24. Roman #2
"The asking price is at the upper end of your budget," the agent says delicately as we move back inside. "But the owners are motivated. They've already relocated to the West Coast."
"We'll need to see the upstairs," I reply, unwilling to reveal my growing interest.
The upper floors contain five bedrooms, including a primary suite with an attached sitting room that would make a perfect nursery. As we tour each space, I can see Cassie mentally placing furniture, imagining configurations, building our life in these rooms.
"There's one more feature I think you'll appreciate," the agent says, leading us up a final flight of stairs. "The previous owners converted the attic into a studio space. It gets wonderful natural light."
She opens the door to reveal a large, open room with skylights and exposed beams. The walls are painted a clean white, the original floorboards sanded and sealed to a warm honey color.
"This could be your home workspace," I say to Cassie, watching her eyes widen as she takes in the possibilities. "Your own design studio."
"And yours too," she counters, squeezing my hand. "A place for us both to create."
After touring the basement with its wine cellar and laundry room, we find ourselves back in the main living area. The agent discreetly steps away to take a call, giving us a moment of privacy.
"What do you think?" Cassie asks, her expression carefully neutral. "Too traditional for you?"
I look around, seeing beyond the current owners' decor to the space itself—the generous proportions, the quality construction, the sense of history anchoring it to the city.
"I think," I say slowly, "that I can picture our family here."
Cassie's face lights up, but she tempers her reaction. "Are you sure? We can keep looking. I know it's not the sleek, modern place you initially wanted."
"I'm sure." I pull her close, one hand resting lightly on the subtle curve of her stomach. "This isn't just about my preferences anymore. It's about building something together—something that honors both our pasts and creates space for our future."
Olivia appears beside us, eyes suspiciously bright. "So? Is this the one?"
Cassie looks up at me, a question in her gaze. I nod, feeling more certain with each passing moment.
"Yes," Cassie says, her smile radiant. "I think we've found our home."
Olivia claps her hands, delighted. "I knew it! The energy in this place is perfect for you two. Now, who's ready to talk about nursery colors?"
The congratulatory text from Maxwell Grant arrives later that evening, after we've signed the preliminary offer on the brownstone and celebrated with dinner at Cassie's favorite Italian restaurant.
Word travels fast in this industry. Perhaps we could meet next week? Recent developments warrant a face-to-face conversation.
I show the message to Cassie, who frowns slightly. "What 'recent developments' could he possibly mean?"
"I have no idea," I admit. "But I'm curious enough to find out."
"Do you trust him?" she asks, curling against me on the couch in my penthouse—soon to be our former residence.
"Not remotely," I say, stroking her hair. "But sometimes knowing your enemy's next move is worth the discomfort of sitting across from them."
The meeting, when it happens, takes place on neutral ground—a private room at the Yale Club, where neither of us holds the home-court advantage. Grant arrives precisely on time, dressed impeccably as always, but with an unfamiliar solemnity in his bearing.
"Roman," he says, extending his hand. "Thank you for agreeing to this."
I shake his hand briefly, my suspicion undimmed by his apparent civility. "What's this about, Maxwell?"
He gestures to the chairs arranged by the fireplace. "Please. This will take a few minutes."
Once seated, he studies me with an intensity that's familiar from our early days as mentor and protégé. "I understand congratulations are in order. but for the forthcoming addition to your family."
"Thank you." My response is clipped, wary. "Though I find your sudden interest in my personal life... concerning."
"Not sudden." He sighs, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I've followed your career closely since our... parting of ways. With more attention than was perhaps healthy."
The admission catches me off guard. "Why are we here, Maxwell?"
"Because fatherhood has a way of clarifying one's perspective." He reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws an envelope. "As I imagine you're discovering."
He places the envelope on the table between us. I make no move to take it.
"What's this?"
"A peace offering." He sits back, his expression uncharacteristically open.
"The patent claim against Lumière's hardware design has been withdrawn.
You'll find the official documentation there, along with a joint press release announcing a collaborative approach to sustainable luxury initiatives between our companies. "
I stare at him, searching for the trap. "Why would you do this?"
"Because some rivalries should end before they consume a second generation." He meets my gaze steadily. "Catherine and I were never going to work. You know that now. What I did was unconscionable. Both to her and to you. I've spent years trying to destroy you rather than facing my own culpability."
I say nothing, my mind racing through possible angles, hidden motives. Grant continues into the silence.
"I lost a child once,.” His voice drops. "A son. He would have been twenty-six this year."
The revelation lands like a physical blow. In all our years of rivalry, I never knew this about him.
"Catherine and I lost a baby at five months." The words are clearly painful. "She blamed me—said the stress of the situation, of betraying you, contributed to the miscarriage." He looks away. "She was probably right."
I struggle to process this information. The idea of Catherine pregnant with another man's child should hurt, but the pain feels distant now, dulled by time and my own changed circumstances.
"I'm sorry for your loss," I say finally, and mean it. "But I don't understand what this has to do with us now."
"When I heard about Ms. Monroe's pregnancy, something... shifted." He gestures vaguely. "Perhaps it's age. Perhaps it's simply exhaustion with this endless game we've been playing. But I found myself unwilling to direct any negative energy toward a family expecting a child."
His words ring with unexpected sincerity. I study him—the man who's been my nemesis for so long—and see new lines around his eyes, a weariness I recognize from my own mirror.
