24. Roman
ROMAN
" T ell me about your father," Dr. Winters says, her voice carrying neither judgment nor expectation. Just a simple invitation to speak.
I shift in the leather chair, the material creaking under my weight. Two sessions into therapy, and I'm still not used to this—the quiet room, the unblinking attention, the space deliberately created for discomfort.
"We've covered that," I say, glancing at the clock on her desk. Forty-five minutes remaining. "He was demanding. Cold. Work-obsessed."
"You've provided facts about him," she corrects gently. "I'm asking about your relationship with him. How he shaped you."
The distinction irritates me—another reminder that I'm a novice at this kind of introspection. I take a deep breath, a technique she suggested in our first session. Center, then speak.
"He taught me that achievement is the only currency worth having," I say finally. "That emotion is weakness. That reputation is everything. That love is... conditional."
Dr. Winters nods, making a brief note. "And you're worried you'll parent the same way."
It's not a question. "I'm terrified of it," I admit, the words scraping my throat raw. "I look at Cassie, at what we've created, and I'm paralyzed by the possibility that I'll repeat his patterns without even recognizing them."
"That awareness is significant," she says, leaning forward slightly. "The patterns we're conscious of are the ones we can change."
I want to believe her. That's why I'm here, after all—sitting in this carefully neutral office, paying exorbitant hourly rates to learn how to be the father my child deserves. The father I never had.
"My grandfather was different," I find myself saying. "My mother's father. He saw me—really saw me. Not just my achievements or failures."
"Tell me about him," she says, and this time the invitation feels easier to accept.
"He built things with his hands. Furniture, mostly.
Taught me that creation was its own reward.
" I smile despite myself, memory unspooling.
"He had this workshop behind his house, filled with tools and wood shavings and the smell of linseed oil.
It was the only place I felt like I could breathe after my mother died. "
"It sounds like a sanctuary."
"It was." I run my thumb across my watchband.
We spend the rest of the session discussing concrete strategies—identifying trigger points that activate my father's voice in my head, developing alternative responses, establishing the parenting values I want to embody.
By the time I leave, the afternoon sun slanting across the city sidewalks, I feel both drained and curiously lighter. As if naming my fears has somehow diminished their power.
My phone buzzes with a text from Cassie:
How was therapy? Still meeting Olivia and me at the Murray Hill property at 4?
I smile as I slide into the back of the waiting car.
Three weeks into our house search, and we're still struggling to find the perfect balance between my preference for modern minimalism and Cassie's love of character and quirk.
Today's property—a brownstone with recent updates—is Olivia's suggestion, an attempt at compromise.
Therapy was good. Uncomfortable, but good. I’m going to see my dad at his office first but see you at 4.
I hesitate, then add:
I love you.
It still feels new, this freedom to express emotion without calculation. Cassie has broken through defenses I didn't even realize I'd built, teaching me that vulnerability isn't weakness but its own kind of strength.
Her response is immediate:
Love you too. Remember: open mind, open heart. Olivia says this could be The One.
I chuckle, tucking away my phone. Olivia's enthusiasm for our house search has transformed the process from business transaction to something approaching a spiritual quest. Her insistence on "house energy" and "flow harmonics" would be irritating if she weren't so genuinely invested in our happiness.
Our happiness. The phrase still catches me by surprise. Four months ago, I was Roman Kade, bachelor CEO, married to Elysian and content with that singular commitment. Now I'm choosing nursery colors and interviewing pediatricians, creating a life I never imagined wanting.
The air in my dad’s office still as suffocating as it always was..
He doesn’t stand when I walk in. Just looks up from whatever quarterly report he’s pretending to be interested in and folds his hands like he’s about to deliver a verdict.
“You’re late.”
I let the jab roll off me. Of course he opens with a test.
“I’m not here to talk about timelines.”
He arches a brow. “Then what?”
“Cassie’s pregnant.”
The words land heavier than I expected. Even out loud, they still feel fragile. But right.
Sterling leans back in his leather chair, expression unreadable.
“And this is… good news?”
“It’s the best news I’ve ever had.”
He scoffs. Actually scoffs.
“You’re serious.”
