20. Carried Away
CARRIED AWAY
HARPER
By the time Monday morning rolls around, I'm standing in the StreamEats lobby, trying to make sense of my life.
It’s been three days since Victor punched his brother on a yacht. Three days since I turned my back on Vanessa Chu. Three days since Victor asked me to be his girlfriend on a catamaran under the stars.
We flew back to New York Friday night, and the November cold welcomed us with freezing arms. Thirty-two degrees now and threatening snow, the city looks gray and unforgiving after California sunshine, and while my body temperature attempts to adjust, so does the rest of me.
I’m trying to get to work on time, to act normal, to pretend my life isn’t a matchstick right now—ready to burst into flames at the smallest brush.
But the moment I walk through the StreamEats doors, I know something is wrong.
The usual lobby chatter—people discussing weekend plans, complaining about coffee, the normal office white noise—has been replaced by whispers and pointed looks, the air thrumming with the type of energy that says everyone knows something you don't.
Or worse, that everyone knows something about you.
"Harper!"
I turn to find Weeknight Wins assistant producer Emily Chen speed-walking toward me, brown eyes wide.
"Emily. Hi. Good morning."
"Conference room 4B. Now." She doesn't slow down, just grabs my elbow and steers me toward the elevators. "We need to talk."
"About what?"
"About the fact that you're married to the CEO who just destroyed a hundred-million-dollar acquisition, and the board is losing their minds."
My throat closes. “I haven’t—What do you—“
"Everyone knows, Harper. Richard Francis called half the industry Friday night, drunk, complaining about 'unhinged executives who prioritize personal drama over business.
' It's all over the trade publications." She jabs the elevator button.
"Page Six ran a photo of you and Victor leaving the Bellagio Thursday morning with the headline 'Ice Prince Melts for Mystery Wife—Career Burns. '"
"Oh God."
"It gets better. Patricia Franklin called an emergency board meeting for two weeks after Thanksgiving. The agenda leaked. Item one: 'Assessing CEO fitness and judgment in light of recent personal decisions.'"
The elevator doors open, and Emily pulls me inside.
"They're going to try to fire him," I whisper.
"They're going to try." Emily crosses her arms. "But that's not your immediate problem."
"What's my immediate problem?"
"Your immediate problem is that you're being positioned as the reason Victor lost control. The employee he married in Vegas. The distraction that made him punch his brother instead of closing the deal." She pauses. "You're the liability, Harper."
The words slice through me, cutting somewhere deep.
"I didn't—I wasn't trying to—"
"I know. But optics don't care about intent." The elevator doors open on the fourth floor, and Emily leads me to a small conference room. "Sit."
I sit, and Emily closes the door, leaning against it.
"Here's what's going to happen,” she breathes out. “The board is going to use you against Victor. They're going to paint him as unstable, emotionally compromised, prioritizing his personal life over company interests."
Indignation burns beneath my breast. I nearly rise to my feet.
"That's not fair,” I snap. “He walked away from that dinner because Richard Francis ambushed him with his brother. It had nothing to do with me."
"Didn't it?" Emily's voice is gentle but firm. "You were there. You're his wife. He’s never behaved this way. Until now. The board is going to connect those dots whether they're accurate or not."
I feel sick.
"What do I do?"
"Honestly? Keep your head down. Do your job.
Don't give them more ammunition." She pauses.
"And the Weeknight Wins Thanksgiving special that Victor is reportedly pushing?
It needs to be flawless. Perfect. Because the board is going to scrutinize every decision he makes about you between now and that vote. "
"When's the vote?"
"December tenth. Two weeks after Thanksgiving." Emily sits down across from me. "Which means you have exactly two and a half weeks to prove that you're worth the risk Victor is taking on you."
The pressure settles on my chest like a weight.
"No pressure, then."
"Harper, I like you. You're talented. You're going to be great on camera.
But if you care about Victor's career, you need to think strategically about how this Thanksgiving episode is perceived.
" Emily's expression softens. "Make it so good they can't use it against him.
Make it undeniable that you deserve to be here. "
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes in my bag.
I pull it out, expecting Victor.
It's my roommate Sienna.
SIENNA: Harper where are you??? Rent was due Friday. Al is PISSED. He's threatening eviction if we don't pay by end of day.
My heart stops.
Rent. I forgot about rent.
I was too busy moving out of my old Brooklyn apartment and into Manhattan, too busy kissing my boss boyfriend to remember the little things, like my expenses and life.
SIENNA: Also there's like 6 certified letters here for you. Medical bills? Collection notices? What's going on???
I stare at my phone, and everything Emily just said fades into white noise.
Because in all that kissing and moving out of Brooklyn, I forgot that I’m not just a liability to Victor's career.
I'm also a woman who’s broke, behind on rent while I play “House” with my boyfriend, and drowning in my father's medical bills that I have no way to pay now that I told Vanessa Chu to shove her offer up her you-know-what.
"Harper?" Emily's voice sounds distant. "You okay?"
"I—yeah. Sorry. Just—" I stand up, shoving my phone back in my bag. "I need to make a call. Can we—can we finish this later?"
"Sure. But Harper—"
"I know. Make the Thanksgiving episode perfect. Don't be a distraction. Got it."
I leave before she can say anything else.
* * *
By lunchtime, I've locked myself in a single-stall bathroom on the third floor and I'm having what might generously be called a breakdown.
I've been on the phone with Sienna, with my landlord, with the medical billing department at my father's hospital.
