Chapter 9 #2
"Like this," he says quietly, and I can feel his cool breath against my hair. "Gentle pressure. You're not trying to kill it."
"Got it," I manage, trying to ignore the way my pulse has decided to stage a full rebellion. "Gentle. Not murder."
We fold three more dumplings in silence. Well, near-silence. Babushka is humming in the background, and Rasputin is making unsettling noises from somewhere behind the refrigerator.
"Harper," Victor says finally, not looking up from his dumpling. "We should talk."
He sets down his dumpling and turns to face me, and as if sensing that dumplings are being ignored, Babushka calls from across the kitchen, "Vitya! When you want real wedding? I thinking spring. Maybe May. Is good month for weddings. Not too hot, not too cold."
"We're not—"
"June also nice!" she continues, undeterred. "But harder to book church. Everyone wants June."
"Babushka—"
"Or we do winter wedding! Very dramatic. You get married in snow, like scene from Zhivago!"
I press my lips together to keep from laughing again. Victor looks like he's contemplating whether jumping out the window would be worse than this conversation.
"I'll check the church schedule!" Babushka says cheerfully, pulling something out of the oven.
The second her back is turned, Victor grabs my elbow and steers me toward the tiny balcony off the kitchen.
"We need to talk," he says urgently. "Now."
"Your grandmother—"
"Will survive five minutes without us."
He slides open the balcony door, and we step out into the October evening. The balcony is barely big enough for two people, just a narrow strip of concrete with a shiny metal railing and a view of other people's balconies.
From here, I can see Brooklyn spreading out below us—lights starting to twinkle, the distant sound of traffic, the smell of someone else's dinner mixing with the salt air from the ocean.
Victor closes the door behind us, and suddenly we're very close in the small space.
"Okay," I say, crossing my arms because I need something to do with my hands. “I’m listening.”
He runs a hand through his hair, the thick strands soft-looking as they fall forward. "I have a proposal." He pauses when I grin. “A business one, not a marriage one.”
Swallowing my smile, I watch as Victor’s gaze lowers, as if he’s wrestling with something—or some thought.
“I’ve been thinking about Rachel’s suggestions,” he presses on. “About us leaning into this marriage. I know I’ve been…reluctant to get on board with this whole ‘happily married couple’ narrative, but—“
“But?”
“Richard Francis,” he says without preamble. “We need to get him back on our side.”
I blink. “I thought you two were… fine?”
“We were. Until Vegas.”
Right. The arrest. The news of CulinaryVision’s CEO insisting he was a martyr of corporate persecution while being escorted out of a low-budget brothel in handcuffs and shiny ass-flossing underwear.
“And now?” I ask.
“He’s embarrassed. And angry. And Richard’s anger has a very specific blast radius.”
“So you want me to help defuse a billionaire grenade.”
“Yes.”
“Because…?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “He likes you.”
“According to TMZ, he likes anything with a vagina.”
“He also likes you. Which means I need a plan. Commitment. The time for consideration is up. This CulinaryVision acquisition has to go through. I need…you.”
The silence that follows is telling, and it’s clear from the serious look on Victor Kade’s face that he is used to people just… agreeing.
Or obeying.
Or falling in line because he’s brilliant and intimidating and gives off the vibe of a man who schedules his emotions in an Outlook calendar.
But I am not one of those people.
And he knows it.
He shifts his weight. “What do you need from me for us to make that happen?”
Everything. Nothing. A time machine and better judgment and maybe a drink.
"My own show on the StreamEats platform,” I say instead. “Not just hosting. But executive producing.”
Victor’s face shutters like a light went out behind it. “Can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“The CulinaryVision acquisition costs a lot of money. And to be frank, StreamEats has to project stability. That means not taking any risks.”
I scoff. Because it’s nothing like what FoodFirst is offering.
A chance to produce a show—however small—of my own.
Real Food, Real Life.
With a real budget. A better time slot. Creative control.
I lift my chin. “Well, what can StreamEats offer?”
I’m not an idiot.
The first shows to go when corporate shake-ups are made are well-loved tiny shows like the one I’ve just joined.
Weeknight Wins has an audience, true. But I just started, and everyone knows independent contracts like mine are the first to be killed—a fact that Vanessa Chu so obviously pointed out when she found out I already signed over my likeness rights to the likes of StreamEats.
Victor at least has the decency to look sheepish.
He steps closer, and suddenly I can smell his cologne—a clean and expensive scent that makes me think of snow and libraries and bad decisions.
"Harper," he says, the sound of my name in his register causing a ripple down my spine. "I know this is complicated. I know it's not ideal. But it's practical. We both get what we need. The board backs off. Your show continues uninterrupted. Rachel controls the narrative. Everyone wins."
"Except it's built on a lie."
"It's built on a mutually beneficial arrangement." He pauses. "Just like most marriages."
I want to argue, but I can't. Not really. Because didn't I learn that from Thomas?
That marriage is just a contract, and the best you can hope for is that both parties honor their side of the deal?
