Chapter 11 #2
ME: Ah yes. Reminding me of our martial obligations
ME: Very romantic
VICTOR KADE: Hard to translate fake romance via text
ME: You’re hard to read in general.
The typing dots appear, then then disappear, then return.
VICTOR KADE: Also, Rasputin mailed something to you.
ME: …what?
VICTOR KADE: You’ll see when you get home.
Home.
I close my eyes. Because Rachel's right.
Victor Kade is complicated. And so is the flutter in my stomach when I realize I'm excited to see what Rasputin sent me.
Not because of the cat. But because of the man who texted about it.
A second later, I grab my coat, my heart beating faster at the thought of walking through his door—our door—for the surprise. But first, a drop-in to Margot's for Thursday Crochet night.
I need yarn. Wine. Sisterly intervention.
Because whatever this thing is with Victor—this warm, inconvenient, increasingly real thing—it's getting harder to pretend it's just business.
And I'm running out of reasons to try.
* * *
Forty ridiculously long, New York traffic-laden minutes later, I'm sitting in Margot's living room in Queens, surrounded by yarn, alcohol, and the comfortable chaos of my sisters.
My older Margot's house is everything mine isn't—warm, lived-in, full of evidence that humans actually exist here. My niece and nephew’s drawings on the fridge.
Her husband Philippe's collection of vintage records.
Photos everywhere. A worn couch that's seen better days but fits perfectly in this space.
A place where my two siblings interrogate me as expected.
“So, he has housekeeper arrive later, because he likes to make his own coffee? That’s a special brand of Upper East Side anal, don’t you think?”
“And if remakes his own coffee, does he also fold his laundry with his bare billionaire hands?”
“Okay, so he likes Mission Impossible movies. Guess he’s not all robot, after all.”
“Does he sleep in a coffin?”
“Does he snore in Morse code?”
“Has he seen you in those crazy cat pajamas?”
I deflect as usual. But then my phone buzzes again, and both sisters lean in like vultures.
VICTOR KADE: Babushka just called. She's coming over tomorrow to hang the arcade cartridge frame.
VICTOR KADE: She insists it's "modern wedding portrait."
VICTOR KADE: She also asked if we're trying for babies yet.
VICTOR KADE: I told her no. She said I'm "wasting your good eggs."
VICTOR KADE: This is your fault.
I burst out laughing, nearly spilling wine on the blanket, before typing back.
ME: MY fault?? You're the one who married me, remember?
VICTOR KADE: You married me. I was just there.
ME: Revisionist history.
VICTOR KADE: Accurate history.
ME: We're not having this argument
VICTOR KADE: Agreed. Also, she's bringing pelmeni. Lots of pelmeni.
ME: I love your grandmother.
VICTOR KADE: She loves you too. It's concerning.
ME: Why is that concerning?
VICTOR KADE: Because, like I said before, she's planning our vow renewal.
ME: She's WHAT?
VICTOR KADE: May. Apparently June is "too cliché."
"Oh my god," I mutter, typing frantically.
ME: Victor, we need to tell her this isn't real.
VICTOR KADE: Can't. She'll be devastated. Also, she already put a deposit on the church.
ME: SHE PUT DOWN A DEPOSIT???
VICTOR KADE: I'll handle it. Probably.
ME: That's not reassuring.
VICTOR KADE: It's the best I can offer.
"Harper." Margot's voice cuts through my texting fugue. "You're smiling."
I look up, and both sisters are watching me with matching goofy grins.
"I'm not—"
"You are," Amelia says. "You've been smiling at your phone for five minutes. Who are you texting?"
"Victor. About his Babushka."
"Uh-huh. And what's so funny about a ‘Babushka’?”
I try to explain about the arcade frame and the vow renewal and the pelmeni, but halfway through I'm laughing too hard to form coherent sentences.
Margot and Amelia exchange a look.
"What?" I demand.
"Nothing," Margot says, in a tone that definitely means something.
"You like him," Amelia says simply.
"I don't—we're not—it's fake!"
"Your face isn't fake." Amelia points her crochet hook at me. "That's real feelings."
I set down my wine glass. "Okay. Let's establish some facts.
One: this is a business arrangement. Two: Victor is emotionally unavailable.
Three: I learned my lesson with Thomas about falling for unavailable men who see me as convenient.
Four: we got married in a place with Pac-Man decor. FIVE: this is not a romance novel."
"Sounds like you're trying to convince yourself," Margot observes.
