18. Cassie
CASSIE
FAMILY MATTERS
" Y ou don't have to walk me to the elevator, you know." Mia adjusts her portfolio strap for the fifth time in as many minutes, her nervousness palpable despite her attempt at nonchalance. "I'm twenty, not twelve."
"I'm aware," I say, smoothing a wrinkle from her carefully selected blazer—thrifted vintage YSL that she spent three weeks' barista wages on.
"But as your sister and a department head, I reserve the right to fuss. First day jitters are universal."
We're standing in Elysian's gleaming lobby, surrounded by sleek marble and glass that still intimidates me sometimes, despite my months here. Mia looks both perfectly at home and utterly terrified, exactly how I felt on my first day.
"What if they only accepted me because of you?" she whispers, voicing the fear I know has been eating at her. "What if I'm just the Creative Director's charity project?"
"Mia Monroe," I say firmly, gripping her shoulders. "You were accepted because your portfolio is exceptional. Because your perspective is fresh and your technical skills are impeccable. And because Elysian would be idiotic to let someone with your talent slip through their fingers."
She looks unconvinced. "You can't know that for sure."
"Actually, I can." I tap her portfolio. "I wasn't on the selection committee precisely to avoid any hint of nepotism. You earned this on your own merits. And anyone who suggests otherwise will answer to me."
"That's not exactly reassuring," she says, but a small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "I'm trying to avoid special treatment, not have my big sister defend my honor."
"Fine. No defending, no special treatment." I hold up my hands in surrender. "As far as anyone in this building is concerned, we're professional acquaintances who happen to share DNA and a childhood trauma."
"Much better." Mia's smile widens, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "I want to do this right, Cass. Make my own name."
"You will." I check my watch—her orientation starts in ten minutes. "Now get going before you're late. That's definitely not how you want to start."
She throws her arms around me in a quick, fierce hug, then pulls back, professional mask sliding into place. "Thank you," she whispers. "For everything."
As I watch her stride toward the elevator bank, confidence in every step despite her inner doubts, a wave of nausea hits me so suddenly that I have to grip the edge of a nearby planter for support.
The third time this week. Probably just nerves about the board's upcoming decision on my brand proposal, coupled with the stress of helping Mia prepare for her internship.
I take a deep breath, willing my stomach to settle. Now is not the time to succumb to stress-induced queasiness. I have a department to run, a sister to support (from a professional distance), and a boyfriend who's also my boss to maintain appropriate boundaries with during working hours.
Just another Monday at Elysian.
By the time I reach my office, the nausea has subsided enough that I can focus on the day ahead. Taylor, my assistant, is waiting with my usual morning coffee.
"Morning, Ms. Monroe," she says brightly, following me into my office. "The Milan factory sent revised production timelines for the sustainable leather goods, Marketing wants to discuss the social media strategy for the spring launch, and Mr. Kade asked for the Q3 projections by end of day."
The mere scent of coffee sends another wave of nausea crashing through me. I wave the cup away, earning a surprised look from Taylor. "Just water today, thanks. And tell Marketing I'll meet them at eleven."
"Are you feeling alright?" Taylor asks, concern etched on her face. "You look a little pale."
"Just a touch of something," I say dismissively. "Nothing serious. Probably that questionable sushi from yesterday."
Taylor nods, though she doesn't look entirely convinced. "There's also a Mr. Sullivan who called twice this morning. He wouldn't state his business but said it was personal. Should I add him to your call list?"
Camden. The flowers he sent last week weren't enough, apparently. I suppress a sigh. "No, that won't be necessary. If he calls again, please tell him I'm unavailable."
"Of course." Taylor hesitates at the door. "One more thing. There's a delivery for you at reception."
"Another delivery?" I ask, stomach dropping. Last week it was an enormous arrangement of lilies—my favorite, which Camden well knows—with a note mentioning "second chances" and "regrets." I'd donated the flowers to the hospital down the street and tossed the card.
"I believe so," Taylor confirms. "Should I have it sent up?"
"No," I say firmly. "Whatever it is, donate it or send it back. I'm not accepting personal deliveries at work."
"Understood." Taylor makes a note, then leaves me to the mountain of work awaiting my attention.
I manage to power through most of the morning, ignoring both the persistent queasiness and thoughts of Camden's unwelcome persistence.
