Page 52 of Sexting the Billionaire

"You don't have to," Olivia says smugly. "Your face says it all."

Our food arrives, giving me another welcome break from the interrogation. I dig into my avocado toast with unnecessary enthusiasm.

"So what happens now?" Olivia asks after she's had a few bites of her eggs Benedict. "Was it a one-night stand or...?"

That's the million-dollar question, isn't it? The one I've been trying not to think too hard about.

"We actually discussed that," I admit. "This morning, over breakfast."

"He made you breakfast?" She looks impressed despite herself. "Actual food, not just calling his chef?"

"He cooked it himself. Turns out Roman Kade makes a mean omelet."

"Huh." She absorbs this. "A billionaire CEO who cooks. Didn't see that coming."

"There's a lot about him that doesn't fit the public image," I say, thinking of the Star Wars mug, the family photo, the surprising tenderness in his touch.

"And now you've got me all curious again. Back to my question—what happens now?"

I push a piece of avocado around my plate. "We came to an... arrangement."

Olivia's eyebrows shoot up. "An arrangement? Like a sugar daddy thing?"

"God, no!" I nearly choke on my mimosa. "Nothing like that. Just... boundaries. At work, we're strictly professional. Boss and employee, no special treatment. After hours..." I trail off, uncertain how to define what we agreed to.

"After hours, you're what? Friends with benefits?"

"Something like that," I say, though the term feels insufficient. "Exclusive, but not a relationship. Private. No expectations beyond" —I make air quotes this time— "'mutual enjoyment.'"

"And whose idea was this arrangement?"

"His, but I added conditions. Like the exclusivity. And that it ends the second it affects my job or professional reputation or the company."

Olivia ponders this while chewing thoughtfully. "So let me get this straight. You're having a secret, exclusive non-relationship with your boss, who is one of the most powerful men in fashion, and you think this is going to work out... how exactly?"

Put like that, it sounds insane. I drop my head into my hands. "I know, I know. It's career suicide wrapped in terrible judgment sprinkled with a heaping dose of what-the-hell-am-I-thinking."

"And yet you're doing it anyway," she observes, not unkindly.

"I tried telling myself all the reasons not to, Liv. I made an actual mental list."

"And?"

I look up at her, knowing my expression gives everything away. "And then I remember how it feels when he looks at me. Not just the physical stuff, though that's... yeah. But the way he actually sees me. My ideas. My ambition. The fire he says he doesn't want me to dim."

Olivia's teasing expression softens. "Camden really did a number on you, didn't he?"

"Two years of making myself smaller," I say quietly. "Two years of carefully filtering my thoughts, my desires, my creative vision. With Roman, I don't have to filter anything. Even when he disagrees with my ideas, he respects them. Respectsme."

"And that's worth the risk?" she asks, though I can tell she already knows my answer.

"I think it might be." I finish my mimosa and signal for another. "Besides, who says it can't work? We're both adults. We've set clear boundaries."

"Says the woman who once drove to Connecticut at 3 AM because she thought she left a straightening iron on," Oliviacounters. "You're not exactly known for your sound judgment in high-stress situations."

"That was one time!"

"The straightening iron wasn't even plugged in."

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