24. Investor Relations （The Inappropriate Kind）
INVESTOR RELATIONS (THE INAPPROPRIATE KIND)
VICTOR
Thirty minutes after we walk into the ballroom at the St. Regis, I can’t help but watch Harper Beaumont work a room full of investors like she was born to it.
The wet and slushy weather outside is enough to make me grateful for overheated ballrooms and overpriced champagne.
The StreamEats Investor Gala is in full swing, as I do my utmost to prove to my wayward goddamned board that I’m in control, that I’m not a liability.
And I'm succeeding. Mostly.
Because Harper looks absolutely devastating.
She's wearing a dress the color of champagne—gold and shimmering. The dress hugs her waist, her hips, but I’m the only person in this room who knows what lies beneath.
The silky garment dips between her small, full breasts, the hemline falling to just above her knees in a way that makes me want to slide my hands up her thighs and—
I take a drink of scotch, making yet another attempt to focus.
But it’s hard.
In fact, it’s damn near impossible as I watch her now.
Her hair is up in some complicated twist that exposes the line of her neck and makes me think about putting my mouth there.
She's wearing the diamond earrings I bought her last week—a gift she initially refused until I pointed out that showing up to a gala in costume jewelry would raise more questions than wearing real diamonds.
And she's charming every single person she talks to.
"Your girlfriend-wife cleans up well," Roman quips, striding towards me with two glasses of scotch. He hands me one. "I mean, she's always gorgeous, but tonight she looks like she actually belongs at one of these things."
"She does belong here."
"I know that. You know that. But does the board know that?"
I glance across the room to where Patricia Franklin is watching Harper talk to a group of venture capitalists. Her expression is unreadable.
"They will by the end of tonight."
"Cocky.”
"Strategic."
Roman takes a sip of his scotch. "Speaking of strategic—have you heard the rumors about CulinaryVision?"
My jaw tightens. "What rumors?"
"That after you blew up the acquisition, Richard Francis went crawling to FoodFirst. Apparently they're in talks to partner on some kind of streaming food content platform. Combining CulinaryVision's production capabilities with FoodFirst's distribution network."
The information hits like a punch to the gut.
"When did this happen?"
"Deal's been in the works for about a week, from what I hear. Nothing official yet, but the industry gossip is that it's happening." Roman pauses. "Which means your very public decision to walk away from the deal might have just handed your competitor a strategic advantage."
"Fuck."
"Yeah." Roman claps me on the shoulder. "But hey, at least you got to punch your brother. That's worth something."
He walks away to find Christian, and I'm left standing there processing the implications.
That’s the thing about having best friends in the food business. They know everything just seconds before you do.
And in this case, if FoodFirst and CulinaryVision partner, they become a legitimate threat to StreamEats' dominance in the food streaming space. Which means the board can argue that my emotional decision to walk away from the yacht dinner cost the company a major strategic opportunity.
Which means Monday's vote just got significantly more complicated.
I need to find Rachel. Need to strategize. Need to—
"Victor."
Patricia Franklin materializes beside me like a particularly expensive ghost.
"Patricia. Enjoying the evening?"
"Very much. Your Ms. Beaumont is quite charming." She says it like she's complimenting a well-trained dog. "Very polished."
"She's talented."
"Mmm. Yes. I've been doing some background research on her, actually. Due diligence, you understand."
My stomach tightens. "Of course."
"Interesting employment history. There's a gap between her last position and StreamEats—about six weeks. What was she doing during that time?"
The question is casual. The trap is obvious.
"Job searching, I assume. It's a competitive market."
"Of course." Patricia takes a sip of her champagne. "It's just that six weeks is rather quick to go from unemployed to hosting her own show at a major streaming platform. Some might call it... fortuitous timing."
"Some might call it recognizing talent when they see it."
"Indeed." She smiles. "I look forward to discussing it further at Monday's board meeting. Have a lovely evening, Victor."
She glides away, and I resist the urge to throw my scotch glass against the wall.
Of course I don’t actually know what Harper was doing during those six weeks before StreamEats. She never told me. I never asked.
And the doubt—that insidious, familiar doubt—starts whispering, “What if there's a reason she didn't tell you? What if there's something she's hiding?”
I scan the ballroom and find Harper near the bar, laughing at something one of our investors is saying. She looks relaxed. Natural. Perfect.
Too perfect.
