17. Cassie #2
This domestic routine still feels novel—Roman grinding fresh beans while I perch on a counter stool, both of us comfortable in the morning light. There's no need to rush, no need to maintain professional distance. Just two people enjoying a Sunday together.
"Omelette?" Roman asks, pulling ingredients from his ridiculously well-stocked refrigerator.
"You don't have to cook for me every time," I say, though I'm already nodding. The man makes exceptional eggs. "I'm perfectly capable of pouring my own cereal."
"I enjoy cooking," he says simply, cracking eggs into a bowl with practiced precision. "It's... meditative."
I watch him work, fascinated by this glimpse of the man beneath the CEO persona. Roman Kade, billionaire business mogul, chopping vegetables with the concentration of a Michelin-starred chef. It's these moments—these small, ordinary intimacies—that I'm still getting used to.
"What?" he asks, catching my gaze.
"Nothing. Just..." I hesitate, uncertain how to articulate the warmth blooming in my chest at this simple domestic scene. "I like seeing you like this. Unguarded."
Something flickers across his face—vulnerability quickly masked by a practiced smile. "Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain."
"Your secret kitchen skills are safe with me." I accept the mug of coffee he slides across the counter, prepared exactly how I like it. "Though I'm curious when you learned to cook like this. Somehow I don't picture little Roman at cooking classes between corporate takeover seminars."
The joke doesn't land as expected. Instead, Roman's expression shutters slightly, his hands pausing in their rhythmic chopping motion.
"My grandfather taught me," he says after a moment, his voice carefully neutral. "During the summers I spent with him after my mother died."
The casual mention of his mother's death—something he's never spoken of before—catches me off guard. "I didn't know your mother had passed," I say softly. "I'm sorry."
"Cancer. I was eight." He resumes chopping, the knife moving with more force than necessary. "My father didn't handle it well."
"That must have been incredibly difficult," I offer, sensing there's more to the story but not wanting to push.
Roman is silent for a long moment, focused on the vegetables as if they hold the secrets of the universe. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, more distant.
"My father was... exacting. Before my mother died, he was merely demanding. Afterward, he became..." He searches for the right word. "Relentless."
"In what way?"
"In every way." Roman transfers the vegetables to a pan, the sizzle filling the silence. "Nothing was ever good enough. Every accomplishment was met with criticism for what could have been better. Every failure was a personal affront to the Kade legacy."
The bitterness in his tone speaks volumes about old wounds still unhealed. I want to reach for him but sense he needs space to continue.
"My first report card after my mother died, I got all A's except for one B in art," he continues, his focus still on the pan. "He didn't speak to me for three days. When he finally did, it was to tell me that mediocrity was a choice, and I had chosen wrong."
"That's horrible," I say, unable to keep the shock from my voice. "You were a child who'd just lost his mother."
"In his mind, that was precisely why I needed to be exceptional." Roman's mouth twists in a humorless smile. "Grief was an indulgence we couldn't afford. The Kade name demanded perfection, regardless of personal circumstances."
"And your grandfather?" I prompt gently, wanting to steer him toward what seems like a more positive memory.
Something softens in Roman's expression.
"My mother's father. The exact opposite of my father in every way.
He believed in joy, in creating things with your hands, in finding beauty in imperfection.
" He flips the omelette with a practiced flick of his wrist. "Those summers in his workshop were the only times I felt like I could breathe. "
"What did he make?"
"Furniture, mostly. Beautiful, hand-crafted pieces that took months to complete.
" Roman's voice takes on a reverent quality I've never heard before.
"He taught me that value isn't just in the final product, but in the process—the care, the attention to detail, the love you put into creating something lasting. "
The contrast between this philosophy and the ruthless efficiency Roman is known for at Elysian isn't lost on me. "He sounds wonderful."
"He was. When he died my sophomore year of college, I almost dropped out." Roman plates the omelettes with careful precision. "My father told me grief was no excuse for weakness. That the business world wouldn't wait for me to 'process my feelings.'"
"That's not weakness," I say, accepting the plate he hands me. "That's being human."
Roman meets my eyes, something vulnerable and raw in his gaze. "I didn't know how to be both—human and a Kade. So I chose the latter."
