21. Emotional Breakdowns （with Extra Gravy）
EMOTIONAL brEAKDOWNS (WITH EXTRA GRAVY)
VICTOR
By the time afternoon settles in on Thanksgiving Day, my penthouse smells like butter and wine and anxiety.
Probably because it's been three days since Harper and I fought in a bathroom, three days since I accidentally told her I loved her, and three days since we made a plan to save both our careers with one perfect Thanksgiving episode.
Rachel was clear the second Harper and I stepped into her office Monday morning.
We have no choice.
We have to make the Thanksgiving episode so good the press and public can't argue with it, so undeniable that Harper deserves to be on camera. That this isn't favoritism—it's good business.
Because if the episode tanks, or even if it's just mediocre, Patricia and my own goddamned board will use it as proof that my judgment is compromised.
Doesn't help that in the middle of all this, my publicist reminded me that the annual StreamEats Investor Gala is December seventh. Three days before the board vote.
In all my brother-punching, deal-making, Harper-obsessing fugue state, I'd actually forgotten.
Outside the wall-swallowing windows of my penthouse apartment, Manhattan is gray and cold, that particular November bite warning us city dwellers that winter is coming whether we're ready or not.
The city looks quiet, settled, like everyone else is already tucked into their own Thanksgiving celebrations.
Inside my penthouse, it's absolute bedlam.
The main kitchen—all marble countertops and professional-grade appliances that I rarely use—has been transformed into a production set.
Cameras on tripods, lights on stands, cables snaking across my usually pristine floors.
The industrial oven is going full blast, filling the space with waves of heat that make the windows fog at the edges.
The scent of roasting turkey mingles with fresh herbs—rosemary, thyme, sage—and the rich, buttery smell of pie crust baking.
Harper's doing, all of it.
"You have a second kitchen?" Roman Ellis is standing in the doorway of my prep kitchen—the smaller one off the main entertaining space—staring like he's just discovered Narnia.
His auburn hair is slightly disheveled, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and there's a smudge of flour on his expensive shirt.
"Victor Kade. A man who couldn't dispense ketchup on his own hamburgers a year ago has a second kitchen. "
"Technically it's the third kitchen," I correct, adjusting my own rolled-up sleeves.
The penthouse is warm enough that I've abandoned my jacket and tie entirely, left in just dress pants and a white button-down that's already suffered casualties from Harper's insistence I help with prep work.
"There's also one in the west wing for catering staff. "
"The west wing." Roman turns to Christian, who is shockingly setting up camera equipment with the production crew. "Did you hear that? He has a west wing. Like the White House. But for kitchens."
Christian doesn't look up from adjusting a light, his muscular frame bent over the tripod.
His usual leather jacket is gone, replaced by a dark henley that Lucia probably insisted he wear for the cameras.
"I'm more concerned that he invited people over willingly.
Victor 'No Fucks Given' Kade hosting a dinner party. "
"It's not a dinner party. It's a filmed episode."
"With multiple guests. In your home. Voluntarily." Christian finally looks at me, his amber eyes crinkling in the corners, a hint of that troublemaker grin from our Harvard days. "I'm telling you—it's like Invasion of the Body Snatchers."
"I'm still me."
"The you I know hasn't had anyone over to his place since Harvard. And even then, it was for study groups you immediately regretted."
"That's not true."
"Name one time you've hosted anything social in the past five years."
I blink at him, my brain searching for answers and finding none. The sound of Harper's laughter drifts from the main kitchen, followed by the clatter of pans and the production assistant's voice giving directions.
"Exactly," Roman says, grinning. "This is character development. We should document it."
"You're already documenting it. There are three cameras."
"I meant for posterity. So we can show your future children that Daddy used to be fun."
"I'm not having children."
"That's what Christian said before Lucia. Now look at him—practically domesticated."
Christian makes an obscene gesture, and Harper appears from the main kitchen carrying what appears to be a turkey the size of a small child.
Her face is flushed from the heat, wisps of hair escaping from her messy bun, and she's wearing jeans and my StreamEats hoodie—the one that hangs to her mid-thigh and makes her look soft and unassuming and absurdly beautiful.
"Boys, if you're done commenting on Victor's personal growth, I need help with this bird."
All three of us immediately move to help her, and she laughs, the sound bright and warm in the high-ceilinged space.
And my fingers fight the urge to settle on her skin.
