Chapter 16
DINNER WITH THE IN-LAWS (FAKE MARRIAGE EDITION)
HARPER
It's been exactly forty-eight hours since Victor kissed me senseless in the back of his town car, commanded me to pack for Vegas, and then proceeded to send me text messages that would make a nun renounce her faith.
The November morning is brutally cold—twenty-eight degrees according to my phone, the sun just starting to rise over the tarmac, painting the world in shades of blush-pink and gold.
My breath comes out in visible puffs as I stand next to my rolling suitcase, staring at the sleek private jet that's apparently going to fly us to Vegas.
Victor's private jet.
My boss’s flying McMansion is borderline obscene, gorgeous in a way that makes me feel like I should apologize for existing—all white exterior with silver accents and "StreamEats" written in elegant script along the fuselage.
Doesn’t help that I’m wearing black jeans, a cream sweater, and what I once thought was my nicest coat—which suddenly feels like I showed up to the Met Gala in Target clearance.
My goal this morning was simple: arrive on time, be professional, establish boundaries after that car incident, and absolutely do not think about Victor's hands below my waist or his deep, rumbling voice in my ear or the way he said "when I make you come” like it was a foregone conclusion.
And I’m failing embarrassingly at all three.
Just when I think I can’t get more embarrassed, a sleek black car pulls up, and Victor steps out.
Wearing a long wool coat, a crisp collared shirt, and aviator sunglasses, the man I’m married to is also wearing the frown of a man who’s already had three meetings and earned a small country’s GDP before 7 AM.
Doesn’t help my rapid heartbeat that he also looks like a cologne ad come to life. As for me, I look like I raided my roommate's closet and hoped for the best.
He grins when he sees me, removing his sunglasses as he nears.
"Good morning, Miss Beaumont.” His eyes sweep over me, and I swear the temperature rises ten degrees. "You're on time."
"You sound surprised."
"I'm impressed.”
"It's seven AM. You said seven AM sharp."
"And you listened. I like that about you."
My stomach flips. “Oh no, please don’t.”
"Don't what?"
"Don't say things like that when we're about to spend four hours alone on a plane together."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm trying to be professional."
"How's that working out for you?"
"Terribly, thanks for asking."
He laughs, a deep throaty sound, and takes my suitcase without asking. "Come on. Let's get you out of the cold."
I follow him toward the plane, and a flight attendant appears at the top of the stairs. She's tall, blonde, and wearing a pressed uniform that makes her look like she could also be a runway model.
"Good morning, Mr. Kade," she says with a warm smile. "Welcome aboard."
"Morning, Claire. This is Harper."
Claire's eyes light up with recognition. "Mrs. Kade! It's wonderful to meet you. I saw the video—the chapel was so charming!"
I'm going to die. Right here. On this tarmac.
"Thank you," I manage. "It was very... spontaneous."
"The best love stories always are." She gestures up the stairs. "Please, come aboard. I've prepared everything just as you requested, Mr. Kade."
Victor's hand finds the small of my back, guiding me up the stairs, and I'm acutely aware of his touch even through my coat.
The interior of the plane makes me stop dead in my tracks.
"Oh my God," I breathe.
It's beautiful. Cream leather seats that look more comfortable than my actual bed. Dark wood accents. Warm lighting. A full bar area. What appears to be a bedroom in the back.
A bedroom.
On a plane.
"You designed this?" I ask, because Claire mentioned something about his specifications in her greeting.
"Most of it, yes." Victor removes his coat, revealing a navy blue slacks that fits him like a sin. “Not the biggest fan of using the company jet, but when I do…” He shrugs. “Might as well be comfortable."
"Comfortable? This is—This is much more than comfortable.”
“I’d call it practical."
“I’d call it a flying penthouse.”
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
Claire brings champagne without being asked, setting two glasses on the table between the facing seats. "We'll be taking off in about fifteen minutes. Please let me know if you need anything."
She disappears toward the cockpit, leaving us alone.
Victor gestures to one of the seats. "Sit."
"You're very bossy this morning."
"This morning. This afternoon. This evening." He sits across from me, crossing one ankle over his knee. "I'm consistently bossy. You're just now noticing?"
"I noticed. I'm just deciding whether I find it attractive or annoying."
"And your conclusion?"
"I'll let you know when we land."
He smiles at that—slow and devastating. "Fair enough."
I sink into the seat, and it's exactly as comfortable as it looks. Possibly more comfortable. I could live in this seat.
"So," I say, reaching for my champagne because I need something to do with my hands. "Four hours to Vegas."
