Chapter 26
DESPERATE TIMES, DIAMOND RINGS
HARPER
Eight days later, I'm sitting in my childhood bedroom in Queens, staring at a bridesmaid dress I don't remember agreeing to wear.
It's been eight days since the gala. Eight days since Victor fired me. Eight days since I watched him walk away while I stood in the middle of the St. Regis ballroom, trying not to meltdown in front of half of Manhattan's tech elite.
Eight days since my entire life imploded.
Outside the windows of my parent’s home, December has buried New York under a cold that makes your bones ache—nineteen degrees with wind that cuts through every layer you're wearing, matching the frozen wasteland currently occupying my chest.
Inside my old bedroom—the one I haven't lived in since high school but that still has my debate team trophies and a poster of Julia Child—Christmas has vomited everywhere.
My mother went full Québécois holiday mode three days ago. There are lights strung across every surface. A small tree in the corner, decorated with ornaments Amelia and I made in elementary school. Garland wrapped around the bedposts like some kind of festive hostage situation.
It should be cheerful.
It's not cheerful.
Because today is Amelia's wedding day, and I'm supposed to be happy for my sister, but all I can think about is the fact that Victor was supposed to be here.
Not supposed to. Invited to.
By my mother. Who put him on the guest list before I could stop her. Who still asks about him every single day like I didn't tell her we broke up.
"Harper!" Amelia's voice carries up the stairs. "Stop wallowing! I need help with my dress!"
I'm not wallowing.
I'm processing.
There's a difference.
The dress in question is hanging on my closet door—a simple cream sheath that Amelia found at a vintage shop in Brooklyn. Very her. Very "I'm getting married at a courthouse and I refuse to make a big deal about it even though Mom is absolutely making a big deal about it."
I grab the dress and head downstairs to find the kitchen in controlled chaos.
Mom is at the stove, making tourtière and cipate and about fifteen other traditional Québécois dishes because apparently a courthouse wedding reception for sixty-three people requires the food output of a small restaurant.
Dad is at the table, hands shaking slightly as he tries to tie ribbons on small favor boxes. The Parkinson's has gotten worse in the past week—or maybe I'm just noticing it more now that I'm living here again.
Now that I’m fired. Now that I have nowhere else to go.
Margot is frosting a cake that looks professionally made, which is unfair because Margot is a nurse, not a baker, and shouldn't be good at this many things.
And Amelia is in the living room, currently tangled in tulle.
"Help," she says when she sees me. "I tried to put on the slip thing and now I'm trapped."
"How are you trapped in a slip?"
"I don't know! It has, like, fourteen layers and they're all attacking me!"
I untangle her, and we head upstairs to my bedroom—the designated "bridal suite" for the next two hours.
Margot follows with the cake, setting it carefully on my desk next to my old laptop.
"Okay," Margot announces, closing the door. "Wedding prep time. Which means we have exactly—" she checks her phone "—ninety minutes to get Amelia dressed, do her hair and makeup, and get to the courthouse."
"I can do my own makeup," Amelia protests.
"You absolutely cannot. Last time you did your own makeup, you looked like a drunken raccoon."
"That was for Halloween!"
"My point stands."
I help Amelia into the slip—which does indeed have approximately fourteen layers—and then the dress, which fits her perfectly.
She looks beautiful. Young and happy and so in love with Declan it's almost painful to watch.
I turn away, pretending to look for bobby pins.
"Harper," Margot says quietly. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"You're lying."
"I'm processing."
"That's what you said eight days ago."
"I'm still processing."
Amelia turns from the mirror, her expression softening. "Harp. We need to talk about Victor."
"No, we don't."
"We really do."
"Today is your wedding day. We're talking about you. Not my disaster of a fake marriage."
"It wasn't fake," Amelia says. "And you know it."
I busy myself with the bobby pins, not looking at either of them.
"The board vote was Monday," Margot says carefully. "Did you hear what happened?"
I did hear. Because even though I've been hiding at my parents' house in Queens, the internet exists. And StreamEats' board vote was big news.
VICTOR KADE SURVIVES BOARD CHALLENGE, REMAINS STREAMEATS CEO
The headline had been everywhere. Tech blogs. Business journals. Twitter.
He won.
By a narrow margin, apparently. But he won.
Which means he didn't need me after all. Which means firing me was the right strategic decision.
Which means I was exactly what the board said I was—a liability and threat.
"I saw," I say finally.
"And?" Amelia prompts.
"And nothing. He survived. Good for him. Can we please focus on getting you married?"
