16. Cassie
CASSIE
T here's something embarrassingly revealing about your apartment when you're in the middle of a life crisis.
Mine currently looks like a creative hurricane collided with a pizza delivery service and then exploded.
Sketches cover every available surface, concept boards lean precariously against walls, and empty wine bottles stand like sentinels around my living room.
Three days of stress-induced design binging over a long weekend has transformed my usually tidy space into what can only be described as "tortured artist chic."
"Is that an actual mood board for Maxwell Grant's nonexistent luxury brand?" Olivia asks, pointing to a foam core monstrosity propped against my TV.
"In my defense, insomnia-fueled creativity is still creativity," I mumble from my position face-down on the couch. "Besides, a serial killer would have a wall of newspaper clippings. I have fashion concepts. It's healthier."
"Debatable." Olivia picks her way through the creative carnage to perch on my coffee table, shoving aside fabric swatches and color palettes. "You've been obsessing for three days. You already told Grant no. It's done."
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. "I know. But he keeps texting. Three 'reconsider' messages since yesterday."
"Block him."
"That would be the sane response, yes."
"And Roman?"
I groan, covering my face with a throw pillow. "Radio silence. Which is what I asked for when I said I needed time to think. So I can't even be mad about it."
"But you are mad."
"I'm not mad. I'm... annoyed that he's respecting my boundaries so thoroughly."
Olivia snorts, pulling the pillow away from my face. "Listen to yourself. You're mad at one man for being manipulative and another for giving you space. We need to address this pattern."
"There's no pattern," I protest, sitting up. "Camden wanted me smaller. Maxwell wants to use me. Roman wants..." I trail off, uncertain how to finish that sentence.
"What does Roman want?" Olivia asks, her voice gentler now.
"I don't know," I admit, running my hands through my hair. "That's the problem. To keep me at Elysian? To continue our arrangement? To have me fall madly in love with him so I'm easier to control?"
"Or maybe he actually cares about you."
I make a noncommittal noise, my eyes drifting to the sketches spread across my coffee table. Designs Maxwell Grant never actually wanted to see. Concepts he couldn't care less about. My talent was never the point—just my connection to Roman.
"You know what I think?" Olivia continues, gathering empty pizza boxes with ruthless efficiency. "I think you're scared that Roman is different. That he might actually want you—all of you, not just the convenient parts."
"That's ridiculous," I scoff, though something in my chest tightens at her words.
"Is it? Camden wanted Designer Barbie—pretty, compliant, silent when necessary. Maxwell wants Corporate Revenge Barbie—a weapon he can aim at Roman then discard. But Roman? He hired you after you told him his brand had lost its way. He respects your fire. Your opinions. Your talent."
"And my body," I add dryly. "Don't forget the incredibly inappropriate text relationship."
"Which you enthusiastically participated in," she counters, tossing a pizza box at me. "Face it, Monroe. You're not afraid of being diminished again. You're afraid of being seen. Really seen. And that's way scarier."
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. Damn her and her occasional moments of terrifying insight.
"Besides," she continues, "you've been sketching his name in your designs for three days. It's like a middle school diary in here."
"I have not—" I start to protest, then look down at the concept board on my lap. Sure enough, hidden in the pattern of the handbag design is a subtle "R" worked into the texture. "Oh god, I'm a walking cliché."
"At least you're a talented one." Olivia flops down beside me. "So what are you going to do?"
Before I can answer, my doorbell rings. We both freeze, exchanging wide-eyed looks.
"Are you expecting someone?" Olivia whispers, as if the person at the door might hear us through walls and heavy Brooklyn brick.
"No," I whisper back, scrambling to my feet. "Quick, help me hide some of this stuff!"
"Why? Who cares if your apartment looks like a design asylum?"
"Because it's pathetic!" I hiss, frantically gathering sketches. "I rejected a job offer three days ago, and I've been having an artistic breakdown ever since!"
The doorbell rings again, more insistent this time.
"Just a minute!" I call, shoving concept boards behind the couch.
"It's probably just a package," Olivia says, making exactly zero effort to help the cleanup effort.
I peer through the peephole, then immediately flatten myself against the wall, heart pounding. "It's Roman," I whisper-shriek. "Roman Kade is standing in my hallway!"
"What?" Olivia leaps up, suddenly interested in the situation. "Let me see!"
