21. Emotional Breakdowns （with Extra Gravy） #2
"You worry too much. And I get it. But tonight?" I take her hand, pressing it to my lips. "Let me do all your worrying for you." I search her face. "Okay?"
She nods, and we return to the kitchen to find Babushka already critiquing Roman's gravy technique.
"No, no, no! You whisk like American—too fast, too rough. Gentle! Like you love the gravy!"
Roman, who normally runs a billion-dollar meal delivery empire like an NFL offensive line formation, looks genuinely chastened. "Yes, ma'am."
"And you!" She points at Christian. "That camera, it is too close to stove. You want fire? You want lawsuit? Move!"
Christian immediately adjusts the camera placement.
"Your grandmother is scary as hell," he mutters to me.
"She's protective."
"She just told Roman he whisks like an American."
"She's not wrong."
The next two hours are controlled chaos.
We film the main segments—Harper walking through the menu, demonstrating techniques, bantering with Roman and Christian while I handle prep work in the background like the world's most awkward sous chef.
Babushka provides color commentary that definitely won't make the final cut but keeps everyone entertained.
"Harper, you are too nice to the turkey! Be firm! Show dominance!"
"Babushka, I don't think turkey responds to dominance."
"Everything responds to dominance! This is why my Vitenka is successful! He dominates the boardroom!"
I close my eyes. "Please stop talking."
"I am helping!"
By the time we sit down to eat—cameras still rolling—my dining room looks like something out of a magazine spread.
The table seats twelve comfortably, but with just the six of us (Harper, me, Roman, Christian, Christian’s wife Lucia who arrived late, and Babushka), it feels intimate despite the size.
Harper sits at one end, I sit at the other, and everyone else fills in between.
The food is spectacular. The conversation flows. And for the first time in years, my home doesn't feel like a museum.
It feels lived in.
Roman raises his wine glass. "I'd like to propose a toast. To Victor, who finally learned that having friends over won't actually kill him."
"And to Harper," Christian adds, "for performing the miracle of making Victor Kade host a dinner party."
"It's not a miracle," I mutter. "It's strategic content creation."
"It's character growth," Roman insists. "And we're documenting it for posterity."
"You already said that."
"It bears repeating."
Harper is laughing, and Babushka is beaming, and even Lucia looks amused by the whole situation.
"You know," Christian says thoughtfully, setting down his fork with a soft clink, "I don't think I've ever been to this penthouse before. Actually, I'm not sure anyone has."
"That's not true. The housekeeper has been here."
"The housekeeper doesn't count," Roman says. "We're talking about social visits. People you actually want to see."
"I want to see the housekeeper. She keeps my home functioning."
"That's not the same thing and you know it."
Roman takes a sip of wine, then looks at Harper with that calculating expression I know means he's about to say something designed to make me uncomfortable. "Speaking of social visits—Harper, you're coming to the wedding, right?"
Harper blinks, mid-reach for her water glass. "Wedding?"
"My wedding. December twenty-first. Hamptons." He grins. "Three weeks from now. Victor's my best man, which means he's legally obligated to bring a date who will make him look less emotionally constipated by comparison."
"I—" Harper looks at me. "I didn't know—"
"I was going to ask you," I say, shooting Roman a look that clearly communicates I wanted to do this privately.
"When? Next week? The day of?" Roman ignores me, focusing on Harper. "The invitation is open. You should come. Calli already added you to the seating chart."
"She doesn't even know if Harper wants to—" I start.
"I'd love to," Harper says, her smile genuine despite the surprise. "If that's okay with you, Victor."
"Of course it's okay." I reach for her hand under the table. "I was planning to ask tonight. Roman just has terrible timing."
"I have excellent timing," Roman corrects. "You would have agonized over the perfect moment and then asked her in some weirdly formal way that would have made it uncomfortable. This way, it's done. Easy."
Christian raises his glass. "To Roman's wedding. And to Victor bringing an actual date instead of showing up alone and glowering at the happy couple."
"I don't glower."
"You absolutely glower," Lucia says. “At our wedding, you looked like you were calculating tax implications during the vows."
