Chapter 28
HUMBLE PIE AND HANGOVER CURE
HARPER
It's been less than twenty-four hours since Amelia's wedding. Less than twenty-four hours since I drank approximately seven glasses of Dad's homemade wine and cried in the bathroom while Margot held my hair and told me I was "processing grief in a healthy way."
Not sure my oldest sister was so right about the “healthy” part.
Outside my childhood bedroom window, Queens is buried under fresh snow. It’s the kind of December morning that looks like a Christmas card—if you ignore the fact that someone's car alarm has been going off for the past twenty minutes.
But inside my childhood bedroom, my body is preparing for its own funeral.
My head is pounding. My mouth tastes like I ate fuzzy Certs, and my stomach—current dumpster fire that it is—is doing its best impression of a trash compactor.
I'm also pretty sure I drunk-texted someone last night, but I'm too afraid to check my phone to find out who.
My reaction to waking up is simple: never drinking again.
Also: never leaving this bed.
Also: possibly dying here and letting my parents find my body in three to five business days.
There's a knock on my bedroom door.
"Go away," I croak.
"Harper, ma chérie, you need to eat something." Mom's voice is way too cheerful for someone who knows I'm actively perishing.
"I'm fine."
"You are not fine. You drank seven glasses of wine and then cried on the porch for an hour."
"That's an exaggeration."
"Your father timed it. It was fifty-three minutes."
I pull a pillow over my face. The door opens anyway, and Mom appears with a tray containing toast, water, and what looks like some kind of hangover cure that probably tastes like pre-made vomit.
"Eat," she commands, setting the tray on my nightstand. "You'll feel better."
"I'll feel better when I'm dead."
"So dramatic. Just like your father." She sits on the edge of my bed, smoothing my hair back from my face. "You were crying about Victor last night."
My throat threatens to close. "I was not."
"You were. You kept saying 'I love him and I ruined everything.'"
"That sounds like something drunk-Harper would say. Sober-Harper has no memory of this."
"Hmm. Well, sober-Harper should eat toast and drink water. And maybe check her phone. It's been buzzing for the past hour."
"It's probably just Margot checking if I'm alive."
"It's not Margot." Mom stands, heading toward the door. "Your father and I are going to church. There's leftover tourtière in the fridge if you want real food. And Harper?"
"Yes?"
"Whatever you did last night—whoever you texted—it's not the end of the world. Mistakes can be fixed."
She leaves before I can ask what that means. I stare at the ceiling for exactly thirty seconds before my curiosity wins over my fear.
I grab my phone.
Twelve missed calls. Forty-three text messages. Sixty-two notifications from social media.
What the hell?
I open my messages.
MARGOT: HARPER. CALL ME. NOW.
MARGOT: Are you seeing this???
MARGOT: I'm coming over.
AMELIA: OMG OMG OMG HARPER CHECK STREAMEATS
AMELIA: I'm on my honeymoon and I'm literally SCREAMING
EMILY CHEN: Harper. You need to see what Victor just did. Call me.
SIENNA (roommate): Um. Your husband just broke the internet. Check StreamEats. NOW.
My heart starts racing.
I open StreamEats with shaking hands.
And there, at the top of the homepage, is a new Weeknight Wins episode.
Posted twenty-seven minutes ago.
The thumbnail is Victor. In the studio kitchen. Wearing a suit and—oh my God—is that my "Kiss the Cook" apron?
The title makes my heart stop:
"How to Apologize to Your Wife (A Beginner's Guide)"
2.8 million views.
I click play.
* * *
The video opens on Victor standing in the StreamEats studio kitchen, looking directly at the camera with an expression I've never seen before.
He's wearing his standard CEO uniform—charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, perfect tie. But he's also wearing my apron. The ridiculous red one with "Kiss the Cook" embroidered across the front that I left behind at the penthouse when I moved out.
He looks vulnerable. And a bit nervous. But determined.
He also looks devastatingly handsome, his slate-gray eyes steady at the camera, his dark tousled and thick and gorgeous as he places his hands on countertop before him.
"Hi," he says to the camera. "I'm Victor Kade. Some of you know me as the CEO of StreamEats. Some of you know me as the Ice Prince of food media. And some of you know me from a viral video of a drunk Vegas wedding at a place called the Game Over Chapel."
