15. Roman
ROMAN
T here are exactly seventeen ways to fold a pocket square. I know because I've tried them all tonight, repeatedly, like a deranged origami enthusiast with a silk problem.
It's nearly midnight, and I'm standing in front of my closet mirror fussing with accessories like they hold the secrets of the universe.
Or at least the secret to not thinking about Cassie having breakfast with Maxwell Grant.
I toss the mangled silk onto my dresser, giving up the pretense that I'm getting ready for bed.
Sleep isn't happening. Not when my brain is running scenarios like it's a supercomputer with a processing addiction.
Best case: Cassie saw through Grant's manipulation and politely declined whatever outrageous offer he made.
Worst case: She's already drafting her resignation letter on Grant Industries letterhead.
Most likely case: Something in between that I can't predict because I don't actually know what happened, since I've been resisting the urge to text her all day like a teenager with impulse control issues.
"This is ridiculous," I announce to my empty penthouse. My voice bounces off the minimalist furniture like it's mocking me.
I'm Roman fucking Kade. I don't pace around my bedroom at midnight waiting for a woman to call. I make decisions. I take action. I control situations.
But that's precisely the problem, isn't it? This need to control everything is exactly what pushed Cassie to cancel our plans last night after I tried to manage her interaction with Grant.
I head to the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator door with more force than necessary. The bright light illuminates absolutely nothing I want to eat. I close it and open it again thirty seconds later, as if the contents might have magically transformed into something more appealing.
This is what I've been reduced to. Surveying refrigerator contents and folding pocket squares at midnight.
My phone sits on the counter, silent and judgmental.
I could text her. A casual check-in.
Professional curiosity about the meeting.
But I know myself too well. There would be nothing casual or professional about it. I'd be fishing for reassurance, for confirmation that she's not leaving—leaving Elysian or leaving me. And I promised to give her space.
Instead, I grab my laptop and head to my home office. If I can't sleep, I might as well work. At least that's familiar territory where I know exactly what I'm doing.
I pull up the Lumière financials, forcing myself to focus on quarterly projections rather than imagining Cassie across a breakfast table from Grant. The numbers blur together after fifteen minutes of staring at them, my mind drifting back to the same essential question: what did he offer her?
Whatever it was, it would be calculated to appeal to exactly what she wants.
Grant's always been skilled at identifying people's deepest desires and exploiting them.
It's what makes him such a dangerous competitor—and why I need to come up with a counter-offer that doesn't make me look like I'm trying to buy her loyalty.
I open a new document and begin typing, ideas flowing more easily than expected. Not a desperate attempt to keep her at Elysian, but a genuine business proposal giving her the creative freedom she deserves while maintaining her connection to the company.
An independent brand division. Her own line under the Elysian umbrella, but with complete creative autonomy. A separate studio space away from corporate headquarters. Her name on the label. The financial backing of Elysian with none of the bureaucratic constraints.
The more I develop the concept, the more right it feels. Not just as a strategy to counter Grant, but as the perfect vehicle for Cassie's talent. I've seen how she comes alive when describing her vision for Lumière—imagine what she could do with a brand that was entirely her own creation.
Three hours later, I have a fully developed business proposal that's exciting. The kind of opportunity I would have killed for when starting out.
Will she see this as a genuine opportunity? Or will it look like I'm trying to manipulate her into staying, using business as leverage the way Grant undoubtedly tried to do?
My phone buzzes, startling me out of my thoughts. For a half second, my heart leaps thinking it might be Cassie, but it's Zara. At 3:17 AM. Which means either there's an emergency or she's developed even more concerning work habits than mine.
Research on Grant complete. Pattern confirmed: hires creative talent from competitors, uses them for insider information, terminates within 6-18 months. Documented cases attached.
I open the file she's sent, a meticulously compiled dossier on Grant's hiring and firing practices over the past five years.
Zara's efficiency would be terrifying if it weren't so useful.
The pattern is even more blatant than I suspected—three creative directors, all women, all hired away from competitors, all fired once they'd served their purpose of damaging their former employers.
Catherine isn't mentioned in the report, but she doesn't need to be.
I remember all too well how that played out.
The promises of greater recognition, more creative control, a chance to build something of her own.
The subtle implication that she would always be in my shadow at Elysian.
The spectacular job offer that she couldn't possibly refuse.
And then, once she'd shared enough inside information about our business strategies and I'd been thoroughly gutted by her betrayal, Grant fired her. Claimed "creative differences." Left her reputation in tatters.
