23. Dressed to Kill （My Career）
DRESSED TO KILL (MY CAREER)
HARPER
By the next Friday evening, I’m standing in Victor's penthouse bedroom staring at myself in the full-length mirror wondering if I've made a terrible mistake.
Turns out time doesn’t erase all wounds. Or, at least, it doesn’t erase mine.
A week and a day later, I’m still bleeding out emotionally.
It's been eight days since Thanksgiving. Eight days since I slept with Victor in his bed surrounded by video game wedding memorabilia. Eight days of what can only be described as a sex marathon punctuated by occasional meals and one very awkward encounter with his housekeeper on Saturday morning.
Eight days of domestic bliss gained with the looming threat of tonight’s StreamEats investor gala.
December has arrived with a vengeance, sleet coming down in sheets, coating Manhattan in ice. The temperature dropped to twenty-six degrees this afternoon and shows no signs of climbing.
And inside Victor’s penthouse, I'm sweating.
Because I'm wearing a dress that could fund a year’s worth of rent—champagne-colored silk that skims my body in ways that feel both elegant and obscene.
The neckline dips just low enough to be sophisticated without crossing into scandalous territory, but every time I move, I'm hyperaware of how the fabric clings to my hips, my waist, my breasts.
Margot and Amelia picked it out three days ago during an emergency shopping trip that involved me trying on twenty different options while they debated the “appropriate” amount of cleavage and visible thigh.
"You need to look successful," Margot had said. "But not threatening."
"Confident," Amelia added. "But approachable."
"Hot enough that Victor can't stop looking at you," Margot continued. "But professional enough that the board can't use your appearance against him."
The dress they settled on accomplishes all of those things.
Which is why I feel like I'm going to throw up.
My goal tonight is simple.
Survive the gala without humiliating Victor or giving the board ammunition to vote against him on Monday.
I'm already failing.
Because my hands are shaking so badly I can't get my earrings in, and Victor still isn't back from his meetings, and in thirteen minutes we're supposed to leave for the St. Regis.
I take a breath, try again with the earrings—delicate diamond studs that Victor insisted on buying me last week despite my protests that I could wear costume jewelry.
"You're going to be photographed," he'd said. "By industry press, by investors, by people looking for reasons to tear us apart. Costume jewelry will be noticed. These won't be."
The left earring goes in. The right one slips from my fingers and bounces across the hardwood floor.
"Damn it."
I'm on my hands and knees searching under the bed when I hear the penthouse door open.
"Harper?" Victor's voice carries from the entryway. "Where are you?"
"Bedroom! Don't come in yet!"
"Why not?"
"Because I'm on the floor and I've lost an earring and I look ridiculous!"
Footsteps approach anyway, and then Victor is standing in the doorway in a tuxedo, and as if I needed yet another reminder, the visual of him once again lets me know what a masterpiece he is.
Tall and broad shouldered in dark fabric, he is a standing beacon of male beauty. If I ever doubted if there was a God, I certainly wouldn’t anymore just by looking at him.
The man deserves an altar at his Armani-covered feet.
He takes one look at me—dress hiked up around my thighs, hair falling out of its updo, currently wedged halfway under his bed—and I hear his deep chuckle.
"This isn't funny," I mutter.
“I beg to differ, sweetheart.”
"I'm in the middle of a crisis.”
"I can see that." He crosses to me and offers his hand. "Come on. Let me help."
I let him pull me to my feet, and immediately I'm aware of how close we are, how good he smells—like smoke and cotton and amber. How the tuxedo makes his shoulders look carved from granite.
"You look beautiful," he says quietly.
"I look like a disaster."
“Disastrously gorgeous.” He tips my chin towards him. "Breathe, Harper."
"I am breathing."
"You're holding your breath."
He's right. I exhale shakily.
“Fine. I’m scared out of my wits,” I admit. "What if I say the wrong thing? What if I embarrass you? What if the board takes one look at me and decides you've lost your mind?"
"Then they're idiots who don't deserve to work for my company."
“That’s a little harsh.”
"I'm serious.” He blinks, inching closer, his arms encircling me. “You're brilliant, talented, and more than capable of handling a room full of investors. You’ve already been doing it at StreamEats for weeks.”
