20. Cassie
CASSIE
NEW REALITY
" I 'm pregnant."
The words hang in the air between us, impossible to take back. The pink plus sign on the plastic stick in my hand couldn't be clearer, but saying it aloud makes it real in a way that's both terrifying and strangely exhilarating.
Roman stares at me from the bed, his expression cycling through shock, disbelief, and something else I can't quite identify. For a long, agonizing moment, he says nothing, and in that silence, my mind races through every worst-case scenario.
He doesn't want this. He thinks it's too soon. He's questioning if it's even his—which is ridiculous, since there's been no one else, but isn't that what men do in moments like this? Doubt, question, retreat?
"You're pregnant," he finally repeats, his voice thick with emotion. "We're having a baby."
He rises from the bed in one fluid movement, crossing the room to me in three long strides. When he reaches for the test, I reluctantly surrender it, watching his face as he stares at the undeniable evidence.
"A baby," he says again, the words sounding foreign on his tongue.
"I know it's not what we planned," I rush to fill the silence, words tumbling out in nervous succession. "It's terrible timing, with the new brand launch and your battle with Grant, and we've never even talked about children?—"
"Cassie," Roman interrupts, his eyes finally meeting mine. What I see there stops me cold. Not anger or panic or resignation, but something that looks suspiciously like wonder. "We're having a baby."
This time, it's not a question. Not a shocked repetition. It's a statement of fact, accompanied by the slow spread of a smile I've never seen before—unguarded, genuine, almost boyish in its sudden joy.
"You're not upset?" I ask warily, still braced for the moment when CEO Roman replaces this surprisingly delighted version.
"Upset?" He laughs, the sound slightly unsteady. "I'm... I don't even have the word for what I am. Terrified. Amazed. Completely unprepared."
"But not unhappy?" I press, needing certainty.
He sets the test down on the nightstand and takes my face in his hands, his gaze intense. "Not unhappy," he confirms. "The opposite of unhappy. Though 'happy' seems inadequate for whatever this is."
I feel tension I didn't realize I was holding release from my shoulders, tears springing to my eyes. "I thought you might freak out."
"I'm absolutely freaking out," he admits, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears that have escaped down my cheeks. "But not in the way you're thinking."
He guides me to sit on the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of me in a posture so unlike the powerful CEO that it momentarily disorients me. "Talk to me," he urges. "How are you feeling about this?"
It's such a simple question, but no one has asked it yet—not even me. How do I feel? Beyond the shock, beyond the fear, what's actually happening in my heart?
"Scared," I admit, the word catching in my throat. "Excited. Overwhelmed. I never expected this to happen now, like this."
"But you've thought about it? Children, someday?"
I nod, surprising myself with the truth of it. "I always assumed it was in my future, just... later. After my career was established. After I figured out who I was outside of work."
"And now?"
"Now I'm terrified of losing everything I've worked for." The admission tears itself from somewhere deep inside me, a fear I've barely acknowledged even to myself. "I've seen what happens to women in this industry when they become mothers. They're sidelined, overlooked, passed over for promotions."
Roman frowns. "Not at Elysian."
"Even at Elysian," I counter. "When was the last time a mother was promoted to senior leadership? How many women with children are on your executive team?"
His silence is answer enough.
"And it's not just the corporate politics," I continue, unable to stop now that the dam has broken.
"It's the practical reality. The late nights, the travel, the constant need to be available.
I watched my mother do it alone, and even with her superhuman effort, she still missed school plays and parent conferences and?—"
"You won't be doing it alone," Roman interrupts, his voice firm.
"No, but?—"
"No buts," he says, taking my hands in his. "This isn't a choice between your career and this baby. I refuse to accept that those are the only options."
His certainty should be comforting, but it only intensifies my anxiety. "You say that now, but you don't understand what it's like. The constant judgment, the impossible standards. No matter what choice a woman makes, she's doing it wrong in someone's eyes."
"Then we'll be wrong together," he says simply. "Because I have no idea how to be a father, Cassie. None. My own father was a case study in what not to do. But I want to learn. With you."
Something in his voice—vulnerability mixed with determination—breaks through my spiral of fears.