I scrub a hand over my face, suddenly exhausted. Is this what he's planning for Cassie? Use her to hurt me, then discard her once he's gotten what he wants?
The thought makes something primal and protective rise up in me—a feeling so fierce it momentarily takes my breath away.
Thank you. This is exactly what I needed.
I text back to Zara, then add:
Go to sleep. It's 3 AM.
Her response is immediate:
You first, sir.
I almost smile at that. Almost.
Setting the phone aside, I return to my proposal with new determination. This isn't just about keeping Cassie at Elysian anymore. It's about protecting her from Grant's manipulations, about making sure her remarkable talent isn't exploited and discarded as part of some corporate vendetta.
But how do I tell her that without sounding like I'm trying to control her decisions? How do I warn her about Grant without making it seem like I don't trust her judgment?
The truth is, I don't trust Grant. But I do trust Cassie. I trust her intelligence, her perception, her ability to see through bullshit. If anyone can recognize Grant's manipulation tactics, it's her.
Which means maybe I don't need a fancy proposal or a counter-offer at all. Maybe what I need is simpler. And infinitely more terrifying.
Honesty.
Not just about Grant's patterns or business opportunities, but about something I've been avoiding acknowledging even to myself: how I feel about her.
The thought sends a cold wave of panic through me. I don't do feelings. I don't do vulnerability. I certainly don't do heartfelt confessions about how someone has fundamentally changed the way I see the world.
And yet...
I pick up my phone again, open the voice memo app, and before I can talk myself out of it, hit record.
"Cassie, I—" I stop, clear my throat. Start again.
"This isn't about business. Or Grant. Or Elysian.
This is about us. About how I feel when you laugh at my kitchen table wearing nothing but my shirt.
About how you're the first person in years who sees past all my carefully constructed walls.
About how the thought of you leaving—not just Elysian, but me—makes it hard to breathe. "
I pause, surprised by my own words. This is not Roman Kade, CEO. This is just... Roman. Stripped of titles and power and polished facades.
"I know we agreed to an arrangement. No strings, no expectations. But somewhere between that first text and now, something changed. At least for me. And I need you to know that before you make any decisions about Grant's offer."
I stop the recording, my finger hovering over the delete button. This is madness. I don't send voice memos confessing feelings like some lovesick teenager. I make business deals. I negotiate terms. I maintain control.
But that's exactly the problem, isn't it? This isn't business. It never really was, not from the moment I decided to respond to that misdirected text.
I press delete before I can change my mind, watching the waveform disappear from my screen.
Maybe someday I'll find the courage to say these things to her face. But not like this. Not as a desperate ploy to keep her from accepting Grant's offer.
If she chooses to stay, it needs to be her decision, made freely, not influenced by emotional manipulation—even well-intentioned manipulation.
I close my laptop, suddenly bone-tired. The sky outside my windows is beginning to lighten—another sleepless night courtesy of Cassandra Monroe and her disruptive effect on my carefully ordered life.
As I head to my bedroom, I pass the small study where I keep family mementos—the few personal items I allow in my otherwise streamlined space. On impulse, I open the desk drawer and pull out a small wooden box.
Inside sits a vintage necklace that once belonged to my grandmother. My grandfather gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday, tucked beside an old pocket watch, with words I’ve never forgotten:
“Give this to someone who matters more than success.”
He was the only one who ever saw me clearly, not just the ambition, but the fear beneath it. Not the man I was trying to become, but the boy I was still outrunning.
At the time, I'd nodded politely while thinking he'd finally lost his mind. Nothing mattered more than success. Nothing ever would.
Now, running my thumb over the worn leather band, I'm not so sure.
I return the watch and the necklace to their boxes, close the drawer, and head to bed with a clarity I didn't have before.
I still don't know what happened between Cassie and Grant, and I still don't know what she'll decide.
But I do know this: for the first time in my life, something matters more to me than business success.
As I finally drift toward sleep, one thought follows me into unconsciousness: If I have to choose between Elysian and Cassie—between the company I built and the woman who's somehow become essential to me—it's not even a contest anymore.
The company is replaceable. She isn't.
Tomorrow, I'll tear up the proposal. No fancy business deals, no counter-offers, no strategic maneuvers. Just the truth, as terrifying as that might be: I'm falling for her, harder and faster than I ever thought possible.
And if telling her that means risking my heart along with my company, so be it. Some risks are worth taking.
Even for Roman Kade.