidence of someone who knows he belongs at the top of every social hierarchy.
I exhale slowly, feeling like I've just survived some kind of exquisite stress test. One brief conversation and I'm already flustered. How am I supposed to make it through an entire evening?
"You must be Cassandra Monroe."
I turn to find an elegant woman in her fifties appraising me with sharp eyes. It takes me a moment to place her—Vivienne Larson, Fashion Director at Style Authority magazine and legendary industry kingmaker.
"Yes," I confirm, offering my hand. "It's an honor to meet you, Ms. Larson."
"Vivienne, please." She shakes my hand with surprising strength.
"I've been hearing interesting things about your vision for Lumière."
My professional instincts kick in immediately, pushing aside my Roman-induced fluster. "All good things, I hope?"
"Refreshingly bold," she says, studying me like I'm an unusual specimen.
"The industry needs more voices willing to challenge conventions rather than simply repackaging them with new price tags."
Coming from Vivienne Larson, this is the equivalent of a standing ovation.
"Thank you. That means a great deal, especially from someone with your influence."
"Roman speaks highly of you," she continues, watching my reaction carefully. "He rarely takes such an interest in new creative directors."
There's a question hidden in her statement, one I'm not prepared to answer. "Lumière is a priority for Elysian," I say, echoing Roman's own words. "It's the foundation upon which the entire luxury portfolio was built."
"Indeed." Vivienne sips her champagne, her expression giving nothing away. "And what foundation are you building it on now?"
For the next fifteen minutes, I find myself engaged in the most important impromptu business conversation of my career, outlining my vision for authentic luxury that celebrates imperfection and individuality rather than conformity to arbitrary standards.