9. Cassie #2
Vivienne listens intently, asking pointed questions that reveal both her deep industry knowledge and her skepticism of empty marketing speak. By the time we're interrupted by another industry executive wanting her attention, I feel like I've passed some kind of test.
"We should continue this conversation soon," Vivienne says as she prepares to move on. "Perhaps over lunch next week? My office will contact yours."
"I'd be honored," I say, meaning it completely.
She leans in slightly, lowering her voice. "And Cassandra? Whatever’s happening between you and Roman... be careful. This industry thrives on scandal but rarely forgives those caught in its spotlight."
I blink in surprise, unprepared for the sudden shift in conversation. "I'm not sure what you mean," I begin, but Vivienne cuts me off with a knowing look.
"Of course you don't," she says with the faintest smile. "Just something to consider. Until next week."
She glides away, leaving me standing there with a half-empty champagne glass and a growing sense of unease. Am I that transparent? Or is Roman? Or is Vivienne Larson simply as omniscient as industry rumors suggest?
Before I can puzzle it out, I'm approached by more industry figures eager to meet Lumière's new creative director. The next hour passes in a blur of introductions, business card exchanges, and carefully calibrated conversations that never reveal too much but suggest exciting possibilities.
I've just excused myself to find the restroom when a hand catches my elbow, pulling me gently but firmly into a side corridor away from the main event.
"You've been avoiding me," Roman says, his voice low and slightly accusatory.
"I've been networking," I correct him, acutely aware of his hand still on my arm and the relative privacy of our current location. "It is a business event, after all."
"You've spoken to everyone except me," he counters. "Including Vivienne Larson, which is impressive. She usually avoids these events like the plague."
"We had an interesting conversation about authentic luxury," I say, not mentioning Vivienne's parting warning. "She's invited me to lunch next week."
"A rare honor," Roman acknowledges. "She must see something special in you."
"Or she's gathering ammunition," I suggest, only half joking. "The fashion industry runs on gossip and takedowns as much as creativity."
Roman's expression darkens slightly. "Has someone said something to you? About us?"
The fact that there's an "us" to comment on hangs in the air between us, unacknowledged yet undeniable.
"No," I say carefully. "But people notice things. Patterns. Interest. Special treatment."
"Is that what you think this is?" Roman asks, his voice taking on an edge I've never heard before. "Special treatment?"
"Isn't it?" I challenge, emboldened by champagne and the private setting. "You don't personally mentor other creative directors. You don't text them after hours. You certainly don't almost kiss them in elevators."
The last part slips out before I can censor myself. We've never actually acknowledged what almost happened that day, maintaining the fiction that it was just another moment of tension rather than a line nearly crossed.
Roman's eyes darken, his posture shifting subtly as he moves closer.
"Is that what you think almost happened? A kiss?"
My breath catches at his proximity, at the heat radiating from his body, at the intensity in his gaze. "What would you call it?"
"A prelude," he says, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "A preview. A promise of what could happen if we both stopped pretending this is just professional interest."
My heart hammers against my ribs so loudly I'm certain he can hear it. "Roman," I say softly, unsure if I'm warning him away or inviting him closer.
"Do you have any idea what that dress has been doing to me all night?" he asks, his eyes making another deliberate journey from my face downward.
"I've been thinking about peeling it off you—slowly—since the moment you walked in."
Heat floods my body at his words, at the naked desire in his eyes. This is dangerous territory, far beyond our text exchanges or heated glances.
"We can't," I whisper, though I make no move to create distance between us.
"Not here. Not when anyone could walk by."
A small, devastatingly sexy smile curves his lips. "So it's the location that concerns you, not the act itself?"
Caught in my own logic trap, I can only stare at him, my desire warring with my professional instincts.
"Meet me on the terrace in five minutes." His tone makes it clear this isn't exactly a request. "Unless you're not as brave in person as you are in those texts."
The challenge in his words stirs something in me—pride, defiance, desire, or some potent combination of all three.
"The south terrace is closed for the event," I point out, stalling for time while my rational mind screams warnings about career suicide.