"That's different. At work, I'm the cooking show host. Tonight, I'm—" I glance down over my dress and frame "—I'm the girlfriend. Or—wife. The liability. The evidence of your poor judgment."
"You're none of those things."
"Patricia Franklin thinks I am."
His expression tightens. "Patricia Franklin is threatened by you because you represent change. Because you don't fit her narrow definition of what a CEO's partner should look like."
"Which is?"
"Boring. Predictable. Someone who smiles and nods and doesn't challenge anything." He pulls me closer. "You're none of those things. And I love that about you."
The words make my chest ache.
"What if—" I hesitate. "What if tonight goes badly? What if the board votes against you on Monday because of me?"
"Then we'll deal with it."
"How can you be so calm about this?"
"Because I've been preparing for this vote for months. Because I know the numbers. Because I trust my leadership team." He leans down, his forehead against mine. "And because regardless of what happens Monday, I have you. And that's worth more than any board vote."
I want to believe him, want to believe that love is enough to survive corporate politics and board scrutiny and the secrets I'm still keeping.
But the doubt is there—whispering that I'm one bad conversation away from destroying everything he's built.
“You know that thing I wanted to talk to you about?” I ask quietly. “That thing I said didn’t matter anymore.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I’m thinking that maybe it does. And that maybe I do want to talk about it. With you.”
He blinks, eyebrows knitting together. "Okay."
"But not tonight. Tonight I just—I need to get through the gala without falling apart. Can we talk after? After the board vote?"
His chiseled jaw works. “Would this conversation concern our relationship?”
"No. Yes. Kind of." I pull back slightly. "It's about things I should have told you before now. Things I've been carrying alone because I was too scared to ask for help."
"Harper—"
"I'm not in danger. Nobody's in danger. It's just—it's complicated. And I need to get through tonight before I can explain it properly."
I can see him wrestling with it. The CEO part of him that needs all the information. The boyfriend part that wants to respect my boundaries.
"After the vote," he says finally. "We'll talk."
"Promise?"
“Yes. But sweetheart, it’s like what I told you before. Whatever you're carrying, you don't have to carry it alone. Don’t you know that by now?”
The words nearly break me.
I swallow, my throat tightening. “I’m learning.”
He leans down, his full lips brushing mine, the five o’clock shadow shadowing his prominent jaw scrapping deliciously against my skin.
He steps back shortly after, one side of his handsome face hooking upwards.
"Now. Let's find that earring so we can show the board exactly why they'd be the dumbest assholes on the planet to vote against me."
We find the earring wedged under the nightstand. Victor helps me put it in, his fingers gentle against my earlobe, and I try not to think about how those same fingers were inside me this morning.
Focus, Harper.
"Ready?" he asks when I'm finally assembled—hair fixed, makeup touched up, earrings secure.
"No. But let's go anyway."
He kisses my temple. “Attagirl.”
In the elevator down to the lobby, he keeps his hand on my lower back. The touch is possessive, comforting, grounding.
James is waiting with the town car, and we slide into the back seat. The leather is warm, the interior dimly lit, and for a moment we just sit there while sleet hammers against the windows.
"Victor?" I say quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For believing in me.”
He blinks, gray eyes warming like a thundercloud that’s finally found the sun. “Belief implies hope, sweetheart. I don’t believe you are anything.” He reaches for my hand, grasping it. “I know you are everything.”
The words settle into my chest, heavy and warm.
I push the thoughts away and lace my fingers through his.
For tonight, I'll be the girlfriend he needs me to be.
Professional. Charming.
The perfect partner for a CEO under scrutiny.
And after the board vote, I'll tell him everything. bout Vanessa Chu. About how close I came to betraying him.
And hope that love is enough to survive the truth.
James pulls away from the curb, and through the rain-streaked windows, I watch Manhattan blur past.
Somewhere in this city is the St. Regis ballroom full of investors and board members waiting to judge whether I'm worthy of Victor Kade.
Somewhere in this city is my future—either as Victor's partner or as another cautionary tale about employees who got too close to their bosses.
And somewhere between now and Monday, I have to find the courage to stop hiding.
Twenty minutes later, we arrive at our destination. Victor squeezes my hand as James opens the car door.
"Ready?" he asks.
“All set,” I lie.
And with that, I step out into the sleet and the cameras and right into the performance of a lifetime.