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She props herself up on an elbow, looking surprised. "Most people think it's just random stars."
"I looked it up," I admit. "After I saw it in your picture."
"Stalker," she teases, but her smile takes any sting from the word.
"Thorough," I correct, pulling her back down against me. "There's a difference."
"If you say so." She yawns, the lateness of the hour and our activities catching up with her. "What time is it?"
I glance at the clock on my nightstand. "Almost three."
"I should go," she says, though she makes no move to leave.
"Stay," I say, the word out before I can consider its implications. "It's late.”
She hesitates, and I can see her weighing the practical benefits against the emotional complications of waking up in my bed. "Just to sleep," she finally agrees.
I try not to examine why her answer pleases me so much or why the thought of her leaving creates such an unexpected hollow feeling. Instead, I pull the covers over us both and reach for the light.
In the darkness, with her breathing slowly evening out beside me, I find myself more awake than ever. This night has done nothing to resolve the tension between us and everything to complicate our professional relationship.
Yet as she shifts in her sleep, unconsciously curling closer to my warmth, I can't bring myself to regret it.
"Roman?" she murmurs half asleep.
"Hmm?"
"This doesn't solve anything, you know."
I smile into the darkness. Even half conscious, her honesty remains intact. "I know."
"Just making sure we're clear," she mumbles, drifting off again.
"Crystal," I whisper, though I'm not sure about anything anymore.
I should be concerned about the board's reaction if this gets out. About HR policies and corporate governance and the dozen other considerations that make this liaison spectacularly ill-advised.
Instead, I find myself watching the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, memorizing the weight of her against me, wondering if this is merely physical attraction magnified by forbidden-fruit syndrome or something more dangerous.
I don't do relationships—not emotional ones. My position makes genuine connection nearly impossible. Everyone wants something from Roman Kade, CEO. Access, money, status, connections. I've accepted this as the cost of success.
But Cassie wanted nothing from me when she sent that text. Didn't even know who I was. The rawness of that initial connection, the lack of agenda or calculation—it cracked something in my carefully constructed armor.
And now I'm lying awake at three in the morning, watching a woman sleep and contemplating complications I've spent my entire career avoiding.
Cassie shifts beside me, her hand unconsciously finding mine even in sleep.
For now, I push tomorrow's problems aside and focus on the warmth of her beside me, the unexpected peace her presence brings.
Whatever comes next—professional disaster or something equally unexpected—at least we have these hours.
This night that solves nothing and changes everything.
11
CASSIE
Sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows is a particularly obnoxious way to wake up in a stranger's bed.