14. Cassie
CASSIE
T here's a special kind of dread that comes with breakfast meetings.
It's not just the ungodly hour or the pressure to be witty before caffeine—it's the forced intimacy of sharing the first meal of the day with someone while maintaining professional boundaries.
Especially when that someone is your boss's archnemesis who's clearly trying to poach you.
The restaurant Maxwell Grant chose is so trendy it doesn't have a sign, just a small blue door between a high-end florist and an artisanal cheese shop.
Inside, it's all exposed brick, hanging plants, and people who look like they've never experienced bedhead.
The kind of place where a cup of coffee costs more than my favorite bottle of wine and comes with a lecture about its origin story.
I'm ten minutes early—a habit my mother drilled into me that even years of therapy couldn't undo—but Maxwell Grant is already there, commandeering a corner table like it's his personal boardroom. He rises when he sees me, all practiced charm and expensive tailoring.
"Ms. Monroe," he says, extending his hand. "Thank you for making time this morning."
His handshake is firm but not aggressive—calculated, like everything else about him. Perfect grip pressure. Two pumps exactly. A man who's studied the art of making people feel valued without giving away any actual power.
"Mr. Grant," I reply, sliding into the chair across from him. "Hard to refuse such an intriguing invitation."
"Maxwell, please," he insists with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I think we can dispense with formalities, don't you?"
"Then it's Cassie," I say, picking up the menu to avoid his too-keen gaze.
A server materializes at our table, somehow sensing exactly when we're ready to order. I request a double espresso, which earns me an approving nod from Grant. He orders some concoction that requires three adjectives and a geographical origin to describe.
"I've been following your career with interest," he says once we're alone again. "Your work at Blackwell Creative was quite impressive. The Luminex campaign in particular."
I try not to show my surprise. The Luminex campaign was technically headed by my former boss, though I did most of the actual work. Finding that Maxwell Grant is familiar with it is both flattering and mildly alarming.
"You've done your homework," I observe.
"I make it a point to be well-informed about exceptional talent." He leans back, studying me. "Especially when that talent is being underutilized."
Our coffees arrive, buying me a moment to process this. The server places a tiny, potent cup of espresso in front of me and what appears to be a science experiment in front of Grant.
"I'm hardly underutilized at Elysian," I say after taking a fortifying sip. "Roman has given me considerable creative freedom with Lumière."
"Roman, is it?" Grant's eyebrows lift slightly. "How quickly we adapt to first-name basis with our superiors."
The comment lands exactly as intended—a gentle reminder of power dynamics, a subtle question about my relationship with Roman. I keep my expression neutral despite the alarm bells now clanging in my head.
"Elysian has a collaborative culture," I say smoothly. "But I'm curious what brought me to your attention, Maxwell."
"Your presentation yesterday was enlightening. Your vision for Lumière is precisely the kind of thinking we foster at Grant Industries."
"And what kind of thinking is that?"
"Bold. Authentic. Uninhibited by conventional corporate restraints." He takes a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. "The kind of thinking that deserves proper recognition and support."
The implied criticism of Elysian—of Roman—hangs in the air between us.
"I've found plenty of support at Elysian," I counter. "The entire team has embraced my vision for Lumière."
"Of course they have." His smile turns condescending. "Roman always did have an eye for talent he could... shape to his specifications."
The parallel to Camden is so obvious it almost makes me laugh. Same playbook, different industry. Men trying to undermine other men by suggesting they're controlling, while simultaneously attempting to control you themselves.
"I'm not easily shaped." I let steel enter my voice.
"Precisely why I wanted to meet with you." Grant sets down his cup, leaning forward slightly. "I'd like to offer you a position at Grant Industries. Creative Director of our luxury division, with double your current salary and complete creative autonomy."
Despite expecting this, the bluntness of the offer catches me off guard. "That's... quite generous."
"It's merely appropriate compensation for your talent." He waves away my surprise like it's an annoying fly. "Plus full benefits, of course. Stock options. A signing bonus that would make even Roman blink."