"Harper—"
"No." I set down the bobby pins. Hard. "I don't want to talk about Victor. I don't want to talk about the gala. I don't want to talk about how I royally fucked up the only good thing I've had since Thomas destroyed me."
The room goes quiet.
"This feels worse than Thomas," I admit quietly. "Which is insane. Because Thomas and I were together for ten years. We were married, for God’s sake, and Victor and I were—what? Six weeks of fake marriage and terrible decisions?"
"It wasn't fake," Margot repeats.
"It was legally binding," Amelia adds. "Which is actually more real than most marriages."
"We're getting divorced. Rachel emailed me the paperwork yesterday."
Both my sisters freeze mid-motion.
"You signed it?" Margot asks.
"Not yet. But I will. It's—" I swallow, attempting to calm my racing heart. "It's the right thing to do. He doesn't want me. The board doesn't want me. StreamEats doesn't want me. So I'm doing the mature thing and walking away."
"That's not mature," Amelia says. "That's giving up."
"It's accepting reality."
"It's being a coward."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. You're being a coward. You made a mistake, yes. A stupid, desperate mistake. But you told Vanessa no. You chose Victor. And instead of fighting for that—instead of making him listen—you're just accepting his worst assumptions about you."
"What am I supposed to do? Show up at his penthouse? Beg him to take me back?"
"Yes!" both sisters say simultaneously.
"That's pathetic."
"That's love," Margot corrects. "Love is pathetic sometimes. It's messy and embarrassing and requires you to be vulnerable even when every instinct is screaming at you to protect yourself."
"I tried being vulnerable. I tried telling him the truth. And he called me a liar and fired me outside of a room full of people."
"Because he's scared," Amelia says. "Because he's been hurt before and he's protecting himself the only way he knows how."
"That's not my problem."
"Isn't it? You love him, Harper. I can see it on your face every time someone mentions his name."
"I don't—"
"You do. And he loves you. And you're both being idiots about it."
I sink onto the bed, the bridesmaid dress crinkling beneath me. "Even if that's true—which it's not—what am I supposed to do? He made his choice. He chose his company over me."
"Did he?" Margot sits beside me. "Or did he panic and push you away before you could hurt him worse?"
"That's the same thing."
"It's really not."
I open my mouth to retort, but my mother chooses that exact moment to appear in the doorway holding a tray of coffee and cookies.
"Girls, I brought snacks. You look like you need snacks."
"Thanks, Maman," I mutter.
She sets down the tray and lingers, clearly hoping for an invitation to stay.
"Maman," Margot says gently. "We're having sister time."
"Sister time about Harper's billionaire husband?"
"How did you—"
"I have ears. And you're not exactly being quiet." She looks at me. "Your father loved Victor when he came for Sunday dinner. He keeps asking when he's coming back."
My chest tightens. "I know, Maman. Things are just complicated right now with work and the board—"
"Always excuses. Just like with your father's medical bills."
The room goes silent.
"What medical bills?" Margot asks slowly, reaching for a cookie.
I close my eyes. "Maman, please—"
"What medical bills?" Margot repeats, her voice sharper.
My mother crosses her arms. "Your father’s Parkinson's treatments. Harper has been paying for his meds and care. Alone. For months. Without telling you."
"Harper!" Amelia's voice is sharp. "Is that true?"
I want to turn on my mother, but she’s already slinked out of the doorway and back into the rest of the house.
As for my sisters…
I can’t even look at them as I answer.
"Yes."
"How much?" Margot asks.
"It doesn't matter—"
"How. Much."
"Eighteen thousand dollars. Plus I'm behind on rent. And utilities. And—" My voice cracks. "And I can't keep up. I can't do this alone anymore."
The silence is deafening.
Then Margot throws chucks her cookie across the room, the pastry exploding in crumbs and chocolate chips.
"Are you fucking kidding me right now?"
"Margot—"
"No. Don't 'Margot' me. You've been drowning in medical bills for months and you didn't tell us?"
"I didn't want to burden you—"
"Burden us? Harper, we're your sisters! That's literally what we're here for!"
“No, it’s not. You two were busy. Margot with the kids. Amelia with the wedding. I wanted to handle it, to protect you—"
"From what? From helping our own father?" Amelia stands up, her face flushed. "Do you hear yourself right now? You sound insane."
"I'm not insane. I'm trying to be responsible—"
"You're trying to be a martyr!" Margot is pacing now. "You always do this. You take on everything yourself, refuse help from anyone, and then wonder why you're drowning."
"That's not fair—"