Chapter 6
DAMAGE CONTROL
VICTOR
By Wednesday evening, I'm sitting in the cigar lounge at Crimson & Chrome with one clear goal in mind—make it through the rest of the week without burning down the StreamEats offices out of sheer frustration.
It's been three days since I forced my accidental wife into a two-month arrangement she couldn't refuse. Three days since I had James start tailing her.
Three days since Patricia Franklin called another emergency board meeting for Monday morning.
Three days of walking past Harper's office and pretending I don't notice she's there.
The October evening is crisp and golden through the tall windows of the membership club—the one place, other than StreamEats offices, where I should feel powerful as hell, in control.
Too bad I feel neither of those things.
The cigar lounge of Manhattan’s gentlemen’s playground for the rich is all dark wood paneling and buttery leather, saturated with the scent of tobacco and expensive cologne.
A haven designed to make wealthy men feel important while they drink expensive alcohol, it’s a place where we’re all essentially sitting around, pretending each of us is not one bad investment away from an ulcer.
My best buddy from Harvard, Christian Finn, is sprawled in the leather wingback chair across from me, looking annoyingly relaxed in a cashmere sweater that likely costs what I pay my assistant for a week, sipping an old fashioned.
My other best friend—and fellow former Harvard inmate—Roman Ellis is leaning against the mahogany bar, swirling a scotch, because Roman can't sit still for more than thirty seconds without his athlete brain staging a revolt.
"So," Christian says, swirling his drink, amber eyes mischievous. "You married your employee."
"Thank you for that summary," I say, deadpan. "Very helpful."
"At a video game chapel."
"Also noted."
"While wearing jerseys that said 'Player 1' and 'Player 2.'"
"Are you done?"
"Not even close." Christian grins. "The internet loves you now. There are fan accounts. Someone started a petition to make your wedding video into an NFT."
“How much can I pay you to stop talking?”
"And you're having her followed," Roman adds casually from the bar.
I glare at him. "How the hell do you know about that?"
"Your driver James is friends with my driver. They talk." Roman pushes off from the bar and drops into the chair beside Christian, his massive frame making the furniture look like dollhouse accessories. "So. How's that going?"
"It's going fine."
"Define fine."
"She goes to work. She goes home. She watches Buffy the Vampire Slayer re-runs and orders too much Thai food. She's not talking to the press. That's fine."
Christian raises an eyebrow. "You know what she orders for dinner?"
"James is thorough in his reports."
"Jesus Christ, Victor." Christian sets down his drink. "You're actually tracking your wife's food delivery habits?"
"I'm making sure she's safe from photographers and not doing anything that will jeopardize this arrangement."
"Right. Because Thai food is famously scandalous."
"Fuck off, Christian."
Roman leans forward, blue eyes sharp despite his casual posture. "How bad is the board situation?"
I take a long drink before answering. "We have another meeting on Monday."
Christian's smile vanishes. "Shit. Two meetings in one week?"
"Patricia Franklin is using the wedding as ammunition," I continue, because if I don't say it out loud, I might convince myself it's not happening. "She's framing it as evidence of poor judgment. Instability. Everything she's been waiting to weaponize since I fired her nephew."
"Her nephew was sexually harassing female employees," Roman says, broad shoulders squaring. "You did the right thing."
"Patricia doesn't see it that way. She sees an opportunity." I eye the contents of my glass. "And with the Francis acquisition hanging by a thread after his brothel arrest, she's positioning herself as the voice of reason. The stable hand who can steady the ship."
"By ousting you as CEO," Christian finishes.
"Exactly."
"What are the numbers looking like? On the acquisition?"
"The numbers are solid. But numbers don't matter when the board is questioning my competence. Patricia's got three votes locked. I've got four. The rest are swinging based on who makes the better argument Monday morning."
Roman whistles low. "That's close."
"Too close." I set down my glass. "Which is why I can't afford any more mistakes. No more scandals. No more viral videos. Nothing that gives Patricia ammunition."
"And Harper?" Christian asks, watching me. "How does she factor into all this?"
"She doesn't. She stays quiet, shows up when I need her to, and in two months we end this cleanly."
"Will she now?" Christian's tone is skeptical.
"She will. My publicist had her sign a non-disclosure agreement yesterday.”
"An agreement you essentially forced her to sign because you're her boss and she had no real choice."