I take another sip of espresso, using the moment to gather my thoughts.
The offer is objectively spectacular—the kind that could set up my financial future, give me the resources to help Mia through design school without stress, maybe even buy an actual apartment instead of renting.
"And why would you offer all this to someone you've just met?" I ask, cutting to the chase.
His laugh is practiced, designed to convey casual amusement rather than genuine mirth. "I believe in decisive action when exceptional opportunities present themselves. Just as I believe in recognizing talent that others might... take for granted."
"Roman doesn't take me for granted," I say, the defensive note in my voice betraying more than I intended.
Grant's eyes sharpen with interest. "I never suggested he did. Though your quick defense is... noteworthy."
Damn it. Score one for Grant.
"I'm simply clarifying my current professional situation," I say, trying to recover. "I'm very happy at Elysian."
"Happiness is a luxury in this industry," Grant replies. "Career advancement is a necessity. And I wonder if your advancement at Elysian might be... complicated by certain factors."
My stomach tightens. "What factors would those be?"
"Office politics can be tricky," he says vaguely. "Especially when professional boundaries become... fluid."
Ice slides down my spine. He knows. Or at least, he strongly suspects. The question is: how much evidence does he have?
"I'm not sure what you're implying," I say, keeping my voice level.
"I'm not implying anything." His smile is all innocence. "I'm simply offering you a fresh start. A place where your success won't be questioned or attributed to... favorable circumstances."
The insinuation makes my cheeks burn, not with embarrassment but with anger. Before I can respond, Grant pivots smoothly.
"Your sister is quite talented as well, isn't she? Mia, correct? I believe she has an interview for Elysian's internship program."
The mention of Mia's name in his mouth feels like a violation.
"I make it my business to know about promising young talent.
" He stirs his coffee unnecessarily. "Our internship program at Grant Industries is considerably more prestigious than Elysian's.
Higher stipend, more hands-on mentoring, better industry connections.
I'd be happy to offer her a position directly. No interview necessary."
And there it is—the leverage I was waiting for him to play. Not subtle at all, which means he's either desperate or doesn't think much of my intelligence.
"That's very generous," I say carefully. "But Mia prefers to earn opportunities on her own merit."
"Of course she does," Grant agrees smoothly. "She sounds remarkably like her sister. But in this industry, connections matter. And your connection to me could be very beneficial for both of you."
I take a slow, deliberate sip of my now-cooling espresso. "As opposed to my connection to Roman, which you seem to be suggesting is... problematic."
Grant spreads his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. "I wouldn't presume to comment on your relationship with Roman. I simply know from experience that he can be... possessive of what he considers his."
The word choice—"what" rather than "who"—is deliberate. Everything about this man is deliberate, every sentence a calculated move in whatever game he's playing with Roman.
"I'm not a possession," I say flatly. "Not Roman's, not Elysian's, and certainly not yours."
"Precisely my point." Grant's smile takes on a satisfied edge. "Which is why I'm offering you a position based solely on your talent, with no... extracurricular complications."
My phone buzzes in my purse—a welcome interruption. "Excuse me," I murmur, retrieving it.
A text from Olivia:
Emergency Google session on your breakfast date. Grant has a pattern—hires talent away from rivals then fires them once damage is done. THREE former creative directors in 5 yrs. Call me ASAP.
I slide the phone back into my purse, a new clarity settling over me like a protective shield. This isn't about my talent. It never was.
"Let me be direct, Maxwell," I say, meeting his gaze steadily. "What exactly are you hoping to accomplish by hiring me? Because I suspect it has very little to do with my creative vision for luxury brands."
His expression shifts almost imperceptibly—respect, perhaps, or annoyance at being called out. "I'm building a team of the best talent in the industry. Your work speaks for itself."
"Does it?" I reach for my portfolio, which I've kept beside me. "Which concepts specifically impressed you?"
"All of them," he says smoothly. "Your entire approach is revolutionary."
I open the portfolio to a specific spread—a series of concept boards for Lumière's spring accessories line. "What about this design direction appealed to you the most?"