"This doesn't erase the past," I say carefully.
"No," he agrees. "Nothing can do that. But perhaps we can write a different future. One with professional respect, if not friendship."
I consider his offer, weighing years of enmity against the potential benefits of peace. Finally, I reach for the envelope.
"I'll review these," I say, neither accepting nor rejecting his proposition outright. "And discuss them with my team."
He nods, accepting this measured response. "That's all I ask. And Roman—congratulations again. Fatherhood is... transformative. Even when it ends in loss."
We part with a handshake that contains none of our usual tension—not quite a peace accord, but perhaps the beginning of one.
When I tell Cassie about the meeting later that evening, she listens with characteristic thoughtfulness before offering her perspective.
"People can change," she says, her head resting in my lap as we sit on the couch. "Look at Camden. His public statement defending me against those industry rumors actually helped quiet things down."
She's right. Camden's forceful refutation of the timeline suggesting our relationship predated her hiring has helped shift the narrative.
His admission of his own jealousy-driven behavior cast our critics in a less flattering light, making them appear similarly motivated by envy rather than ethical concerns.
"Perhaps," I concede. "Though I'm not ready to invite either of them for dinner."
She laughs, the sound warming me from within. "No dinner invitations necessary. But maybe... professional détente?"
"I'll consider it." I run my hand over the gentle swell of her stomach, still marveling at the miracle contained within. "For the sake of our child's future industry networking opportunities."
"Very magnanimous," she teases, covering my hand with her own.
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, the city lights glimmering beyond the windows.
Tomorrow brings the board meeting where I'll announce the reorganization plan placing Cassie's new brand as the centerpiece of Elysian's innovation strategy.
It's a bold move, one that acknowledges her vision while simultaneously addressing any lingering concerns about favoritism by giving her project unprecedented independence.
"Come to bed," Cassie says finally, rising with the slightly altered movement she's adopted to accommodate her changing body. "You need rest before tomorrow's board presentation."
In the bedroom, she undresses with unselfconscious grace, each motion a reminder of how completely she's transformed my life. When she catches me watching, a slow smile spreads across her face.
"See something you like?" she asks, slipping one of my t-shirts over her head.
"Everything," I say simply, the truth requiring no embellishment.
She comes to me then, her movements deliberate and unhurried. "I never expected this," she whispers afterward, curled against me in the darkness. "Any of it. You. The baby. This overwhelming happiness."
"Nor I," I admit, my hand splayed protectively over her stomach. "I had my life perfectly arranged. And then you sent that text."
She laughs softly. "Best wrong number in history."
The next morning, before the board meeting, I take her to the brownstone. We signed the final papers yesterday, making it officially ours, though we won't move in for several weeks while some updates are completed.
"Why the mystery trip?" she asks as the car pulls up outside. "We have the meeting in two hours."
"I have something to show you," I say, guiding her up the front steps. "It won't take long."
Inside, the house is empty of the previous owners' belongings, the rooms echoing slightly with potential. I lead her upstairs to what will be the nursery, adjacent to our bedroom.
"Close your eyes," I instruct, positioning her in the doorway.
"Roman—"
"Humor me," I say, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
When I open the door and tell her to look, her hand flies to her mouth, eyes widening.
The room is empty except for a drafting table in the center, holding detailed architectural renderings of a nursery design. I've worked on them in secret for weeks, collaborating with an interior designer friend while incorporating elements from both our childhoods.
"Oh, Roman," she breathes, moving to examine the drawings. "This is... incredible."
The design features a mural of constellations—a nod to her tattoo—and built-in bookshelves modeled after ones my grandfather made for me. A window seat with storage beneath, a rocking chair in the corner, a crib that can convert to a toddler bed. Every detail considered, every element purposeful.
"Do you like it?" I ask, suddenly uncertain. "We can change anything?—"
"It's perfect," she interrupts, tears shimmering in her eyes. "Absolutely perfect. You incorporated the rocking chair my mother loved"
"I had it reproduced from the photos you showed me," I confirm. "And this—" I point to a small alcove with a custom shelf "—is for your mother's collection of children's books. The ones in your storage unit."
She turns to me, her expression a mixture of joy and wonder. "You remember everything, don't you?"
"About you? Yes." I reach into my pocket, my fingers closing around the small wooden box I've carried for days, waiting for the right moment. "There's one more thing."
I open the box, revealing my grandmothers sapphire pendant nestled on its cushion. It was a gift from my grandfather, retained after my maternal grandmother passed away.
"My grandfather gave me this before he died," I explain, removing it carefully. "He told me to give it to 'someone who matters more than success.'"
Understanding dawns in her eyes as I take her hand.
"I've held on to it for a long time. Holding onto it as the one of the things that connected me to him—the one person who saw me as more than my achievements." I place the pendant on her neck and ensure the clasp is fastened.
"Now I want you to have it. A piece from the best man I've ever known, passed down to the most important person in my life."
Tears spill freely down her cheeks now.
"Roman, I can't take this—it's your connection to him."
"No," I say, my voice rough with emotion. "You and this baby are my connection to him now. To the kind of man—the kind of father—he taught me to be. You two are what matter more than success. More than anything."
She launches herself into my arms, the pendant clutched tightly in her hand. I hold her close, my cheek pressed against her hair, and realize with startling clarity that this—this moment, this woman, this child we've made—is the foundation I've been building my entire life.