"No!" I swat her away from the door. "What is he doing here? How does he even know where I live?"
"HR records? The internet? Basic detective skills? Who cares!" Olivia gestures at the door. "Are you going to let him in or leave New York's most eligible CEO standing in your sketchy hallway? Mrs. Petrovich across the hall will definitely call Page Six."
She's right. My neighbor lives for neighborhood gossip. The thought of Roman's visit becoming tabloid fodder is enough to make me straighten my shoulders and open the door.
And there he is.
Roman Kade, standing in my dingy hallway looking impossibly perfect in an expensive charcoal suit. He's holding a leather portfolio in one hand and what appears to be takeout in the other.
"Hi," I manage, suddenly acutely aware that I'm wearing worn out yoga pants and a Northwestern University sweatshirt with a suspicious stain on the sleeve.
"I know you said you needed time to think," he says, his voice carefully neutral. "But we need to talk. About Grant. About us."
From behind me, Olivia stage-whispers, "That's my cue to exit! Lovely to almost meet you, Roman. Cassie, call me later with all the details."
She squeezes past me, pausing only to whisper "Nice ass!" in my ear before disappearing down the hallway with the tactical retreat skills of a special ops soldier.
"Your friend seems... colorful," Roman observes, the hint of a smile softening his expression.
"That's one word for her." I step back, holding the door wider. "You might as well come in. Though I should warn you, my place is... in a creative phase."
His eyebrows rise slightly as he takes in the chaos of my apartment. "I can see that. Very... prolific."
"I stress-design," I admit, hastily clearing sketchbooks from the couch. "Coffee? Wine? Nervous breakdown?"
"I'm fine, thank you." He sets the portfolio and food bags on my coffee table. "I brought dinner. I thought you might not have eaten."
The gesture is unexpectedly thoughtful, and it catches me off guard. "How did you?—"
"You forget to eat when you're focused on a project," he says, as if this is common knowledge. "You did the same thing during the Lumière deadline. I had to have Zara bring you lunch."
The fact that he noticed, that he remembers this small detail about me, creates a warm feeling I'm not ready to examine too closely.
"Thank you," I say instead, gesturing to the couch. "Please, sit. Sorry about the mess."
"Don't apologize. Creativity is rarely tidy." He loosens his tie, the gesture transforming him slightly from CEO to just... Roman. "I like seeing your process."
I sink onto the couch, maintaining a careful distance between us. "So... you wanted to talk."
"Yes. First about Grant." He opens the leather portfolio, pulling out several document folders. "Zara did some research on his hiring patterns."
"His pattern of poaching creative directors to hurt competitors, then firing them once the damage is done?" I say, unable to keep the edge from my voice. "Yeah, Olivia found that too. Google is surprisingly effective."
Roman's expression shifts from professional to genuinely surprised. "You knew?"
"I figured it out during our breakfast," I admit. "He didn't care about my designs. Couldn't even tell which concepts were mine versus the rejected ones. It was... illuminating."
"And his offer?"
"Double my current salary. Complete creative control . " I can't resist adding, "Plus a guaranteed internship for Mia."
Roman's jaw tightens. "Of course he'd try to use your sister."
"It was heavy-handed, really. Almost insulting how obvious he was being." I draw my knees up to my chest, studying Roman's face. "You don't seem shocked that I turned him down."
"I'm not. You're too smart to fall for his manipulation." His confidence in me creates another warm flicker I try to ignore. "But I also came prepared to counter his offer, just in case."
He slides a document across the coffee table. I pick it up, scanning the title: "Proposal for Independent Brand Division Under Elysian Holdings."
"What is this?"
"A genuine opportunity." His voice takes on that intensity I've come to associate with his most authentic moments. "Your own brand. Complete creative control. Elysian's resources and distribution network, but your vision, your name on the label."
I flip through the pages, my eyes widening at the details. It's comprehensive, thoughtful, and exactly the kind of opportunity most designers would kill for.
"You developed this whole proposal in three days?" I ask, genuinely impressed.
"Two, actually." There's a hint of that smugness I find both annoying and oddly attractive. "I wanted to have options."
"Options for what? Keeping me at Elysian?"
"For making sure you have the platform your talent deserves." He leans forward, those blue eyes locked on mine. "This isn't about competing with Grant's offer. This is about what I should have proposed months ago, because it's right for your career and right for Elysian."