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"What does Roman want?" Olivia asks, her voice gentler now.
"I don't know," I admit, running my hands through my hair. "That's the problem. To keep me at Elysian? To continue our arrangement? To have me fall madly in love with him so I'm easier to control?"
"Or maybe he actually cares about you."
I make a noncommittal noise, my eyes drifting to the sketches spread across my coffee table. Designs Maxwell Grant never actually wanted to see. Concepts he couldn't care less about. My talent was never the point—just my connection to Roman.
"You know what I think?" Olivia continues, gathering empty pizza boxes with ruthless efficiency. "I think you're scared thatRoman is different. That he might actually want you—all of you, not just the convenient parts."
"That's ridiculous," I scoff, though something in my chest tightens at her words.
"Is it? Camden wanted Designer Barbie—pretty, compliant, silent when necessary. Maxwell wants Corporate Revenge Barbie—a weapon he can aim at Roman then discard. But Roman? He hired you after you told him his brand had lost its way. He respects your fire. Your opinions. Your talent."
"And my body," I add dryly. "Don't forget the incredibly inappropriate text relationship."
"Which you enthusiastically participated in," she counters, tossing a pizza box at me. "Face it, Monroe. You're not afraid of being diminished again. You're afraid of being seen. Really seen. And that's way scarier."
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. Damn her and her occasional moments of terrifying insight.
"Besides," she continues, "you've been sketching his name in your designs for three days. It's like a middle school diary in here."
"I have not—" I start to protest, then look down at the concept board on my lap. Sure enough, hidden in the pattern of the handbag design is a subtle "R" worked into the texture. "Oh god, I'm a walking cliché."
"At least you're a talented one." Olivia flops down beside me. "So what are you going to do?"
Before I can answer, my doorbell rings. We both freeze, exchanging wide-eyed looks.
"Are you expecting someone?" Olivia whispers, as if the person at the door might hear us through walls and heavy Brooklyn brick.
"No," I whisper back, scrambling to my feet. "Quick, help me hide some of this stuff!"
"Why? Who cares if your apartment looks like a design asylum?"
"Because it's pathetic!" I hiss, frantically gathering sketches. "I rejected a job offer three days ago, and I've been having an artistic breakdown ever since!"
The doorbell rings again, more insistent this time.
"Just a minute!" I call, shoving concept boards behind the couch.
"It's probably just a package," Olivia says, making exactly zero effort to help the cleanup effort.
I peer through the peephole, then immediately flatten myself against the wall, heart pounding. "It's Roman," I whisper-shriek. "Roman Kade is standing in my hallway!"
"What?" Olivia leaps up, suddenly interested in the situation. "Let me see!"
"No!" I swat her away from the door. "What is he doing here? How does he even know where I live?"
"HR records? The internet? Basic detective skills? Who cares!" Olivia gestures at the door. "Are you going to let him in or leave New York's most eligible CEO standing in your sketchy hallway? Mrs. Petrovich across the hall will definitely call Page Six."
She's right. My neighbor lives for neighborhood gossip. The thought of Roman's visit becoming tabloid fodder is enough to make me straighten my shoulders and open the door.
And there he is.
Roman Kade, standing in my dingy hallway looking impossibly perfect in an expensive charcoal suit. He's holding a leather portfolio in one hand and what appears to be takeout in the other.
"Hi," I manage, suddenly acutely aware that I'm wearing worn out yoga pants and a Northwestern University sweatshirt with a suspicious stain on the sleeve.
"I know you said you needed time to think," he says, his voice carefully neutral. "But we need to talk. About Grant. About us."