Chapter 10
LATE NIGHTS AND BAD IDEAS
VICTOR
The city outside my windows is still awake—because Manhattan never really sleeps, but it’s quieter, subdued—heavy with that late-night lull where the noise drops just enough that you can hear everything else.
The low hum of traffic twelve floors below. The distant wail of a siren cutting through the cold. The muted rattle of wind against the glass.
Inside, the office is sterile and dim, lit only by the glow of my monitors and a single desk lamp illuminating the polished surfaces.
The rest of the StreamEats floor is empty at this hour—just the occasional flicker of motion behind glass walls when a night engineer passes through, clutching a paper cup of coffee that’s been sitting on a burner far too long.
And in my brain, the holiday programming schedule for StreamEats is pure chaos. For a food-streaming platform like ours, Q4 is everything.
Thanksgiving specials. Christmas content. New Year's campaigns—it's StreamEats' biggest revenue quarter, and every show needs to perform. Which means Harper's show, Weeknight Wins, with its newly inflated budget and prime-time slot, needs to be worth the investment.
My desk is a battlefield of spreadsheets, projections, contracts, and an alarming number of empty energy drink cans Gina will absolutely comment on in the morning.
Everything is numbers, deadlines, and outcomes—all things I can control, things I should be controlling.
Not that I'm worried.
And yet—
Fuck.
I'm definitely worried.
My phone buzzes. Text from Dmitri, my CFO.
DMITRI: FoodFirst just made a counter-offer on CulinaryVision. $200M more than us.
DMITRI: Board meeting moved to Friday. You know Patricia Franklin wants your head on a platter, don’t you?
DMITRI: Thought you should know before you read it in the WSJ tomorrow.
I set down my phone and resist the urge to throw it through the window.
FoodFirst. Of course.
They've been circling Richard Francis’s company CulinaryVision for a year, possibly more. When I first convinced the board to acquired the company, I thought we had the inside track.
I was wrong.
And for the last six months, FoodFirst and StreamEats have been in a bidding war I can't afford to lose—not just financially, but politically.
Suspicions on the StreamEats board have died down a bit after I "confirmed" the marriage was real, but still, I’m sure Patricia Franklin is using every opportunity to paint me as reckless and distracted.
And I still suspect that if I lose this acquisition, my own board might try to force me out.
I pull up the revised budget projections for Weeknight Wins. Gina had processed the changes yesterday—increased production budget, better time slot, marketing support. Harper's show is now positioned as one of StreamEats' flagship programs for Q4.
It has to work.
My phone buzzes again. Different notification this time.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Hey stranger. Been a while. You free tonight?
I stare at the message for a long moment before I place it—place her.
Natasha Bingum.
A corporate attorney with big clients and even bigger…assets, she’d singled me out at a charity auction, and we'd had a... arrangement. Twice a year, when schedules aligned and we both needed an outlet. No strings. No feelings. Just mutual stress relief and expensive hotel rooms.
I should say yes. God knows I need the distraction.
Instead I type out a response.
ME: Busy week. Maybe next time
The ominous three dots flash on my screen immediately.
NATASHA: Your loss. I saw the wedding video btw. Gaming chapel? Didn't know you had it in you.
NATASHA: She's cute. You could do worse
I delete my draft and close the message thread.
The problem—the deeply inconvenient problem—is that when Natasha texted, the first person I thought of wasn't her.
It was Harper Beaumont.
I run a hand through my hair and refocus on the acquisition documents. Because work is safe. Work is controllable. Work doesn’t sit in the back of your mind with soft eyes and a sharp mouth and a tendency to dismantle your composure one comment at a time.
Work doesn’t make you remember what someone sounded like when they laughed.
Work doesn’t make you think about—
My office phone rings, the direct line that only a few people have.
I pick it up immediately. “Kade.”
There’s a beat, a soft shift of air, and then—
“Victor? I didn’t wake you, did I?”
Harper. Her voice is quieter than usual. Lower. Like she’s been lying down, likely thinking too much.
I lean back in my chair, gaze drifting to the dark reflection in the window—watching myself stare back, my tie loosened, frustration on my face.
“No.” I loosen my tie further. “I’m working. What’s wrong?”
“Why do you assume something’s wrong?”
Because it’s eleven at night. Because you’re calling me. Because I can hear it in your voice.
“Because it’s past nine,” I reply. “And I distinctly remember you telling my grandmother at dinner that that’s prime Buffy The Vampire Slayer viewing time.”
A soft huff of laughter ghosts through the line. “Wow. You do listen. That’s new.”
“I catalog useful information.”
“Is that what I am? Useful data?”
“Occasionally.”