"I was."
Harper laughs, and Babushka nods approvingly. "Is good! Wedding is family event. Harper is family now. She should go."
"See?" Roman says. "Even Babushka agrees. It's settled."
The doorbell rings.
Everyone looks up, and I frown. "I'm not expecting anyone else."
"I'll get it," Lucia says, standing. "Probably just a delivery."
She disappears toward the foyer, and we continue eating.
Then I hear it.
Italian. Rapid-fire Italian. Multiple voices, all talking at once.
Christian's face goes pale. "Oh no."
"What?" I ask.
"That sounds like—"
Lucia reappears, looking both amused and slightly panicked. "So. Christian’s nonna's here. And she brought the book club."
"She what?"
But it's too late.
A wave of Italian grandmothers floods into my dining room like a well-dressed, perfume-scented tsunami.
There are at least six of them, all talking at once, carrying dishes wrapped in foil, wearing their best jewelry, and looking around my penthouse like they're conducting a home inspection.
"Vittorio!" Nonna—Christian's actual grandmother—makes a beeline for me, kissing both my cheeks. "So tall! So handsome! Why you no come to visit?"
"I—we were just there last week—"
"Last week is long time! You bring wife, yes?" She spots Harper and gasps. "Bellissima! Come here, cara!"
Harper looks at me with wide eyes, and I can only shrug helplessly as Nonna pulls her into a hug.
The other grandmothers descend immediately, cooing over Harper, rearranging the table settings, unpacking their food contributions without being asked.
"We bring the cannoli," one announces.
"And sfogliatelle," another adds.
"Grazie mille for inviting us to such beautiful home!" Nonna says, though I definitely didn't invite them.
Christian leans over to me. "I'm sorry. I mentioned that you and Harper had a shoot to do, that Thanksgiving was cancelled. I didn't think she'd—"
"Bring the entire book club?"
"In my defense, they go everywhere together."
Roman is grinning like this is the best entertainment he's had in months. "This is amazing."
"This is insane.”
"Same thing."
The grandmothers take over, wielding their power with a slew of wooden spoons, and within minutes, they've expanded the table settings, added their dishes to our spread, and are settled into seats, still talking over each other in a mix of Italian and English.
"You make the turkey?" one asks Harper.
"I—yes—"
"Is good! Very moist! You use butter under skin?"
"Butter and herbs, yes—"
"Brava! This one knows cooking!" She turns to me. "You keep her!"
"I'm planning to," I say dryly.
Babushka and Nonna eye each other across the table with the wariness of rival generals.
"You are Christian's grandmother?" Babushka asks.
"Si. And you are Victor's?"
"Da."
They stare at each other. Then, slowly, they smile.
"Your grandson is good boy," Nonna says.
"Your grandson also good boy," Babushka agrees.
"They both could use more meat on bones."
"This is what I say!"
And just like that, they're allies.
The dinner becomes louder, warmer, more chaotic. The grandmothers interrogate Harper about her cooking background, her family, her intentions toward me. They debate the merits of different pasta shapes. They tell embarrassing stories about Christian and Roman.
Babushka contributes her own stories about me, including one about the time I tried to cook at age seven and set a dish towel on fire.
"He was very serious child," she says. "Always reading. Always planning. No joy! I tell him, 'Vitenka, you must learn to laugh!' He says, 'Babushka, laughter is inefficient.'"
Everyone laughs except me.
"I was seven."
"You were little adult! Is sad!"
Harper is crying from laughing, and even I can't help but smile.
The cameras are still rolling, capturing everything, and I realize this is not the episode we planned.
It's better.
By the time dessert is served—a combination of Harper's pumpkin pie, Babushka's honey cake, and approximately seven different Italian pastries—my dining room is overflowing with conversation and warmth.
Eventually, the grandmothers begin gathering their dishes, kissing everyone's cheeks, and extracting promises to visit soon.
"You come to book club next month," Nonna tells Harper. "We read romance. You like romance?"
“Romance?” The blush on her skin deepens as her eyes swing my way. “I—why, yes. I do.”
