Chapter 30 #2
Because this isn't a New Year's Eve party.
This is a wedding reception.
Our wedding reception.
There's a banner strung across the back wall that says "CONGRATULATIONS HARPER & VICTOR" in letters that look suspiciously like Margot's handwriting, each letter outlined in gold glitter.
There are photos—actual framed photos—covering every available surface.
Photos of us from the Thanksgiving episode, Victor and me in the kitchen, laughing at something. Photos from the StreamEats gala, me in that silver dress, Victor's hand on my waist. Photos I didn't even know existed.
There's a gift table in the corner absolutely buried in wrapped boxes, the entire room decorated in hues of white and gold—complete with balloons in the corners, streamers hanging from the ceiling, tiny white lights strung along the crown molding.
And standing front and center, wearing her best dress—a navy blue number with a brooch at the collar—and the most self-satisfied expression I've ever seen, is Babushka.
"Surprise, dorogaya!" She opens her arms wide, and I'm pulled into a hug that smells like her perfume—roses and powder. "We throw you proper wedding reception! Like I say, you need party! You need celebration!"
"But—we—I don't—" I pull back, looking at Victor, who is suspiciously not surprised. "Did you know about this?"
"I may have had some advance warning."
"Some advance warning? Victor!" I smack his arm. "You knew! You knew and you didn't tell me!"
"Your mother called me three days ago. Babushka called me two days ago. Margot texted me yesterday with a final headcount and seating chart." He's fighting a smile now, losing the battle. "I was under strict orders not to tell you."
"I'm going to kill all of you."
"You love us," Margot says, appearing with champagne glasses. Real crystal, not plastic. The champagne is already poured, bubbles rising in perfect straight lines. "Admit it."
I want to be mad.
I really do.
But I'm looking around the room and seeing everyone I care about—my parents beaming by the kitchen door, Dad's arm around Mom's waist, both of them looking so happy they might burst.
My sisters looking ridiculously proud of themselves, Amelia practically bouncing on her heels—her new husband Declan in the corner talking to a couple, likely giving financial advice.
Victor's friends Roman and Calli standing near the cake, both tan and glowing from what must have been an incredible Thailand honeymoon.
Christian and Lucia by the window, Lucia's hand in Christian's, both of them smiling at us. And approximately fifteen other people I recognize from various parts of my life, all dressed up, all here to celebrate us.
And in the corner, in a cat carrier decorated with white ribbons and tiny bells, is Rasputin.
Wearing a tiny tuxedo.
Complete with a bow tie.
Of course.
"Is that—" I point, my voice coming out a squeak. "Is Rasputin wearing formal wear?"
"Is New Year's Eve," Babushka says, like this explains everything. Her accent is thicker than usual, the way it gets when she's excited. "He must look nice for wedding reception. Is special occasion!"
"He's a cat."
"He is family! Family dresses nice!" She gestures at Rasputin, who is glaring at everyone from inside his carrier, his yellow eyes narrowed, the tuxedo making him look like a tiny, furry mobster. "See? Very handsome. Like little James Bond."
"He looks like he's plotting murder."
"He is always plotting murder. Is cat. But tonight, he plots murder in style."
Victor's definitely laughing now, his shoulders shaking, and I elbow him in the ribs. "This is your fault."
"How is this my fault?"
"You encouraged her! You enabled the cat formal wear!"
"In my defense, I thought it was adorable."
"You're supposed to be on my side."
"I am on your side. I'm also on the side of cats in tuxedos." He pulls me closer, his arm around my waist, his body warm against mine. "Besides, you have to admit—this is pretty incredible."
It is.
Roman appears, drink in hand, skin noticeably darker from what must have been two weeks in tropical paradise. "Harper! Congratulations on the reception you didn't know you were having!"
"When did you get back from Thailand?"
"This morning. We're both completely destroyed from jet lag, but Babushka said it was a 'family obligation.
'" He grins, the smile reaching all the way to his eyes.
"And honestly? Worth it. You should see the photos.
Calli got scuba certified. I got sunburned in places I didn't know could get sunburned. It was perfect."
Calli appears next to him, also gorgeously tan, her dark hair lightened slightly from the sun, wearing a sundress that somehow works despite it being twenty-three degrees outside.
She pulls me into a hug that smells like coconut sunscreen and happiness.
"I'm so happy for you both. And I'm sorry about the surprise.
