Chapter 25 #2
“Why am I not surprised?” Jaw working, I take a step closer, voice lowering. “Need I remind you, Patsy, that my wife is none of your goddamned business?”
She blinks, arms crossing. “Well, when your wife’s ‘business’ affects yours, it certainly does.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about something you might want to know before Monday's board vote.
" She pulls out her phone, the screen bright against the darkness.
"I received an interesting email this evening from an anonymous source.
It contains screenshots of correspondence between Harper Beaumont and Vanessa Chu from FoodFirst."
My blood immediately runs cold—and not from the temperature.
"What kind of correspondence?"
"The kind that suggests Ms. Beaumont was in contact with a competitor regarding StreamEats' acquisition plans.
Specifically, the CulinaryVision deal." Patricia's voice is cool—cutting through the sound of rain on metal.
"The emails are dated from approximately six weeks ago—right around the time Ms. Beaumont started at StreamEats. "
She hands me her phone.
I look at the screen, and everything inside me turns Arctic.
There are screenshots. Dozens of them. Emails between Harper and someone named Vanessa Chu.
VANESSA: I'm prepared to offer significant compensation for any information regarding StreamEats' CulinaryVision acquisition plans.
HARPER: I don't have that information.
VANESSA: But you work there now. Surely you'll have access soon.
HARPER: I don't think this is appropriate.
VANESSA: Your father's medical bills are considerable, Harper. I'm offering you a solution.
The emails continue. Vanessa pressing. Harper deflecting. But never outright refusing.
Never saying no.
Until—
I scroll down to the final email, dated the week of Thanksgiving.
HARPER: I can't do this. I'm sorry.
VANESSA: You're making a mistake. This offer won't come around again.
HARPER: I understand. But my answer is no.
I stare at the screen, the glow harsh against my eyes, rain hammering around us.
Harper was in contact with FoodFirst.
About the acquisition. About intel.
"Victor?" Patricia's voice cuts through my thoughts, barely audible over the rain. "Are you alright?"
"When did you receive this?"
"About an hour ago. From an anonymous email address."
"And you have no idea who sent it?"
"None. But the source is less important than the content, don't you think?"
I hand back her phone, my hand steady even though everything inside me is shaking.
The heat lamp flickers beside us, orange light dancing across Patricia's face.
"What do you want, Patricia?"
"I want to know if you were aware of this relationship between Ms. Beaumont and FoodFirst."
"No."
"And does this change your perspective on Ms. Beaumont's position at StreamEats?"
Every instinct is screaming at me to defend Harper. To explain that she said no. To point out that the final email proves she chose me over the money.
But I can't.
Because she lied.
She's been hiding this for weeks. Just like Isabelle hid things.
Just like everyone hides things until the truth destroys you.
"I need to speak with Harper," I say, my voice colder than the air around us.
"Of course. But Victor—the board will need to know about this before Monday's vote."
My pulse thunders in my ears. “Is that your plan? To tell them?”
“My plan…is to do what's best for StreamEats. Which may or may not include sharing this information, depending on how you handle the situation."
The threat is clear.
“Don’t you fucking worry. I’ll handle it."
My CEO nature has finally kicked in, my tone dropping to levels low enough to scrape the Earth’s core, and Patricia clears her throat, now shifting on her feet.
“O-of course, Mr. Kade,” she stutters. “I’ll give you until end of business tomorrow to make your decision." She adjusts her coat. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm freezing.”
Careful not to come anywhere near, she shuffles past me, back into the warmth of the ballroom, leaving me standing alone under the awning in the freezing rain.
I stay there for a moment, letting the cold seep into my bones, letting it numb everything.
Then I go back inside.
Harper is still where I left her, talking to a small group of investors near the bar. She looks up as I approach, and her smile falters when she sees my expression.
"Victor?” Her lashes flutter, hazel eyes steady. “What's wrong?"
"We need to talk.” I reach for her hand, taking it. “Now."
"Okay. Just let me—"
"Now, Harper."
The investors sense the tension and politely excuse themselves.
"Outside," I say.
"Outside? Victor, it's freezing—"
"I don't care."
I guide her through the ballroom, past the curious stares, out through different terrace doors that lead to the covered pool area.
This section is more sheltered—a winter garden setup with tall heat lamps positioned around wrought-iron furniture.
The pool itself is covered for the season, a tarp stretched tight across the water.
Beyond the covering, I can see the fountain still running, water cascading down in defiance of the cold, lit from below with blue lights that make the spray look surreal.
Rain drums against the glass overhead, creating a sound like static, and Harper wraps her arms around herself, shivering despite the heat lamps.
"Victor, what's going on? You're scaring me."
I pull out my phone and show her the screenshots Patricia forwarded to me. The color drains from her pretty face, stark in the blue-white light reflecting off the fountain.
She licks her lips before parting them. “Victor, I can explain—"
"Can you?” I can barely hear my own voice over the roar in my head. “Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've been in contact with FoodFirst about our acquisition plans since before you even started at StreamEats."
"I was—she approached me—"
"And you didn't think to mention it? At any point in the past six weeks?"
The heat lamp beside us flickers, throwing shadows across her face.
"I was going to tell you—"
"When? When were you going to tell me? After the board vote? After you'd secured your position?"
"No! I was going to tell you before Roman's wedding. I promised you I would—"
"You promised." I laugh, and it sounds bitter even to my own ears, echoing off the glass. "Just like you promised to tell me about your father's medical bills. Just like you promised a lot of things, Harper."
"I never gave her anything," Harper says desperately, her breath fogging in the cold. "Look at the emails. I never gave her any information. I told her no."
"You told her no eventually. After how many emails? After how much consideration?"
Rain pounds harder above us, the sound almost deafening.
"Victor, please—"
"How much did she offer you?"
