Chapter 5 #2
“No, you need damage control. And right now, she's your best option for it." Rachel gathers her things, slipping her sunglasses back on. "Stay married. A few months. Long enough for the acquisition to close, for Francis to fade from the headlines, and for the board to stop circling."
"And in the meantime?"
"You give them a story they like better. The Ice Prince who finally melted." Her lips curve. "The ruthless CEO who fell in love in the most chaotic way possible and decided—against all logic—to keep her."
"That's absurd."
"It's effective."
She heads for the door, then pauses.
"And Victor? If you're going to keep her… don't underestimate her."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning women who don't chase attention are usually the ones you should be paying the closest attention to."
Then she's gone.
And I'm left standing in my office, staring at the door, Rachel's words echoing in my head.
Stay married.
It's insane.
It's also… not entirely wrong.
I move back to my desk, pulling up the board meeting agenda. Patricia's emergency evaluation. The Francis fallout. Q4 projections.
All of it hinges on one thing…
Stability. The appearance of control.
And right now, annulling this marriage makes me look impulsive. Reckless. Like a man who makes decisions without thinking through the consequences.
Staying married—at least temporarily—makes me look committed. Decisive. Like someone who owns his mistakes instead of running from them.
And right then and there, I make the decision that feels like swallowing razor blades.
Two months.
That's what I'll give this marriage. Two months to let the story die down, to close the acquisition, to get the board off my back.
Two months, and then we end it quietly, amicably, with both of us walking away unscathed.
I'm still turning it over in my mind, refining my talking points for the board meeting, when I lose track of time entirely.
The next thing I know, Gina's voice comes through the intercom.
"Sir, Miss Beaumont is here."
I glance at my watch. 8:47 AM. Right on time.
"Send her in."
The door opens, and there she is.
Harper Beaumont walks into my office with careful, measured steps—not the confident stride from Vegas, but something more centered, more aware.
Wearing a dark pencil skirt, a fitted cream sweater, and a navy blazer, her silky golden-brown hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, and there's barely any color in her cheeks—like she's deliberately trying to look neutral, unremarkable.
A difficult feat, of course.
But Harper Beaumont is many things, but unremarkable isn’t one of them.
My gaze skims over her long, lithe curves, my pulse pounding as she ambles to a stop in my office.
"Good morning, Mr. Kade," she says, and there's just the slightest emphasis on the formality. "Gina mentioned you wanted to see me before orientation?"
She's nervous. I can see it in the way she's gripping her portfolio.
"Sit," I say, gesturing to the chair across from my desk.
She does, immediately, smoothing her skirt as she settles. "I have to say, this is quite the office. Very...Brutalist? Is that the word? Or is it just ‘chicly bland'? Or that design philosophy that says 'I have a lot of money and a pathological need for control.'"
I raise a brow. “Are you quite finished?"
"With my interior design critique? Yes. For now." She sets her portfolio on her lap. "You wanted to see me?"
I ignore the question, going with one of my own. “How was your flight back?"
"Oh, it was lovely. Nothing says 'welcome to your new job' quite like being bundled onto your boss's private jet to avoid paparazzi." She pauses. "Though I appreciate the gesture. Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Another beat of silence.
"So," she says, her tone light, "I'm guessing this isn't a 'welcome to the team' breakfast meeting situation?"
"No. It's not."
"Didn't think so. You don't really give off 'welcome breakfast' energy. More 'quarterly earnings call' energy. Sorry. That was—I'll stop talking now."
I lean back in my chair, fingers steepled. "I've made a decision about our situation."
Her grip tightens almost imperceptibly on her portfolio. "Okay."
"We're not getting an annulment. Not immediately."
“Wait, what did you just say?”
“I said…We’re going to stay married. For two months."
"Two months," she repeats slowly. Then, with a slight smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, "Wow. Most people at least make it to the three-month mark before the first marital decision. We're really speed-running this marriage thing, aren't we?"
“Do you think this is a joke, Miss Beaumont?”
"No, of course not. This is a perfectly serious conversation between a boss and his employee who happen to also be accidentally married. And I—Again, sorry. Nervous talker. What do you mean by 'stay married'?"
"It means we don't file for annulment. Not yet. We maintain the appearance of a legitimate relationship for approximately two months. Long enough for this story to die down and for me to close my acquisition."
"And by 'maintain the appearance,' you mean..."
"Public events when necessary. You keep quiet about the circumstances of our marriage. You don't speak to the press. And when required, you appear at my side looking like this arrangement was intentional rather than accidental."
