Chapter 13 #2
Doesn’t help that we're standing near the windows now, away from the main crowd, the Manhattan skyline spread out behind us like a movie set.
From here, you can see the entirety of Midtown—Rockefeller Center in the distance, the Empire State Building lit up in holiday colors, the endless grid of streets and lights and near-holiday hope.
"It's beautiful," I say, looking out at the view.
"It is," Victor agrees, but when I glance over, he's not looking at the city.
He's looking at me.
"Victor—"
"Dance with me."
"What?"
He gestures toward the dance floor where couples are swaying to something slow and jazzy. "We should dance. Married couples dance."
"Is that an order?"
"It's a request."
I should say no. Dancing means being close to him, and being this close to him is clearly more than my overactive pulse can handle. But I also can't think of a good reason to refuse without making it obvious that I'm affected by him.
"Okay," I say.
He takes my hand and leads me onto the dance floor. His arm goes around my waist, pulling me close—closer than is strictly necessary for a professional appearance. My hand rests on his shoulder, and we start to move.
He's a good dancer. Of course he is. Probably took ballroom lessons at some fancy prep school.
He guides me into a slow sway, and I can’t resist the urge to ask.
"Where did you learn to dance?"
“Where do you think? He grins. “Babushka. Our beloved matriarch of the Kade family insisted all her grandsons learn properly."
The image of a young Victor being taught to waltz by his tiny Russian grandmother makes me smile. "That's actually adorable."
"It was mortifying. She made us practice with each other."
"You danced with your brothers?"
"And cousins. And every neighbor boy in a three-block radius. She said, 'Real man knows how to lead. Also how to follow. This is wisdom.'"
I laugh, and he pulls me slightly closer. "What about you? Where did you learn?"
"My dad. He used to dance with my mom in the kitchen every Sunday morning. He taught all three of us—said we should never depend on a partner to have a good time."
"Smart man."
"He is." My throat tightens slightly, thinking about Dad, about the treatments, about all the things I'm not saying. "Very smart."
Victor's hand moves in a gentle circle on my back, soothing, and suddenly, the tension is killing me, the dam that’s been welling inside me nearing breaking.
“Victor?
"Hm?"
"Earlier. In the boutique. When we—“
"Don't." He looks down at me, jaw clenching. "Not here. Not now."
"When?"
"When we're alone. When we're not performing for cameras and board members and all of Manhattan's elite."
"We're alone now."
He knows I’m right. In the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by dozens of people, we're somehow in our own bubble. The music, the lights, the way he's holding me—it all feels separate from the performance. It feels real.
"Victor," I say quietly. "What are we doing?"
"I don't know."
"That's not reassuring."
"I'm not good at reassuring."
"You're good at other things."
His eyes darken. "Like what?"
"Like kissing."
The words slip out before I can stop them, and I watch his expression shift—the gray storm clouds inside his irises melting into surprise and something that looks like hunger.
"Harper—"
"Sorry. That was—" I stumble slightly, my heel catching on his foot.
He catches me smoothly, his arm tightening around my waist. "Careful."
"I'm always careful. That's my problem."
"Being careful isn't a problem."
"It is when you miss opportunities because you're too scared to take risks."
We've stopped dancing. We're just standing there, swaying slightly, having a conversation that feels far too vulnerable for a public event.
"What opportunities?" Victor asks.
You. This. Whatever this is becoming.
But I can't say that. Not here. Not when I'm still figuring out if this is real or if I'm just confusing proximity with feelings, convenience with connection.
"Never mind," I say. "We should—"
"Victor Kade!" Another voice, another interruption. A woman this time, tall and elegant and vaguely familiar. "I heard you got married! Congratulations!"
Victor's expression shifts back to professional, but his hand stays on my waist. "Thank you. Harper, this is Cynthia Lee, CEO of TechVenture Capital."
"Nice to meet you," I say automatically.
"You too! I have to ask—is the gaming chapel thing real? Because my assistant showed me the video and I thought it was brilliant. Most weddings are so boring."
I blink. "You... liked it?"
"Loved it! So quirky and fun. My daughter wants to do something similar for her wedding next year. Less corporate, more personality. I might steal your idea."
Victor and I look at each other.
"Feel free," he says dryly.
Cynthia laughs and moves on, and we're left standing on the edge of the dance floor.
"Huh," I say.
"Huh," Victor agrees.
"Maybe Rachel was right. About owning the narrative."
"Rachel is usually right. It's annoying."
I laugh, and some of the tension breaks.
The rest of the event passes in a blur of introductions, photos, and small talk.
Victor stays close the entire time, his presence steady and grounding.
When people ask about the wedding, we tell the story Rachel crafted—whirlwind romance, spontaneous decision, aren't we adorable with our gaming theme.
And the strangest part? It gets easier each time.
Maybe because parts of it are true.
Even a run-in with multiple noisy guests doesn’t derail the high I’m on, and by the time we leave at 11 PM, I'm exhausted and slightly drunk on champagne and the surreal experience of playing Victor Kade's wife in public.
During the car ride home, Victor is quiet. Not his usual controlled quiet—something more thoughtful, almost vulnerable.
"You did well tonight," he says finally.
"Thanks. You too."
"I mean it. You handled Patricia perfectly. And Cynthia. And all the others who were trying to figure out if this is real."
"Is it?" The words slip out before I can stop them. "Real, I mean?"
Victor looks at me in the dim light of the car, streetlights strobing across his face. "I don't know what it is. But it's not what I thought it would be."
"What did you think it would be?"
"Simple. Transactional. A business arrangement with clear boundaries."
"And now?"
He reaches over and takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine. The gesture is simple, intimate, and completely unnecessary since no one's watching.
"Now it's complicated," he says.
We don't let go the entire ride home.
When we get back to the penthouse, we stand in the entryway, still holding hands, neither of us moving toward our separate rooms.
"Harper—" Victor starts.
"I know. You don’t want to talk about it now.”
“But we will.”
“I know.”
"But not tonight."
"No," I agree. "Not tonight."
Because tonight I'm tired and slightly drunk and my defenses are down, and if we talk now, I might say something I can't take back.
Like how much I've started to care about him.
Like how the thought of year’s end—the ending of this arrangement—makes my chest tight with something that feels suspiciously close to grief.
“Thank you for tonight, Victor."
“You’re very welcome, Harper."
He squeezes my hand once before letting go, and I watch him walk toward his room, my skin still humming from hours of his touch.
In my room, I carefully remove the lavender dress, hang it up, and change into my ridiculous cat pajamas.
Then I sit on my bed with my phone and stare at the photo someone tagged us in from tonight—Victor and me on the dance floor, looking at each other like we're the only people in the room.
It doesn't look fake.
It looks everything I’ve ever wanted.
And that scares me more than anything.