Except the “honoring” part was a task my own husband was incapable of doing. Especially when it came to his wayward penis.
“By the way, we finally settled on the terms of our little arrangement.” Victor pulls out his phone and shows me a document.
"Rachel drew it up the other day. It’ll include shared living arrangements but separate bedrooms. Public appearances coordinated through her.
No expectations of... intimacy. Clear exit strategy by year’s end. ”
I knew this was coming, so I read through it, my sister Margot’s voice in my head pointing out clauses and contingencies.
I point at a particular clause. “Oh look. Matching hoodies. Coffee mugs. Possibly a TikTok account."
He glowers. “Harper—“
“Yes, I know, I know. You don’t have to remind me. I’m on board.”
"So?”
“So what?”
“Are we doing this? Seeing it through? You’ll move in with me. Commit to this temporary marriage, and help me mend things with Richard. And in return, I’ll formalize your contract protections.”
My pulse jumps.
Control. Stability. A safeguard.
Tempting. Dangerous.
Because even if Victor isn’t malicious, he is too controlled—too strategic. Too cold.
A man you get caught up in without realizing you’ve walked into a blizzard.
I should say no. I should walk away, pitch my show to Vanessa Chu, start fresh somewhere that doesn't involve fake marriages and viral memes and glacial blue-gray eyes that make me forget why I built walls in the first place.
But Vanessa's offer is also just that—an offer. Not a guarantee. And according to my mom and her incessant calls, my father has needs—medical ones—that require more every day.
So, maybe my sister Amelia is right. Maybe this is an opportunity.
“I’d like to have some conditions," I say.
"I'd expect nothing less." His chin lifts. “Name them.”
“I’d like us to keep this professional at work. No special treatment. No one thinks I’m getting special preferences because I'm sleeping with the CEO."
The blue starburst in his icy eyes glows at the mention of this last condition. “I have no intention on sleeping with you, Miss Beaumont. You’re my employee.”
"I know that. I'm saying—You know what I mean."
"Understood. What else?"
"If at any point this starts affecting my actual career—my reputation, my credibility—can we please just end it? Like, immediately."
“Fair. What else?”
"And, if we can, I’d like us to keep this…arrangement between us. And Rachel, of course.” I swallow. “For both of our sakes.”
“I see nothing wrong with those requests. Granted, Miss Beaumont.”
I sigh, my shoulders finally loosening, and the two of us stand there in the cool October evening breeze, the city twinkling beneath us, the smell of Babushka's cooking wafting through the cracked door as Victor takes a step closer.
Suddenly, the balcony feels too small for both of us, the air too thin.
He’s so tall that I have to tilt my head to look at him, my gaze sweeping over the five o’clock shadow on his his razor-edged jaw.
He extends his hand. “So…partners?"
I look at my boss’s hand, at his handsome face, at the way the city lights reflect in his glacier-gray eyes and make him look almost human instead of a living ice sculpture.
This is a terrible idea.This is possibly the worst idea I've ever had, and I once tried to make crème br?lée while drunk at 2 AM and nearly burned down my apartment.
But it's also a chance. A real one.
I take his hand. "Partners."
We shake on it, and I try to ignore the way my skin tingles where he's touching me.
“We should go back inside,” I say. “Before your grandmother assumes we’re out here consummating something.”
Victor’s mouth curves—barely. “It’s possible she already has.”
We head back into the kitchen to find Babushka has set the table for three, and Rasputin is sitting in the middle of it, cape spread around him like he's holding court.
"Rasputin, nyet!" Babushka shoos him off the table. "Bad cat! Very dramatic, this one."
The cat leaps down with a yowl, knocking into Victor, who stumbles backward into me. I grab the counter for balance, which makes me bump into a tray of something that starts to slide toward the edge.
Victor catches it just in time, but not before Rasputin—apparently feeling chaos is his calling—launches himself at the window curtain, which tears free from its rod and falls directly onto the stove.
Where a burner is still on.
"Fire!" I yell, grabbing a dish towel.
Victor is already moving, turning off the burner while I beat at the smoking curtain. Babushka appears with a pot of water and douses the entire thing.
Rasputin, meanwhile, has retreated to the top of the refrigerator, cape askew, looking utterly unrepentant.
There's a moment of stunned silence.
Then Babushka starts laughing. "See? This is marriage! Fire, drama, cat in cape. You handle it together, everything is fine."
Victor and I look at each other—both of us slightly singed, definitely traumatized, standing in a kitchen that now smells like burnt fabric and pelmeni.
Babushka claps her hands. "Good! You work together. You save dinner. Now we sit to eat!"
And somehow, despite the burnt curtain and the chaos and the cat in a cape judging us from his refrigerator throne, we do.
As I settle into my chair, Victor leans across the table to pass me the sour cream, and for just a second—one stupid, dangerous second—his hand brushes mine.
Our eyes meet. And I remember, with a sinking feeling in my stomach, that I just shook hands with this man and agreed to share his penthouse apartment.
His space. His life.
For two whole months.
Just what the hell have I gotten myself into?