I don't answer, and Roman shifts in his chair, grin curling. "You bringing her to the Hamptons for my wedding?"
“Fuck no,” I bark fast. Much too fast.
"Interesting." He sips. "Because it's not like you to get rattled."
"I'm not rattled."
Roman stretches out his legs. "Then why haven't you just fired her and dealt with the optics?"
"Because it would look retaliatory. We're mid-acquisition. I don't need another scandal."
Christian raises his glass. "So you're keeping her around to keep up appearances."
"Exactly."
“Right,” Roman nods. “Definitely not because you're into her."
I stare straight ahead. "Say that again and I'm un-inviting myself from your wedding.”
“You could…if you don’t mind Calli sticking a bridal bouquet up your ass when she finds out we no longer have a Best Man.”
Christian snorts. “You okay with shitting flower petals for an entire week?”
My friends laugh together, looking skeptical, and I’d never admit it, but fuck, honestly, I am too.
Because the truth is, I've been avoiding Harper since Monday morning.
I know she's in her office—the small one three doors down from mine. I know her schedule because Gina coordinates it. I know she's been keeping her head down, doing her job, not causing problems.
And I know that every time I walk past her office, I resist the urge to look inside.
To see if she's actually as fine with this arrangement as she pretends to be.
Not because I’m checking out her long, toned legs beneath her pencil skirts, that full pink pout of hers that makes itself known every time she’s thinking too hard or the curve of her ass and hips when she—
"You're doing it again," Christian says.
I blink. "Doing what?"
"That thing where you zone out and stare into the middle distance."
"I don't stare at anything.”
"You’re right. You’re not staring. You’re brooding.”
Roman grins. "He's thinking about her."
"I'm thinking about the board meeting."
"Sure you are."
My phone buzzes on the table between us. I glance at the screen.
RACHEL (PR): Harper's publicity materials need updating. Send me professional photos of you two together. Candid. Warm. NOT the Vegas ones.
ME: We don't have photos together.
RACHEL (PR): Then take some. Smile. Look like you don't want to die. This is your life now.
I set the phone down.
"Rachel?" Christian guesses.
"She wants couple photos."
Roman laughs. "This is the best thing that's ever happened to you."
"I'm glad my life crisis amuses you."
"It does. Tremendously."
Before I can respond with something appropriately cutting, my phone rings. Not a text this time—an actual call. From a New York number I don't recognize.
I answer cautiously. "Kade."
"Mr. Kade!" The voice is bright, enthusiastic, and vaguely familiar in a way that makes my spine straighten.
"This is Trevor from the Game Over Chapel of Eternal Love!
We're so thrilled that your wedding video went viral!
We'd love to feature you and Harper in our new ad campaign—'Love Levels Up at Game Over!
' We're thinking billboards, maybe a Super Bowl commercial—"
I hang up as Christian and Roman are both staring at me.
"This is exactly why I’ve never gotten married,” I say flatly.
Roman loses it. He's laughing so hard he has to set down his scotch before he spills it. Christian is trying not to grin, and he’s practically turning red.
“I’m glad you fuckers find my misfortune entertaining,” I nearly grow.
"It's so entertaining,” Christian manages between laughs.
"You're going to be on a billboard," Roman wheezes. "You. The Ice Prince. On a billboard for a gaming chapel."
"Over my dead body."
"'Love Levels Up,'" Christian quotes. "Oh my god, that's perfect."
"I'm getting new friends."
"No you're not," Roman says, recovering slightly. "We're the only ones who put up with you."
I signal the waiter for another bourbon, as my phone rings again.
"Jesus," Christian swears. "You should get married more often. This is the most action your phone's gotten in years."
I flip him off and look at the screen.
BABUSHKA KATYA
Fuck. I let it go to voicemail.
It rings again immediately.
"That your grandmother?" Christian asks, glancing at the screen.
"In the annoying but lovable flesh."
The phone keeps ringing, and Roman laughs. "Might as well answer it. She's just going to keep calling."
With an exhale and an impending sense of doom, I answer. "Babushka."
"Vitya!" Her voice fills my ear, warm and sharp. "Where have you been? You have been hiding from me. Luckily, I saw the video of you and your Harper woman! Your new wife!”
"Babushka, she's not my—"
"She has beautiful voice. Like sparrow in morning. And she looks polite. Very polite. Not like those terrible girls your mother try to set you up with."
