Chapter 25
EXIT INTERVIEW
VICTOR
It's harder than it looks to watch the woman you're insane about charm a group of venture capitalists while trying not to look like you just had filthy sex in a powder room twenty minutes ago.
I'm barely managing.
It's been twenty-three minutes since I made Harper come—twice—on a vanity at the St. Regis, and I'm still weighing the pros and cons of so-called "corporate propriety."
Because there's not a damn thing proper that I want to do to the woman I now call "wife."
The gala is winding down. December sleet continues to hit the windows, but inside the ballroom is warm and golden and full of the pleasant buzz of successful networking and expensive champagne.
As far as the actual gala itself, everything seems to be going fine. More than fine.
Harper has more than proved she belongs in this world. The board can't argue with how well she handled herself tonight. And in three weeks, I'll be taking her to Roman's wedding in the Hamptons as my actual girlfriend, not some fake wife from a drunken Vegas mistake.
For the first time since Christian and Lucia’s vows, I'm actually looking forward to a wedding.
I'm also possibly still sex-hazed, because I keep catching myself staring at Harper's neck where I left a mark that her hair isn't quite covering.
"You look remarkably pleased with yourself," Rachel says, appearing at my elbow with a glass of wine. "Should I be concerned?"
"About what?"
"About the fact that you disappeared for almost half an hour with Harper and came back looking like the cat who got the cream."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Victor. I've known you for eight years. You're terrible at lying when you're this relaxed."
"I'm not relaxed."
"You're smiling. You never smile at corporate events."
"I smile."
"You smirk. You don't smile. But right now, you're full-on smiling while watching Harper talk to investors, which means something happened in that little absence of yours."
I take a sip of my scotch and don't respond.
My PR agent sighs, one hand rubbing above her brow—presumably to wipe away the sweat that's accumulating there. "At least tell me you were discreet."
"Exceptionally."
"That's a lie, but I'll take it." She pauses. "The evening went well, by the way. Harper was perfect. The board members I've spoken to seem impressed. You might actually survive Monday's vote."
"That's reassuring."
"Don't get cocky. It's still going to be close. The CulinaryVision-FoodFirst partnership rumor is making the rounds, and Patricia Franklin is using it as ammunition."
"Of course she is."
"But if the board sees Harper as an asset rather than a liability, that helps your case significantly."
I watch Harper laugh at something an investor says, and my fingers start to cramp, already itching to reach out and touch her again.
"She is an asset," I say. "The Thanksgiving episode numbers prove it."
They sure as hell do. In just over a week's time, the Weeknight Wins Thanksgiving episode has over two million views on YouTube and StreamEats combined, not to mention the four more coming from every other social media platform.
Rachel nods beside me, red nails tapping against her glass. "I agree. But you know as well as I do that corporate boards don't always care about numbers when they're looking for reasons to oust a CEO."
"Comforting."
"I'm being realistic." Rachel finishes her wine. "Anyway, I need to make rounds. Try not to disappear again. People are starting to notice."
She walks away, and I'm left at the bar, watching Harper across the room.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
ROMAN: Saw you sneak off with Harper earlier. Very subtle. By which I mean not subtle at all.
ME: Don't know what you're talking about.
ROMAN: Sure you don't. Anyway, reminder that you're both coming to the wedding, right? Calli's finalizing the seating chart.
ME: We'll be there.
ROMAN: Good. Because I need at least one person there who's even more of an emotional shit-storm than I am. Makes me look well-adjusted by comparison.
ME: Shit-storm? Jesus. Tell me how you really feel
ROMAN: Mm, shit-storm may have been an exaggeration. Especially now. You literally just had sex at a corporate gala. That's either extreme emotional availability or extreme poor judgment. I'm betting on both.
ME: Wait…Who said I was having sex?
ROMAN: Oh, I DON'T KNOW. Maybe it's the fact that you practically SKIPPED back in here. That was the skip of a man who just got LAID
ROMAN: Also Christian saw you both coming out of the powder room hallway at different times and put two and two together.
ME: Tell Christian to mind his business.
ROMAN: Tell Christian yourself. He's right behind you.
I turn to find my other best friend smirking so hard you'd think he was doing an impression of the Joker villain.
"Really?" he remarks, swirling a glass of something amber-colored. "The powder room? At your own company's investor gala?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Might want to tell that to the hickey on your neck."
My hand goes to my collar automatically. "There's no—"
"You do. Right there." He points. "Your tie's covering most of it, but it's definitely there."
"Fuck."