"What?"
"How much money did FoodFirst offer you to betray me?"
Harper flinches like I've slapped her. "It wasn't like that—"
"Then what was it like? Explain it to me. Make me understand why you were in contact with a competitor about confidential acquisition information and never thought to mention it."
She's shivering now—from cold or fear or both.
"I was desperate! My father's medical bills were—"
"So this was about money."
"No! I mean—yes, she offered money, but I didn't take it. I chose you over the money. I chose us."
The fountain behind her keeps running, water cascading down, impossibly beautiful against the ugliness of this conversation.
"You chose us." I step closer. "When, Harper? When did you choose us? Because from these emails, it looks like you were still considering her offer until Thanksgiving."
"I told her no before Thanksgiving. On the catamaran. The night you asked me to be your girlfriend—"
"You're telling me that the night I asked you to be mine, you were still getting offers from FoodFirst to spy on me?"
"Yes, but I said no! I blocked her number. I deleted the emails. I chose you!"
"You chose me after how long? After how much deliberation?"
The question hangs between us, suspended in the cold air.
Harper's face crumples. "Victor, please. Let me explain. Let me tell you everything—"
"Everything? Now you want to tell me everything? After Patricia Franklin had to show me screenshots because you couldn't bring yourself to be honest with me?"
"I was going to tell you—"
"WHEN?"
My voice echoes off the glass ceiling, loud enough to make her flinch.
I lower my voice, but the damage is done.
"When were you going to tell me, Harper? Before or after you destroyed my company, my career? Everything I bust my ass to build?
"I would never—"
"Wouldn't you? Because right now, the board thinks you're a threat. And these emails? They prove them right."
Harper is crying openly now, tears streaming down her face, mixing with the mist from the fountain.
And part of me—the part that still loves her, that still wants to believe this is all a misunderstanding—wants to pull her into my arms and tell her it's okay.
But the other part—the part that remembers Isabelle, that remembers betrayal, that knows better than to trust anyone—won't let me.
"You're just like her," I say quietly.
Harper looks up, mascara running. "What?"
"Isabelle. You're just like Isabelle. You saw an opportunity and you took it. The only difference is you're better at the performance. Better at making me believe it's real."
The words are designed to wound, and they do.
Harper's hand comes up, and for a second I think she's going to hit me.
Instead, she drops it.
"I love you," she whispers, voice barely audible over the rain. "I love you, and I made a mistake, but I chose you. Doesn't that count for anything?"
"It counts for the fact that you had a choice to make. And you almost made the wrong one."
"But I didn't. I pick you. I pick us.”
The heat lamp beside us flickers again, and in the orange glow I can see she's shaking violently.
"After considering the alternative. After weighing your options. After—" I stop. "How am I supposed to trust you now, Harper? How am I supposed to believe that any of this is real when you've been lying to me from the beginning?"
"Because I was scared!" Harper's voice breaks, echoing off the glass. "I was scared and desperate and I made a stupid mistake, but I fixed it! I told her no! I chose you!"
"You shouldn't have had to choose. You should have told me the moment FoodFirst approached you. You should have trusted me enough to tell me the truth."
"I know. You're right. I should have. But I was terrified of losing you."
"And now you have."
The words come out before I can stop them, and Harper seemingly turns to stone. The fountain keeps running behind her, water catching the blue light, beautiful and relentless.
"What?"
I can feel my chest tightening, my throat squeezing shut—the walls that were built around the Ice Prince erecting themselves once again.
I peer down at her, skin heating.
"We're done. Professionally and personally.”
"Victor, please—"
"You're fired, Miss Beaumont. Effective immediately."
I have to give the woman I married credit.
She doesn’t flinch. Wiping at the tears that have pooled in the corners of her eyes, she lifts her chin. “I-I understand.”
It’s yet another quality that I loved about her—a quality that now feels like ash blowing in the wind, taking with it any remnant of trust I had for the woman in front of me.
"For what it's worth," I say, stepping forward, my voice cold as the air around us, "you almost had me convinced. The sweet act. The vulnerability. The 'I love you' routine. You're very good, Harper. Better than Isabelle ever was."
I turn to walk away. I make it three steps before I hear her voice, quiet and broken, barely carrying over the sound of rain and fountain.
"I really do love you. That was never a performance."
I don't turn around. I don't respond.
I just keep walking.
Back through the terrace doors. Past the curious stares in the ballroom. Into the elevator.
James is waiting with the car.
"Home, sir?"
"Yes." I pause. "And James—contact Gina. Have her arrange a car service for Ms. Beaumont. Wherever she needs to go tonight. Any destination except the penthouse."
James's expression doesn't change, but I can see the question in his eyes.
"Sir?"
"Just do it. Bill it to my personal account. Make sure she gets wherever she needs to go safely."
"Of course, sir."
The drive home is silent.
I stare out the window at the sleeting rain as the city of New York passes us by. By the time I arrive back to the penthouse, the entire place feels cold, emptier than ever.
I pour myself a Scotch and stand at the window, looking out at the city.
And I try not to notice that my bedroom door is open, that I can see the pile of video game wedding memorabilia in the corner.
The pixelated frames. The controllers with our names. The Player 1 & Player 2 blanket.
Evidence of a drunken mistake that somehow became the most real thing in my life.
Or so I thought.
I finish my scotch and pour another, just as my phone buzzes.
GINA: Car arranged for Ms. Beaumont. Driver will take her to Queens address per her request. Confirming billing to your personal account?
ME: Confirmed. Thank you.
Queens. She's going home to her family.
Where she should have gone for help in the first place instead of considering FoodFirst's offer.
Where she'll be safe.
Away from me.
I set down my phone and look around the penthouse, ignoring the fact that home has never felt less like home.