12. Cassie
CASSIE
" A nd you're making me late to brunch... why exactly?" Olivia demands three hours later as I slide into the booth across from her, looking distinctly rumpled despite my best efforts.
"Traffic," I lie, avoiding her eyes by studying the menu with unusual intensity.
"Mm-hmm." She doesn't sound remotely convinced. "And does this 'traffic' happen to be about six-foot-two with a net worth in the billions?"
I peek over the menu to find her grinning like the cat who got the cream, the canary, and probably several other metaphorical prizes.
"I hate you," I inform her pleasantly.
"You love me," she counters. "And you're going to tell me everything ."
I sigh, knowing resistance is futile. "Fine. But I'm going to need a mimosa first. Or three."
Olivia flags down the waiter before I can change my mind, ordering us two mimosas with a cheerful "Keep 'em coming" that promises this brunch will be more booze than breakfast. The moment he steps away, she leans forward, elbows on the table, chin propped on her hands.
"Start talking."
"Can I at least order food first? Some of us worked up an appetite this morning." The words slip out before I can stop them.
Olivia's eyes widen to cartoon proportions. "Oh. My. God. You didn't just spend the night with him—you had morning sex too?"
"Can you please lower your voice?" I hiss, glancing around at the nearby tables where New York's brunching elite are pretending not to eavesdrop. "I'd like to maintain at least the illusion of dignity."
"Dignity is overrated," Olivia dismisses with a wave of her hand. "Details are not. Spill."
The mimosas arrive, and I take a fortifying gulp before setting the glass down. "Where exactly would you like me to start?"
"How about with whatever happened after you texted me 'Leaving now' from the gala, then mysteriously went radio silent until your 'running late' message this morning?" She uses actual air quotes, because subtlety has never been Olivia's strong suit.
I take another sip, then decide to just rip the Band-Aid off. "I went home with Roman."
"I'm aware of that much, Captain Obvious. I want to know everything—what his place is like, what happened when you got there, how many times you..." She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
"This isn't one of your romance novels, Liv."
"Clearly it is, or you wouldn't be sitting there in yesterday's makeup with a hickey poorly concealed by that scarf."
My hand flies to my neck. "There is not a hickey!"
"Got you." She smirks. "But thanks for confirming something happened that could have left marks."
I groan and let my head fall forward onto the table. "Why are we friends again?"
"Because I'm the only person who will help you navigate sleeping with your billionaire boss without judging you. Much."
She's right, damn her. I sit back up, surrender evident in my posture. "His penthouse takes up the entire top floor of that new building on the Upper East Side. The one that looks like a glass sword stabbing the sky."
"Of course it does," Olivia murmurs appreciatively.
"It's not what I expected. I mean, yes, it's ridiculously luxurious, but it's not cold or sterile. He has actual books—dog-eared paperbacks mixed with first editions. Philosophy. Poetry. Art books that look like they've been read more than once."
"Less about his literary taste, more about what happened when you got there," Olivia interrupts impatiently.
The waiter returns to take our order, and I'm grateful for the brief reprieve. Once he's gone, Olivia fixes me with her best "continue or die" look.
"We talked," I say, deliberately vague.
"About..."
"About when he figured out I was the one who texted him. Turns out he's known since my interview."
That catches her attention. "Wait, what? How?"
“He looked up my number."
"That's either incredibly romantic or disturbingly stalkerish," Olivia muses. "I can't decide which."
"It was... surprisingly honest. He admitted everything—when he knew, why he hired me anyway, why he kept texting me."
Olivia leans closer. "And why did he?"
"He said the text made him notice me, but my talent made him hire me." I trace the rim of my glass, remembering his exact words, the intensity in his eyes when he said them. "He said he'd never had anyone speak to him with such unfiltered honesty before."
"Mm-hmm." Olivia looks unconvinced. "And after this heartfelt confession, you just... talked some more?"
The heat rising to my cheeks gives me away.
"There it is!" she crows triumphantly. "Now we're getting somewhere. On a scale from Camden to erotic fiction, how was it?"
"Olivia!" I glance around in panic, but the nearby tables seem absorbed in their own conversations.
"That good, huh?" She's enjoying this far too much.
"If you must know," I say, lowering my voice to a whisper, "it was spectacular. Earth-moving. Universe-altering. Are those enough adjectives for you?"
"Details, darling. I need details."
