Chapter 9
BABUSHKA KNOWS BEST
HARPER
Two days later, it’s Sunday evening, and I'm standing outside a building in Brighton Beach, clutching a bottle of wine I panic-bought at a bodega three blocks away, wondering how in God’s name I ended up here.
Here being in front of a luxury fortress disguised as a prewar residence.
But to be honest? I know exactly how.
It's been two days since the Coffee Incident.
Two days since I dumped an entire cup of muddy brown onto Victor Kade's expensive suit. Two days since he looked at me with those steel-gray eyes and I could have sworn—absolutely sworn—that he was thinking about kissing me.
And I've spent the last forty-eight hours trying to convince myself I imagined it. That the look in his eyes was just irritation about his ruined suit. That the way his thumb pressed against my hip bone was just reflexive steadying, nothing more.
That I'm reading into things because I’m thirty-seven, recently divorced, and my life is a disaster held together with expired cooking wine and denial.
But my body won't believe it.
So, I’ve decided to make my mind at least behave.
Which is why I arrive thirteen minutes earlier than I’m supposed to be at his grandmother’s for dinner.
Doesn’t help that the evening weather is something out of a romance novel.
October in Brooklyn has that perfect autumnal quality, the air smelling of woodsmoke and ocean spray, the streetlights just starting to flicker on, as the last golden light fades into what is quickly becoming a beautiful night—a night that may be on the cusp of spiraling as my phone buzzes and I check it with my free hand.
AMELIA: Are you there yet???
AMELIA: Have you met the grandmother???
AMELIA: Is she scary or sweet or scary-sweet????
AMELIA: Declan says to tell you "good luck" but he said it in that ominous way like you're going into battle
MARGOT: Harper. Breathe. You're going to be fine.
MARGOT: Also if Victor is weird, text me and I'll call with a fake emergency.
MARGOT: I have three prepared: food poisoning, flooded apartment, and "Amelia got arrested for public yarn bombing."
AMELIA: HEY that was ONE TIME and it was ART
I'm typing a response when another notification pops up. Email this time.
FROM: Vanessa Chu - FoodFirst Network
SUBJECT: Following Up - Meeting Request
Harper,
Hope you're doing well! Saw the news about your Vegas wedding (congrats?
? lol). Listen, our offer still stands. I know StreamEats is your new home, but if you're interested in discussing creative control and a bigger platform, I'd love to set up a meeting in a few weeks.
We're building something special here, and you'd be perfect for it.
Let me know your availability.
Best,
Vanessa
My stomach twists.
Because I did promise to try to commit to this farcical marriage with my CEO.
And if I had any real assurances from Victor or even his publicist Rachel, that my job is not at risk apart from this so-called marriage, I’d tell Vanessa Chu, inform her that I'm committed to StreamEats, that I'm not interested, that I'm—
Except I don't know any of those things for sure, do I?
I type out a quick response before I can overthink it.
Thanks Vanessa! I'd be happy to meet. How about the first week of November? Coffee works for me.
I hit send and immediately want to throw my phone into the Atlantic Ocean.
What am I doing? I'm about to go have dinner with my fake husband's grandmother while secretly meeting with a competitor and pretending my entire life isn't held together with duct tape and wishful thinking.
Another buzz.
VICTOR KADE: You close, Beaumont? My grandmother just texted asking if you got lost.
VICTOR KADE: She's tracking your location somehow. I don't know how
ME: That’s…disturbing
VICTOR KADE: Welcome to my life.
I take a deep breath, smooth down my dress, and walk toward the building entrance.
The building itself looks like Old-World glamour married Modern Manhattan money — a meticulously restored prewar facade, wrought-iron balconies, soft amber exterior lighting, and a discreet brass plaque that reads:
THE NEVSKY RESIDENCES
EST. 1928 — RESTORED 2004
Inside, the lobby is nothing like the crumbling, cabbage-scented walk-ups I’d imagined. No. This lobby is architectural eye candy.
Marble floors. A chandelier dripping with crystals. A concierge in a navy blazer who greets me by name before I’ve even opened my mouth.
Which is… mildly terrifying.
“Ms. Beaumont? Mrs. Kade is expecting you. Penthouse Two.”
With a quick thanks, I step inside building two’s elevator — all polished brass walls, velvet bench, soft instrumental music playing — and watch the button light up beneath my thumb.
PH2.
I’m practically sweating through my polyester dress, when, thirteen floors later, the doors slide open into a private vestibule straight out of a European boutique hotel.
