Chapter 7
MRS. BILLIONAIRE, I PRESUME?
HARPER
By Thursday evening, I’m standing in my Brooklyn apartment, staring at the chaos that is my life, and wondering if mortification counts as a terminal illness.
The late October air filters in through my open living room window.
In New York, this time of year means the leaves are turning that perfect burnt orange and the air has that crisp bite that makes you want to wear scarves, drink cider, and pretend your life isn’t actively trying to humiliate you on a global scale.
It’s been four days since I started working at StreamEats, and I’m simply going through the motions.
My apartment looks exactly how I left it before Vegas—an explosion of cookbooks, thrift-store furniture that’s charming in the “this might collapse if you sit wrong” way, plants in various stages of thriving or dying (no in-between), and my grandmother’s vintage French copper pots hanging above the stove like I’m one good decision away from being a functional adult.
It smells like the lavender candle I forgot to blow out before I left, mixed with the faintly sour, vaguely threatening scent of the sourdough starter on my counter.
Everything is the same.
Except I’m married to my CEO.
And the entire internet knows about it.
Fresh from another day where I had to hide in the supply closet to avoid Victor, I drop my briefcase by the door and face-plant onto my velvet thrift-store couch.
My phone has been on silent since I got called into a “meeting” this morning with Victor’s terrifying—and freakishly stylish—publicist.
Rachel Stone.
A woman who looks like she could negotiate peace treaties while simultaneously destroying your self-esteem, she corralled me into her office with a flick of her red nails. I had no choice but to follow.
Especially when I walked in to find Victor sitting there.
Dark suit tailored to perfection on his broad shoulders, he raised those naval gray irises to mine, his gaze crashing over me like a wave.
“Miss Beaumont,” he rumbled before looking away again.
I straightened. “Mr. Kade.”
“Harper,” Rachel fired. “We need to talk. Strategy. Narrative. Damage control. I’ll email you a media plan by tonight. Until then—no social media, no interviews, no talking to anyone who might have a recording device. Including your hairdresser.”
“I don’t have a hairdresser.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
Then she’d turned to Victor and said something in a low voice that made his jaw clench, handed us both folders marked CONFIDENTIAL, and picked up her phone and made a call.
Victor and I remained frozen, holding our ridiculous folders, not looking at each other.
“So,” I’d said finally. “That was—”
“It’s the end of the work day.” He stood to his feet, buttoning his suit jacket. “Go home, Miss Beaumont.”
“I was just going to say—”
“I’ll handle this.” He’d looked at me with a gaze as hard as cement. “We’ll coordinate through Rachel. Keep your schedule clear for tomorrow. We have… logistics to discuss.”
“Logistics.”
“Yes.”
“You mean like how to un-marry your employee?”
His jaw had knotted and then loosened. “Among other things.”
Then he’d walked out of the leopard-patterned office and left me standing there with my folder and my shame.
Now I’m home. Alone. Married.
And catastrophically screwed.
I roll onto my back and stare at my ceiling, which has a water stain that looks like a deranged rabbit. I’ve named him Gerald. Gerald judges me silently.
“I know, Gerald,” I tell the ceiling. “I really outdid myself this time.”
My phone vibrates, once, and then twice before completing losing its shit
With a deep breath that feels like I’m signing away my peace, I grab it.
Seventy-three new texts.
All from my sisters.
MARGOT: Harper Amélie Beaumont.
MARGOT: HARPER.
MARGOT: You’ve been avoiding us for days
MARGOT: Don’t you DARE ignore me.
MARGOT: I will hire a LAWYER to find you
MARGOT: I will have them subpoena your couch.
AMELIA: It’s not THAT BAD
AMELIA: For God’s sake, you could have just told us that YOU MARRIED THE ICE PRINCE OF FOOD MEDIA instead of sneaking back to NYC alone
AMELIA: THIS IS LIKE THE BEST THING THAT’S EVER HAPPENED
AMELIA: Not to you obviously
AMELIA: Your life is a disaster
AMELIA: But CONTENT-WISE? chef’s kiss
AMELIA: Declan says congrats btw
AMELIA: he also says Victor looks like he could kill a man with a stare
AMELIA: which is… hot?? discussing w therapist later
I wince at the mention of Declan—Amelia’s fiancé, the calm, sweet, annoyingly competent man who is about to marry my youngest sister and join our chaos for life.
MARGOT: We’re coming over. NOW.
MARGOT: I’m bringing wine.
MARGOT: And my legal pad.
MARGOT: And possibly handcuffs. For you. Or him. Unsure.
AMELIA: I’m bringing Thai food and our crochet bags because this is a CRISIS and crises require YARN
AMELIA: also I have the gif someone made of your wedding where they added the Super Mario death sound when the officiant says “you may kiss”
AMELIA: it’s at 5.3 million views
AMELIA: you’re basically Beyoncé now
MARGOT: AMELIA. DO NOT.