Grant examines the spread with practiced interest. "The boldness. The departure from conventional luxury messaging."
"Interesting." I tap one of the boards. "This concept was actually rejected. It never made it into the final presentation. I included it as a comparison point to show the evolution of the approved direction."
His expression doesn't change, but a muscle in his jaw tightens. "Even rejected concepts can reveal talent."
"True," I agree. "But if you were truly interested in my creative vision, you'd know which concepts were mine and which weren't. You're not looking at my portfolio—you're looking for leverage against Roman."
The pretense of casual interest drops from his face like a mask. "You're more perceptive than I gave you credit for."
"And you're more transparent than you think." I close the portfolio with deliberate calm. "You don't want me for my talent. You want me because he does."
Grant sits back, reassessing me. "Perhaps both are true."
"And you certainly don't care about my sister's talent," I continue, anger simmering just below my professional veneer. "You just want leverage. Another way to hurt Roman through the people connected to him."
"Your sister does have talent," Grant counters. "That much is evident from her work. But yes, the connection to you—and by extension, to Roman—makes her particularly interesting."
"That's despicable," I say quietly.
"That's business." He shrugs, unapologetic. "Roman understands the game we're playing."
"This isn't a game to me," I say, gathering my things. "Or to my sister. We're actual people with careers and aspirations that have nothing to do with your vendetta."
"Everyone's connected to something larger than themselves," Grant says. "The question is whether you recognize those connections and use them to your advantage."
I stand, my decision clear. "Thank you for breakfast, Maxwell. I'll consider your offer."
"Will you?" His skepticism is evident. "Or will you run straight to Roman to tell him everything I said?"
The question stops me short. Because that's exactly what part of me wants to do—to warn Roman, to stand firmly by his side against this strange, calculating man.
But another part—the part still smarting from his presumption that he could direct my professional interactions—bristles at the idea of playing the loyal lieutenant, reporting back to the general.
"What I do with your offer is my business," I say finally. "But know this—if you approach my sister or attempt to use her in any way, our interactions will become significantly less civilized."
Grant's laugh holds genuine amusement this time. "You really are perfect for him, aren't you? That fire, that loyalty, that protective instinct. It's exactly what draws him to you."
"You don't know the first thing about what's between Roman and me," I say, though the words sound hollow even to my ears.
"Don't I?" Grant rises as well, extending his hand one final time. "For what it's worth, I do admire your talent. And my offer stands, should you decide that a fresh start is worth considering."
I shake his hand briefly, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a snub. "Goodbye, Maxwell."
As I walk out of the restaurant into the crisp morning air, his words follow me like persistent shadows. ‘ You really are perfect for him, aren't you?’
Am I?
Or am I just repeating past patterns, letting another powerful man define my choices, my future?
The parallels between Camden and Roman aren't completely unfair—both successful, both used to getting their way, both with clear ideas about how things should be done.
But there's a fundamental difference that Maxwell Grant either doesn't see or chooses to ignore. Camden wanted me smaller, quieter, less. Roman wants me bold, confident, more.
The question now is: what do I want? And is it possible to stand with someone without standing in their shadow?
I pull out my phone to text Olivia, knowing I need her clear-eyed perspective before I make any decisions.
Before I see Roman and have to decide what—if anything—to tell him about this meeting.
Breakfast over. Grant as slimy as expected. Offered double salary, tried to leverage Mia, clearly just wants to hurt Roman. Need wine and wisdom. Lunch?
Her response is immediate:
Already ordered pizza and opened emergency rosé. My place at 1. Bring ALL the details.
I slip my phone back into my purse, my mind still churning with Grant's words, with the choice before me, with the realization that whatever "arrangement" Roman and I thought we had has evolved into something far more complicated than either of us intended.
Whatever I decide, one thing is crystal clear: Maxwell Grant was right about one thing. This isn't just about my talent or my career. It's about connections—to Roman, to Mia, to my own sense of who I am and what I stand for.
The question is whether those connections make me stronger or whether they're just expensive, invisible chains.