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"Wait here," Melissa instructs, leaving me in yet another intimidating conference room. "He'll be with you shortly."
Shortly turns out to be twenty minutes—twenty minutes in which I go from nervous to anxious to slightly annoyed back to nervous again. I'm rehearsing answers to potential questions when the door finally opens.
And the world stops.
Roman Kade strides in like he owns the place. Which he does.
God, he's beautiful.
Six-foot-two of lean muscle wrapped in a designer suit that likely costs more than my car. His dark hair has just enough wave to look effortlessly perfect rather than over-styled. Olive skin that suggests Mediterranean ancestry somewhere in his bloodline. Steel-blue eyes that seem to miss absolutely nothing as they sweep the room before landing on me.
His features are sharp—defined cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, a nose that's just shy of aquiline. He moves with the kind of fluid confidence that comes from knowing you're the most influential person in any room you enter.
"Ms. Monroe. Apologies for keeping you waiting."
Deep. Smooth. Slightly raspy around the edges.
Exactly like the voicemail greeting I heard when I tried to figure out whose number I'd accidentally texted.
No. No, no, no.
His voice wraps around my name like silk, and I feel something low in my belly tighten in response. Is this the sameman who said those things in our text exchange? The same person who called me "sweetheart"?
There must be thousands of men with voices like that in this city. Millions, even. The chances of Roman Kade, billionaire CEO, being the random person I drunk-texted about wall sex are astronomically low. Cosmic-lottery low.
And yet.
"Your portfolio is impressive," he continues, seemingly unaware that I'm having an internal meltdown. His eyes lock onto mine, and there's something there—a heat, an intensity that feels like more than professional interest.
"Particularly your vision for repositioning Lumière while maintaining its core aesthetic."
I force myself to respond, to sound professional despite the screaming in my head.
"Thank you. I believe Lumière needs to evolve without losing what made it special in the first place."
He studies me with unnerving intensity, those steel-blue eyes missing nothing. They linger for just a moment too long on my lips before returning to meet my gaze.
"Tell me about your previous experience as a Creative Director." His tone gives nothing away.
Here it is—the question I've been dreading. The one that could end this interview instantly.
"I haven't held that title officially." I choose honesty over embellishment. "But I've been doing the work for years. At my previous position, I led the rebranding of three major client campaigns without the title or compensation to match."
I see something flicker in his expression—approval? Surprise? His eyes seem to darken slightly, and I wonder if I'm imagining the way his gaze drops to my throat for just a second.
"Why weren't you given proper recognition for your contributions?" he asks, his tone giving nothing away.
I consider a diplomatic answer, the kind Camden would have approved of. Something about being a team player, about valuing the work over the title.
But Camden isn't here. And dimming myself got me nowhere.
"Because I didn't demand it. I let others take credit because I was afraid of being seen as difficult or ambitious. That's not a mistake I'll make again."
Roman Kade's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his posture—a subtle straightening of his already impeccable frame. There's definitely heat in his eyes now, something that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
"And what would you do differently at Elysian?" His voice is carefully neutral, revealing nothing.
"I would bring authenticity back to Lumière," I say with conviction. "The brand has lost its soul trying to chase trends instead of setting them. I would create designs that speak to who our customers really are, not who they pretend to be."