Chapter 18 #2
"Harper," I say, extending my hand. "It's lovely to see you again.”
“You too, my darling. The pleasure is all mine." Richard's handshake lingers slightly too long. "I have to say, that wedding video of yours was quite something. Very... modern."
"Very drunk," I reply smoothly, and the woman at the table laughs.
"I like her already," she says. "I'm Sonia Talbot, CulinaryVision board member. This is Robert Martinez, also on the board."
Robert nods politely but doesn't smile. Victor and I take our seats across from each other—a strategic choice, I assume, so we can read each other's faces during conversation.
"So," Sonia says, studying me over her wine glass. "How did you two really meet? And please tell me it wasn't actually at that video game chapel."
"We met on a plane," I say, because it's the truth. "I accidentally baptized him in tomato juice."
Victor's eyes meet mine across the table, and I can see him fighting a smile. "She has terrible volleyball reflexes."
Sonia is smiling now. "And Vegas?"
"Was supposed to be separate trips," Victor says, his eyes still on me. "Her sister's bachelorette party. My acquisition meetings. We ran into each other at a club."
"And decided to get married?" Robert asks skeptically.
"We decided to stop fighting what we both wanted," I correct, and I realize I'm not entirely acting. "The chapel was just us finally admitting it."
Victor's expression changes—something vulnerable flickering across his handsome face before he locks it down.
Richard clears his throat. "Well. How... romantic." He doesn't sound convinced. "Though I’ll admit, Victor, I never thought impulsive decisions were your style. Some might even say it shows questionable judgment."
Victor's jaw tightens, but I speak before he can.
"Good thing it wasn't impulsive, then," I say pleasantly. "We'd been circling each other for months before Vegas. The chapel was just the excuse we needed."
Sonia raises her glass. "To excuses, then. May we all be so lucky."
We toast, and shortly after, dinner finally begins.
The first course arrives—oysters on the half shell, arranged on a bed of crushed ice with mignonette sauce and lemon wedges. They're perfect—briny and cold, tasting like the ocean in the best possible way.
I watch Victor dispatch his with ease, and I'm suddenly aware that this man probably eats at Michelin-starred restaurants the way I eat takeout.
"These are beautiful," I say, squeezing lemon over one. "Kumamoto?"
Sonia looks impressed. "You know your oysters."
"I host a cooking show. Comes with the territory."
"And what show is that?"
"Weeknight Wins. On StreamEats." I slide the oyster off the shell, savoring the taste. "We focus on making restaurant-quality food accessible for home cooks."
"I've seen it," Robert says, speaking for the first time since we sat down. "My wife loves your brown butter gnocchi episode."
Victor's eyes meet mine across the table, and there's pride there that makes my chest tight.
The second course is more elaborate—seared scallops with cauliflower puree, crispy prosciutto, and micro greens drizzled with brown butter. The scallops have that perfect golden crust that only comes from a screaming-hot pan and patience.
The conversation flows between business and personal, and I realize Victor was right—we work well together.
When Richard makes a pointed comment about "stability in leadership," I deflect with a story about my StreamEats audition.
When Sonia asks about the acquisition timeline, Victor handles it with smooth confidence, and I nod along like I understand corporate finance.
We're a team.
It's terrifying how natural it feels.
Dessert arrives—some elaborate chocolate thing that probably has a French name I can't pronounce—and Richard stands.
"I hope you'll forgive the interruption," he says, "but we have two more guests joining us. They were delayed in Los Angeles, but they've just arrived."
The dining room doors open.
A couple walks in—both in their thirties, both beautiful in that effortless way that screams personal trainers and expensive skincare.
The woman is stunning, adorned with dark hair and perfect skin. And the man—
The man looks remarkably like Victor.
Same height. Same build.
Same sharp features.
But where Victor’s eyes are gray speckled with a icy blue, this man’s are a saturated ocean color that only shows in the deepest parts of the sea—the ravenous, bottomless parts.
And right now, those bottomless depths are bearing down right on Victor.
"Everyone," Richard says with a smile that makes my skin crawl, "I'd like you to meet my newest business partner. The man who flew in and bailed me out of the Vegas jail when I was arrested."
The man starts to speak. “Victor. It’s been too long since—“
He doesn't finish.
Because Victor is out of his seat, crossing the room in three strides, and punching him in the face.
The sound of impact is sickening. The man stumbles backward, blood streaming from his nose, and the woman screams.