I tried to warn you, but Babushka said it would 'ruin magic. '"
"The magic of giving me a heart attack?"
"Exactly." She laughs, a warm sound that makes me smile. "But seriously—this is amazing. Your family really pulled this off.”
And speaking of family…
My mother appears, looking radiant in a burgundy dress with her hair done up, pearl earrings catching the light. She's been crying—I can tell by the slight redness around her eyes—but she's smiling so wide it looks like it might hurt. "Ma chérie! You're here! We were worried you'd be late."
Victor steps away, still chatting up Roman and Calli, as she pulls me to the side.
"Mom.” I grasp her hands tighter. “What is this?"
"This is your wedding reception!" She gestures around the room like a game show host revealing a prize.
"You got married in Vegas at a video game chapel, and then you got engaged again in a hotel room—Victor told us everything—so we thought you deserved a proper celebration!
" She gestures around the room, at all the people, all the decorations, all the love that went into this.
"How's Dad doing?" I ask, suddenly aware I haven't talked to him yet in the chaos.
Mom's face softens. "He's having a good day. The new nurse—Carole, the one Victor arranged—she's been wonderful. Twice a week visits, and she's been helping with the physical therapy exercises. Your father actually walked from the car to the house without his walker today."
My throat tightens. "Really?"
"Really. He's very proud of himself. And very grateful to Victor for—well. For everything." She squeezes my hand. "That man of yours is a keeper, Harper. Don't let him go."
"I won't."
Dad appears then, moving slower than he used to but steadier than he's been in months. His smile is huge when he sees me.
"There's my girl!" He pulls me into a hug. "Married to a billionaire who can actually play pickleball. I'm impressed."
"Victor plays pickleball?"
"Came to the club with me last week before you two left for Quebec.
Decent form. Needs work on his backhand, but he's coachable.
" He leans in conspiratorially, his eyes twinkling.
"Also, your ex-husband made a fool of himself at the club yesterday.
Broke his racket after losing to some kid half his age.
Then stormed off when people kept asking him about 'his ex-wife the famous cooking show host married to the handsome billionaire CEO. '"
I bite back a smile. "Is that so?"
"Karma's a beautiful thing, sweetheart. Thomas had the whole club talking.
Broke his favorite racket—the expensive carbon fiber one he was always bragging about—then tried to storm off, but his shoelace was untied and he tripped over it on his way to the parking lot.
" Dad's clearly enjoying this story. "And Alanna?
Heard she's moved on to someone else already.
Some guy from the league. Third affair in six months, apparently. "
"Dad—"
"What? You asked." He kisses my forehead. "Now where's that husband of yours? I need to tell him about his footwork. And his serve needs work. We're scheduled for another game next week."
"You scheduled another pickleball game?"
"Of course. Can't let him get rusty. Besides, he needs proper instruction if he's going to join the club officially."
I inhale deeply, trying not to hyperventilate at all the change happening around me.
And two minutes alter, Victor finds me by the dessert table, where I'm stress-eating a cannoli.
"You okay?" he asks.
"I'm great. Overwhelmed, but great." I take another bite. "Did my dad corner you about pickleball?"
"He gave me a fifteen-minute breakdown of my serve technique. I took notes."
"Of course you did."
"He also told me about Thomas's racket incident. In great detail. Including the shoelace trip."
"Apparently it's the talk of the club." I set down the cannoli and look at him. "Thank you, by the way. For Dad. For the nurse. For everything."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I do. Because you made it about them, not about fixing things or proving anything." I pull him closer. "You're a good man, Victor Kade."
"I'm your man, Mrs. Beaumont-Kade. That’s all you need to know.” He grins wickedly, his gaze panning the room. “They really brought everyone out, didn’t they? Friends. Family. Neighbors—“
"The entire book club," I interrupt, spotting the Italian grandmothers clustered near the food table, all talking at once in rapid Italian, their hands moving in elaborate gestures.
He laughs. “What did your parents do? Open the phone book and just start calling numbers?”
“And did you see the cake with video game controllers on it?”
"Your sisters made them. They're crocheted. Apparently they've been working on them for weeks."
"Of course they have." I look up at him—this man who somehow became everything without me even noticing it happening.
In the warm light of the dining room, he looks impossibly handsome.
The stubble. The gray eyes. The slight smile that's just for me.
"Did you really know about this the whole time we were in Quebec? "