"Harper. It's me."
My pulse starts to pound. “Victor?”
“Yes.” His voice is deep, even more gravelly than usual. “You okay?”
"I'm—I'm fine. Just needed a minute."
"Open the door."
"Victor, I'm in the bathroom."
"I can see that. Open it anyway."
Standing, I splash water on my face, unlocking the door. And when I do, I spot Victor just standing there, indescribably handsome and worried-looking in a deep gray suit that looks like it was poured over his muscular body.
"Emily said you looked upset."
I sigh. “Emily needs to mind her business."
"She cares about you. So do I." He steps inside the bathroom—which is wildly inappropriate but very Victor—and closes the door behind him. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just—work stuff. The board meeting. The Thanksgiving episode. All of it."
"That's not what's wrong." His eyes narrow. "What happened?"
I could lie. I probably should lie, maintain some dignity.
Instead, the words leave my throat, ragged and torn. "I'm broke."
He blinks. "What?"
"I'm behind on everything. My rent back in Brooklyn, my bills and now I can't—" My voice cracks. "I can't fix this, Victor. I can't fix any of this."
His expression shifts from concern to something harder.
"How much do you need?"
"No."
"Harper—"
"No. I'm not—I can't take money from you."
"Why not?"
"Because then I'm just—I'm another acquisition. Another problem you throw money at and solve."
"That's not what’s?—“
"It is. You fix things. It's what you do. But I don't want to be fixed. I want to—" I pause, because the tears are coming and I can't stop them. "I want to handle this myself."
Victor is quiet for a long moment.
"That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."
I look up, startled. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. That's stupid. Martyrdom isn't strength, Harper. It's self-destruction dressed up as pride."
