"And what show is that?"
"Weeknight Wins. On StreamEats." I slide the oyster off the shell, savoring the taste. "We focus on making restaurant-quality food accessible for home cooks."
"I've seen it," Robert says, speaking for the first time since we sat down. "My wife loves your brown butter gnocchi episode."
Victor's eyes meet mine across the table, and there's pride there that makes my chest tight.
The second course is more elaborate—seared scallops with cauliflower puree, crispy prosciutto, and micro greens drizzled with brown butter. The scallops have that perfect golden crust that only comes from a screaming-hot pan and patience.
The conversation flows between business and personal, and I realize Victor was right—we work well together. When Richard makes a pointed comment about "stability in leadership," I deflect with a story about my StreamEats audition. When Sonia asks about the acquisition timeline, Victor handles it with smooth confidence, and I nod along like I understand corporate finance.
We're a team.
It's terrifying how natural it feels.
Dessert arrives—some elaborate chocolate thing that probably has a French name I can't pronounce—and Richard stands.
"I hope you'll forgive the interruption," he says, "but we have two more guests joining us. They were delayed in Los Angeles, but they've just arrived."
The dining room doors open.
A couple walks in—both in their thirties, both beautiful in that effortless way that screams personal trainers and expensive skincare.
The woman is stunning, adorned with dark hair and perfect skin. And the man?—
The man looks remarkably like Victor.
Same height. Same build.
Same sharp features.
But where Victor’s eyes are gray speckled with a icy blue, this man’s are a saturated ocean color that only shows in the deepest parts of the sea—the ravenous, bottomless parts.
And right now, those bottomless depths are bearing down right on Victor.
"Everyone," Richard says with a smile that makes my skin crawl, "I'd like you to meet my newest business partner. The man who flew in and bailed me out of the Vegas jail when I was arrested."
The man starts to speak. “Victor. It’s been too long since?—“
He doesn't finish.
Because Victor is out of his seat, crossing the room in three strides, and punching him in the face.
The sound of impact is sickening. The man stumbles backward, blood streaming from his nose, and the woman screams.
"Victor!" Sonia stands. "What the hell?—"
But Victor's already grabbing my hand, pulling me out of my chair.
"We're leaving," he says, his voice deadly calm.
"What—"
"Now, Harper."
He's already moving toward the door, and I have no choice but to follow, as James appears from nowhere, falling into step beside us.
"Sir?" The half-driver, half-bodyguard questions.
