11. Cassie
CASSIE
S unlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows is a particularly obnoxious way to wake up in a stranger's bed.
Correction: not a stranger. My boss. My extremely wealthy, powerful, annoyingly attractive boss whose sheets probably cost more than my monthly rent and whose body is wrapped around mine like he's afraid I might evaporate.
I blink against the brightness, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. This is definitely not my IKEA bed frame or West Elm comforter.
The memories of last night rush back in a delicious flood—the museum terrace, the ride to his penthouse, and everything that followed. Every. Scorching. Detail.
I slept with Roman Kade.
Not just slept with—I let him do things that would make Olivia's romance novels blush. That he did with an expertise that confirmed all those "Most Eligible Bachelor" headlines weren't just about his bank account.
I carefully extract myself from Roman's embrace, trying not to wake him. He looks different in sleep—younger, less guarded. The perpetual furrow between his brows has smoothed out, and his mouth, usually set in that stern CEO line, is relaxed. It's like seeing behind the mask he wears all day.
I should be freaking out right now. Having proper post-one-night-stand panic. Planning my walk of shame. Wondering if I still have a job.
Instead, I'm... curious. How often does anyone get to see the real Roman Kade, not the carefully constructed public image? His penthouse is like a museum exhibit titled "The Private Life of a Billionaire," and I suddenly have an all-access pass.
I slide out of bed, wincing slightly at the not unpleasant soreness between my thighs—a physical reminder of just how thoroughly I've complicated my professional life.
Grabbing the first thing I find—his discarded dress shirt from last night—I fasten the remaining buttons on it and roll up the sleeves that hang past my fingertips.
The hardwood is cool against my bare feet as I pad through the bedroom into the main living area. In daylight, the penthouse is even more impressive.
Sunlight pours through the windows, highlighting the meticulous design choices—modern but not cold, luxurious without being ostentatious.
But the unexpected personal touches catch my attention.
A wall of bookshelves holds actual, well-read books—not the leather-bound decorative collections I'd expected. I run my fingers along the spines, surprised to find dog-eared paperbacks mixed with first editions. Poetry collections. Philosophy. Art books with cracked spines.
On a side table sits a framed photograph of a teenage Roman with his arm around a young woman—his sister, maybe? They're laughing, caught in a candid moment that looks nothing like the stern-faced CEO I know.
In the kitchen–bigger than my entire apartment– a collection of mismatched coffee mugs contradicts the otherwise perfectly coordinated space.
One says "World's Okayest Brother" in faded letters.
Another has a cartoon of Darth Vader holding a cup of coffee with the caption "I find your lack of caffeine disturbing. "
Who even is this man?
The Roman Kade who uses Star Wars mugs and reads poetry can't possibly be the same intimidating figure who makes junior executives tremble during budget meetings.
"Find anything incriminating yet?"
I nearly jump out of my skin—or rather, his shirt—at the sound of his voice behind me.
I spin around to find Roman leaning against the doorframe, wearing only pajama bottoms that hang low on his hips.
His dark wavy hair is adorably mussed, and there's a slight shadow of stubble along his jaw that makes him look dangerously unlike himself.
"Just conducting market research." I recover quickly, gesturing to the mugs. "I had no idea the fearsome Roman Kade was a closet nerd."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "If that gets out, I'll have to deny it completely. My reputation as a soulless corporate tyrant is carefully maintained."
"Your secret's safe with me," I promise, then add with a smirk, "along with all your other secrets from last night."
His eyes darken slightly as they travel down the length of my body in his shirt. "That looks significantly better on you than it does on me."
"I don't know," I counter, letting my own gaze appreciate the view of his bare chest. "I think you wear nothing quite well."
There's a moment of charged silence when we both remember exactly what happened last night. What could easily happen again if either of us makes a move.
Instead, Roman clears his throat and steps into the kitchen. "Hungry?"
"Starving," I admit, relieved and maybe a tiny bit disappointed by the shift in mood.
"I make excellent hangover eggs," he says, opening the refrigerator with the casual confidence of someone who actually uses their kitchen rather than just keeping it as a showpiece.
"You cook?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice.
"Don't sound so shocked." He extracts eggs, cheese, and various vegetables. "I do possess some domestic skills beyond signing checks to my housekeeper."
"Sorry," I perch on a barstool at the counter, enjoying this bizarre alternate universe where Roman Kade cooks breakfast while I wear his shirt. "It's just hard to imagine you doing anything so... ordinary."
"I'm still human, despite what the business press might report." He cracks eggs with practiced efficiency. "Though if you tell anyone at Elysian that I make my own breakfast, I might have to fire you."
"Ah, there's the threatening boss I know," I tease, and am rewarded with a genuine laugh that transforms his face. I want to hear that laugh from him again. More than is prudent to admit.
I watch in fascination as Roman navigates his kitchen with unexpected ease, whisking eggs, chopping vegetables, and operating what appears to be a professional-grade espresso machine.
There's something strangely intimate about watching him perform this mundane task—more intimate, somehow, than sex. This isn't CEO Roman or even Seductive Text Roman. This is just... Roman.
"So," he says casually, his back to me as he works. "About last night."
And there it is. The morning-after conversation I've been simultaneously dreading and hoping for.
"Yes, about that," I say, aiming for nonchalance and probably missing by a mile. "Pretty sure that qualifies as several HR violations."
"At minimum," he agrees, sliding a perfectly prepared omelet onto a plate. "Possibly some ethical breaches as well."
"Not to mention terrible judgment on my part," I add, accepting the plate he hands me. "Sleeping with my boss is literally in chapter one of 'Career Mistakes to Avoid.'"
"And pursuing an employee is in the CEO handbook under 'Fireable Offenses,'" he counters, leaning against the counter across from me.
