Chapter 29 #4
"Majorly distracted." She climbs out of bed, beautiful and unashamed in her nakedness, and heads for the minibar. "But we should still do it. Early celebration for them, late celebration for us."
She grabs the bottle of champagne and two glasses, but as she's turning back toward the bed, she trips over my discarded jacket.
The champagne goes flying.
All over me.
Cold, expensive champagne, soaking the sheets, my chest, everything.
Harper freezes, hand over her mouth, eyes wide. Then she starts laughing.
"I'm so sorry—I can't believe—"
"That's number three," I say, wiping champagne off my face.
"What?"
"Three liquids you've spilled on me so far. Tomato juice on the plane. Cold coffee in my office. Champagne at a Hamptons estate." I look at her, dripping and ridiculous. "I'm starting to see a pattern."
"I swear I'm not doing it on purpose!"
"Are you sure? Because the evidence suggests otherwise."
She's laughing so hard she can barely stand. "I'm sorry—I'm so sorry—but you should see your face—"
"I'm covered in champagne."
"Expensive champagne," she amends. "Roman said this was from his private collection."
Harper sets down the glasses and grabs a towel from the bathroom, trying to help clean me up but she's still laughing too hard to be effective.
"Okay," she says finally, catching her breath. "New rule. I'm not allowed near liquids when you're in the vicinity."
"Probably wise."
"Although—" She looks at me, eyes sparkling. "It does make things interesting."
"Your version of interesting is going to get us banned from every nice hotel in America."
"Worth it."
I pull her down onto the bed—the dry part—and kiss her.
"You're insane," I say against her lips.
"You proposed during sex. We're both insane."
"Fair point."
We eventually clean up the champagne situation, change the sheets, and find a new bottle in the minibar.
This time, I open it.
"To Roman and Calli," Harper says, raising her glass slowly.
"To Roman and Calli," I repeat.
We drink, and then Harper sets down her glass, her expression shifting to something more serious.
"Victor?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For the nurse. For Dad."
I'd arranged for a Parkinson's specialist nurse to visit Harper's parents twice a week—someone who could help with medication management, physical therapy, and give her mother a break. The bills were being handled through a medical trust I'd set up, because Harper finally—finally—let me help.
"You don't have to thank me."
"I do. Because you didn't just throw money at the problem. You listened to what Dad actually needed. You talked to Mom about what would help most. You—" Her voice quivers before steadying again. "You made it about them, not about proving you could fix everything."
"Your father's a good man. Your mother shouldn't have to do this alone."
"She's not alone anymore. Because of you." She kisses me softly. "So thank you. For seeing my family as your family."
"They are my family now."
"I know. And they love you for it. Dad told me last week that you're 'much better than the last one.'"
I snort. "That's a low bar."
Harper laughs, and I pull her closer, breathing in the scent of her hair.
"Speaking of 'the last one,'" I say carefully. "I heard something interesting when I went over to your parents’ this week."
"About Thomas?"
"Apparently he and that Alanna chick broke up. Messily. Something about her cheating on him with someone from their pickleball league."
Harper is quiet for a moment, then starts laughing. "Are you serious?"
"According to your mother, who heard it from a neighbor, who saw the whole thing unfold at the club. Thomas apparently broke his racket and stormed off mid-game."
"Oh my God."
"Gets better. Apparently people have been asking him about the Thanksgiving episode. He keeps having to explain that his ex-wife is the Harper from the viral StreamEats show. The one who's married to the CEO."
Harper's smile is wicked. "I should feel bad about that."
"But you don't."
"Not even a little bit." She takes another sip of champagne. "What goes around comes around, I guess. He cheated with my best friend. She cheated with his pickleball partner. It's almost poetic."
"Karma's a bitch."
"And apparently so is Alanna." She sets down her glass. "Anyway. Ancient history. I have better things to think about. Like the fact that I'm engaged to you. Again."
