Page 69 of Sexting the Billionaire

Research on Grant complete. Pattern confirmed: hires creative talent from competitors, uses them for insider information, terminates within 6-18 months. Documented cases attached.

I open the file she's sent, a meticulously compiled dossier on Grant's hiring and firing practices over the past five years. Zara's efficiency would be terrifying if it weren't so useful. The pattern is even more blatant than I suspected—three creative directors, all women, all hired away from competitors, all fired once they'd served their purpose of damaging their former employers.

Catherine isn't mentioned in the report, but she doesn't need to be. I remember all too well how that played out. The promises of greater recognition, more creative control, a chance to build something of her own. The subtle implication that she would always be in my shadow at Elysian. The spectacular job offer that she couldn't possibly refuse.

And then, once she'd shared enough inside information about our business strategies and I'd been thoroughly gutted by her betrayal, Grant fired her. Claimed "creative differences." Left her reputation in tatters.

I scrub a hand over my face, suddenly exhausted. Is this what he's planning for Cassie? Use her to hurt me, then discard her once he's gotten what he wants?

The thought makes something primal and protective rise up in me—a feeling so fierce it momentarily takes my breath away.

Thank you. This is exactly what I needed.

I text back to Zara, then add:

Go to sleep. It's 3 AM.

Her response is immediate:

You first, sir.

I almost smile at that. Almost.

Setting the phone aside, I return to my proposal with new determination. This isn't just about keeping Cassie at Elysian anymore. It's about protecting her from Grant's manipulations, about making sure her remarkable talent isn't exploited and discarded as part of some corporate vendetta.

But how do I tell her that without sounding like I'm trying to control her decisions? How do I warn her about Grant without making it seem like I don't trust her judgment?

The truth is, I don't trust Grant. But I do trust Cassie. I trust her intelligence, her perception, her ability to see through bullshit. If anyone can recognize Grant's manipulation tactics, it's her.

Which means maybe I don't need a fancy proposal or a counter-offer at all. Maybe what I need is simpler. And infinitely more terrifying.

Honesty.

Not just about Grant's patterns or business opportunities, but about something I've been avoiding acknowledging even to myself: how I feel about her.

The thought sends a cold wave of panic through me. I don't do feelings. I don't do vulnerability. I certainly don't do heartfelt confessions about how someone has fundamentally changed the way I see the world.

And yet...

I pick up my phone again, open the voice memo app, and before I can talk myself out of it, hit record.

"Cassie, I—" I stop, clear my throat. Start again. "This isn't about business. Or Grant. Or Elysian. This is about us. About how I feel when you laugh at my kitchen table wearing nothing but my shirt. About how you're the first person in years who sees past all my carefully constructed walls. About how the thought of you leaving—not just Elysian, but me—makes it hard to breathe."

I pause, surprised by my own words. This is not Roman Kade, CEO. This is just... Roman. Stripped of titles and power and polished façades.

"I know we agreed to an arrangement. No strings, no expectations. But somewhere between that first text and now, something changed. At least for me. And I need you to know that before you make any decisions about Grant's offer."

I stop the recording, my finger hovering over the delete button. This is madness. I don't send voice memos confessing feelings like some lovesick teenager. I make business deals. I negotiate terms. I maintain control.

But that's exactly the problem, isn't it? This isn't business. It never really was, not from the moment I decided to respond to that misdirected text.

I press delete before I can change my mind, watching the waveform disappear from my screen.

Maybe someday I'll find the courage to say these things to her face. But not like this. Not as a desperate ploy to keep her from accepting Grant's offer.

If she chooses to stay, it needs to be her decision, made freely, not influenced by emotional manipulation—even well-intentioned manipulation.

I close my laptop, suddenly bone-tired. The sky outside my windows is beginning to lighten—another sleepless night courtesy of Cassandra Monroe and her disruptive effect on my carefully ordered life.

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