10. Roman
ROMAN
I 'm not a man who paces.
Pacing suggests uncertainty, and uncertainty is a luxury CEOs can't afford.
Yet here I am, taking measured steps beside my idling car, checking my watch for the third time in two minutes while Henri, my driver, pretends not to notice this uncharacteristic display of nerves.
Nine minutes since I left Cassie standing in the crowded museum.
Nine minutes since I issued what amounts to the most unprofessional invitation of my career.
I loosen my bow tie further, annoyed at how the simple black silk suddenly feels like it's strangling me.
The night air is cool against my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat that's been simmering inside me since I saw Cassie in that dress—that architectural marvel of midnight blue fabric that somehow makes her look both elegantly professional and impossibly seductive.
"Mr. Kade?" Henri's voice interrupts my thoughts. "Would you prefer to wait inside?”
Translation: You're making a spectacle of yourself, sir .
"No," I reply curtly, then soften my tone. "Thank you, Henri. Just enjoying the night air."
He gives me a look that says he's been working for me seven years and has never once seen me "enjoy night air," but he's too professional to comment further.
One minute left. My phone weighs heavy in my pocket, and I resist the urge to check if she's sent a message canceling. Part of me—the rational, CEO part—hopes she will. The other part...
The museum's side door opens, and there she is.
Cassie steps out, looking slightly breathless, as though she ran part of the way. Her eyes dart around until they land on me, and I watch as she visibly steadies herself before walking toward my car with deliberate steps. The moonlight catches on her dress, making her shimmer with each movement.
I shouldn't be doing this. She's my employee. A talented employee with a career that could be derailed by precisely this kind of complication.
And yet, as she approaches, all my carefully constructed arguments for professional distance crumble like sand castles against the tide.
"You came," I say, hating how relieved I sound.
"I'm as surprised as you are," she admits, a hint of that refreshing honesty that first caught my attention in her accidental text.
I open the car door for her, and she slides in, midnight fabric pooling around her like spilled ink. I follow, maintaining a careful distance on the leather seat—as much for my benefit as hers.
Henri closes the door with practiced discretion. "Home, sir?"
Home.
The word hangs between us. Not my office. Not a hotel. My home—a place I almost never bring anyone, especially not someone connected to Elysian.
"Yes," I confirm, watching Cassie's face for any sign of hesitation. "Unless you'd prefer somewhere else?"
She meets my eyes, challenge and desire warring in her expression. "Your home is fine."
Henri nods and raises the privacy partition. The muted hum of the engine fills the silence as we pull away from the curb.
Neither of us speaks as the car navigates through Manhattan traffic.
The space between us on the seat might as well be the Grand Canyon or a millimeter at the same time.
I'm acutely aware of her—the subtle scent of her perfume, the way her fingers nervously smooth the fabric of her dress, the soft sound of her breathing.
This is ridiculous. I run a multi-billion-dollar company. I negotiate international deals over breakfast. I've stared down hostile takeovers without breaking a sweat. Yet here I am, tongue-tied like a teenager because a woman who accidentally sexted me is sitting in my car.
"You can still change your mind," I find myself saying, surprising us both. "One word from you and Henri will take you home instead."
She studies me with those sharp green eyes that seem to see through every facade I've built. "Is that what you want?"
"What I want," I say carefully, "is irrelevant if you have any doubts."
A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "That's not an answer, Roman."
"No, it's not what I want," I admit, the truth like a foreign language on my tongue. "But I need you to be sure."
Her hand slides across the seat, bridging the distance between us. When her fingers touch mine, the simple contact sends an electric current up my arm.
"I'm sure," she says simply. "For tonight, at least."
The qualification hangs between us— for tonight —a reminder that whatever happens next comes with no promises, no expectations beyond the hours before dawn. It should be a relief. Instead, it creates an unexpected hollow feeling in my chest.
I turn my hand, capturing her fingers with mine. "For tonight," I echo, sealing the temporary contract between us.
The rest of the drive passes in charged silence, her hand in mine the only point of contact, yet somehow more intimate than anything I've experienced in recent memory.