"Victor!" Sonia stands. "What the hell—"
But Victor's already grabbing my hand, pulling me out of my chair.
"We're leaving," he says, his voice deadly calm.
"What—"
"Now, Harper."
He's already moving toward the door, and I have no choice but to follow, as James appears from nowhere, falling into step beside us.
"Sir?" The half-driver, half-bodyguard questions.
"Get us off this boat. Now."
"Already done. There's a catamaran waiting per usual.”
We're through the yacht's corridors in seconds, and I'm running in heels trying to keep up with Victor's long strides.
"Victor, what just happened—"
"Not now."
We reach the deck, and true to James's word, there's a sleek catamaran bobbing in the water beside us. James helps me down the ladder, and Victor follows, his chiseled set hard enough to slice.
The catamaran pulls away from the yacht, and I can see figures on the deck watching us leave.
"I need to—" I gesture toward the bathroom below deck. "I need a minute."
Victor nods once, not looking at me, and I stumble down the stairs and into the bathroom, closing the door before leaning against it.
Because what in the billionaire hell just happened?
Victor Kade—the man I’ve come to know as the pinnacle of self-control—just punched someone in the face at a business dinner, just destroyed the CulinaryVision acquisition, just walked away from everything he's been working toward for months.
And I have no earthly idea why.
Splashing water on my face, I make an attempt to calm my racing heart. When I finally emerge from the bathroom, Victor is gone.
Eventually, I find him on the stern of the catamaran, standing at the railing with a glass of scotch in his hand.
The catamaran is anchored now, bobbing gently in the dark water.
The lights of Richard's yacht are visible in the distance, and above us, stars are beginning to appear in the night sky. The deck has heaters, but there’s still a cool breeze that sweeps across my skin.
But nothing gives me goosebumps more than the broad-shouldered man standing in front of me.
"Victor," I say quietly.
He doesn't turn around. "Go back inside, Harper."
"No."
"This isn't a request."
"And I'm not taking orders right now." I can’t believe I’m talking to my boss like this right now. But honestly, I don’t give a damn. I move to stand beside him. "What just happened back there?"
"I made a mistake."
"You punched someone in the face."
"Yes."
"At a business dinner."
"I'm aware."
"A business dinner that was supposed to save the CulinaryVision acquisition."
"Also aware."
I wait for more, but he just takes another sip of scotch, staring out at the ocean.
"Victor," I say carefully. "Who was that man?"
His jaw tightens. "My brother."
The realization is like punch to the gut.
"Your—what?"
"Alexei. My older brother." He finally turns to look at me, and his eyes are colder than I've ever seen them. “We haven’t spoken in three years."
"And the woman with him?"
"Isabelle." His voice is flat. "My ex-fiancée."
Oh. Oh God.
“Was she someone who—”
“Someone I met through a mutual friend? Yes,” he says, answering a question I didn’t ask.
“Someone I started dating shortly after? Yes. Someone who had a relationship with my older brother before our own relationship began? Yes.” He knocks back the rest of the scotch, jaw hard enough to cut glass.
“Someone who rekindled that affair with him while we were engaged—the same woman who detonated my ability to trust anyone for the last three fucking years? Also yes.”
I go completely still.
Because suddenly everything clicks into place with the force of a car crash.
The walls. The control.
The Ice Prince act.
The way he looked at me in his office on my first day like I was a hostile takeover in a pencil skirt.
I swallow hard. “I didn’t know—”
“Richard knew,” Victor cuts in, his voice turning colder, sharper. “He knew exactly who Alexei was. Knew exactly what he did to me. And he invited them to dinner anyway.”
“Why?”
“To rattle me. To show the board I’m not as controlled as I pretend to be. To prove I’m unstable.” He laughs once, bitter and furious. “And I handed him exactly what he wanted.”
“You were defending yourself.”
“I was acting like a child.” He sets the glass down with a hard thud against the railing. “I just torched a hundred-million-dollar acquisition because I couldn’t keep my emotions in check for one goddamn dinner.”
“Or,” I say quietly, “you made a choice.”
He looks at me like I’ve interrupted him in a language he doesn’t speak.
“What?”
“You chose to walk away from something toxic instead of staying there and pretending everything was fine.” I step closer. “That’s not weakness, Victor. That’s strength.”
His eyes narrow slightly, not in anger this time, but in bafflement. Like no one has ever dared to hand him a softer interpretation of himself and expected him to take it.
“You don’t understand—”