Page 7 of Sexting the Billionaire

"Just send it already!" Olivia urges, pouring herself another glass.

"Hold on, I'm trying to get his number right," I mumble, peering at the screen.

"Who cares? It's your final communication. Dramatic exit, stage left." She makes a sweeping gesture that nearly knocks over the empty white wine bottle.

I shrug. It's probably right. Or close enough. I take one last look at my message—part angry manifesto, part explicit declaration of independence—and hit send before I can second-guess myself.

The whoosh of the sent message brings immediate satisfaction, followed seconds later by creeping anxiety.

I shove away my unease. "Wait," I say, a dangerous smile tugging at my lips. "I'm not done."

"Ooh," Olivia perks up. "I like that look. What are you thinking?"

Instead of answering, I stand up—wobbling only slightly—and head to her bathroom mirror. Olivia follows, wine glass in hand, clearly intrigued.

"He always loved these," I say, adjusting my emerald dress to show more cleavage than Camden ever let me display in public. "Said they were 'distracting' when I wore anything low-cut."

"They are spectacular," Olivia agrees matter-of-factly. "Document them. For posterity. And revenge."

I laugh, the sound foreign to my own ears after tonight. I adjust the neckline again, leaning forward just enough to create that perfect curve of cleavage—the kind of shot that's sinful without being vulgar.

The lighting in Olivia's bathroom is surprisingly flattering, and the emerald fabric makes my skin glow.

"You know what? Yes." I hand Olivia my phone. "Take the picture. No face, obviously. Just enough to make him realize exactly what he's never going to see again."

Olivia positions herself, clearly having done this before for her own dating adventures. "On three. Give me your best 'look what you're missing' energy."

I lean forward slightly, the dress creating the perfect frame.Click.

"Oh, that's good," Olivia grins, showing me the result. "That's really good. Like,damn-girlgood."

She's right. The photo captures just enough—the curve of my breasts in the jewel-toned fabric, the delicate chain of my necklace catching the light, the suggestion of what lies beneath without revealing too much.

It's tasteful but undeniably sexy. The kind of picture that whispers promises while delivering a final fuck-you.

"Perfect," I breathe, attaching it to my final message:

You can think about this every night when you’re alone with your predictable new girlfriend.

The small voice in my head—the one that's been with me all night—pipes up again.This isn't you, Cassie. You don't send pictures like this.

But wine and heartbreak have a way of drowning out voices like that. Besides, maybe this IS me. Maybe it's been me all along, just waiting for permission to stop being so goddamn careful.

"Last chance to back out," Olivia says, though her tone suggests she hopes I won't.

I look at the message—explicit, defiant, with photographic evidence of what Camden claimed wasn't worth fighting for. My finger hovers over send.

"No," I say firmly. "He wanted someone who pushes boundaries? Let him see exactly what that looks like."

I hit send before I can overthink it.

All of a sudden, the left side of my brain kicks in. "Oh god," I stare at my phone. "What did I just do?"

"You just took back your power," Olivia says with drunken conviction. "You just told him exactly who Cassie Monroe really is."

"But what if—" I'm cut off by Olivia plucking the phone from my hands.

"No what-ifs. No checking for replies. This was for you, not him." She places my phone on her highest bookshelf, well out of tipsy-reach. "Now, we finish this bottle, watch something with explosions, and pass out on the couch like the independent women we are."

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