21. Roman
ROMAN
PRIVATE FEARS, PUBLIC FACES
I've been awake for hours, falling down an obsessive rabbit hole of pregnancy research that started with "first trimester symptoms" and has somehow led me to "attachment parenting versus cry-it-out methods" — a debate that won't be relevant for at least a year.
I tab through bookmarked pages: "The Expectant Father," "What to Expect When You're Expecting," "Pregnancy for Dummies."
The sheer volume of information is both comforting and overwhelming. I've always believed that knowledge is power, that any problem can be solved with sufficient research and preparation.
But the more I read, the more I realize how spectacularly unprepared I am for this.
Cassie shifts in her sleep, murmuring something unintelligible.
I lower the screen brightness, not wanting to disturb her.
She needs rest, especially now. According to my research, the first trimester is when the baby's neural tube forms, when tiny organs begin developing, when everything is most vulnerable.
Vulnerable.
The word sits uncomfortably in my mind. I've spent a lifetime building structures and systems precisely to avoid vulnerability—in business, in relationships, in every aspect of my life.
And now, there's this tiny, developing life that is nothing but vulnerability, utterly dependent on Cassie's body and, by extension, on me.
I place my hand gently over hers, feeling the warmth of her skin against mine. The gesture is unconsciously protective, though what exactly I think I'm protecting her from at 3 AM in her bedroom I couldn't say.
From everything, perhaps. From complications and morning sickness. From Camden's lingering presence. From Maxwell Grant's vendetta. From the career impact this pregnancy might have. From my own inevitable failings as a father.
Because I will fail. That much seems certain. How could I not, with the example I had?
I tab to a new page: "Breaking the Cycle: How Not to Parent Like Your Parents." The title alone makes my throat tighten.
I think of my father's cold disappointment when I brought home anything less than perfection. The way he treated grief as an indulgence, emotion as weakness. How he filled the empty space my mother's death left with more demands, more expectations, more criticism.
"I will not be like him," I whisper into the darkness, a promise to the child who doesn't yet have ears to hear it. "I won't."
Beside me, Cassie stirs, her eyes fluttering open.
"Roman?" she murmurs, voice thick with sleep. "What time is it?"
"Early," I say, closing the tablet and setting it aside. "Go back to sleep."
Instead, she props herself up on one elbow, squinting at me in the dim light. "You haven't been to sleep at all, have you?"
I don't bother denying it. "Just doing some research."
"At 3 AM?" She reaches for the tablet, and I let her take it. A small smile forms as she scrolls through my browser history. "From 'morning sickness remedies' to 'college savings plans' in one night. Impressive."
"I like to be thorough."
"You like to control what scares you," she corrects gently, setting the tablet on the nightstand. "But you can't research your way out of this one, Roman. No amount of preparation will make you ready."
"That's not very reassuring."
She smiles, fully awake now. "It's not meant to be. It's just true." She shifts closer, resting her head on my chest. "What's really keeping you up?"
I contemplate deflection, a habit so ingrained it's almost instinctive. But in the darkness, with her warm weight against me, the truth feels easier to access.
"I don't know how to be a father," I admit. "I have no reference point for what a good one looks like."
Her hand finds mine in the darkness, fingers intertwining. "Maybe that's an advantage. You're not trying to live up to some impossible standard. You get to define fatherhood on your own terms."
"Or repeat all my father's mistakes without realizing it."
"I won't let you," she says simply. "And you won't let me repeat my mother's—working herself to exhaustion, trying to be everything at once."
The mutual promise settles something in me. We are each other's safeguards, checks against our inherited patterns. There's unexpected comfort in that.
"We should sleep," I say, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You need rest."
"So do you. CEOs need sleep too, even ones with superhuman control issues."
I smile against her hair. "I'm working on it."
"I know you are." She settles against me, her breathing slowly evening out as she drifts back to sleep.
I lie awake a while longer, holding her, thinking about cycles broken and remade. Thinking about the person I need to become for this child, for Cassie. For myself.
I'm still thinking when sleep finally claims me, my hand never leaving hers.
"The timing is suspicious, to say the least," Jenkins says, sliding a printout across my desk the next morning.
