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"Catastrophically."
"That's... surprisingly comforting."
The elevator slows to a stop, saving me from having to admit just how much mental real estate she's been occupying. The doors slide open to reveal the private foyer of my penthouse, and I gesture for her to enter first.
I watch her face as she takes in the space—the soaring ceilings, the wall of windows overlooking the city, the carefully curated modern art collection that most museums would envy. Her expression shifts from impressed to curious to something I can't quite decipher.
"This is..." she begins, then stops, turning a full circle.
"Not what you expected?" I ask, shrugging out of my jacket and laying it over a chair.
"I don't know what I expected," she admits, moving toward the windows. "Something sleek and minimalist, probably. Cold. Intimidating." She glances back at me. "Like your office."
"My office is designed to project a specific image," I explain, following her to the window. "This is where I actually live."
She studies me with unexpected intensity. "And which is the real Roman Kade?"
"Both. Neither." I shrug, uncomfortable with the directness of her question. "The line blurs when you've been playing a role long enough."
Her fingers trace the spine of a well-worn book on the side table—a vintage collection of poetry most people would be surprised to find in my possession. "So which one am I with tonight?"
The question hangs in the air, more loaded than she likely intended. Which version does she want? The powerful CEO who commands rooms with his presence? The mysterious texter who matched her explicit fantasies with his own? Or this other version—the one who reads poetry late at night and sometimes feels crushed by the weight of the persona he's created?
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "I'm not sure I can separate them anymore."
She nods, as if this makes perfect sense, and continues exploring the space.
I watch her drift from the living area toward the kitchen, noting how she runs her fingers along the edge of the countertop, the casual intimacy of the gesture hitting me with unexpected force.
"Would you like a drink?" I ask, following her.
"I've had enough champagne tonight," she says. "What I'd really like is for you to be honest with me."
I tense slightly. "About?"
She turns to face me, leaning against the counter. "When did you know it was me? The wrong number text—when did you figure out it was me who sent it?"
The directness of the question catches me off guard. I consider deflecting but remember my earlier thought—how her honesty was what drew me to her in the first place.
"The day you interviewed," I admit. When I was reviewing resumes for the Creative Director position, before interviews started, I recognized the mystery number as yours. That’s when I put it together. I remembered seeing you on your social media profile when I... investigated the number."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "You looked me up before you even knew who I was?
"Of course I did," I say, slightly defensive. "I'm not in the habit of responding to explicit texts from unknown numbers without doing my homework."
"So you've known from the beginning." She processes this, her expression shifting from surprise to something harder to read. "That's why you hired me?"
"No." My denial is immediate and forceful. "I hired you because you told me my brand had lost its way. Because you had the courage to be honest when everyone else was telling me what they thought I wanted to hear."
She studies me, looking for the lie. "The texts had nothing to do with it?"
I move closer, needing her to understand this if nothing else. "The texts made me notice you. Your talent made me hire you."
Her shoulders relax slightly. "But you kept texting me, even knowing who I was. Even knowing the complications it could cause."
"Yes." No point denying it now. "I told myself it was harmless. That text-only communication created a safe boundary."
"That worked well," she says dryly, gesturing to our current situation.