Page 17 of Sexting the Billionaire

CASSIE

There's a special kind of irony in interviewing for your dream job three days after your life implodes. Like showing up to a fashion show in designer heels while your apartment burns. "Everything's fine! Pay no attention to the smoke!"

"You're fidgeting." Olivia slaps my hand away from my collar. "Stop it. You look amazing."

We're standing outside the towering glass edifice that houses Elysian, the luxury brand conglomerate that owns everything from high-end watches to fashion labels I can't afford to window-shop.

Including Lumière, the once-iconic brand that's in desperate need of revitalization. The brand that's looking for a new Creative Director.

The brand that, according to the listing I found three bottles of wine into our post-Camden pity party, wants someone with "fresh perspective" and "innovative vision."

"This is insane." I smooth down my skirt for the fifth time. "I'm not qualified for this. I've never been a Creative Director before."

"But you should be," Olivia says firmly. "Your portfolio is incredible. Your concepts are exactly what they're looking for. And most importantly," she grabs my shoulders, forcing me to meet her eyes, "you're no longer dimming your light to make some mediocre man feel bright."

She's right. My application portfolio contains designs I never showed Camden. Ideas he would have called "too much" or "trying too hard." The real me, professionally speaking.

"Besides," Olivia continues, "the worst they can say is no. Then you're exactly where you are right now, except with free fancy water from their reception area. Win-win."

I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. "Wish me luck."

"You don't need luck. You need confidence." She gives me a gentle shove toward the revolving door. "Text me when you're done. I want every detail about the fancy water."

The Elysian lobby is designed to intimidate. Soaring ceilings, stark white marble, and a reception desk that looks carved from a single block of ice.The receptionist, similarly elegant and intimidating, directs me to the 34th floor with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

I repeat my new mantra silently as the elevator ascends:I am creative. I am talented. I am no longer making myself smaller.

The HR representative who greets me, Melissa, is unexpectedly warm.

"Cassie Monroe! Great to meet you in person. Your portfolio really stood out."

I blink in surprise. "It did?"

"Absolutely. The Lumière brand needs someone who understands both its heritage and where it needs to go next. Your concepts showed that balance."

She leads me through a sleek corridor.

"The interview process has three stages: first with me, then with the design team, and finally with Mr. Kade himself if you make it that far."

My heart skips. Roman Kade, the notoriously exacting CEO, rarely involves himself in hiring below the executive level. His participation signals how important this position is.

No pressure or anything.

"Mr. Kade is very particular about the creative vision across all our brands," Melissa explains as we enter a minimalist conference room. "Especially Lumière, which was one of his first acquisitions."

The first twoparts of the interview go surprisingly well. I speak with passion about my vision for Lumière—maintaining its elegant simplicity while introducing more contemporary elements. I emphasize authenticity and connection over mere brand recognition.

Words flow from me with unexpected ease, as if I've suddenly been granted permission to speak my mind after years of careful self-censorship. Maybe Camden breaking up with me was an accidental gift—freedom from the constant low-grade anxiety of being "too much."

After nearly two hours of questions, concept discussions, and impromptu design challenges, Melissa returns with a startled expression.

"This is unexpected." She sounds awed. "Mr. Kade would like to meet you. Now."

My stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles. "Now? I thought that was only if?—"

"If you made it to the final round, yes," she finishes, clearly impressed. "Apparently you have. Follow me."

We ascend to the 40th floor, where the atmosphere shifts from merely elegant to rarefied. Everything is either glass or the kind of wood that probably has its own insurance policy.

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