"I've got it," she motions to my two best friends. "I just needed Victor. The rest of you, go set the table or something useful."
Roman and Christian exchange looks but retreat toward the dining room, their footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors. Through the doorway, I can see the long table already set with the china I never use, crystal glasses catching the dimming afternoon light from the windows.
I cross to Harper, my shoes quiet on the kitchen tile.
"You okay?" I ask quietly.
"I'm great. This is—" She looks around my kitchen, at the cameras, at the controlled chaos of production. A timer beeps somewhere. One of the crew members adjusts a light, and the room brightens. "This is amazing, Victor. Thank you for letting us film here."
"It's your episode. You should film where you're comfortable."
"I'm comfortable here." She says it simply, like it's obvious, and I can't help but grin.
"Good. What do you need?"
"Help getting this monster into the oven. Your primary oven, not the fancy one the crew is using for filming. This is the backup turkey in case something goes wrong with the show bird."
"Always prepared."
"I'm terrified of failure. It's a whole thing."
We maneuver the turkey into the oven together—the blast of heat when I open the door immediately warming my face, the smell of roasting meat and aromatics intensifying.
I'm acutely aware of how domestic this is, how natural it feels to move around my kitchen with her, anticipating her needs, falling into an easy rhythm.
The way her hip bumps mine as we adjust the rack.
The warmth of her body next to mine in the heat of the kitchen.
How much it thrills me, sending goosebumps along the surface of my skin despite the temperature.
"Victor?" Harper's voice pulls me back. "You're doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you go all cold and distant and I can see you retreating into Ice Prince mode."
"I hardly think—“
"You are. What's on your mind?”
Before I can answer, the doorbell rings—a soft chime that echoes through the penthouse.
"That'll be Babushka," I mutter. "She texted that she was on her way."
"Your grandmother is coming?" Harper's eyes widen, hazel going almost gold in the kitchen lights. "Victor, you didn't tell me—"
"I invited her last week. I thought—" I stop. "I thought you'd want to see her again. After the dinner at her place."
Harper's expression softens. "I did. I do. I'm just—I'm not exactly dressed for grandmother visits."
She gestures down at herself—the oversized hoodie, the bare feet, the flour smudge on her cheek that I desperately want to wipe away.
She looks perfect.
"You look—" Unbelievably edible, I want to say. "Great."
"I look like I raided your closet."
"You did raid my closet."
"Because someone turned the heat up to seven hundred degrees in here and I was dying in my sweater."
"The ovens are on. It's going to be warm."
"It's not warm. It's hell. Your penthouse is hell-temperature."
"Then take the hoodie off."
"I'm wearing a tank top underneath. That's not appropriate for meeting your grandmother."
"Babushka doesn't care about appropriate."
"I care about appropriate."
The doorbell rings again, more insistently.
"She's not going to stop," I say.
"Then answer it before she breaks down the door."
I head to the foyer, and Harper follows, smoothing down the hoodie like that's going to help.
I open the door, and Babushka is standing there holding a casserole dish and wearing a coat that's seen better decades.
"Vitenka!" She pushes past me without invitation, then stops when she sees Harper. "Ah! Harper! Come here, dorogaya, let me look at you."
Harper shoots me a panicked look, but Babushka is already pulling her into a hug that involves the casserole dish, Harper's face, and what sounds like Russian endearments.
"You are beautiful! Even in ugly hoodie! This is good—means you are comfortable here, yes?"
"I—yes, I'm very comfortable—"
"Good! Comfort is important! My Vitenka, he has many houses but no home. You make home, yes?"
"I'm trying—"
"She is trying!" Babushka hands me the casserole dish and takes Harper's face in both hands. "I see it in your eyes. You have secrets, but you love him. This is good. Love first, secrets later."
Harper's face goes pale.
"Babushka," I say slowly. "Maybe we should—"
"Shush. I am talking to your wife." She pats Harper's cheek. "You are scared. This is okay. Love is scary. But my Vitenka, he is good man. Stubborn like mule, yes. Cold like Siberia winter sometimes, yes. But good. You remember this when secrets come out, yes?"
"I—yes. I'll remember."
Babushka releases Harper and turns to me. "You. Kitchen. I bring pelmeni. You must heat properly or I disown you."
She disappears toward the kitchen, leaving Harper and me standing in the foyer.
Harper's gaze falters. "Maybe our expectations are too high for tonight, Victor. Maybe—"