"My mom used to say that motherhood was like being split in two forever," I say softly, remembering her words from childhood.
"Half of you goes out into the world with your child, never to return.
And you spend the rest of your life balancing between the part of you that remains and the part that will always belong to someone else. "
"That sounds terrifying," Roman admits.
"It is. But she also said it was the only kind of love that made all the sacrifice worthwhile."
Roman is quiet for a moment, his thumbs tracing circles on the backs of my hands. "Tell me about her," he says. "Your mother."
The request surprises me. "She was... extraordinary. A force of nature. After my dad left when I was eight, she worked three jobs to keep us in the same school district. She didn't want us to lose our friends on top of everything else we'd lost."
I feel myself smiling despite the ache that always accompanies memories of Mom.
"She'd come home from her night shift and still make us pancakes before school.
She'd help with homework between jobs, quizzing us on vocabulary while doing laundry.
And somehow, she never made us feel like a burden, even though we must have been. "
"She sounds remarkable," Roman says.
"She was. When she got sick during my senior year, her only concern was that she wouldn't be there to see Mia graduate. She made me promise to be there for all the moments she'd miss." My voice breaks slightly. "I don't know how to do this without her guidance."
"What would she tell you, do you think? About this baby?"
I consider this, trying to hear her voice in my memory. "She'd tell me that there's never a perfect time. That we figure it out as we go. That love is the only prerequisite that really matters."
"Wise woman," Roman says. "Do you think we have that? The only prerequisite?"
The question catches me off guard—not because of its content, but because of his vulnerability in asking it. This man who calculates risk in every business decision is asking, openly and without pretense, if what we feel for each other is enough for the monumental task ahead.
"I love you," I say simply. "More than I ever expected to love anyone. Is that enough for... all of this? I don't know. But it's a place to start."
He nods, accepting this imperfect answer with surprising grace. Then he rises from his kneeling position, sitting beside me on the bed, our shoulders touching in companionable silence.
"So we're doing this," he says finally. "Together."
"Together," I agree, the word a promise and a prayer rolled into one.
The morning arrives with cruel efficiency, sunlight streaming through my bedroom window as if nothing life-altering happened overnight. I reach for Roman but find only cooling sheets where his body should be.
For one heart-stopping moment, I wonder if he's had second thoughts, if the light of day has made him reconsider his surprising enthusiasm. Then I hear the soft clink of dishes from the kitchen and smell the unmistakable aroma of coffee.
I drag myself from bed, wrapping a robe around my still-unchanged body. Soon enough, I'll start showing, my condition visible to the world. The thought sends a flutter of panic through me, quickly followed by an unexpected surge of protective fierceness.
Roman stands at my small kitchen counter, scrolling through his phone while waiting for the coffee to brew. He's already dressed in yesterday's shirt and pants, though he's forgone the tie and jacket. Even rumpled, he looks more put-together than most people on their best day.
"No coffee for you," he says without looking up, somehow sensing my presence. "I'm making tea instead."
"You've been researching," I observe, noticing the browser tabs open on his phone—all pregnancy-related websites.
"Knowledge is power," he says simply. "And apparently caffeine is problematic."
"One cup is fine," I argue, eyeing the coffee pot longingly.
"Studies suggest otherwise." He finally looks up, his expression softening as he takes me in. "How are you feeling?"
"Physically? Fine. The morning sickness seems to come and go." I slide onto a stool, watching him move around my kitchen with easy familiarity. "Emotionally? I'm still calibrating."
"Understandable." He places a mug of herbal tea in front of me. "I've cleared my morning schedule. I thought we might want to talk more, make some plans."
"Plans," I repeat, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. "Roman, we can't plan this like a business strategy."
"Not entirely, no," he concedes. "But there are practical considerations. Medical care. Timing for public disclosure. Living arrangements."
The last item makes me tense. "Living arrangements?"
"You can't possibly want to raise our child in this apartment," he says, gesturing around my small but comfortable space. "There's barely room for your design materials, let alone a nursery."
"So you assume we'll move to your penthouse?" I ask, a note of challenge creeping into my voice.