We look at each other for a moment, the absurdity of our situation hanging between us.
"So what now?" I finally ask. "Do we pretend it never happened? Because I have to warn you, that might be difficult considering I now know exactly what that little muscle in your jaw does when you?—"
"I don't want to pretend it never happened," he interrupts, his voice low and serious. "But I also don't want to jeopardize your career or my company."
I take a bite of the omelet to buy myself time to think. It's annoyingly delicious, because of course Roman Kade excels at everything he attempts.
"We need boundaries," I say finally. "Clear, professional boundaries."
"Agreed." He nods, looking relieved that I'm being practical. "At work, nothing changes. I'm your boss, you're Lumière's Creative Director."
"And after hours?" I ask, the question hanging in the air between us.
His eyes meet mine across the counter. "That depends. What do you want, Cassie?"
It's such a simple question, but the answer is anything but.
What do I want? Career success. Professional respect.
Not to be gossip fodder for the entire fashion industry.
But also... him. The version of him that texts me late at night.
The one that kissed me on that terrace. The man that is currently making me breakfast in his penthouse.
"I want..." I start, then stop, reformulating. "I don't want this to be Camden 2.0. I don't want to make myself smaller for a man again, even one as compelling as you."
Something flashes in his eyes—respect, maybe. "I would never ask you to be smaller, Cassie. Your fire is what drew me to you in the first place."
"But any relationship between us would be fundamentally unequal," I point out. "You're my boss. You have power over my career."
"True," he acknowledges. "Which is why this is probably a terrible idea."
"Probably," I agree, even as my body leans slightly toward him of its own accord.
Roman sets down his coffee mug with a decisive click. "So here's my proposal: at work, we're strictly professional. No special treatment, no favoritism. Your success or failure at Elysian depends entirely on your talent."
"And outside of work?"
A slow smile spreads across his face. "Outside of work, we explore... whatever this is. Discretely. No one at Elysian finds out."
"A secret relationship," I say skeptically. "Because those always end well."
"Not a relationship," he clarifies quickly. "An... arrangement. With an expiration date if needed."
I raise an eyebrow. "Friends with benefits, except we're not actually friends?"
"We could be," he says, sounding surprisingly earnest. "Friends, I mean. I find I very much enjoy talking to you."
"High praise from someone who probably charges by the minute for conversation," I quip, deflecting because his sincerity is somehow more disarming than his seduction.
He laughs, the sound warming something in my chest. "So what do you say, Cassie? Professional by day, something else by night? No strings, no expectations beyond mutual... enjoyment."
I should say no. Anyone with a functioning brain stem would say no. This has "disaster" written all over it in flashing neon letters.
"Exclusive," the word comes out before I can stop it. "Whatever this is, it's just us. I don't share, and I'm guessing you don't either."
His eyes darken. "Exclusive," he agrees, his voice dropping to that almost-growl that does ridiculous things to my insides.
"And the second it affects my work or reputation, or the company, it's over," I add firmly.
"Agreed." Roman rounds the counter, coming to stand in front of me. "Any other terms?"
"Just one," I say, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. "This can't be about power. Not in the bedroom. I need to know that space is equal, even if our professional relationship isn't."
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, followed by something deeper. "I can promise you that," he says softly. "What's between us privately has nothing to do with corporate hierarchy."
"Then we have a deal," I say, extending my hand like we've just negotiated a business contract rather than a clandestine affair.
Roman takes my hand, but instead of shaking it, he pulls me to my feet and into his arms.
"I think this calls for a more appropriate seal than a handshake," he murmurs, his lips hovering just above mine.
"Very unprofessional, Mr. Kade," I whisper against his mouth.
"Precisely the point, Ms. Monroe," he replies, before closing the distance between us.
What begins as a playful kiss quickly ignites into something more urgent.
My hands find their way into his hair as his slide beneath the shirt I'm wearing, retracing paths discovered last night.
He lifts me onto the counter with embarrassing ease, stepping between my legs as his mouth travels down my neck.
"We should probably stop," I gasp as his hands push the shirt up my thighs. "I have brunch with Olivia in an hour."
"Plenty of time," he murmurs against my collarbone.
Later, as I unlock the door to my apartment, I find myself smiling at the memory of Roman watching me leave from his doorway.
He’d insisted on waiting for my Uber to arrive.
"What's this for?" I'd asked, holding up the packaged toothbrush with amusement.
"In case you find yourself unexpectedly at my place again," he'd said with that hint of a smile that does unreasonable things to my cardiovascular system. "I like to be prepared."
"Pretty confident, aren't you?” I'd teased. “I think we should just keep it here…"
He'd stepped closer, his finger tracing my constellation tattoo in a gesture that felt oddly tender. "Not confident. Hopeful."
Then he'd kissed me—softly, lingering—before stepping back and transforming before my eyes into Roman Kade, CEO, his expression becoming the neutral mask the world knows.
"Have a good weekend, Ms. Monroe," he'd said. "I look forward to seeing the revised concepts on Monday."
I'd played along perfectly. "Of course, Mr. Kade. Thank you for the feedback.”
Now, as I drop my keys on the counter and kick off my shoes, my phone buzzes with a text. I already know who it's from before I look.
Your dress looked good on my floor. Just so you know.
I smile as I type my response:
Your shirt looks better on me than on you. You're not getting it back.
His reply comes almost immediately:
Keep it. I like the thought of you wearing something of mine. Even if no one else knows.
I flop onto my couch, clutching the phone like a teenage girl with her first crush. This is insane. I'm insane. We're playing with fire, and someone—probably me—is going to get burned.
But as I pull the collar of his shirt to my nose, breathing in the lingering scent of him, I can't bring myself to care about the inevitable flames.
Some things are worth the risk of getting burned.