Page 35 of Sexting the Billionaire

The dress is a midnight blue creation Olivia "borrowed" from the fashion magazine where she works. Borrowed being industry code for "smuggled out under threat of termination if discovered."

"I can't wear this." I can't stop staring at how the fabric transforms my usual practical self into someone far more dangerous. "It's too much."

"It's exactly enough," Olivia counters, adjusting the neckline that dips low enough to make my mother clutch her pearls from three states away. "The Elysian Annual Charity Gala isthefashion event of the season. Everyone who's anyone will be wearing their most spectacular outfit."

"But I'm not just attending. I'm representing Lumière. I need to look professional."

Olivia rolls her eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't get stuck. "Honey, at fashion events, 'professional' means 'make everyone else weep with envy while pretending you just threw this on.'" She steps back to admire her handiwork. "Mission accomplished."

The dress is admittedly spectacular—architectural in structure with unexpected cutouts that reveal just enough skin to be interesting without crossing into scandalous territory. The fabric catches the light when I move, creating the illusion that I'm wrapped in liquid starlight.

"What if I run into Roman?" I ask, voicing my real concern.

It's been three days since The Elevator Incident, as I've come to think of it. Three days of carefully maintained professional distance during the day and increasingly heated text exchanges at night. Three days of looking everywhere but at each other during meetings while sending messages that make me blush in the privacy of my apartment.

"You're definitely going to run into Roman," Olivia says with infuriating calm. "He's hosting the event. And when you do, he's going to take one look at you in this dress and forget how to speak English."

"That's what I'm afraid of." I smooth the fabric nervously. "Things are already complicated enough."

Olivia perches on the edge of her bed, fixing me with her therapist stare—the one that makes me feel like she's reading my mind and finding it highly entertaining.

"Let me get this straight," she says. "You're worried that your impossibly hot boss, who has made it very clear he's attracted to you, might be... more attracted to you?"

When she puts it like that, it sounds ridiculous. "I'm worried about crossing lines that shouldn't be crossed."

"What lines haven't you crossed already?" Olivia demands. "You've been having text foreplay for weeks!"

"It's not foreplay," I protest weakly. "It's just... conversation."

"Mm-hmm. Conversation that has you blushing at your phone and sleeping with it under your pillow." I throw a decorative pillow at her, which she dodges with practiced ease.

"I do not sleep with my phone under my pillow."

"The notification sound woke me up when I crashed on your couch last weekend," she says smugly. "At 2 AM. And your response time was suspiciously fast for someone supposedly asleep."

"That's the beauty of having my own place now—no roommates to question my late-night texting habits," I retort, but my defense is weak and we both know it.

Busted.

"Fine. But textual chemistry is different from real-world chemistry. Tonight will be the first time we're in a social setting together, not just work."

"And you're worried the textual chemistry might manifest physically?" Olivia waggles her eyebrows suggestively.

"I'm worried about a lot of things," I admit. "Losing my job. Ruining my career. Becoming gossip fodder for the entire fashion industry."

"Cassie," Olivia says, suddenly serious. "When was the last time you felt this way about someone? This excited, this challenged, this alive?"

I consider the question honestly. "Never."

"Then stop overthinking and just experience it," she advises. "Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe everything will happen. But you'll never know if you're too busy catastrophizing to actually live in the moment."

She's right, annoyingly so. And beneath all my practical concerns lurks an undeniable truth: part of me wants something to happen tonight. Part of me has been thinking about nothing but Roman since that moment in the elevator when his eyesdropped to my lips and the air between us seemed to crackle with electricity.

"Fine," I concede. "I'll wear the dress. But if I get fired and become a cautionary tale in HR training videos, I'm blaming you."

"I'll accept full responsibility," Olivia says solemnly. "Now hold still while I finish your makeup. We need to emphasize those eyes. They're your secret weapon."

An hour later,I'm stepping out of the car at the Metropolitan Museum, where the Elysian Annual Charity Gala is being held. The event raises millions for arts education in underserved communities—a cause that actually matters, unlike most fashion industry charity events that seem designed primarily for Instagram opportunities.

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