Page 70 of Sexting the Billionaire

As I head to my bedroom, I pass the small study where I keep family mementos—the few personal items I allow in my otherwise streamlined space. On impulse, I open the desk drawer and pull out a small wooden box.

Inside sits a vintage necklace that once belonged to my grandmother. My grandfather gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday, tucked beside an old pocket watch, with words I’ve never forgotten:

“Give this to someone who matters more than success.”

He wasthe only one who ever saw me clearly, not just the ambition, but the fear beneath it. Not the man I was trying to become, but the boy I was still outrunning.

At the time, I'd nodded politely while thinking he'd finally lost his mind. Nothing mattered more than success. Nothing ever would.

Now, running my thumb over the worn leather band, I'm not so sure.

I return the watch and the necklace to their boxes, close the drawer, and head to bed with a clarity I didn't have before. I still don't know what happened between Cassie and Grant, and I still don't know what she'll decide. But I do know this: for the first time in my life, something matters more to me than business success.

As I finally drift toward sleep, one thought follows me into unconsciousness: If I have to choose between Elysian and Cassie—between the company I built and the woman who's somehow become essential to me—it's not even a contest anymore.

The company is replaceable. She isn't.

Tomorrow, I'll tear up the proposal. No fancy business deals, no counter-offers, no strategic maneuvers. Just the truth, asterrifying as that might be: I'm falling for her, harder and faster than I ever thought possible.

And if telling her that means risking my heart along with my company, so be it. Some risks are worth taking.

Even for Roman Kade.

16

CASSIE

There's something embarrassingly revealing about your apartment when you're in the middle of a life crisis.

Mine currently looks like a creative hurricane collided with a pizza delivery service and then exploded.

Sketches cover every available surface, concept boards lean precariously against walls, and empty wine bottles stand like sentinels around my living room.

Three days of stress-induced design binging over a long weekend has transformed my usually tidy space into what can only be described as "tortured artist chic."

"Is that an actual mood board for Maxwell Grant's nonexistent luxury brand?" Olivia asks, pointing to a foam core monstrosity propped against my TV.

"In my defense, insomnia-fueled creativity is still creativity," I mumble from my position face-down on the couch. "Besides, a serial killer would have a wall of newspaper clippings. I have fashion concepts. It's healthier."

"Debatable." Olivia picks her way through the creative carnage to perch on my coffee table, shoving aside fabricswatches and color palettes. "You've been obsessing for three days. You already told Grant no. It's done."

I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. "I know. But he keeps texting. Three 'reconsider' messages since yesterday."

"Block him."

"That would be the sane response, yes."

"And Roman?"

I groan, covering my face with a throw pillow. "Radio silence. Which is what I asked for when I said I needed time to think. So I can't even be mad about it."

"But you are mad."

"I'm not mad. I'm... annoyed that he's respecting my boundaries so thoroughly."

Olivia snorts, pulling the pillow away from my face. "Listen to yourself. You're mad at one man for being manipulative and another for giving you space. We need to address this pattern."

"There's no pattern," I protest, sitting up. "Camden wanted me smaller. Maxwell wants to use me. Roman wants..." I trail off, uncertain how to finish that sentence.

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