Chapter 4 #2
"You knew enough to apply to my company."
"YOUR company? I applied to a COOKING SHOW. I didn't know it was owned by some, I don’t know—paranoid billionaire with a God complex.”
His eyes flash. "Paranoid."
"YES! You had me INVESTIGATED while I was ASLEEP in your BED after we got MARRIED!"
“You were too drunk to consent.”
“Okay, for one—that’s the argument that date rapists use. And two—I’ve been perfectly nice to you despite your insufferably grumpy attitude since the moment we met. And clearly for no good reason. You don’t see me stalking your LinkedIn profile, do you?”
We're standing very close now, both breathing hard, and if I look closely I can see the pulse jumping in his throat.
Vic or Victor or The-Grinch-Who-Stole-Italian-Wool or whoever-he-is is now towering over me, that stupidly overbuilt body of his sending wafts of his bergamot, cotton-smoked scent into my blood stream.
My chest is practically heaving, as he sniffs, leaning towards me.
“Mm. Exactly what I suspected,” he muses.
“Suspected what?”
"You're going to be a liability."
"I'm going to be a WHAT?"
"A liability, Harper Beaumont. It’s a term that means—“
“I’m familiar with the definition. Please keep the condescension to a level three, thanks. My brain is already hurting enough.”
He grins, but the expression is more a grimace—tinged with bitterness. “You’re a tiny brunette grenade, ready to blow up my company, my company, my reputation, my—“
“So, now I’m a bomb? Great. I’ve always aspired to be a—“
“—you have no idea what you’ve done, the havoc you’ve wrought.”
“Oh, awesome! First, I’m a grenade, then I’m havoc. Any other insults you want to throw at me, Victor Kade? I hear ‘whore’ is really popular around these parts, and I—“
He reaches for me, snatching my wrist, his gray eyes burning. “How the hell do you know my name?”
I blink, my body buzzing, skin humming.
"Because you just told me you're the head of StreamEats, and I'm not an idiot!" I'm shaking with rage now. "Victor Kade. The Victor Kade. The Ice Prince of Silicon Alley. Forbes 40 Under 40. Billionaire media mogul who—"
"Stop."
"—apparently thinks every woman he meets is trying to scam him.”
"I said stop."
“I’d rather not. Look, you don't get to investigate me and then tell me to stop!” I lift my chin towards him, meeting his dark gaze.
“I don’t care if you’re richest goddamned man on the planet.
You don't get to look at me like I'm some kind of con artist when I woke up just as confused as you are. And you don’t get to insult me because you’re angry at your own lack of self-control. ”
He flinches, as if struck, and for a second, I imagine that this is it, that I’ve done it.
I’ve insulted a man powerful enough to make me disappear and that’s what he’s going to do—disappear me. Call in his well-paid, probably-all-black-wearing goons to throw me in the sea or into an incinerator.
And all that while be left of me is my Buffy the Vampire Slayer DVDs, my grandmother’s favorite ring, and this Heart-of-the-Ocean diamond on my lefthand finger.
In the meantime, Victor’s jaw is clenched so hard I'm worried his teeth might crack. "You don't remember anything from last night."
The words are soft, almost a whisper, and they draw me in.
I shake my head. “No, I do not. Do you?”
He's quiet for a while.
"Pieces," he says finally. "The arcade. The chapel. The—Other parts."
My gut does a somersault. “What other parts?"
"That's not important right now."
"It feels pretty important.”
"What's important," he says, his voice hardening again, "is that we are married. We are trending on Instagram. And you start working for me on Monday."
“Jesus. To be honest, at this point? I don’t know if I even want the job anymore.”
"Too late. The offer letter is legally binding."
"Of course it is."
I laugh, the sound coming out half-hyena, and Victor lets me go, releasing my wrist.
Instinctively, I move to rub it, and his face softens, lips parting as he watches me.
But whatever Victor Kade might have been ready to say dies the second a strong knocks sounds against the door.
"Room service!" a cheerful voice calls. "Complimentary 'Just Married Gamers' breakfast! Courtesy of the Game Over Chapel!"
We both stare at the door in horror.
"Don't answer it," I hiss.
"They have a key," he says through gritted teeth.
"What?"
