Chapter 11
KEEP IT PROFESSIONAL? NOPE.
HARPER
Not the “pelmeni exploded on the ceiling” kind. The emotional kind.
Because somehow, impossibly, I am… comfortable.
And that should terrify me more than it does.
It’s mid-November now—the kind of New York November where darkness falls at 4:30 PM and the cold feels personal. Outside the studio windows, the city glitters with that slightly manic pre-holiday energy.
Inside, the set smells like browned butter, caramelized onions, and twelve straight hours of production sweat.
But I’m smiling, grinning like an entire fool, after twelve hours of filming.
Because today we made tourtière—my grandmother's recipe, the one she brought from Quebec and guarded like a nuclear code.
Flaky crust. Spiced pork filling.
A comfort food that tastes like childhood and snow days and belonging.
And for the first time since I started making food content, I got to tell that story on camera. The whole story.
Not the sanitized, thirty-second version that came with my food vlog on social media, but the real one—about my Mémère, about Sunday dinners in Montreal, about food as a love language.
The extra budget Victor approved means I can do this now.
Real stories. Vulnerable content.
The show my ex-husband said wasn’t possible to make. The show my ex-husband Thomas Whitfield—a media consultant I met working on a TV show when I was twenty-six and he was thirty-six—said would lack “brand appeal.”
I spent years shaving off pieces of myself to fit into his curated life—white subway tile kitchen, beige furniture, artisanal everything, conversations whispered so as not to disturb the male creative genius in the room.
And now? Now I’m allowed to be messy again. Sentimental again. Real again.
Thanks to a fake marriage with my billionaire boss.
Which is why I might, genuinely, be in trouble.
"Harper?" My production assistant, Kyle, appears beside me. "We're all wrapped. You good?"
“Yeah,” I say, wiping flour off my face with the apron I stole—borrowed—from Babushka. “Just making notes.”
I jot down a line in my leather-bound recipe journal, the one thing I never let Thomas touch. I tuck it under my arm just as Rachel Stone appears in the doorway.
“Harper.”
“Miss Stone.”
“You look… happy,” she says, like it’s a medical anomaly, and I pretend not to hear the implication.
But she’s not wrong. I kinda am.
The life I lead now is different from the one I cultivated back in Brooklyn.
Brooklyn Harper had:
- A wobbly IKEA dresser
- A roommate who filmed TikToks at 2 AM
- A kitchen sink that groaned like it was haunted
- Three square feet of counter space
- And exactly ZERO human beings who made her coffee unless they were paid to do it
Manhattan Harper is decidedly much cleaner…which might have something to do with my boss—and new roommate and temporary husband, Victor Kade.
Manhattan Harper is decidedly much cleaner…which might have something to do with my boss—and new roommate and temporary husband, Victor Kade.
Because billionaire CEO Victor Kade at home is nothing like the frowning tyrant I know in the office. Not even a little bit.
At work, Victor is all sharp edges and clipped commands, cold authority wrapped in Tom Ford suits.
But at home?
At home, Victor Kade is something else entirely.
It started the first morning after I moved in.
I'd woken at 6:30 AM—old habits from my marriage to my ex Thomas, who insisted breakfast be ready by 7:15 sharp—and padded into the kitchen expecting to be alone.
Instead, I found Victor already there, barefoot, his gray sweatpants slung low on his tight hips.
Dressed in a faded Harvard t-shirt that had clearly seen better days, the fabric worn soft and thin enough that I could see the definition of his shoulders and chest beneath it, his hair was still sleep-mussed, dark strands falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger—softer.
He was making coffee—actually making it himself, not ordering it from some assistant—and the early morning light coming through the wall-to-wall windows turned everything golden and warm.
"Morning," he'd said, his voice still rough with sleep.
"Morning," I'd managed, trying not to stare at the way his t-shirt stretched across his back as he reached for cups in the upper cabinet.
That was two weeks ago. And now, it's routine.
Every morning, we move around each other in his pristine kitchen—me pulling ingredients from the fridge for recipe testing. Him answering emails on his tablet while drinking coffee that costs more per pound than my first car.
The apartment smells different in the mornings—like espresso and whatever expensive soap he uses, clean and masculine with notes of cedar and something darker I can't quite place. Sometimes I catch hints of it on the elevator at work and have to remind myself not to react.
And the most dangerous part?