AMELIA: Too late already sent it
The gif loads. And it’s exactly as bad as advertised.
Pixel officiant. Victor and me in those ridiculous jerseys. The kiss. The Super Mario death sound dubbed over it like the internet personally hates me.
I drop the phone onto my chest and close my eyes.
It’s going to be okay. It HAS to be okay.
So what I just accidentally married my boss at a video game chapel, became a viral meme, and possibly destroyed my career?
Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at my door—aggressive, older sister-energy knocking.
“I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE,” Margot yells through the door. “I can see your location, HARPER.”
“I’m not hiding!” I yell back, which isn’t a lie, because I’m not physically hiding, even if I am emotionally hiding in my own ribcage.
The knocking becomes more determined.
“And if you don’t open this door,” Margot continues, “I will pick the lock, and then I will bill you.”
I drag myself off the couch and open the door.
They barrel in like a SWAT team.
My older sister Margot first—tall and stern-looking She’s still in her nurse’s scrubs, her lipstick the very shade of authority. Carrying two bottles of wine and a tote bag, she marches in, my younger sister Amelia right behind her.
My baby sibling has my mother’s big expressive eyes—only hers are permanently set to “delighted menace.”
Flitting in like her body is physically incapable of taking anything seriously for more than eight seconds, she sports a T-shirt that says YES, I’M ON MEDS and a mountain of Thai takeout plus two bulging crochet bags—one of them mine.
“Hi,” I say weakly.
Margot sets down the wine with a thunk and turns to me. “Explain.”
“Which part?”
“All of it. Start from the beginning. Leave nothing out.”
Amelia is already unpacking containers onto my coffee table. “Start with the hot part. Was there a hot part? There had to be a hot part. He’s like six-feet-four-inches of anal retentiveness and expensive suits. That’s a whole genre of hot.”
“Amelia,” Margot snaps.
“What?” Amelia rolls her eyes. “I’m engaged, not blind. I’m allowed to observe other men like they’re museum exhibits. Declan supports feminism.”
Margot’s eyes narrow. “Declan also supports monogamy.”
Amelia shrugs. “It’s not cheating if it’s a fantasy.”
I sink onto the couch, still in my work clothes, still carrying the spiritual weight of a diamond ring and a mistake.
Margot sits on the armchair across from me, and Amelia flops onto the rug, digging through the crochet bags. She pulls out three balls of yarn—sage green, blush pink, and a dramatic black—plus a half-finished granny square.
“We are not treating this like a regular Thursday crochet night, remember,” Margot warns automatically.
“I know,” Amelia says, solemn. “But the yarn needs to be present for emotional support.”
She then holds up my crochet hook like a tiny weapon. “Also, Harper. If you try to evade this conversation, I will poke you.”
“Violence,” Margot mutters. “Always her first instinct.”
“Excuse you. It’s called proactive sistering.”
Margot points her pen at me. “Harper. Start talking.”
I take a deep breath.
“It was the tequila,” I begin.
“Obviously,” Amelia says immediately.
“And like we talked about before, we kept running into each other. On the plane. At the club—”
“The one from my bachelorette party,” Amelia cuts in, practically glowing. “The one I picked because it had a fog machine and a disco ball the size of a Prius.”
“Yes,” I say, deadpan. “That club.”
Amelia presses a hand to her chest. “I did that.”
“It’s not your fault—”
“It’s totally my fault. I’m like a romantic fairy godmother. I waved my wand of bad decisions and POOF—Harper marries a billionaire.”
Margot lifts her wine glass. “Amelia, if you claim responsibility for this, I’m going to start charging you for therapy.”
Amelia gasps. “As the bride-to-be, I am immune from consequences.”
Margot’s gaze slides to her. “Declan should run.”
Amelia beams. “He can’t. He proposed.”
I rub my temples. “Can I please continue my humiliation?”
Margot nods once. “Proceed.”
“When you guys left the bar, we—“ I exhale, my memory scraping over that night. “I don’t know—we just wanted to stay. Talk.”
Amelia makes a tiny squeal and immediately shoves it down her throat. “Sorry. Sorry. Continue.”
“Like I said, we just talked. A lot.”
Margot’s eyes narrow.
“And he was actually interesting to talk to,” I add carefully, because the words still feel impossible. “It was—”
“Sexy?” Margot offers.
“No.” Of course I mean yes. “He was kinda…nice. Which is horrifying, because I have only ever experienced him as a very expensive ice sculpture since then.”
Amelia leans forward. “Did you kiss?”
“Amelia,” Margot snaps.
“What? It’s a relevant question. Also I’m getting married in two months, so I’m basically a romance expert now.” Amelia turns to me with bright, relentless focus. “Did. You. Kiss?”