The door opens, and in wheels a housekeeper with a cart covered with a white tablecloth. On top of it: pancakes shaped like Pac-Man, bacon arranged to spell "GAME OVER," and two champagne flutes in arcade-style plastic cups.
"Good morning, newlyweds!" she chirps. "How are we feeling today?"
"We're not—" I start.
"We're fine," Victor cuts in smoothly, and just like that the CEO mask is back on. "Thank you. You can just leave the cart."
"Oh, but I need to take your photo for the chapel's Instagram! It's part of the Ultimate Gamer Package."
Victor's eye twitches—the only sign of his irritation. "That won't be necessary."
"It's included in your purchase," she says, already pulling out a phone. "You paid for the premium package! Now let's get you two lovebirds together—"
"Absolutely not," Victor says, and there's steel in his voice now.
But she's already moving toward us, completely immune to his apparently inborn intimidation.
"Just a quick one! Come on, get close—"
The flash goes off before either of us can protest.
"Perfect!" She checks the photo. "This is going to get so many likes. You two are adorable."
"That's enough," Victor says, his voice dropping into a register that could cut glass. "You can go now."
Undeterred, the housekeeper beams at us. "Enjoy your breakfast! And congratulations on your marriage!"
She leaves, and the silence that follows is deafening.
Until my phone buzzes and then buzzes again and then doesn't stop buzzing.
"I need to go," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "My sisters are probably about to call the police."
Victor watches me, eyes the color of morning fog sweeping over my skin.
"I'll call you a driver," he says, reaching for his phone and typing fast.
"I can get my own—"
"Harper." His voice is firm as he continues tapping away.
"We're already trending on Instagram. You're not leaving this hotel in yesterday's dress looking like you're doing a walk of shame from your accidental husband's suite.
I will have a driver take you back to your own hotel room.
You'll change. I’ll have my assistant coordinate us later in New York to coordinate our story. "
“In New York?”
“Yes.” He peers up, dark brows cocked. “I’m assuming since you’re starting at my company on Monday that’s where you’ll be.”
Shit.
I nod. “Yes.”
“Good. Then I’ll have my plane readied to take you back in the morning. My driver James will text you an hour ahead of time and then when he arrives. You'll be wheels-up within the hour. Private terminal. No press. No photos. You'll land at Teterboro, and another car will take you home."
"Your…plane?"
"It's the only way to avoid the photographers who are undoubtedly already camped outside this hotel. Pack light. Anything you leave behind, I'll have shipped." His eyes meet mine, cold and decisive when he sees me glitching. "This isn't a negotiation, Harper."
“Wow.” I snort. “That “icy’ moniker of yours really applies, doesn’t it?”
His voice takes on a gravelly authoritative tone—one that probably makes his fellow executives wet themselves.
He straightens to his full six-foot-plus height.
"You accuse me of being icy? Good. I have reason to be.
I own a media empire worth thirty-three billion dollars, employing fourteen thousand people.
And as of two weeks ago, when that offer letter went out, I am your CEO. "
My breath seizes in my body as he keeps going.
"Which means," he continues, each word falling hard from his full lips, "when I tell you to get in the car, you get in the car. When I tell you to get on the plane, you get on the plane. And when I tell you that we are going to handle this situation my goddamned way, you are going to listen. Do I make myself clear?”
I should tell him to go to hell, should throw something at his stupidly handsome face, should storm out of here and let him deal with the press on his own.
But instead I nod stiffly.
It's the plane scenario all over again.
Me screwing up, making a mess of everything, and him swooping in to save me with his piercing eyes and no-nonsense commands.
And it doesn't help that he's right.
In fact, I downright hate it.
"Fine," I hear myself say.
"I'll text you the details."
"You already have my number. Along with my employment history and probably my credit score."
His jaw tightens. "Harper—"
"I'll see you later, Victor."
I grab my purse., heading for the door, letting it slam behind me on the way out.
As I enter the elevator and the mirrored doors close in around me, I try not to stare at my reflection.
At the smudged makeup, the tangled hair, the one remaining false eyelash clinging desperately to my eyelid…and the ring.
The ginormous, has-it-own-gravity, big enough to have its own solar system ring that tells the world—and me—that I’m married.
To the most infuriating man I’ve ever met.
This is definitely worse than tomato juice.
Because at least with tomato juice, I could walk away. But with Victor Kade?
I have a feeling I'm stuck with this stain for a very long time.