He pauses, and I can see him gathering courage.
"This episode is going to violate several StreamEats content guidelines.
My head of PR is probably having a breakdown right now.
The board will likely use this as evidence that I'm emotionally unstable.
But I don't give a damn. Because sometimes the right thing to do is also the most unprofessional thing to do.
And I've spent too many goddamn years prioritizing professionalism over honesty. "
He turns to the counter, where ingredients are laid out.
"Today, I'm going to attempt to make Harper Beaumont's signature dish from our Thanksgiving episode.
The one she made with my friends Roman and Christian while I pretended to be a competent sous chef.
" He picks up a whisk. "I'm going to fail at it.
Multiple times. And I'm going to talk through every failure.
Because that's what this is actually about—how spectacularly I've screwed up at the most important thing in my life. "
Oh my God.
He starts cooking.
And he's terrible at it.
The first attempt, he burns the sauce within sixty seconds.
"So I've completely destroyed this sauce," he says, staring at the smoking pan.
"Which is a metaphor for how I handled my relationship.
The recipe says 'stir gently'—I stirred aggressively.
The recipe says 'add love'—I added fear instead.
And now I'm left with something that looks nothing like what it's supposed to be. "
He dumps the burnt sauce, starts over.
The second attempt, he adds too much salt.
"This is what happens when you don't trust the recipe," he says, tasting it and wincing.
“You see, the woman I married told me she loved me.
Multiple times. In multiple ways. And instead of believing her—instead of trusting what she was showing me—I kept waiting for proof that she was lying.
I kept looking for evidence that confirmed my worst fears instead of accepting the truth that was right in front of me. "
He starts over again.
The third attempt, he forgets a key ingredient.
"I didn't listen," he says quietly, reading the recipe.
"Harper tried to tell me about a…family situation she was going through.
About how desperate she was. About how scared she was to ask for help.
And I didn't listen. I heard the words, but I didn't hear what she was actually saying—that she needed me to understand, to listen instead of swooping in to try to fix it.
That she was trusting me with her vulnerability.
That she was choosing me even when it was hard. "
He starts over.
Again.
And again.
Each time, he talks about a different mistake:
"I compared her to someone else instead of seeing her for who she is."
"I fired her in public instead of listening in private."
"I chose my fear over her love."
"I believed the worst of her when I should have believed the best."
By the sixth attempt, he finally gets it right.
The sauce is perfect. The dish is plated beautifully. It looks exactly like it did when I made it.
He sets down the whisk and looks directly at the camera.
“So it’s basically like this—Harper Beaumont is my wife.
We got married in a video game chapel in Vegas while extremely drunk.
It was impulsive and ridiculous and legally binding.
And for nearly eight weeks, I tried to figure out how to undo it.
How to get out of it. How to protect myself from the terrifying fact that I'd accidentally married someone who made me feel things I didn't want to feel. "
His voice drops, gets quieter.
"But here's what I realized: Harper was never the mistake. Walking away from her was. Firing her was. Believing that she was just another person who would betray me was."
He reaches off-camera and pulls out a folder.
"Eight days ago, I was shown screenshots of emails between Harper and a competitor. Emails that suggested she was considering corporate espionage. And I fired her. Without giving her a chance to explain. Without trusting that the woman I'd fallen in love with would never actually betray me."
He opens the folder, shows documents to the camera.
"These are phone records. Email logs. Evidence that proves the person who sent me those screenshots was the actual corporate mole. That Harper told the competitor no. That she chose me over money she desperately needed. That she chose her integrity over her fear."
He sets down the documents.
“And I destroyed her because I was a complete chickenshit. Because I've spent the last few years believing that love is always a performance and trust is always a trap. Because it was easier to push her away than risk being hurt again."
His hands are shaking slightly as he grips the counter.
"So Harper, if you're watching this—and God, I hope you're watching this—I'm so fucking sorry.
I'm sorry I didn't trust you. I'm sorry I compared you to someone who hurt me instead of seeing you for who you actually are.
I'm sorry I fired you in public instead of fighting for you in private.
I'm sorry I chose my fear over your love. "
He picks up something from off-camera.
Two plane tickets.