19. Roman #2
I set the food on the kitchen counter, watching as she moves around the space with a familiarity that makes something twist in my chest. Despite spending many nights here over the past weeks, I'm still a visitor.
She belongs here in a way I never will—surrounded by color and texture and creativity, all the mess and joy of real living that's absent from my pristine penthouse.
"About last night," I begin, unable to wait any longer. "I handled it badly."
She pauses in the act of opening containers, glancing up at me with surprise. "No defensive posturing? No corporate justifications? Who are you, and what have you done with Roman Kade?"
"I'm trying to apologize," I say, finding it harder than expected. "I should have included you in the meeting. It was your design being discussed."
"Yes, you should have." She hands me a plate, her expression softening slightly. "But I understand why you didn't. The board would have scrutinized every interaction between us, looking for signs of favoritism or bias."
"That doesn't make it right." I follow her to the couch, careful not to displace any of her design materials. "I was trying to protect both of us, but I ended up undermining you professionally. It won't happen again."
She studies me for a long moment, then nods, accepting my apology without making me grovel. Another thing I love about her—she doesn't use vulnerability as a weapon.
"So what happened? With Grant's patent claim?"
As we eat, I explain the board meeting, the evidence of a security breach, the strategy moving forward. She listens intently, asking sharp questions that reveal her deep understanding of both the creative and business implications.
"It's a delaying tactic," she concludes. "He doesn't actually think he'll win the patent dispute. He just wants to disrupt our launch timeline and make us look vulnerable to investors."
"Exactly." I'm not surprised by her insight, but her calm analysis is impressive, nonetheless. "But there's something else. Something personal."
"Between you and Grant? Obviously." She sets her barely-touched food aside. "I've seen how he looks at you. Like he's calculating exactly where to plant the knife."
I hesitate, unsure how much of my history with Grant I'm ready to share. It's ancient history, or should be. Water under a very old, very burned bridge.
"We have a complicated past," I say finally. "He was my mentor when I first entered the industry."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "Seriously? I can't imagine you as anyone's protégé."
"I wasn't always Roman Kade, CEO," I remind her with a wry smile. "I started as a junior brand manager at his first company. He recognized something in me, took me under his wing."
"What happened?" she asks, curling her legs beneath her on the couch.
"The usual. Student surpassed the teacher. I had ideas he didn't agree with. We parted ways." The sanitized version, carefully edited to remove the most painful parts.
But Cassie, as always, sees right through me. "And the real story? The one that explains why he looks at you like he'd enjoy watching you bleed?"
I set my own plate aside, no longer hungry. "There was a woman. Catherine. She was... important to me."
"Your ex," Cassie says, not a question. "The one who left you for Grant."
I look up sharply. "How did you know that?"
"Industry gossip. Olivia has sources everywhere." She reaches for my hand, her touch unexpectedly gentle. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
But I find that I do want to. For the first time, I want someone to know this story—not the polished corporate version, but the messy, humiliating truth.
"She was my fiancée. We met at business school, built our early careers together.
She was brilliant—creative, ambitious, fearless.
When I was hired at Grant Industries, Grant took an interest in both of us.
He mentored me directly, but saw her potential too—kept tabs on her work even though she was with a different firm. "
Cassie’s hand tightens around mine, anchoring me as the memories surface.
"I was working eighty-hour weeks, trying to prove myself. Catherine and Grant started collaborating on a special project. I didn't see what was happening until too late." Bitterness curls around the edges of my voice.
I try to temper it. “One day she was wearing my ring, the next she was handing in her resignation—leaving her firm—and moving to Grant industries with her brilliant new concept.”
"And with him," Cassie adds softly.
"And with him," I confirm. "Six months later, he fired her. Claimed her work wasn't commercially viable. Kept the concept, discarded her."
"That's horrible," Cassie says, genuine outrage in her voice. "For both of you."
I shrug, aiming for nonchalance and probably missing by miles. "It was a long time ago. A valuable lesson in trust and loyalty."
"And that's why you're so careful now." Insight sharpens her gaze. "Why you build walls around yourself. Why you were worried about me meeting with him."