The admission hangs between us, heavy with implications. So much about Roman suddenly makes sense—his relentless drive, his exacting standards, his difficulty with vulnerability. He learned early that showing emotion meant showing weakness, and weakness wasn't tolerated.
"Is that why you cook?" I ask softly. "To reconnect with that part of yourself?"
He considers this, leaning against the counter with his own plate. "I suppose it is. It's one of the few things I do that doesn't have to be perfect. That can just be... enjoyed for what it is."
I reach across the counter to take his hand, threading my fingers through his. "Thank you for telling me this."
"It's not exactly cheerful breakfast conversation," he says, deflection evident in his tone.
"It's honest. And I'd rather have your honesty than polite breakfast chat any day." I squeeze his hand. "Besides, it helps me understand you better."
"And does understanding lead to forgiveness?" he asks, something tight and uncertain in his voice.
"Forgiveness for what?"
"For being demanding. Controlling. For the parts of me that are more my father than my grandfather." He won't quite meet my eyes. "The parts that made you hesitate when Grant made his offer."
So that's what this is about. The insecurity lingering beneath the surface of his revelation.
"Roman, look at me." I wait until those blue eyes meet mine. "I didn't hesitate because of you. I hesitated because of me. Because I have my own patterns of losing myself in relationships with powerful men, and I needed to be sure I wasn't repeating that mistake."
It's my turn for uncomfortable honesty, the kind that makes my stomach clench with vulnerability. "With Camden, I made myself smaller because that's what he wanted. I'm terrified of doing the same with you, even though what you want is the exact opposite."
"Which is?"
"For me to be bigger. Bolder. More." I swallow against the tightness in my throat. "But the pressure to be more can be just as confining as the pressure to be less, if I'm doing it for someone else instead of for myself."
Understanding dawns in his eyes. "That's why you needed time."
"I needed to be sure I was choosing you—choosing us—because it's what I want, not because I'm falling into another pattern." I offer him a small smile. "And for what it's worth, you're nothing like your father. At least not the version you just described."
"No?" His skepticism is evident.
"You push people because you see their potential, not because you're looking for their flaws," I say with conviction. "There's a world of difference between demanding excellence and demanding perfection. You understand that distinction better than you give yourself credit for."
Something in his posture relaxes, a tension I hadn't fully registered until it dissipates. "When did you get so insightful, Ms. Monroe?"
"Somewhere between the accidental sexting and finding out my boss is secretly a gourmet chef." I take a bite of the omelette, which is predictably perfect. "Speaking of which, this is delicious. Your grandfather would be proud."
He smiles, a genuine expression that transforms his face from handsome to breathtaking. "He would have liked you."
"Because of my sparkling personality?"
"Because you see me," he says simply. "The real me, not the CEO or the Kade legacy. Just... Roman."
The words hit me with unexpected force, a truth I hadn't fully articulated even to myself.
That's what draws me to him—not his power or wealth or even his ridiculous good looks, but the glimpses of the man beneath all those trappings.
The man who makes breakfast on Sunday mornings and talks about his grandfather with reverence and looks at me like I'm something precious and substantial all at once.
"Well," I say, my voice not quite steady, "the real you makes an exceptional omelette."
He accepts the deflection with a knowing look. We're both still learning how to navigate these moments of raw honesty without retreating behind our respective walls.
"Speaking of exceptional," he says, smoothly changing the subject, "are you ready for tomorrow's presentation?"
And just like that, we're back on safer ground—the familiar territory of work and professional ambition. "As ready as I'll ever be. Though I'm still not convinced the board will go for it."
Tomorrow marks my official pitch for the independent brand division Roman proposed—my own line under the Elysian umbrella. It's the opportunity of a lifetime, terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.
"They'd be fools not to," Roman says with that absolute confidence I both envy and admire. "Your concept is revolutionary."
"Says the man who's sleeping with me," I tease, though the nerves are real beneath my light tone.
"Says the CEO who recognizes exceptional talent when he sees it." His expression turns serious. "I meant what I said, Cassie. This opportunity is yours regardless of our personal relationship. Your work stands on its own merits."