“I’m—I’m being practical. This ends come New Year’s. We go our separate ways. I get my show. He gets his board approval. Everyone wins."
"And then what?" Amelia asks quietly.
"Then I move out. We get a quiet divorce or annulment or whatever Rachel decides is best for optics. And when the time is right, I leave StreamEats on amicable terms.”
"And you're okay with that?"
Am I?
I should be. That was the deal. That was always the deal.
"I'm okay with it," I lie.
My sisters don't look convinced, but they let it drop.
We crochet in comfortable silence for a while, the rhythm of hooks and yarn and sisterhood wrapping around us like the blanket we're making.
My phone buzzes once more.
VICTOR KADE: By the way. Check your crochet bag when you get a chance.
I frown at the screen, then reach for my bag—the large tote I use to carry yarn, hooks, and whatever project I'm working on.
I pull out the usual suspects: three balls of yarn, my favorite hook, the pattern for Amelia's blanket.
And a small box I definitely didn't put there.
"What's that?" Amelia asks, leaning over.
"I don't know."
I open it.
Inside is a French press. A small, portable one. The kind you can use to make actual coffee, not just espresso.
There's a note card tucked inside, written in sharp, angular handwriting I recognize from contracts and emails.
For emergencies.
—V
I stare at it for a long moment.
"What is it?" Margot asks.
I hold up the French press, and Amelia reads the note over my shoulder and makes a sound like a teakettle. "OH MY GOD."
"It's just coffee—"
"It's not JUST coffee!" She grabs my shoulders. "Harper. He bought you a French press. After you complained about his espresso machine."
"So?"
"So that's a love language!"
"It's a practical solution to a minor inconvenience."
"It's THOUGHTFUL." Amelia looks at Margot. "Tell her."
Margot is studying me with her serious Mom face. "Harper. When did you complain about the espresso machine?"
"I don't know. A few days ago? We were in the kitchen and I mentioned that I missed regular coffee."
"And he remembered."
"Yes, but—"
My phone buzzes again.
VICTOR KADE: Did you find it?
My hands are shaking slightly as I type.
ME: Yes. You didn't have to do that.
VICTOR KADE: I know.
ME: Thank you.
VICTOR KADE: You're welcome. See you later tonight. Don't stay out too late.
ME: Is that an order?
VICTOR KADE: It's your boss not wanting you to ruin a productive morning tomorrow by neglecting your sleep health tonight.
ME: That's the most Victor Kade thing you've ever said.
VICTOR KADE: I'm consistent.
I set down my phone and find both sisters watching me with identical "I told you so" expressions.
"Don't," I warn.
"We're not saying anything," Margot says.
"Your faces are saying everything."
"Our faces are neutral."
"Your faces are judging me."
Amelia grins. "Maybe a little."
I pick up my crochet hook and focus very hard on the blanket, trying to ignore the French press sitting next to me like evidence of something I'm not ready to name.
I don't honor those looks with a response. Because I can't respond.
Because the truth is somewhere between the fake marriage and the real coffee maker, between the business arrangement and the late-night texts that make me smile.
And I have no idea what to do with that.
We spend the rest of the evening crocheting and gossiping about Amelia's December wedding plans (her fiancé Declan is pre-wedding anxiety-baking, apparently, which Amelia finds "adorable and concerning").
When I finally get back to the penthouse at 11 PM, Victor is in his office, working under the warm glow of his desk lamp. He looks up when I pass the door, his cloudy gray eyes clearing when I stop.
"How was Crochet Night?" he asks.
"Good. We made progress on Amelia's blanket."
"Find everything okay with the coffee maker?"
"I did." I lean against the doorframe. "Thank you. Really."
He shrugs, his hard, broad shoulders rising and falling, but there's something in his expression—a softness, maybe, or just the late hour making him less guarded. "You mentioned missing regular coffee. Seemed like an easy fix."
"It was thoughtful."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late. I'm telling Babushka you're capable of human emotion."
"Please don't."
"She'll be so proud."
He's fighting a smile. I can see it.
"Goodnight, Beaumont.”
"Goodnight, Mr. Kade.”
I head to my room—the guest room that's started to feel less like a guest room and more like my room—and sit on the bed with the French press in my hands, knowing I should pull back.
Reinforce boundaries. Remember that this ends when the two months are up.
But when I pull out my phone to set my alarm for tomorrow, I re-read one of Victor's last texts still on my screen.
VICTOR KADE: See you later tonight. Don't stay out too late.
And I can’t help falling asleep smiling.