"Also, Harper has one too. Just below her ear."
I grunt, fastening my tie tighter.
So much for her hair covering up that love-bite.
I look across the room and realize he's right. When Harper tilts her head to laugh, I can see the faint red mark.
"This is a disaster," I mutter.
"This is hilarious," Christian corrects. "Victor Kade, Ice Prince of StreamEats, so desperate for his girlfriend that he can't even wait until after a corporate event."
I open my mouth, and he raises a hand to stop me.
"Save it. I don't need details." He grins. "Though I will say, it's nice to see you actually happy for once. You're usually so…contained at these things."
“I’m contained right now.”
"You're sex-drunk and happy as hell. Nothing wrong with that."
"I'm not—Jesus. Fine. I'm in a good mood. Happy?”
"Because of Harper."
"Because of Harper."
Christian's expression softens. "She's good for you, you know. I haven't seen you this relaxed since—actually, I've never seen you this relaxed."
"Is this going somewhere?"
"Just—don't fuck it up. Whatever's happening between you two, it's real. And you deserve real."
Before I can respond, Harper appears at my side.
"Hi," she says, slightly breathless. "I've been making the rounds. I think I've talked to every investor in this room."
"You were perfect," I say.
"I was terrified."
"You didn't show it."
"Good. Because inside I was screaming." She looks at Christian. "Hi there, Christian."
"And hello to you, Mrs. Kade."
I throw him a look, and he clears his throat, snorting softly.
"Anyway, I should go find Lucia." He leans in, kissing Harper chastely on the cheek. "Congratulations on surviving the gala, Harper. Well done."
He walks away, and Harper leans into me slightly.
"Did he just congratulate us on surviving?"
"Apparently the bar is very low."
"Or the evening was very high-stakes."
"Both."
She's quiet for a moment before peering up at me. "Can I ask you something?"
"Will it be dirty?"
"Victor…"
I reach for her hand, clasping it with mine. "G'head. Shoot."
“I talked to Roman not too long. And about his wedding…” She hesitates, swallowing. "You're sure you want me there?"
I can feel myself frowning. "Why wouldn't I want you there?"
"Because it's—it's your best friend's wedding. You'll be a groomsman. It's a big deal. And bringing me means—" She sighs soundly. "It means we're really doing this. Publicly. In front of everyone you care about."
"Harper, I just told you I love you in a powder room while having sex with you at my company's investor gala. I think the 'publicly doing this' ship has sailed." I hold her hand closer. "Besides, Roman already wanted to confirm if we're coming. And I told him yes."
"You did?"
"Of course I did. Why wouldn't I?"
She looks up at me, gaze going glassy. "I just—I've never been someone's real girlfriend at a wedding before. My ex-husband Thomas never took me to weddings. Said they were 'boring obligations.'"
"Thomas can go fuck himself."
She laughs, a breathless sound. "Yes, he certainly can. But still. This feels…significant."
"It is significant." I pull her closer. "It means I'm bringing the woman I'm crazy about to watch my best friend get married. It means not being the miserable bastard I've been these last couple of years. It means—"
My phone buzzes, and I ignore it.
Until it buzzes again.
"You should check that," Harper says.
"It's probably Roman being obnoxious and making more sex jokes."
"Still."
I pull out my phone and my body instantly stiffens when I see the sender.
PATRICIA FRANKLIN: Victor, I need to speak with you privately. It's urgent. I'm on the terrace.
"Everything okay?" Harper asks.
"Not sure." My jaw pulses. "It's Patricia Franklin. Apparently, she needs to talk. Now."
I can feel Harper's hand—the one still in mine—shaking. "Should I come with you?"
"No. Stay here. I'll handle it."
"Maybe if—"
"I'll be fine. Just…stay here. Keep charming investors. I'll be back in five minutes."
I kiss her forehead and head toward the terrace doors.
The temperature drop is immediate and brutal.
Outside, the sleet has turned to freezing rain, coming down in sheets that rattle against the covered section of the terrace. Heat lamps are positioned around the perimeter, glowing orange against the December darkness, but they do little against the twenty-six-degree air.
Patricia is standing near one of the lamps, perfectly composed despite the cold, wrapped in a cashmere coat.
"Patricia," I say, my breath fogging in the air. "You said it was urgent. Couldn't drag me somewhere warmer?"
"Privacy is more important than comfort." She doesn't smile. "And what I have to show you requires discretion."
My jaw tightens. "Get to the point."
"I've been doing research on Ms. Beaumont."