I scan the press release from Grant Industries, my jaw tightening with each line. It doesn't mention Elysian by name, but the implication is clear:
"Grant Industries reaffirms its commitment to ethical leadership and transparent governance in light of concerning industry practices.
.. We believe personal relationships should never influence professional advancement or business decisions.
.. The integrity of our industry depends on maintaining clear boundaries between the boardroom and the bedroom. "
"Subtle," I say, setting the paper down with deliberate calm. "What's the media response?"
"Mixed. Fashion Business Daily is asking for comment. WWD is running with 'Luxury Rivals Trade Veiled Accusations.' Most are treating it as standard industry posturing." Jenkins adjusts his glasses nervously. "For now."
"And internally?"
"The board wants to meet. Today." He hands me another paper—a formal request signed by three board members calling for an emergency session regarding "governance concerns."
I expected this. The moment Cassie's pregnancy test showed positive, I knew our careful separation of personal and professional was living on borrowed time. Still, I'd hoped for more than forty-eight hours before facing the first test.
"Schedule it for 2 PM," I tell him. "And Jenkins? No need to look so funereal. This isn't my first boardroom battle."
He nods, not looking particularly reassured as he leaves my office.
Alone, I allow myself a moment of pure, uncensored frustration. Grant's timing is impeccable, as always. Just as Cassie and I are navigating the profound shift in our relationship, just as Lumière's relaunch is gaining momentum, he drops this carefully worded grenade into the industry conversation.
My phone buzzes with an incoming message from Cassie: Just got an "anonymous tip" about the Grant press release. You okay?
Her concern for me, when she's the one more vulnerable in this situation, speaks volumes about who she is. I type back: Fine. Board meeting at 2. Focus on your doctor's appointment. That's what matters today.
Her response is immediate: Both matter. I'll be done by 1:30. Want me there for the board?
I consider this. Having Cassie at the meeting would demonstrate unity, show the board we're not hiding. But it could also make her a target, force her to defend personal choices in a professional setting.
Not necessary. I've got this. See you after? My place?
I'll be there. With sonogram pictures if all goes well.
The reminder of her appointment sends a fresh wave of anxiety through me. While I'm dealing with corporate politics, Cassie will be hearing our baby's heartbeat for the first time. The juxtaposition feels wrong, like I'm prioritizing business over the most important personal development of my life.
But Cassie had insisted this morning. "The appointment is just confirmation and basic tests," she'd said while dressing for work. "The next one is when you should be there. When we'll actually see something."
I wasn't convinced but respected her decision. Now, facing Grant's orchestrated pressure campaign and the board's swift reaction, her foresight seems prescient.
I spend the next hours preparing for the board, reviewing governance guidelines, examining my contract terms, assembling evidence of Cassie's professional qualifications and accomplishments. I build a case like I'm heading into court, ready to defend both our relationship and her undeniable talent.
At 1:15, my concentration is broken by another text: Heartbeat confirmed. Strong and steady at 7 weeks. Doctor noted low blood pressure, wants more monitoring. Nothing serious, just cautious. Heading home to rest before coming to you.
Relief floods through me at the confirmation, followed immediately by fresh concern about the blood pressure comment. I type back: Resting is good. I can come to you after the board meeting.
No need. I'm fine, just tired. See you at 6? Bringing dinner.
I smile despite the circumstances. Even now, she's maintaining her independence, refusing to be managed or coddled. It's what drew me to her from the beginning—that fierce self-possession, the refusal to be diminished.
At exactly 2 PM, I enter the boardroom, expression neutral, stride confident. Nine board members wait around the table, expressions ranging from uncomfortable to openly hostile. Charles Whitaker, my longest ally on the board, gives me a barely perceptible nod as I take my seat.
"Thank you for accommodating this meeting on short notice," I begin, taking control of the narrative immediately. "I understand you have concerns you wish to address."
Regina Powell, one of the newer board members, speaks first. "The Grant Industries press release has raised questions about governance at Elysian. Specifically, about your relationship with Cassandra Monroe and whether it constitutes a conflict of interest."
"Ms. Monroe is Lumière's Creative Director, a position she earned through her exceptional talent and vision. She is also my partner in my personal life. These facts are not mutually exclusive."