There’s ornate wallpaper, a gilt-framed mirror, and a discreet security camera that is absolutely sending footage straight to Victor’s phone.
Taking a deep breath, I smooth my dress and try to remember how to smile, just as the penthouse door swings open.
"Harper!" Babushka Katya stands in the doorway, and she's... tiny. Maybe five feet tall in her sensible shoes, with silver hair pulled back in a neat bun, sharp blue eyes that seem to see directly into my soul, and a floral apron that says "KISS THE RUSSIAN COOK."
She's also holding a black cat. A very large, very fluffy black cat wearing what appears to be a tiny black cape.
I blink. "Um. Hello."
"You are late!" Babushka says, but she's smiling. "Come, come! Vitya is already here, useless in kitchen as always."
She steps back, and I enter the apartment.
Despite the external gleam and personality-less trimmings in the lobby, the place itself is exactly what you'd expect from a Russian grandmother who's lived in Brooklyn for decades.
Lace doilies on every surface. Religious icons on the walls. Nearly four hundred framed photos.
And the overwhelming smell of something delicious cooking.
I breathe in the fragrant, flinching when the cat in Victor’s grandmother’s arms rears back and hisses at me.
"This is Rasputin," Babushka says proudly. "He is very dramatic. Like his namesake."
"He's... wearing a cape," I creak out.
"Of course! Is Wednesday. Wednesday is cape day."
"Obviously."
Rasputin hisses again and squirms out of Babushka's arms, landing on the floor with surprising grace for something that looks like a furry potato with attitude. He stalks off toward the kitchen, cape billowing behind him like he's the villain in a very small, very weird movie.
"Come!" Babushka takes the wine from my hands without looking at it and links her arm through mine like we've known each other for years. "Vitya! Your wife is here!"
I'm pulled into a kitchen that's about the size of my entire apartment.
Victor is standing by the stove, looking absurdly tall and out of place in the tiny space, wearing jeans and a grey sweater that makes him look less like a CEO and more like a very attractive, very confused person who accidentally wandered into someone's grandmother's kitchen.
As tall, dark and brooding as ever, he finally turns to me, sheet-gray eyes meeting mine, as something passes across his face. Relief? Panic? Mild indigestion?
"Harper," he rumbles.
"Victor," I reply, because apparently we've regressed to an awkward roll call.
"Good! You remember each other!" Babushka says. "Sometimes couples forget after Vegas." She pats my arm. "Tequila is powerful enemy of memory."
Victor closes his eyes like he's praying for patience.
"Now," Babushka continues, completely unbothered, "Harper, you help Vitya with pelmeni. He is folding them wrong. Too much air. They will explode in pot."
"They're not going to explode—" Victor starts.
"They explode! Last time, I find dumpling on ceiling for three days!"
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Victor notices and glares at me.
"Something funny?" he asks.
"No.” I clear my throat, nodding. "Exploding dumplings are very serious."
Babushka hands me an apron—this one says "GOOD FOOD, GOOD MOOD, GOOD ATTITUDE"—and gently pushes me toward the counter where Victor is standing next to a pile of dumpling wrappers and a bowl of meat filling.
"You work together," she says firmly. "Marriage is teamwork. Like making pelmeni. Too much filling, disaster. Too little filling, sad. Must be balanced."
"That's... very philosophical," I say.
"Is Russian wisdom." She taps her temple. "Also is just good cooking."
She turns to check something in the oven, and I'm left standing next to Victor, both of us holding dumpling wrappers and the weight of our ridiculous situation.
"So," I say quietly. "Exploding dumplings."
"She's exaggerating."
"Are you sure? Because she seems very convinced."
"They exploded once. One time. Because I was twelve and trying to prove a point."
"What point?"
"That I could fold them better than my brothers." He pauses. "I was wrong."
I do laugh then, and Victor's mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile.
"Here," he says, demonstrating the dumpling fold. "You put the filling in the center, fold it in half, then pinch the edges. Like this."
His hands are surprisingly deft for someone who runs a billion-dollar company. His fingers are long, his hands large enough to swallow mine and they move with a fluid, careful competence that's strangely—and annoyingly—attractive.
I look away and focus on my own dumpling, which immediately falls apart.
"Too much pressure," Victor says.
"Thank you, that's helpful feedback," I mutter, trying again.
"You're pinching too hard."
"I'm not—" The dumpling explodes filling all over my hands. "Okay, fine. Maybe I'm pinching too hard."
Victor reaches over, and suddenly his large hands are covering mine, guiding my fingers into the right position. His touch is warm, steady, and completely casual in a way that makes it feel decidedly un-casual.