19. Roman
ROMAN
LIFE CHANGING
" T he patent filing appears legitimate," Jenkins drones, his voice the monotonous hum of a man who's spent too many years reading legal briefs. "Grant Industries submitted documentation dating their design process to six months before our initial concept phase."
I resist the urge to visibly react, maintaining the impassive expression I've perfected over years of high-stakes negotiations.
Around the polished conference table, ten board members watch me with varying degrees of concern and curiosity.
They're waiting to see how I'll respond to this blatant attack.
"That's impossible," I say, my voice controlled despite the anger simmering beneath the surface.
"Our design team began work on the interlocking hardware system last year even before we changed Creative Directors. There are dated prototypes, design notes, meeting minutes."
"Which we've submitted to the patent office," Jenkins confirms. "But Grant's documentation appears... comprehensive."
Comprehensive. A diplomatic way of saying they've created an elaborate fiction designed specifically to damage us. To damage me.
"This is industrial sabotage," I state flatly. "Maxwell Grant has a history of targeting our intellectual property. He's exploiting the patent system to delay our product launch and create market uncertainty."
A murmur runs around the table. I've said what most of them are thinking but wouldn't dare voice aloud. Grant's antagonism toward Elysian—toward me specifically—is well known but rarely directly acknowledged.
"What you're suggesting is serious, Roman," Charles Whitaker, our longest-serving board member, says carefully. "Do we have evidence beyond speculation?"
"Fifteen years of pattern recognition isn't speculation," I reply, unable to keep the edge from my voice entirely. "But you're right—we need concrete evidence."
I pull up the images Zara prepared, displaying them on the screen behind me. Side-by-side comparisons of our design versus Grant's claimed patent.
"Look at the precision of these similarities," I say, using the laser pointer to highlight specific elements. "Not just the general concept, which could be coincidence, but the exact dimensions, the specific angle of the clasp mechanism, the proprietary alloy we developed."
"Which means?" another board member prompts.
"Which means they had access to our internal documents." I let the implication hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "We have a security breach."
The tension in the room shifts palpably, from concern about a competitive maneuver to the more immediate threat of internal betrayal.
"Do we have suspects?" Whitaker asks.
I hesitate, remembering Cassie's angry face last night when I excluded her from this meeting. The hurt in her eyes when I refused to let her defend her team’s design.
The guilt that's been gnawing at me ever since has nothing to do with the board's concerns and everything to do with the growing realization that I handled it badly.
"It's too early to speculate," I say finally. "I've authorized a comprehensive security audit of our systems and design department."
The board doesn't need to know that I've already narrowed the list of possible leaks to three people, none of whom include Cassie Monroe. Not because I'm sleeping with her, but because I know her integrity. Because I trust her.
Trust. A foreign concept in my professional vocabulary until recently.
"And Ms. Monroe?" Jenkins asks, as if reading my thoughts. "As Creative Director, she should be involved in the investigation."
"Ms. Monroe was notified of the situation last night," I say, the memory of our argument flashing through my mind. "She'll be fully briefed on our strategy once we determine the appropriate response."
It's the corporate version of the truth, sanitized and strategically incomplete. What I don't say is that I'd deliberately kept her out of this meeting to protect her—a decision made with good intentions that backfired spectacularly.
"I suggest we proceed with our launch as planned," I continue, steering the conversation back to business. "File a counter-claim, issue a statement refuting Grant's allegations, and demonstrate confidence in our legal position."
For the next hour, we discuss strategy, contingencies, and damage control.
By the time we adjourn, I've convinced the board to maintain our scheduled timeline while our legal team prepares for battle.
It's a victory, but a hollow one. Maxwell Grant has achieved exactly what he wanted—creating chaos, consuming our resources, and living rent-free in my head.
As the board members filter out, Whitaker lingers behind, closing the door to ensure privacy.
"This feels personal, Roman," he says, his tone shifting from board member to the mentor he once was. "More than the usual competitive hostility."
"It is personal," I admit, something I'd never say to the others. "It always has been with Grant."