"I have a key," Roman says simply. "Five minutes, Cassie. Or we can go back to pretending this isn't happening until the next time we're alone in an elevator."
He walks away before I can respond, disappearing into the crowd with such smooth confidence that no one would guess he'd just propositioned his Creative Director in a museum corridor.
I stand there frozen, weighing my options.
The professional choice is obvious: return to the gala, continue networking, maintain boundaries.
The personal choice is equally clear: five minutes from now, I could be alone with Roman on a deserted terrace, finally discovering if reality lives up to the fantasy we've been building.
My phone buzzes in the small clutch I've been carrying. A text from Olivia:
Did you see the Page Six editor by the bar? Perfect opportunity to pitch your sister's portfolio!
Right. Mia. My career. My responsibilities. The real world that exists beyond whatever this magnetic pull between Roman and me might be.
I straighten my dress, check my lipstick in a nearby display case, and make a decision that will either be the smartest or stupidest of my life.
Five minutes later, I'm slipping through a service door onto the museum's south terrace, the sounds of the gala fading behind me as I step into the cool night air.
The terrace is deserted, softly lit by the ambient glow from the museum windows and the city lights spread out below. For a moment, I think Roman isn't here—that perhaps this was some kind of test I've just failed by showing up.
Then I feel him before I see him, his presence announcing itself in the subtle shift of air, the faint scent of his cologne, the prickling awareness along my skin.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," Roman says from the shadows, his voice carrying in the quiet night.
"Neither was I," I admit as he steps into the light.
He's removed his tuxedo jacket, bow tie hanging loose around his neck, top buttons undone as if he needed to breathe more freely.
The sight of him slightly disheveled does something inappropriate to my insides.
"Second thoughts?" he asks, stopping a few feet away, giving me space I'm not entirely sure I want.
"About a million of them," I say honestly. "This is?—"
"Complicated?" he supplies. "Risky? Potentially disastrous?"
"All of the above."
Roman steps closer, close enough that I can see the subtle variations of blue in his eyes, close enough that I would only need to sway forward slightly to be pressed against him.
"Tell me to leave," he says softly.
"Tell me this isn't what you want, and we'll go back inside. Back to professional texts and appropriate meetings and pretending we don't both feel this."
It's an out.
A graceful exit from this precipice we're standing on. All I have to do is say the words, and we can return to the safety of clearly defined boundaries.
Instead, I reach up and touch his face, my fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I've never been very good at lying," I whisper.
The last thread of his control seems to snap at my touch. His hand comes up to cup the back of my neck as he closes the remaining distance between us, his lips claiming mine with an intensity that steals my breath.
The kiss is nothing like I imagined—and I've imagined it plenty.
It's better.
Hotter.
More consuming.
His mouth is demanding yet responsive, taking and giving in equal measure as his free hand slides to my waist, pulling me against him.
I kiss him back with equal fervor, weeks of tension and desire converging in this moment. My hands find their way to his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through the fine fabric of his shirt, the rapid beat of his heart matching my own.
When we finally break apart, both breathing heavily, I feel dizzy with want and the surreal realization that I'm kissing Roman Kade on a museum terrace while New York's elite mingle just beyond the door.
"That wall text," Roman murmurs, his lips trailing along my jaw to the sensitive spot below my ear. "Tell me exactly what you imagined."
A shiver runs through me at both his words and the sensation of his mouth on my skin. "I think you know," I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathless.
"I want to hear you say it," he insists, his hands skimming down my sides to my hips. "Tell me, Cassie."
The command in his voice, the heat in his eyes, the solid press of his body against mine—it all combines to short-circuit my usual filters.
"I imagined being pushed against a wall," I whisper, watching his pupils dilate. "Strong hands pinning mine above my head. A man holding me there while he kisses me until I can't breathe, can't think, can't remember anything."
A low sound, almost a growl, escapes him.
"Like this?" he asks, walking me backward until I feel the cool stone balustrade against my back.
His hands capture my wrists, gently but firmly guiding them above my head and holding them there with one of his own.
"Yes," I breathe, arching slightly against him. "Exactly like this."