"This isn't—"
"This Sunday, six o'clock. You bring her to my apartment. I make pelmeni. And borscht. And blini. She needs to eat. She is too skinny."
"You haven't even seen her in person."
"I see pictures on the internet! She needs Russian food. Build strength."
"We're not actually—"
"Also, I want to talk about wedding. Real wedding. Not this video game nonsense."
My hand tightens on the phone. "We're not having another wedding."
"Of course you are! First one doesn't count. No priest. No icons. No proper vows. We do it right this time. Russian Orthodox ceremony. I invite whole neighborhood—"
"Babushka, no."
"—and we have real reception. Not arcade games. Real music. Real dancing. Your grandfather, God rest him, he would want this for you."
The mention of my grandfather hits exactly where she intended. My throat tightens.
"Babushka—"
"Sunday, six o'clock. Be there. Both of you. And wear something nice. Not your funeral suit."
She hangs up, and I lower the phone to find Christian and Roman watching me with matching stifled grins.
Christian raises a hand. "Don't even bother. We heard the whole thing."
Roman raises his glass. "Good luck with your Russian Orthodox wedding."
I turn to the passing waiter. "Any chance you could slip some poison into this?"
My two best friends laugh even harder.
"You're deep in the shit now," Christian says, flagging down another waiter for a refill.
Roman leans back in his leather chair. "So what are you going to do?"
"About what?"
"About Sunday dinner. About your grandmother. About the wife you're currently having followed like she's a corporate spy."
"She's not a corporate spy."
"Then why the tail?"
"Because I need to know if anyone's harassing her. If photographers are camping outside her apartment. If she's doing anything that could jeopardize this arrangement." I take another drink. "It's protective surveillance."
"It's obsessive surveillance," Christian corrects. "And you still haven't answered Roman's question. What are you going to do about Sunday?"
I stare into my bourbon, watching the amber liquid catch the light.
"I don't know," I admit finally. "But I have three days to figure it out."
"You mean you have three days to convince Harper to meet your grandmother."
"That too."
"And how exactly do you plan to do that?"
"The same way I do everything. Direct. Professional. By reminding her what she signed up for."
Roman and Christian exchange a look.
"What?" I demand.
"Nothing," Roman says, but he's grinning. "Just... good luck with that."
"I don't need luck. I need Harper to do what she's contractually obligated to do."
"Right. Because that's definitely how successful relationships work. Through contractual obligation and surveillance."
"This isn't a relationship. It's an arrangement." I drain my bourbon and stand. "I should go."
"Running away?" Christian asks.
“Yeah, smart-ass. From this conversation. From you two assholes. From—"
"From thinking about Harper?" Roman finishes.
“Let me make it abundantly clear to you two dickheads, if I haven’t already.
” I slip into my suit jacket, fastening the buttons.
“I have no intention on letting this marriage get away from me. I have no intention of ever marrying. Almost making it down the aisle once was enough for a lifetime. And I am never doing that shit again.”
Turning on my heel, I head for the door, skin heating, head buzzing from the alcohol, mentally cementing my grandmother’s Sunday dinner plans into something bearable.
As for Harper Beaumont…
The guys are right about one thing—having the woman I’m married to followed isn’t exactly endearing.
Deciding to pull James from tailing her, I push through the heavy oak doors and step out into the October evening, the cold air hitting my face like a reset button—a reminder that while Harper Beaumont may deserve her privacy, ultimately, the pretty, accident-prone brunette is simply a tool.
That's what I tell myself as I walk toward where James is waiting with the car.
A means to an end, a strategic asset in a game I need to win.
Yes, she's undeniably attractive, enough to make the blood between my ears relocate to somewhere southward. And yes, she's interesting, witty—sharp-tongued and even entertaining.
But I'm not a man who does romance. Ever.
My older brother Alexei made damn sure of that three years ago.
Two months. That's the arrangement.
Two months to stabilize the board, close the acquisition, let the media circus die down. Two months to use her exactly the way she agreed to be used—as the face of stability, commitment, the humanizing force that turns the Ice Prince into someone the board can trust.
And then we're done.
She gets her career. I get my company.
I climb into the back of the Mercedes truck that James is driving, limbs stiffening, resolve sharpening.
Because that's the deal.
And that's all it can ever be.