The numbers are bad.
Worse than bad.
I'm three thousand dollars behind on rent. My share of utilities is overdue. And the medical bills—the ones I've been putting off, the ones I thought Vanessa's money would cover—total just over eighteen thousand dollars.
Eighteen. Thousand. Dollars.
I make seventy-five thousand a year at StreamEats. Before taxes.
The math doesn't work. It doesn't even come close to working—a reality that pricks on the surface of my skin, just as there’s a knock on the bathroom door.
"Occupied!" I call.
"Harper. It's me."
My pulse starts to pound. “Victor?”
“Yes.” His voice is deep, even more gravelly than usual. “You okay?”
"I'm—I'm fine. Just needed a minute."
"Open the door."
"Victor, I'm in the bathroom."
"I can see that. Open it anyway."
Standing, I splash water on my face, unlocking the door. And when I do, I spot Victor just standing there, indescribably handsome and worried-looking in a deep gray suit that looks like it was poured over his muscular body.
"Emily said you looked upset."
I sigh. “Emily needs to mind her business."
"She cares about you. So do I." He steps inside the bathroom—which is wildly inappropriate but very Victor—and closes the door behind him. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just—work stuff. The board meeting. The Thanksgiving episode. All of it."
"That's not what's wrong." His eyes narrow. "What happened?"
I could lie. I probably should lie, maintain some dignity.
Instead, the words leave my throat, ragged and torn. "I'm broke."
He blinks. "What?"
"I'm behind on everything. My rent back in Brooklyn, my bills and now I can't—" My voice cracks. "I can't fix this, Victor. I can't fix any of this."
His expression shifts from concern to something harder.
"How much do you need?"
"No."
"Harper—"
"No. I'm not—I can't take money from you."
"Why not?"
"Because then I'm just—I'm another acquisition. Another problem you throw money at and solve."
"That's not what’s—“
"It is. You fix things. It's what you do. But I don't want to be fixed. I want to—" I pause, because the tears are coming and I can't stop them. "I want to handle this myself."
Victor is quiet for a long moment.
"That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."
I look up, startled. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. That's stupid. Martyrdom isn't strength, Harper. It's self-destruction dressed up as pride."
"I'm not—"
"You are. You're drowning, and instead of taking the life preserver I'm offering, you're insisting you can swim to shore alone because asking for help makes you weak.
" His voice is getting sharper, his gray stare crackling with heat.
"That's not strength. That's stubbornness. And it's going to destroy you."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly. You're terrified of needing people. But that’s not who I am, Harper. I'm not going to bail when things get hard."
The statement makes my chest rise and fall, my breath leaving my body in broken spurts.
"You don't know that,” I mutter, heat working its way under my skin.
"Yes, I do."
"You can't possibly promise that.”
"Watch me." He moves closer, his tall figure now towering over my own. "I already contacted a Parkinson's specialist for your father. Dr. Amber Ross at Mount Sinai. Best in the city. I set up a consultation for next week. I put down the deposit."
The room sways. “You what?"
"I handled it. Like I said I would."
"Without asking me?"
"You wouldn't have said yes."
"That's not the point!" My voice is rising now. "You can't just—you can't just take over my life, Victor!"
"I'm not taking over your life. I'm helping you."
"By making decisions for me? By throwing money at problems without consulting me first?"
"By doing what you won't let yourself do—accepting help!"
We're both shouting now, in a single-stall bathroom on the third floor of StreamEats, and this is so far from how I imagined this conversation going.
"I'm not one of your acquisitions," I say, my voice shaking. "You can't just fix me."
"I'm not trying to fix you. I'm trying to love you."
The words hang between us, followed by silence.
Complete, devastating silence.
Victor looks like he's just as surprised as I am that those words came out of his mouth.
"I—" His gray gaze shutters, shoulders stiffening. “Fuck.”
"You love me?" My voice comes out barely above a whisper.
"I—" He runs a hand through his hair. "Apparently."
"Apparently?"
"I wasn't planning to say that. It just—came out."
I close my eyes, a laugh leaving my lips that nearly feels like a cry. I swipe my fingers through my hair.
“This is—I can't take your money, Victor," I say quietly. "I need to figure this out myself."
"Why?"
"Because if I let you pay for everything—my rent, my father's bills, my life—then what am I? What do I bring to this relationship besides problems?"
His expression softens. "You bring you. That's enough."
"It's not."
"It is for me."
"Victor—"
There's a knock on the bathroom door.
"Occupied!" we both yell simultaneously.
"It's Rachel." Her voice is muffled but clearly annoyed. "I need both of you. Now. Conference room 7A. We have a situation."
Victor and I trade confused looks.
"What kind of situation?" he calls.
"The kind where Patricia Franklin just leaked to the press that the board is considering removing you as CEO. It's already on Bloomberg. We need damage control. Now."
Victor's jaw tightens, and I realize that I haven’t breathed in ten seconds.
"Give us two minutes," he says.
"You have one."
Her footsteps retreat down the hallway, and Victor looks at me. "We're not done with this conversation."
I swallow, knowing that he’s talking about more than just money. “I know.”
He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it. We leave the bathroom together, and I'm acutely aware that my life is falling apart in multiple directions simultaneously.
The board is trying to fire Victor.
My own financial situation is crushing me.
And the man I'm falling in love with just accidentally confessed his feelings in a bathroom during a fight about money.
If my life were a cooking show, this would be the episode where everything catches fire and the host just keeps stirring.
I'm still stirring.