I’m getting used to it.
Back in the present, Rachel flips through the production stills on her iPad, her perfectly manicured nails clicking against the screen.
She's wearing head-to-toe Prada today, a burgundy suit, and her signature red lipstick that somehow never smudges despite the fact that she drinks twelve cups of coffee per day.
"These are good," she says, which from Rachel is basically a standing ovation. "The tourtière segment especially. Authentic. Vulnerable. The audience will eat it up." She pauses. "No pun intended."
"Thanks." I lean against the kitchen counter, suddenly aware of how exhausted I am. Twelve-hour shoots will do that. "I'm glad the extra budget is working out."
"It's more than working out. Your numbers are up eighteen percent from last month. Engagement is through the roof. StreamEats is very pleased." She looks up from her iPad, green eyes sharp. "Victor watched four full episodes this week."
"He did?"
"Mmhmm. And before you say it's because he's the CEO—CEOs don't 'drop in' to the editing bay four times to check on one show's post-production." She sets down the iPad. "Men with emotional constipation do that when they like someone."
"Rachel, please don't diagnose my fake husband."
"Then stop giving him symptoms."
I open my mouth to protest, but then again, what am I supposed to say? That Victor hasn't shown symptoms? That the last two weeks haven't been... something?
Rachel studies me with that unnerving intensity she brings to everything, the same look she used when she handed me a fourteen-page media strategy document and told me my life was about to become a performance.
But her expression softens—just slightly.
"How's the living arrangement?" she asks, and there's something in her tone that sounds almost... concerned, like she's asking as a person rather than a publicist.
"It's... fine."
"Harper….I’ve been doing this for fifteen years. I can spot a lie from three boardrooms away. Try again."
I should deflect, should maintain professional distance, should remember that Rachel Stone is Victor's publicist, not my therapist or my friend.
But I'm tired.
And she's looking at me like she might actually care about the answer.
"It's weird," I admit finally. "Like, really weird. Because at work, he's still... CEO boss-man Victor Kade. You know? The Ice Prince. He barely looks at me in meetings."
"And at home?"
"At home, he’s…different. He makes me coffee in the morning.
He remembers how I take it. He leaves me the crossword puzzle half-finished because he knows I like to complete it.
He asks if I've eaten." I rub my temples.
"Last week I was stress-testing pie crust recipes and made a complete disaster of his kitchen, and instead of being annoyed, he just..
. helped. Asked questions about technique like he genuinely wanted to know. "
Rachel's mouth curves—not quite a smile, but close. "And this is a problem because?"
"Because it's confusing. Because I don't know which Victor is real. The one who forced me into this arrangement and tracks my movements through his driver? Or the one who keeps oat milk in his fridge because I mentioned liking it once?"
"What if they're both real?"
“Wait—what?"
Rachel picks up her coffee—black, no sugar, obviously—and takes a measured sip.
"Victor Kade is complicated. He's been running StreamEats since he was twenty-eight.
Built it from the ground up after abandoning the family business back in Chicago.
He's had to be ruthless to survive in this industry.
" She pauses. "But he's also capable of caring about people.
He just doesn't let many people see it."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you're living with him for the next two months, and I'd rather you understand what you're dealing with than stumble through it blind." She sets down her coffee. "Also because I like you."
"You do?"
"Don't sound so shocked. I'm a publicist, not a monster. Well. I'm both. But I can still like people."
She heads toward the door, then pauses.
"One more thing."
I glance up. “Yeah?"
"The Grandview Hotel event on Saturday. It's important. First major public appearance as a couple. Photographers, influencers, the whole circus." Her expression turns serious. "I need you two to look convincing. Not just professional. Convincing."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I need you to look at him the way you look at him when you think no one's watching." She smiles. "Trust me. It won't be hard."
She leaves before I can respond, the studio door clicking shut behind her, and I stand there in the empty kitchen, surrounded by the lingering smell of tourtière and the weight of Rachel's words.
But then my phone buzzes, and I pull it out with shaking hands.
A text from Victor.
VICTOR KADE: Are you still at the studio?
Of course he would text right as Rachel leaves. I reply.
ME: Just finished. Why?
VICTOR KADE: Grandview Hotel opening Saturday, remember?
VICTOR KADE: Black tie
VICTOR KADE: Photographers.
VICTOR KADE: Our first official appearance as a married couple.