"Good! You come! We discuss!" She turns to me. "You take care of this one, capisce? She is special."
"I know."
"Good. You mess up, I come back." She mimes hitting me with a wooden spoon.
"Noted."
One by one, they file out, leaving a trail of perfume and fond farewells. Babushka is the last to leave, gathering her casserole dish and kissing Harper's cheek.
"You take care of my Vitenka, yes? He needs taking care of. Stubborn mule never asks for help."
"I'm standing right here," I say.
"I know. I speak louder so you hear." She kisses my cheek. "Do svidaniya, dorogoy. Next time, I teach Harper proper pelmeni."
She leaves in a whirlwind of Russian endearments and casserole dishes, and suddenly the penthouse feels very quiet.
Roman and Christian help with preliminary cleanup, but they're both clearly fighting smiles.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing," Roman says. "Just—this is nice. Domestic Victor. It suits you."
"I'm not domestic."
"You just hosted Thanksgiving dinner with two grandmothers and a book club full of Italian women. That's extremely domestic."
"It's content creation."
"Keep telling yourself that."
Christian slaps me on the shoulder. "For what it's worth, I'm happy for you. Harper seems great. And watching you actually let people in is—" He stops. "It's good, man. Really good."
They leave with Lucia shortly after, and suddenly it's just Harper and me and the remnants of Thanksgiving dinner spread across my kitchen.
"That was—" Harper starts.
"A lot."
"I was going to say amazing." She starts loading plates into the dishwasher. "Your friends are great. Your grandmother is the most intimidating and delightful woman alive. And the book club—" She laughs. "I've never been interrogated so thoroughly while eating cannoli."
"They liked you."
"You think?"
"Nonna doesn't invite people to book club unless she likes them. Trust me."
Harper smiles, but there's something sad in it.
I should be happy. Should be relieved.
Instead, I'm watching Harper move around my kitchen, and wondering when the hell she's going to talk to me about what happened in the bathroom back at StreamEats.
I offered my help.
I told her I loved her.
I climbed over walls it took me years to build.
And she still hasn't responded.
She turns back to the dishes, retreating into herself again, and the distance between us feels instantly insurmountable.
We clean in silence for the next twenty minutes. Harper washing, me drying, both of us ignoring the chasm that grows every day that I receive no answers from her.
Finally, Harper sets down the last dish and turns to face me.
"I should probably head to bed. Early production meeting tomorrow to review the footage."
"It's barely eight."
"I'm exhausted. Today was…a lot."
She's running. I can see it.
And I should let her, should give us both space to process whatever just happened.
But I can't help it.
"The day's not over yet, is it?" I ask softly, reach for her and pulling her into me.
She lets me tug her into my arms, instantly making that sound—the one that drives me insane—and suddenly we're not cleaning anymore.
We're consuming each other against the kitchen counter, her hands in my hair, my hands everywhere else.
"Victor," she breathes. "We should—"
"Should what?"
"Stop. Talk. Figure this all out. Me. You. The company."
"Or," I say against her mouth, "we could go to my bedroom."
She pulls back slightly. "Your bedroom?"
"You've been sleeping in the guest room for weeks. I'd like you in my bed."
"That's very direct."
"I'm done being indirect." I lift her onto the counter, stepping between her legs. "I want you in my bed. I want to wake up with you. I want—"
My phone buzzes on the counter beside us.
We both ignore it.
It buzzes again. And again.
"You should get that," Harper says.
"I should throw it out the window."
"It might be important."
"You're important."
Harper searches my face for a long moment.
Then she nods. "Okay."
I lift her—literally lift her off the ground—and she wraps her legs around my waist with a surprised laugh.
"What are you doing?"
"Taking you to my bedroom."
"I can walk."
"I don't want you to walk. I want you exactly like this."
I carry her through the penthouse, past the guest room she's been sleeping in, past the office, straight to my bedroom.
The door closes behind us with a decisive click, and for this moment, I let myself believe nothing outside of us—not my doubts, not Harper's hesitation, not the teetering status of my position at my company—exists.
For tonight, Harper is mine.
And I'm going to hold onto that for as long as I can.