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I stare at him, certain I've misheard. "I'm sorry, what?"
"That message showed me something I rarely see in this industry—complete, unfiltered honesty. No calculation, no agenda, just raw truth." He leans forward, his expression serious. "Do you have any idea how rare that is in my world?"
I shake my head mutely.
"Everyone wants something from me. Everyone carefully curates what they say to achieve some end goal. But you..." He gestures toward me. "You had no idea who I was. You spoke your truth without filters. And then, in your interview, you did the same thing. You told me my brand had lost its way."
"Because it has," I say, finding my voice again.
"Exactly." He smiles, and it transforms his face from intimidating to almost boyish. "That's why I hired you. Not because of the explicit content of your message, but because of the honesty behind it."
I exhale slowly, relief mixing with lingering confusion. "So... what does this mean? For us professionally, I mean."
"It means I expect the same honesty from you as my Creative Director that you showed in that text and in your interview. No holding back to protect my feelings or the status quo." His expression grows serious again. "But it also means we need clear boundaries."
"Absolutely," I agree quickly. "Completely professional relationship."
"With one exception," he adds, making my heart skip. "I'd like to continue our text conversations. Off the clock. No pressure, no expectations, just... honesty."
I blink at him, trying to process this bizarre request. "You want to... text me? About what?"
He shrugs, a surprisingly casual gesture from someone usually so composed. "Life. Work. Boundaries you wish people wouldn't push. Walls you wish they would."
My face heats instantly. "Mr. Kade?—"
"Roman," he corrects. "When we're alone, at least."
"Roman," I repeat, the name feeling strange and intimate on my tongue. "I'm not sure that's appropriate, given our professional relationship."
"Probably not," he agrees easily. "But I haven't been able to stop thinking about our conversation. Have you?"
The directness of the question catches me off guard. I could lie, but something about his steady gaze makes me choose honesty instead.
"No," I admit quietly. "I haven't."
"So we continue. Separately from work. Two people getting to know each other through texts, just as we started." He holds my gaze. "Unless you'd rather not."
I should say no. I should absolutely, definitely say no. This is my boss. My very powerful, very wealthy, very attractive boss who knows exactly what I want to be done to me against a wall.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "But with conditions. Nothing that interferes with work. Nothing inappropriate during office hours. And if either of us wants to stop, we stop. No questions asked."
"Agreed." He extends his hand across the desk. "Do we have a deal, Ms. Monroe?"
I hesitate only briefly before taking his hand. His palm is warm and slightly rough against mine, his grip firm but not domineering.
"Deal," I say, trying to ignore the electric current that seems to run from his hand straight to my core. "Now, about these concept boards..."
For the next hour, we discuss my vision for Lumière, professional masks firmly back in place. But underneath our business conversation runs an undercurrent of awareness, of possibility, of dangerous potential.
As I pack up to leave, he walks me to the door of his office. His hand finds the small of my back, a whisper of pressure that sends heat radiating through my body.
The touch is brief and professional, but deliberate enough that I know it's not accidental. His fingers linger a moment longer than necessary, as if he's reluctant to break the connection.
"Good night, Ms. Monroe," he says formally, his hand on the doorknob. "I look forward to your progress."
"Good night, Mr. Kade," I reply with equal professionalism.
I'm halfway to the elevator when my phone buzzes in my purse.