I’m trying to get to work on time, to act normal, to pretend my life isn’t a matchstick right now—ready to burst into flames at the smallest brush.
But the moment I walk through the StreamEats doors, I know something is wrong.
The usual lobby chatter—people discussing weekend plans, complaining about coffee, the normal office white noise—has been replaced by whispers and pointed looks, the air thrumming with the type of energy that says everyone knows something you don't.
Or worse, that everyone knows something about you.
"Harper!"
I turn to find Weeknight Wins assistant producer Emily Chen speed-walking toward me, brown eyes wide.
"Emily. Hi. Good morning."
"Conference room 4B. Now." She doesn't slow down, just grabs my elbow and steers me toward the elevators. "We need to talk."
"About what?"
"About the fact that you're married to the CEO who just destroyed a hundred-million-dollar acquisition, and the board is losing their minds."
My throat closes. “I haven’t—What do you?—“
"Everyone knows, Harper. Richard Francis called half the industry Friday night, drunk, complaining about 'unhinged executives who prioritize personal drama over business.' It's all over the trade publications." She jabs the elevator button. "Page Six ran a photo of you and Victor leaving the Bellagio Thursday morning with the headline 'Ice Prince Melts for Mystery Wife—Career Burns.'"
"Oh God."
"It gets better. Patricia Franklin called an emergency board meeting for two weeks after Thanksgiving. The agenda leaked. Item one: 'Assessing CEO fitness and judgment in light of recent personal decisions.'"
The elevator doors open, and Emily pulls me inside.
"They're going to try to fire him," I whisper.
"They're going to try." Emily crosses her arms. "But that's not your immediate problem."
"What's my immediate problem?"
"Your immediate problem is that you're being positioned as the reason Victor lost control. The employee he married in Vegas. The distraction that made him punch his brother instead of closing the deal." She pauses. "You're the liability, Harper."
The words slice through me, cutting somewhere deep.
"I didn't—I wasn't trying to?—"
"I know. But optics don't care about intent." The elevator doors open on the fourth floor, and Emily leads me to a small conference room. "Sit."
I sit, and Emily closes the door, leaning against it.
"Here's what's going to happen,” she breathes out. “The board is going to use you against Victor. They're going to paint him as unstable, emotionally compromised, prioritizing his personal life over company interests."
Indignation burns beneath my breast. I nearly rise to my feet.
"That's not fair,” I snap. “He walked away from that dinner because Richard Francis ambushed him with his brother. It had nothing to do with me."
"Didn't it?" Emily's voice is gentle but firm. "You were there. You're his wife. He’s never behaved this way. Until now. The board is going to connect those dots whether they're accurate or not."
I feel sick.
"What do I do?"
"Honestly? Keep your head down. Do your job. Don't give them more ammunition." She pauses. "And the Weeknight Wins Thanksgiving special that Victor is reportedly pushing? It needs to be flawless. Perfect. Because the board is going to scrutinize every decision he makes about you between now and that vote."