"I wasn't worried," I protest automatically.
"Roman." She gives me a look that brooks no argument. "You were practically radiating anxiety when you heard about our breakfast meeting."
"Fine," I admit. "I was concerned. Grant has a pattern of using people to get to me."
"I'm not Catherine," she says firmly. "And I'm certainly not going to leave you for that manipulative shark. Even if he did offer to double my salary."
“I know,” I say—but the tightness in my chest says I needed to hear her say it out loud.
"Relax," she says, amusement dancing in her eyes. "I turned him down flat. Told him I could spot his game a mile away." Her expression turns more serious. "I'm not easily manipulated, Roman. And I'm not going anywhere."
The simple declaration loosens something in my chest that's been tight since our fight last night. Since Catherine. Maybe since childhood, when I learned that people always leave eventually.
Without conscious thought, I pull her to me, burying my face in her hair. She comes willingly, settling against my chest as if she belongs there.
"I'm sorry," I murmur against her temple. "For last night. For doubting you. For being...me."
She laughs softly. "I happen to like you. Most of the time."
"Most of the time?"
"When you're not being an overprotective, controlling CEO," she clarifies, leaning back to look at me. "When you're just Roman."
"I'm always 'just Roman,'" I say. "The CEO part is just the outer layer."
"Bullshit." She pokes me in the chest, punctuating her point. "You switch between the two like you're changing suits. Last night at dinner with Mia—that was Roman. The man who cut me out of the board meeting—that was definitely CEO Kade."
She's right, though I've never thought of it that way. I've always considered myself an integrated whole—the businessman, the leader, the strategist. But Cassie sees the divisions I've created between those roles and the man beneath them.
"I'm trying," I say, unsure how to explain that she's asking me to unlearn habits formed over a lifetime. "To be just Roman more often."
"I know." Her expression softens. "That's why I forgive you. That, and the fact that you bring really good curry when you apologize."
The tension breaks, and suddenly we're laughing, the strain of the past day dissipating in the simple joy of being together. When the laughter fades, I find myself gazing at her with an intensity that makes her eyes widen slightly.
"What?" she asks, suddenly self-conscious.
"You're extraordinary," I say simply. "And I am completely undeserving of you."
"Well, that's definitely true," she agrees with mock solemnity. "But I've decided to keep you anyway."
She leans in to kiss me, and what begins as light and playful quickly deepens into something more urgent, more primal. My hands find their way under her sweatshirt, discovering bare skin that's warm and inviting beneath my palms.
"Are you feeling up to this?" I murmur against her lips, remembering her earlier nausea.
"I'm feeling up to anything that involves you taking off your clothes," she says, already working on my tie. "Especially since you've just shown unprecedented emotional vulnerability."
"If I'd known it was such an aphrodisiac, I'd have shared my childhood trauma weeks ago," I say dryly.
She pulls back slightly, giving me a curious look. "Was it traumatic? Your childhood?"
The question catches me off guard. "Not in any dramatic way. Just... empty. After my mother died, it was just my father and his expectations. Nothing I did was ever enough."
Her hands pause in unbuttoning my shirt. "That is trauma, Roman. Being made to feel like you're never enough."
I shrug, uncomfortable with her perception. "It made me driven. Successful."
"It made you believe love is conditional on achievement," she corrects gently. "That you have to earn connection through performance."
The insight is so accurate, so painfully precise, that I can't respond. Instead, I capture her mouth with mine, desperate to escape the sudden vulnerability. She allows it for a moment, then pulls back again.
"You don't have to earn me," she says softly. "I'm not here because you're successful or powerful or perfect. I'm here because you make ridiculously good omelets and you laugh at my bad jokes and you look at me like I'm the most fascinating creature you've ever encountered."
Something cracks inside me at her words—a fissure in the foundation I've built my life upon. The idea that I might be loved not for what I achieve or provide, but simply for who I am, is so foreign it's almost incomprehensible.
"I don't know how to do this," I admit, the words scraping my throat raw. "To be vulnerable. To trust that you won't?—"
"Leave?" she finishes when I can't. "I'm not going anywhere, Roman. Not unless you give me a reason to."