She's quiet for a moment, fingers smoothing over my bare chest, light enough to ignite a fire in my veins.
"Victor?" Harper's voice is thoughtful now.
"Hmm?"
"What happened with Patricia Franklin? After you fired her?"
I'm quiet for a moment, running my fingers through her hair. "The corporate espionage case is moving forward. Rachel's team found evidence she'd been feeding information to FoodFirst for months—not just about you, but about other acquisitions, strategic plans, everything."
"Is she going to jail?"
"Probably not jail. But career suicide? Definitely. The SEC is investigating potential insider trading violations. No board will touch her after this."
"And Richard Francis?"
"Also under SEC investigation. Turns out his partnership with Vanessa Chu involved some questionable stock transactions before the acquisition announcement.
They were trading on inside information about the deal terms—textbook securities fraud.
" I pause. "FoodFirst's deal with CulinaryVision fell apart completely when the SEC started asking questions. The whole thing imploded."
Harper lifts her head to look at me. "So they both destroyed their careers trying to destroy yours."
"More or less. Francis is facing civil penalties and possible criminal charges. Vanessa Chu resigned from FoodFirst under pressure. Patricia's being sued by StreamEats for breach of fiduciary duty." I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "They made their choices."
"And you?"
"The board voted to keep me as CEO. Unanimous decision after the Thanksgiving episode numbers came in—forty-three million views and counting across all platforms. Patricia's firing and the corporate espionage case actually made them more confident in my judgment, not less.
" I smile slightly. "Turns out firing a traitor and protecting your company is good leadership. "
"Who knew?"
"Rachel knew. She's been insufferably smug about it."
Harper grins. "And what about me? Am I still employed at StreamEats?"
"You're still under contract for Weeknight Wins. But—" I pause. "I have a proposal. A professional one this time."
"I'm listening."
"I want to greenlight Real Food, Real Life as a StreamEats original. Your show. Your vision. Full creative control. Prime streaming slot—Thursday nights at eight. We'd handle production, distribution, marketing—but the content is entirely yours."
Harper's golden glare narrows. "Are you serious?"
“As a heart attack. The Thanksgiving episode proved you can carry a show.
The audience loves you—we've done the market research, the focus groups, everything.
Your approval ratings are through the roof.
" I pull her closer. "And more importantly—you deserve it.
This is your thing, Harper. I just want to give you the platform to do it right. "
"That's—that's huge, Victor."
"The board approved the budget yesterday.
Twenty-six episodes for the first season, option for a second season if the numbers hold.
Full production team, your choice of director, complete creative control.
" I pause. "Think about it. No pressure.
If you'd rather go independent, I'll support that too.
But I think we could build something incredible together. Professional and personal."
"Professional and personal," she repeats, smiling. "I like the sound of that."
"So you'll think about it?"
"I'll think about it." She kisses me. "But right now, I'm thinking about other things."
"What kind of other things?"
"The kind that involve you being inside me again."
"I can work with that."
And I do.
* * *
Much later—after round two and most of the second bottle of champagne—we lie tangled together in the firelight, the ocean sound a distant rhythm through the windows.
"Victor?" Harper's voice is sleepy, muffled against my chest.
“Yes, love?”
"I'm really glad you brought the ring."
"Me too."
"Even though you didn't plan to propose tonight."
"Especially because I didn't plan it." I kiss the top of her head. "Turns out the best moments are the ones you don't control."
She falls asleep then, warm and trusting in my arms, and I lie there listening to her breathe, thinking about everything that's changed in the past three months.
I punched my brother. Lost a hundred-million-dollar deal. Accidentally fell in love with my wife. Fired a corporate spy. Hosted a Thanksgiving dinner. Proposed during sex at my best friend's wedding.
Six months ago, I would have called all of that a disaster.
Now? Now I call it the best three months of my life.
Quebec City is in three days. But it doesn't matter anymore.
Because I already have everything I need.
Right here. Right now.
Home.