Stop it, I tell myself.
You're being paranoid. This is what Isabelle did to you—made you unable to trust anyone.
But I can't shake it.
The evening progresses. Dinner is served. Harper sits beside me at the head table, her hand occasionally finding mine under the tablecloth. She makes small talk with the board members flanking us. She laughs at appropriate moments. She's the picture of a CEO's perfect wife.
And I can't stop analyzing every word, every gesture, every smile.
Probably, because as much as I’ve been pushing, the woman I’m currently married to won’t let me in, let me help her.
Or return the affection I’ve already expressed.
It’s been eight days. Eight days since I told Harper I love her. And she hasn’t said it back, which begs the question…
Is she really this comfortable here?
Or is she performing?
Halfway through the main course, the conversation at our table turns to corporate loyalty and competition.
"The CulinaryVision situation is unfortunate," one board member says. "Losing that acquisition to FoodFirst's partnership—it's definitely a setback."
"We don't know for certain that the partnership is happening," another counters.
"Industry sources say it's a done deal. FoodFirst has been aggressive about stealing market share lately. I heard they even tried to plant someone inside a competitor to gather intel on acquisition plans."
Harper's fork clatters against her plate.
Every head turns to look at her.
"Sorry," she says quickly. "Butterfingers."
But her face has gone pale. And her hands are shaking.
"You alright?" I ask quietly.
"Fine. Just—excuse me. I need to use the powder room."
She stands, her napkin falling to the floor, and walks away with slightly too much speed to be casual.
I watch her go, and the doubt crystallizes into something sharper.
Plant someone inside a competitor. Gather intel on acquisition plans.
No.
No, that's insane. Harper wouldn't—
But she's been stressed about money. She mentioned her father's medical bills. She was desperate enough to—
Stop. You're being paranoid. She's probably just overwhelmed by the pressure of tonight.
I force myself to finish dinner, to make polite conversation, to ignore the way my mind is racing through every interaction Harper and I have had, looking for signs I missed.
By the time dessert is served, Harper still hasn't returned.
I excuse myself and head toward the powder rooms.
The hallway outside the ballroom is quiet, elegant, lined with expensive art and fresh flowers. I find the women's powder room and knock gently on the door.
"Occupied," Harper's voice calls out.
"It's me."
Silence.
Then I hear. "Victor, I'm fine. I'll be out in a minute."
"Harper. Let me in."
"This is the women's room—"
"I don't care. Let me in."
More silence. Then the lock clicks.
I push open the door to find Harper sitting on the small velvet bench near the vanity, her face in her hands.
I lock the door behind me.
"Talk to me," I say.
"I'm fine."
"You're clearly not fine. You've been gone for fifteen minutes. What's wrong?"
She looks up, and her eyes are red-rimmed. "I just—the pressure of tonight. All those people watching. Judging. Waiting for me to prove I'm not a disaster."
"You're not a disaster."
"Aren't I? I'm behind on rent, drowning in my father's medical bills, and the board thinks I'm a distraction who's going to cost you your job."
"The board doesn't know shit.”
"They know enough." She stands, pacing the small space. "Patricia Franklin cornered me earlier. Asked about my employment history. Made pointed comments about how 'convenient' it was that I got hired at StreamEats."
"She's fishing. Trying to rattle you."
"Well, it worked."
I cross to her, taking her shoulders. "Harper. Look at me."
She does, reluctantly.
"I don't care what Patricia Franklin thinks. I don't care what the board thinks. I care about you. And I need you to tell me the truth—what is that I should know? What on earth is this thing that you're still not telling me?"
The question hangs between us.
I can see her warring with herself, see the fear and the guilt and the desperation all playing across her face.
Her hazel gaze lowers before flicking back up. “I don’t know. I just—“
"Whatever it is, just tell me. Because the not knowing is worse than anything you could actually say."
She sighs, her chest rising and falling fast.
"I need more time," she says finally. "I promised I'd tell you everything. And I will. Soon. I just—“
I notice she’s shaking—literally shaking, and I can’t help myself. I reach for her. Pulling her against me, I cradle her head, as she sinks into my chest.
She exhales, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders. Her face tilts up to look at me, and the air between us starts to shift—morph from comfort into something else entirely.
Her hands rise, sliding slowly into my hair, and on my end, my fingers lower to her waist, wrapping around her body and pulling her even closer.