"Three and a half if we have good tailwinds."
"What are we going to do for three and a half hours?"
His eyes darken slightly. "I have several ideas."
"Professional ideas?"
"Some of them."
My pulse kicks up. "Victor—"
"Relax, Harper. I'm not going to ravish you at thirty thousand feet." He pauses. "Unless you ask nicely."
I cough around my champagne. "I'm not going to ask—we're not—this is a business trip."
"Is it?"
"Yes. You said so yourself. Board meetings. Dinner with CulinaryVision executives."
"I also said I needed you there for personal reasons."
"Which we're not discussing right now."
"When would you like to discuss them?"
"Never. I'd like to never discuss them."
"Liar."
I open my mouth to argue, but the plane starts moving. Claire's voice comes over the intercom with safety instructions, and I force myself to focus on that instead of the man sitting across from me looking like he could eat me alive.
The takeoff is smooth. Absurdly smooth. Like butter on a hot pan.
"This is nicer than any first class," I admit once we've leveled out.
"I would hope so. I paid for it."
"How much does a plane like this cost?"
"You don't want to know."
"Now I definitely want to know."
"Enough that I had to explain the purchase to my CFO three times before he stopped looking at me like I'd lost my mind."
I laugh. "Was it worth it?"
"Ask me when we land." His eyes meet mine. "If I get you to Vegas without you jumping out of the emergency exit, I'll consider it a success."
"The day is young."
Claire reappears with breakfast—actual plates with eggs Benedict and fresh fruit and coffee that smells like heaven.
"I didn't order this," I say.
"I did," Victor replies. "You didn't eat before you left."
"How do you know that?"
"Because you never eat before early morning events. You get nervous and your stomach rebels."
I stare at him. "How do you know that?"
"I pay attention."
The words settle between us, weighted with meaning. We eat in silence for a few minutes, and I try not to think about the fact that Victor Kade—CEO, Ice Prince, my fake husband—knows my breakfast habits so intimately.
"So," I say eventually, pulling out my laptop. "I brought work. Weeknight Wins scripts. I figured I could use the flight time to—"
"Show me."
I blink. "What?"
"Show me what you're working on. I want to see."
"You want to see my cooking show scripts?"
"I want to see what you're creating for my company. Yes."
There's pride in his voice, genuine interest, and I turn my laptop toward him, pulling up the document.
"It's still rough. Just outlines for the first four episodes. The team wants to do a 'comfort food' theme for November."
Victor leans forward, reading over the outline with the same fervor he probably brings to acquisition contracts.
"This is good," he says after a moment. "The pacing is smart. Building from simple to complex."
"You think so?"
"I know so." He scrolls down. "But this section here—the ingredient breakdown—you're assuming too much knowledge. Not everyone knows what a roux is."
"Really?"
"Really. You need to explain the basics without being condescending."
“Wow. That’s, uh, actually really helpful."
"I'm occasionally helpful."
"Occasionally."
He smiles, and we spend the next twenty minutes going through the scripts together. He asks questions. Offers suggestions. Challenges my assumptions in a way that makes the work better without making me feel stupid.
It's collaborative and natural. And surprisingly fun.
"You're good at this," I say eventually.
"At what?"
"At making me feel like we're equals. Even though you're—" I gesture at the plane. "—you."
His expression softens. "We are equals, Harper. That's the point."
Before I can respond, the plane hits turbulence, rocking hard. Within several seconds, the rocking turns to “please return to your seats” levels.
Before long, it morphs into the kind that makes the overhead bins rattle and my stomach drop to my feet.
"Just some chop," Victor says calmly. "It'll pass."
The plane drops again, and my hands grip the armrests hard enough to hurt.
"Harper?"
"I'm fine."
Another drop starts, harder this time, and my heart stops, my breathing turning shallow.
"Harper." Victor's voice sharpens. "Look at me."
I can't. Because if I look at him, I'll have to admit that I'm spiraling. That the turbulence isn't the problem—the problem is everything else.
The FoodFirst emails I've been ignoring.
My father’s medical bills I can't pay.
The lie I'm living every day I don't tell him the truth.
"I can't—" My voice comes out strangled. "I can't breathe."
Victor is out of his seat immediately, kneeling in front of me, his hands covering mine on the armrests.
"Yes, you can. Look at me."
I force my eyes to his face. He's close. So close I can see the molten blue in his liquid-steel eyes.
"Breathe with me," he says firmly. "In for four counts. Hold for four. Out for four. Can you do that?"