"I am not giving you a play-by-play of my sex life," I say firmly, though the memory of Roman's hands on my skin, his mouth following paths that made me forget my own name, sends a shiver down my spine that Olivia definitely notices.
"Fine, be stingy with the good parts." She pouts. "At least tell me if the reality lived up to those texts."
I can't help the smile that spreads across my face. "Let's just say he delivers on his promises."
"And the wall thing?" she presses, because of course she remembers that detail from the original accidental text.
"The wall, the counter, the bed—" I cut myself off, mortified. "I'm not saying another word."
"You don't have to," Olivia says smugly. "Your face says it all."
Our food arrives, giving me another welcome break from the interrogation. I dig into my avocado toast with unnecessary enthusiasm.
"So what happens now?" Olivia asks after she's had a few bites of her eggs Benedict. "Was it a one-night stand or...?"
That's the million-dollar question, isn't it? The one I've been trying not to think too hard about.
"We actually discussed that," I admit. "This morning, over breakfast."
"He made you breakfast?" She looks impressed despite herself. "Actual food, not just calling his chef?"
"He cooked it himself. Turns out Roman Kade makes a mean omelet."
"Huh." She absorbs this. "A billionaire CEO who cooks. Didn't see that coming."
"There's a lot about him that doesn't fit the public image," I say, thinking of the Star Wars mug, the family photo, the surprising tenderness in his touch.
"And now you've got me all curious again. Back to my question—what happens now?"
I push a piece of avocado around my plate. "We came to an... arrangement."
Olivia's eyebrows shoot up. "An arrangement? Like a sugar daddy thing?"
"God, no!" I nearly choke on my mimosa. "Nothing like that. Just... boundaries. At work, we're strictly professional. Boss and employee, no special treatment. After hours..." I trail off, uncertain how to define what we agreed to.
"After hours, you're what? Friends with benefits?"
"Something like that," I say, though the term feels insufficient. "Exclusive, but not a relationship. Private. No expectations beyond" —I make air quotes this time— "'mutual enjoyment.'"
"And whose idea was this arrangement?"
"His, but I added conditions. Like the exclusivity. And that it ends the second it affects my job or professional reputation or the company."
Olivia ponders this while chewing thoughtfully. "So let me get this straight. You're having a secret, exclusive non-relationship with your boss, who is one of the most powerful men in fashion, and you think this is going to work out... how exactly?"
Put like that, it sounds insane. I drop my head into my hands. "I know, I know. It's career suicide wrapped in terrible judgment sprinkled with a heaping dose of what-the-hell-am-I-thinking."
"And yet you're doing it anyway," she observes, not unkindly.
"I tried telling myself all the reasons not to, Liv. I made an actual mental list."
"And?"
I look up at her, knowing my expression gives everything away. "And then I remember how it feels when he looks at me. Not just the physical stuff, though that's... yeah. But the way he actually sees me. My ideas. My ambition. The fire he says he doesn't want me to dim."
Olivia's teasing expression softens. "Camden really did a number on you, didn't he?"
"Two years of making myself smaller," I say quietly. "Two years of carefully filtering my thoughts, my desires, my creative vision. With Roman, I don't have to filter anything. Even when he disagrees with my ideas, he respects them. Respects me ."
"And that's worth the risk?" she asks, though I can tell she already knows my answer.
"I think it might be." I finish my mimosa and signal for another. "Besides, who says it can't work? We're both adults. We've set clear boundaries."
"Says the woman who once drove to Connecticut at 3 AM because she thought she left a straightening iron on," Olivia counters. "You're not exactly known for your sound judgment in high-stress situations."
"That was one time!"
"The straightening iron wasn't even plugged in."
"Can we focus on the current poor decision, please?" I request with as much dignity as I can muster. "I need actual advice, not a greatest hits compilation of Cassie's Questionable Choices."
Olivia takes a sip of her mimosa before leaning forward, suddenly serious. "Okay, real talk. If you're going to do this—and it sounds like you already are—you need a strategy. Office gossip spreads faster than a sample sale stampede."
"We've already agreed to be completely professional at work."
"Honey, people can smell sexual tension from three floors away.
You'll need code words, separate arrivals and departures, an ironclad story for when you're together.
" She's ticking points off on her fingers.
"And you'll need to control your face, which currently broadcasts 'I've seen Roman Kade naked' in neon letters. "
I grimace. "Is it that obvious?"