The marketing meeting goes well, my team presenting concepts for the Lumière spring campaign that perfectly capture my vision for authentic luxury that celebrates imperfection.
I make a few suggestions but mostly find myself impressed by how fully they've embraced the new direction.
It's only when I'm heading to the executive dining room for lunch with Olivia that the nausea returns with a vengeance. I barely make it to the nearest restroom before emptying the meager contents of my stomach.
"Cassie?" Olivia's voice echoes in the marble bathroom. "Are you in here?"
I emerge from the stall, pale and shaky, to find my best friend looking at me with an expression somewhere between concern and suspicion.
"Don't start," I warn, moving to the sink to rinse my mouth. "It's just stress."
"Mm-hmm." Olivia leans against the counter, studying me like I'm one of her magazine's photo layouts. "Stress. That's definitely what's happening here."
"What else would it be?" I splash cold water on my face, avoiding her gaze in the mirror.
"Oh, I don't know," Olivia says with exaggerated casualness. "Maybe something that often causes morning sickness, breast tenderness, and emotional volatility?"
I freeze, water dripping from my chin. "I'm not pregnant."
"When was your last period?"
I open my mouth to answer, then close it again, mentally counting backward. "That doesn't mean anything. I've always been irregular, especially when I'm stressed."
"But you've never been this nauseous," Olivia points out. "Or turned down coffee three days in a row."
"You're keeping track of my coffee intake now?"
"Someone has to, since you're clearly in denial." She digs through her oversized handbag and produces a small paper bag, which she thrusts toward me. "Here."
I peer inside to find a pregnancy test. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Humor me," she says, her expression softening. "Then we can go to lunch and I'll listen to all the reasons why it's impossible."
"It is impossible," I insist, though a tendril of doubt curls in my stomach alongside the nausea. "We're careful."
"No method is one hundred percent effective," Olivia reminds me. "Not even for the great Roman Kade and his legendary control."
I shove the bag back at her. "I'm not taking a pregnancy test in the executive bathroom of Elysian Holdings. That's career suicide waiting to happen."
"Fine." She returns the test to her bag. "But promise me you'll take one tonight. For my peace of mind, if nothing else."
"If it will make you stop looking at me like I'm an incubator, fine." I straighten my blouse, attempting to regain my professional composure. "Now can we please go to lunch? I need to eat something bland before my one o'clock with the fabric suppliers."
Olivia links her arm through mine as we exit the bathroom. "Of course. And while we eat, you can tell me all about how your boyfriend is taking your ex's floral harassment."
"He's not harassing me," I say automatically, though even I don't believe it. "And Roman is... handling it."
"Handling it how?" Olivia raises an eyebrow. "Because if my billionaire boyfriend found out some cheating ex was sending me flowers about 'second chances,' I'd expect at least a restraining order, possibly an arranged accident."
I can't help but laugh despite my unsettled stomach. "Roman's not a mobster, Liv. He's just... made it clear to Camden through mutual business connections that his attentions are unwelcome."
"Boring but effective, I suppose." Olivia sounds almost disappointed. "Though I was hoping for something more dramatic. A confrontation in a dark alley, perhaps."
"Sorry to disappoint your soap opera fantasies," I say dryly. "But we're handling this like adults."
The truth is, Roman's reaction to Camden's persistent attempts at contact has been remarkably restrained.
Initially furious, he'd respected my wishes to handle it myself.
But after this last delivery —a rare vintage design book I'd once mentioned coveting—even my reassurances that Camden was harmless hadn't stopped Roman from having a "discreet conversation" with a senior partner at Camden's law firm.
I'm still not entirely sure what was said, but the deliveries stopped for a week. Until today, apparently.
Lunch passes in a blur of Olivia's chatter about the magazine's upcoming feature and my own distracted nodding. Despite my protests, I can't stop thinking about the pregnancy test in her bag, about the possibility I've been refusing to consider.
Roman and I haven't discussed children. We've barely acknowledged that what we have is a relationship rather than an "arrangement.
" A baby would complicate everything—my career just as it's taking off, his business empire, our still-evolving dynamic.
The very thought makes me simultaneously terrified and, in some small corner of my heart I'm not ready to examine, oddly hopeful.