She nods slowly, and I can see her processing.
"So basically," she says, "you want me to play 'CEO's Wife' in the most bizarre corporate theater production ever staged."
"If you want to phrase it that way."
"How would you phrase it?"
"Damage control. For both of us."
"Right. Damage control." She looks down at her hands. "And if I... had thoughts about that?"
"Then you're welcome to share them."
"Well, first thought: this is insane." She looks up. "But I'm guessing you already know that."
"I'm aware of the irregularity."
"Irregularity. That's one word for it. Second thought: I assume saying 'no thank you, I'd rather face the media circus' isn't really an option?"
"It's an option. Just not a particularly wise one."
"Because without your 'protection'—" she makes air quotes, "—I'll be torn apart by the press?"
"Yes."
"And with your protection, I get to pretend to be happily married to my boss for two months while everyone at this company watches and judges?"
"Essentially."
She lets out a breath that might be a laugh. "Well. When you put it like that, it sounds absolutely delightful."
"Your alternative is navigating this alone."
“I see. So not really an alternative at all." She straightens. "What exactly would I need to do? Specifically."
"Attend events when I ask. Smile for cameras when necessary. Act appropriately in public. What you do in private is your business. I'm not asking you to move in or—"
"Oh thank God. Sorry. Please continue."
I almost smile. Almost.
"In exchange," I continue, "I ensure your time here at StreamEats is beneficial. Good projects. Proper resources. You'll have every opportunity to succeed in this role."
"While also being married to the man who controls my entire career trajectory."
"Yes."
"No pressure though."
“Miss Beaumont.”
"Sorry. Processing." She rubs her temple. "This is just—it's a lot. Two months of pretending to be your wife while also trying to prove I deserve this job on my own merits is..." She trails off.
"Complicated."
"That's a diplomatic way of putting it." She looks at me directly. "Can I ask you something?"
"You can ask."
"Why two months? Specifically?"
"The acquisition should close within eight weeks. The media cycle will have moved on. The board will have stopped circling. It's adequate time."
"Adequate time," she echoes. "For fake marriage maintenance."
"For managing a situation neither of us intended to be in."
She's quiet for a long moment, and I can see her struggling with this, likely trying to find the humor, the angle, the way to maintain some semblance of control.
Finally, she speaks. "I need some time to think about this."
"You have until end of day."
Her hazel eyes flash—just for a moment. "That's not very much time for a major life decision. I usually spend longer deciding what to order for lunch."
"It's enough time to review the terms and make a decision." I pick up a file from my desk and extend it toward her. "These are the specifics. Read them. And then let me know."
She takes the file with unsteady hands.
"Is there anything else, Miss Beaumont?” I ask.
"Just—" She hesitates. "This situation. It doesn't change anything about my job evaluation, right? I'll still be judged on my actual work?"
The vulnerability in the question catches me off guard.
"Your job performance will be evaluated separately," I say. "This arrangement is about managing a personal situation. Not your career."
She nods. "Okay. Thank you for clarifying that. Because I really do want this job. For the job. Not because of..." She gestures vaguely between us. "The accidental marriage situation."
"Noted."
She stands, clutching the file. "I'll read these and get back to you by five."
"Good."
She's almost at the door when she pauses, glancing back. “And Mr. Kade? It is…okay if I call you, Mr. Kade?”
I exhale. “Yes, Miss Beaumont?”
"For what it's worth, I think your office could really benefit from a plant. Maybe a succulent. Something low-maintenance that won't judge you for your life choices."
And before I can respond, she's gone.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at the door.
Harper Beaumont is smart enough to be scared, smart enough to understand the power differential. But she can't quite help herself. Frankly, the tiny brunette is mouthy. Insubordinate.
And, despite how it makes my cock twitch in my slacks, way too damn independent for her own good.
This would be much easier if Harper Beaumont was the kind of woman who would simply obey orders, get in line.
But from what I can tell of my new “spouse,” she’s definitely not. And frankly, I have no time in my life for the unexpected, least of all now.
I pick up my phone, dialing immediately.
“Gina,” I nearly bark when my assistant picks up.
“Sir.”
“I want you to call my driver James.” I lean into the speaker. “Give him Harper Beaumont’s info. Her name, the names of her associates, family members. Her address.”
“Yes, sir.”
I stare out the window, at the tumult that’s likely waiting for me at the end of these eight weeks. “And tell him to stay close to her.”