When the car pulls up to my building on the Upper East Side, I feel an unfamiliar flutter of anxiety.
My penthouse is my sanctuary, designed precisely to my specifications with the same exacting standards I apply to everything in my life.
Few people have seen it—fewer still have spent the night.
Bringing Cassie here crosses yet another line, erasing one more boundary between boss and employee, between professional and personal.
Henri opens the door, and I exit first, offering my hand to help Cassie from the car. The doorman nods respectfully as we approach, betraying no reaction to my bringing a guest home at this hour. One of the many reasons I pay an obscene amount for this building.
"Goodnight, Henri," I say. "Take tomorrow morning off."
"Very good, sir." His expression remains professionally neutral, but I catch the glimmer of knowing amusement in his eyes. "Enjoy your evening."
The private elevator requires my fingerprint to access the penthouse level. As the doors close, sealing us in the confined space, the memory of our last elevator encounter hangs heavy between us.
"No security cameras in this one," I say, nodding toward the ceiling.
Her eyebrow arches. "Is that an invitation or a statement of fact?"
"Just relevant information," I reply, the corner of my mouth lifting. "What you do with it is entirely up to you."
She takes a step closer, eliminating the careful distance I'd maintained in the car. "What would you like me to do with it?"
The open challenge in her voice sends heat coursing through me. For weeks, we've been circling each other with text messages and heated glances. The anticipation has built to the point where even standing near her feels combustible.
"I'd like you," I say, my voice dropping lower, "to stop overthinking this as much as I am."
A surprised laugh escapes her. "You're overthinking too?"
"Catastrophically."
"That's... surprisingly comforting."
The elevator slows to a stop, saving me from having to admit just how much mental real estate she's been occupying. The doors slide open to reveal the private foyer of my penthouse, and I gesture for her to enter first.
I watch her face as she takes in the space—the soaring ceilings, the wall of windows overlooking the city, the carefully curated modern art collection that most museums would envy. Her expression shifts from impressed to curious to something I can't quite decipher.
"This is..." she begins, then stops, turning a full circle.
"Not what you expected?" I ask, shrugging out of my jacket and laying it over a chair.
"I don't know what I expected," she admits, moving toward the windows. "Something sleek and minimalist, probably. Cold. Intimidating." She glances back at me. "Like your office."
"My office is designed to project a specific image," I explain, following her to the window. "This is where I actually live."
She studies me with unexpected intensity. "And which is the real Roman Kade?"
"Both. Neither." I shrug, uncomfortable with the directness of her question. "The line blurs when you've been playing a role long enough."
Her fingers trace the spine of a well-worn book on the side table—a vintage collection of poetry most people would be surprised to find in my possession. "So which one am I with tonight?"
The question hangs in the air, more loaded than she likely intended.
Which version does she want? The powerful CEO who commands rooms with his presence?
The mysterious texter who matched her explicit fantasies with his own?
Or this other version—the one who reads poetry late at night and sometimes feels crushed by the weight of the persona he's created?
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "I'm not sure I can separate them anymore."
She nods, as if this makes perfect sense, and continues exploring the space.
I watch her drift from the living area toward the kitchen, noting how she runs her fingers along the edge of the countertop, the casual intimacy of the gesture hitting me with unexpected force.
"Would you like a drink?" I ask, following her.
"I've had enough champagne tonight," she says. "What I'd really like is for you to be honest with me."
I tense slightly. "About?"
She turns to face me, leaning against the counter. "When did you know it was me? The wrong number text—when did you figure out it was me who sent it?"
The directness of the question catches me off guard. I consider deflecting but remember my earlier thought—how her honesty was what drew me to her in the first place.
"The day you interviewed," I admit. When I was reviewing resumes for the Creative Director position, before interviews started, I recognized the mystery number as yours. That’s when I put it together. I remembered seeing you on your social media profile when I... investigated the number. "
Her eyebrows shoot up. "You looked me up before you even knew who I was?
"Of course I did," I say, slightly defensive. "I'm not in the habit of responding to explicit texts from unknown numbers without doing my homework."