Page 109 of Sexting the Billionaire

The primal part of me responds instantly to her challenge, my control fracturing as I drive deeper, harder. She matches me move for move, her nails scoring my back, her legs urging me closer. We find our rhythm quickly, bodies remembering what minds sometimes forget—that we fit together perfectly, complementary pieces of a whole.

When she comes apart beneath me, my name on her lips like a benediction, I follow immediately, unable and unwilling to separate my pleasure from hers. In that moment of shared release, all the barriers fall—no CEO, no Creative Director, just Roman and Cassie, creating something neither of us could make alone.

Afterward, she curls against me, her breathing slowly steadying. I trail my fingers along her spine, savoring the weight of her against me.

"I need to see my father," I say into the darkness, the words emerging from some place I didn't know needed voice.

She stills against me. "Your father? I thought you barely spoke."

"We don't. But I need to... I don't know. Resolve something. Before I become a father myself."

She raises up on one elbow, studying my face in the dim light. "Are you sure that's a good idea? From what you've told me, he's not exactly supportive."

"It's not about getting his support," I explain, trying to articulate what I've only just realized myself. "It's about facing him as an equal. About breaking the hold he still has, even after all these years. I can't be the father our child deserves while I'm still, on some level, afraid of becoming him."

Understanding dawns in her eyes. "You want closure."

"I want freedom," I correct her gently. "From patterns I might not even recognize. From fears I haven't fully acknowledged."

She nods, pressing a kiss to my chest, right over my heart. "Then you should go. Do what you need to do."

We lapse into comfortable silence, my thoughts circling around tomorrow's conversation with my father, around Cassie's blood pressure, around the board's reaction. So many moving pieces, so many potential points of failure.

Just as I'm drifting toward sleep, my phone buzzes on the nightstand. I consider ignoring it—a rare impulse for me—but years of conditioning win out. I reach for it, squinting at the screen in the darkness.

It's a text from Zara, with a link to an industry blog and two words that instantly clear any trace of drowsiness:

It's out.

I click the link, dread pooling in my stomach as the page loads. The headline confirms my worst fears:

"EXCLUSIVE: Elysian CEO Roman Kade Expecting Child with Creative Director Cassandra Monroe. Sources confirm relationship began before her promotion."

Beneath it, a photo of Cassie leaving the obstetrician's office today, my name clearly visible on the paperwork she's holding. And a smaller inset image of Camden Sullivan, credited as the exclusive source for the story.

Just like that, our private joy becomes public spectacle. Our carefully managed disclosure timeline, shattered. And the battle I thought I'd forestalled with the board today will now explode with fresh ammunition.

I set the phone down carefully, not wanting to wake Cassie with this news. Not yet. Not when she's sleeping peacefully against me, one hand once again resting protectively over her stomach.

Morning will come soon enough, bringing with it the storm we've been dreading. For now, I hold her close, standing guard between her and a world that's about to get much more complicated.

Camden Sullivan has just ensured that whatever happens next, it's going to be war.

22

CASSIE

Morning sickness, I've discovered, is a cruelly ironic name for something that can strike at any hour. Like now, at 2:17 PM, minutes before the most important presentation of my career, when I should be reviewing my notes one last time instead of kneeling on the cold tile of the executive bathroom floor.

I press my forehead against the stall door, willing my stomach to settle. The board meeting starts in exactly thirteen minutes, and my entire Lumière relaunch presentation—the culmination of months of work, countless late nights, and a complete reimagining of the brand—hinges on me appearing confident, composed, and definitely not looking like I've just emptied my stomach for the third time today.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, Roman's name on the screen:

How are you feeling? Need me to push back the meeting?

I'm fine.

I type back, the lie coming automatically.

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