She exhales again—longer this time, less defensive. “Okay, fine. Something’s wrong. Sort of. Maybe.”
“Pick one,” I say. “I don’t do ‘sort of maybe.’”
She pauses. “I can’t sleep. My brain won’t shut up. And there’s packing for the move and overthinking and… impending doom.”
“That seems dramatic.”
“Says the man who probably schedules his emotional breakdowns in fifteen-minute increments.”
“I’d give myself ten. Efficiency.”
That earns me a real laugh, short and warm. A beat passes before her voice softens again.
“I’m moving tomorrow, Victor. Into your place.” A pause. “It’s a lot.”
“You’re anxious.”
“Score two points for Mr. Minimalism.”
“Would you prefer I pretend you’re fine?”
“No. That would be worse.”
“Then stop arguing with the diagnosis.”
She exhales, a quiet sound of surrender. “God, you’re bossy.”
“I run a company. It’s a requirement.”
“And yet somehow still less intimidating than your espresso machine.”
I glance at the untouched machine in the corner of my office. “You haven’t even met it yet.”
“I don’t need to. I can feel its judgment from here.”
“That’s projection.”
“That’s survival instinct.”
I huff out a quiet breath that might pass for a laugh, and silence settles—not uncomfortable, but… present. Then she shifts again, the sound of fabric rustling softly.
“I was lying on my floor,” she says, “with a quilt. And tiramisu. And I thought—maybe I should call someone who won’t tell me to breathe through it or picture a meadow or whatever.”
“And you chose me? The least meadow-adjacent person in Manhattan?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s a questionable decision.”
“Yeah, well. I’m on a streak lately.”
“Careful, Miss Beaumont,” I murmur. “I have a habit of turning questionable decisions into even more questionable ones.”
She pauses. “Yeah, I guess you do.”
The words hang there, too honest, too close to something we haven’t defined, when my phone buzzes on the desk, my brother Alexei’s name flashing across the screen.
I ignore it.
“Victor?” she says, quieter now. “You disappeared again.”
“I’m here.” I straighten slightly, pulling my voice back into control. “Another call.”
“This late?”
“Says the woman calling me at midnight.”
“Okay, rude. It’s eleven-fifteen.”
“Unacceptable behavior regardless.”
She shifts again, and I can practically see her—curled up, stubborn, overthinking everything.
“When I can’t sleep,” she says, “my sister Margot makes me play Truth-or-Truth.”
“I’d rather renegotiate with hostile investors.”
“Too bad. You’re playing.”
“I don’t agree to this.”
“Noted. Ignored. First rule: nothing deep. Just honest.”
“I’m not good at honest.”
“That tracks. I’ll go first.”
“I didn’t say—”
“Too late. Truth: I’m lying on my floor eating cold tiramisu out of a takeout container because the floor feels like the only stable thing in my life right now.”
“Your standards are concerning.”
“My standards are evolving.”
“Why the floor?”
“Because everything else is in boxes and the floor can’t disappoint me.”
“That’s not how surfaces work.”
“It is tonight. Your turn.”
I glance around my office, the glass and steel—the illusion of power, dominance—all the things I should have in spades. Things that have lately been slipping from my grasp.
“Truth,” I say slowly, “I haven’t slept well since Vegas.”
“Because of work?”
“Because of everything.”
She goes quiet at that, not pushing, not filling the space.
“Okay,” she says softly. “My turn again.”
“That’s not how—”
“Special rules. Truth: I’m scared I’m making the wrong choice moving into your place.”
My grip tightens on my phone. “Lemme guess…Because you don’t trust me.”
“Because I don’t trust myself. And I don’t trust situations like this. Forced proximity. High stakes. Men who don’t say what they’re thinking.”
I lean forward slightly, voice lowering. “You assume I don’t know what I’m thinking.”
“I assume you don’t say it.”
“And yet, you still called me.”
A beat passes.
“Yeah,” she admits. “I did.”
Silence stretches between us, thicker now—charged as my phone buzzes again—Alexei, relentless.
I push my cell away even farther.
“Victor?” she says softly.
“Yes.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sound like someone who swallowed an icicle.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
“Beaumont.”
“Yeah?”
“…Get some sleep.”
Her voice shifts again—quieter, steadier. “Okay.”
“And Beaumont?”
“Yes?”
“…Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For calling. You had options.”
“Yeah. I did.” Another pause, longer this time. “Goodnight, Mr. Kade.”
“Goodnight.”
I hang up, the office settling into quiet.
And suddenly I'm the one who can't sleep.
Because Harper Beaumont is moving into my apartment tomorrow.
I set the phone down and stare at the acquisition documents spread across my desk—numbers that should have my full attention, projections that need analysis, contracts that require my focus.