Page 29
Story: Sexting the Billionaire
That dress has been tormenting me all day. The way it skims your curves made it nearly impossible to focus in our meeting. Professional boundaries have never been so difficult to maintain. Just so you know. -RK
I bite my lip, suppressing a smile as I step into the elevator. Two can play at this game.
Your forearms on display had the same effect on me. Just so you know.
As the elevator descends, I lean against the wall and close my eyes.
This is beyond risky.
This is potential career suicide.
But the ping of another text message has me reaching for my phone before the rational part of my brain can object.
I'll keep that in mind for tomorrow's budget meeting. Sleep well, Cassie.
I step out of the elevator into the quiet lobby, my head spinning with the contradictions of the day. Professional boundaries with explicit exceptions. My boss who isn't my boss in text messages. The most inappropriate appropriate relationship I've ever had.
As I push through the revolving door into the cool evening air, one thought rings clear through the confusion:
This job is going to be nothing like I expected.
8
CASSIE
ELEVATOR CONFIDENTIAL
Four weeks into my new job, I've developed a serious split personality disorder.
By day, I'm Cassandra Monroe, consummate professional and Creative Director of Lumière.
I lead meetings with steady confidence, present bold concepts with clear vision, and act like someone who definitely hasn't sexted her boss.
By night (and lunch breaks, and occasional bathroom retreats), I'm Cassie, the woman engaged in the most exhilarating relationship—albeit via texts—of her life with a man she can't have.
What's the most inappropriate thought you've had during a board meeting?
Roman texts while I'm eating lunch at my desk.
I nearly choke on my salad, fingers hovering over the screen.
We've established rules—texting for personal conversations only, no work discussions, nothing constituting harassment if discovered. But the line between appropriate and inappropriate shifts daily, like drawing in sand during high tide.
Shouldn't you be paying attention to quarterly projections?
I dodge the question.
I'm capable of multitasking. Answer the question, Cassie.
It's still jarring when he uses my first name in texts, knowing that in person it's all "Ms. Monroe" and "Mr. Kade" with careful professional distance.
Fine. Last week's financial review. You rolled up your sleeves. I briefly considered climbing across the conference table.
His response takes longer than usual. Have I finally crossed a line?
Then:
I wondered why you dropped your pen four times. Good to know my forearms have that effect on you.
I bite my lip, suppressing a smile as I step into the elevator. Two can play at this game.
Your forearms on display had the same effect on me. Just so you know.
As the elevator descends, I lean against the wall and close my eyes.
This is beyond risky.
This is potential career suicide.
But the ping of another text message has me reaching for my phone before the rational part of my brain can object.
I'll keep that in mind for tomorrow's budget meeting. Sleep well, Cassie.
I step out of the elevator into the quiet lobby, my head spinning with the contradictions of the day. Professional boundaries with explicit exceptions. My boss who isn't my boss in text messages. The most inappropriate appropriate relationship I've ever had.
As I push through the revolving door into the cool evening air, one thought rings clear through the confusion:
This job is going to be nothing like I expected.
8
CASSIE
ELEVATOR CONFIDENTIAL
Four weeks into my new job, I've developed a serious split personality disorder.
By day, I'm Cassandra Monroe, consummate professional and Creative Director of Lumière.
I lead meetings with steady confidence, present bold concepts with clear vision, and act like someone who definitely hasn't sexted her boss.
By night (and lunch breaks, and occasional bathroom retreats), I'm Cassie, the woman engaged in the most exhilarating relationship—albeit via texts—of her life with a man she can't have.
What's the most inappropriate thought you've had during a board meeting?
Roman texts while I'm eating lunch at my desk.
I nearly choke on my salad, fingers hovering over the screen.
We've established rules—texting for personal conversations only, no work discussions, nothing constituting harassment if discovered. But the line between appropriate and inappropriate shifts daily, like drawing in sand during high tide.
Shouldn't you be paying attention to quarterly projections?
I dodge the question.
I'm capable of multitasking. Answer the question, Cassie.
It's still jarring when he uses my first name in texts, knowing that in person it's all "Ms. Monroe" and "Mr. Kade" with careful professional distance.
Fine. Last week's financial review. You rolled up your sleeves. I briefly considered climbing across the conference table.
His response takes longer than usual. Have I finally crossed a line?
Then:
I wondered why you dropped your pen four times. Good to know my forearms have that effect on you.
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