“You throw away a career’s worth of discipline for a woman who came into your life through work and now you’re what? Playing house? Popping out a family? You think the board won’t use this against you?”
“Let them,” I say. “I’m not living my life around what they might think.”
Sterling narrows his eyes. “And what happens when she leaves? When the fantasy fades? When the pressure of being you cracks her open the way it did Catherine?”
His words land like broken glass—but they don’t cut like they used to.
“Then I’ll show up. Every day. The way you never did.”
“Because I’d rather be the man who tries too hard than the one who hides behind numbers and titles while everyone else does the bleeding.”
For a moment, Sterling is quiet. But not because he’s changed.
He just doesn’t know how to argue with conviction.
“Congratulations,” he says flatly. “I hope it works out better for you than it did for me.”
I don’t say thank you.
I just leave.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I owe him anything.
The car slows as we approach the address, and I spot Cassie and Olivia already waiting on the sidewalk.
Cassie at ten weeks is just beginning to show, her silhouette subtly altered in a way that catches my breath every time I notice.
She's radiant today in a simple dress that skims her curves, hair pulled back in a casual knot, face animated as she listens to whatever outrageous thing Olivia is saying.
It immediately takes my mind off the tense meeting with my dad. After that visit I am more grateful then ever to have Cassie in my life.
I take a moment to simply watch her, to appreciate what I've been given against all probability. Then I step from the car into the warm afternoon light.
"There he is," Olivia announces, gesturing dramatically. "The man, the myth, the real estate skeptic."
"Olivia," I nod in greeting, managing not to roll my eyes. Her irreverence was jarring at first, but I've come to appreciate how she cuts through pretense—even mine. "I assume you've already toured the place?"
"Just the outside," Cassie says, reaching for my hand. "Liv insisted we wait for you before going in. Something about 'first impression energy.'"
"The way you first experience a space together matters," Olivia insists.
"It sets the foundation for your life there.
And speaking of foundations..." She gestures toward the brownstone with a flourish.
"This one's rock solid. 1890s construction, completely updated systems, but with all the original architectural details preserved. "
I study the facade—classic proportions, elegant stonework, large windows that would provide excellent natural light. "It has potential," I concede.
Olivia beams as if I've declared it architectural perfection. "Just wait until you see inside. The current owners are collectors of Asian antiques, so the decor isn't your style, but look past that to the bones of the place."
The real estate agent greets us at the door, her professional smile widening when she recognizes me. I'm used to the reaction—the subtle shift in attention, the extra deference—but it still prickles uncomfortably.
"Mr. Kade, Ms. Monroe, such a pleasure," she says, ushering us inside. "Ms. Ortiz mentioned you're looking for a family home. I think you'll find this property offers the perfect blend of classic character and modern convenience."
The entrance hall opens to a spacious living area with soaring ceilings, original moldings, and a fireplace that immediately captures Cassie's attention.
"Look at that mantelpiece," she breathes, crossing to run her fingers along the carved marble. "You could put candles here for the holidays. And stockings."
The casual mention of future traditions—our traditions—creates a warm pressure in my chest. I find myself imagining Christmas mornings here, our child growing up with seasonal markers that become cherished memories.
"The kitchen was completely renovated two years ago," the agent continues, leading us through the space. "Viking appliances, marble countertops, but they preserved the original butler's pantry."
I note the quality of the renovation—high-end fixtures, thoughtful layout, excellent craftsmanship. It meets my standards for functionality while incorporating the character Cassie craves.
"Tell them about the garden," Olivia prompts, practically bouncing with excitement.
The agent smiles. "Yes, the property includes a private garden—quite rare for Manhattan. It's a blank slate right now, but the possibilities are endless."
She leads us through French doors to a surprisingly spacious outdoor area, walled for privacy and dappled with afternoon sunlight filtering through mature trees.
Cassie gasps softly beside me. "Roman, look—there's room for a swing set. And a sandbox. And maybe a little vegetable garden?"
I can see it too—our child taking first steps on the soft grass, weekend afternoons spent outdoors, family dinners at a table under the trees. The vision is so vivid it almost feels like a memory.