Whitaker sighs, settling back into his chair. "You never did tell me what happened between you two. One minute he was grooming you as his protégé, the next you were sworn enemies."
The memory surfaces unwillingly—late nights in Grant's office, learning the intricacies of luxury brand management from a man I'd once admired. Before I understood the price of his mentorship.
"We had different values," I say, the understatement of the century. "Different approaches to business."
"And to Catherine," Whitaker adds, more perception in his aging eyes than I'd like.
I don't respond. Even after all these years, the mention of her name creates a tightness in my chest that I resent.
"Whatever history you share," Whitaker continues when I remain silent, "don't let it cloud your judgment. Grant's trying to provoke you into an emotional response. Don't give him the satisfaction."
"I'm aware," I say, my tone making it clear the subject is closed.
Whitaker nods, understanding the dismissal. As he reaches the door, he pauses. "One more thing, Roman. There are... whispers. About you and the new Creative Director."
My blood runs cold, but my expression remains impassive. "Whispers?"
"Nothing concrete," he assures me. "Just the usual industry gossip. But in light of this situation with Grant, it might be prudent to be... especially professional."
"I'm always professional," I say, the words automatic and hollow even to my own ears.
"Of course." Whitaker's expression is carefully neutral. "Just something to consider."
After he leaves, I remain seated, staring at the scattered papers on the conference table without really seeing them. The meeting with the board, Grant's latest attack, the reminder about Cassie—it all swirls together into a familiar cocktail of pressure and isolation.
Zara enters without knocking, her efficiency both comforting and irritating in my current mood.
"The security team has the list of potential breaches," she says, placing a folder in front of me.
"Thank you," I say, not touching the folder. "Anything else?"
Zara hesitates, which is so unlike her that I look up sharply. "Several industry contacts have called to... inquire about your relationship with Ms. Monroe."
So Whitaker wasn't exaggerating. The whispers have become audible.
"What did you tell them?"
"That I don't comment on your personal life," she says, her tone suggesting the callers received a considerably frostier version of that statement. "But Roman..."
The use of my first name, rare from my meticulously professional assistant, catches my attention.
"Be careful," she says simply. "Grant's looking for leverage. And you've never been this... exposed before."
The word choice is deliberate. Exposed. Vulnerable. Compromised by emotions I've spent a lifetime controlling.
"I'll handle it," I say, dismissing her with a nod.
But as the door closes behind her, I wonder if that's true. Can I handle this—the collision of professional threats and personal entanglements? The terrain is unfamiliar, dangerous in ways I'm not equipped to navigate.
I reach for my phone, scrolling to Cassie's unanswered calls. Three times she tried to reach me during the meeting. Three times I chose the board over her, reinforcing exactly what she accused me of last night.
Before I can overthink it, I type a message: Meeting just ended. Can I see you tonight?
Her response comes more quickly than I expected, and more graciously than I deserve: My place. 8pm. Bring food—I haven't been able to keep much down today.
The mention of her feeling ill sends a different kind of concern through me. She's been pale lately, tired, turning down coffee and wine. My mind catalogs the symptoms clinically, but I push the conclusion away. That's a complication neither of us is ready to consider.
By the time I arrive at Cassie's apartment that evening, I've spent hours preparing what to say—about the board meeting, about keeping her out of it, about the rumors already spreading through the industry.
I've rehearsed explanations and apologies with the same meticulous attention I give to quarterly earnings calls.
All of which evaporates the moment she opens the door, looking pale and vulnerable in oversized sweats, her hair piled messily on top of her head.
"You look terrible," I say, then immediately regret my lack of filter.
She gives me a wan smile. "Always the charmer. Did you bring food?"
I lift the bag from her favorite Thai place, suddenly uncertain if spicy curry was the right choice given her nausea. "Is this okay? I can order something else if?—"
"It's perfect," she says, stepping back to let me in. "I'm starving. Which is a nice change from this morning."
Her apartment is in creative chaos—sketches and fabric swatches covering every surface, mood boards leaning against walls, half-empty mugs of tea stationed strategically throughout the space. It's the physical manifestation of her mind, beautiful in its orderly disorder.