We have to make the Thanksgiving episode so good the press and public can't argue with it, so undeniable that Harper deserves to be on camera. That this isn't favoritism—it's good business.
Because if the episode tanks, or even if it's just mediocre, Patricia and my own goddamned board will use it as proof that my judgment is compromised.
Doesn't help that in the middle of all this, my publicist reminded me that the annual StreamEats Investor Gala is December seventh. Three days before the board vote.
In all my brother-punching, deal-making, Harper-obsessing fugue state, I'd actually forgotten.
Outside the wall-swallowing windows of my penthouse apartment, Manhattan is gray and cold, that particular November bite warning us city dwellers that winter is coming whether we're ready or not.
The city looks quiet, settled, like everyone else is already tucked into their own Thanksgiving celebrations.
Inside my penthouse, it's absolute bedlam.
The main kitchen—all marble countertops and professional-grade appliances that I rarely use—has been transformed into a production set. Cameras on tripods, lights on stands, cables snaking across my usually pristine floors. The industrial oven is going full blast, filling the space with waves of heat that make the windows fog at the edges. The scent of roasting turkey mingles with fresh herbs—rosemary, thyme, sage—and the rich, buttery smell of pie crust baking.
Harper's doing, all of it.
"You have a second kitchen?" Roman Ellis is standing in the doorway of my prep kitchen—the smaller one off the main entertaining space—staring like he's just discovered Narnia. His auburn hair is slightly disheveled, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and there's a smudge of flour on his expensive shirt. "Victor Kade. A man who couldn't dispense ketchup on his own hamburgers a year ago has a second kitchen."
"Technically it's the third kitchen," I correct, adjusting my own rolled-up sleeves. The penthouse is warm enough that I've abandoned my jacket and tie entirely, left in just dress pants and a white button-down that's already suffered casualties from Harper's insistence I help with prep work. "There's also one in the west wing for catering staff."
"The west wing." Roman turns to Christian, who is shockingly setting up camera equipment with the production crew. "Did you hear that? He has a west wing. Like the White House. But for kitchens."
Christian doesn't look up from adjusting a light, his muscular frame bent over the tripod. His usual leather jacket is gone, replaced by a dark henley that Lucia probably insisted he wear for the cameras. "I'm more concerned that he invited people over willingly. Victor 'No Fucks Given' Kade hosting a dinner party."
"It's not a dinner party. It's a filmed episode."
"With multiple guests. In your home. Voluntarily." Christian finally looks at me, his amber eyes crinkling in the corners, a hint of that troublemaker grin from our Harvard days. "I'm telling you—it's like Invasion of the Body Snatchers."
"I'm still me."
"The you I know hasn't had anyone over to his place since Harvard. And even then, it was for study groups you immediately regretted."
"That's not true."
"Name one time you've hosted anything social in the past five years."
I blink at him, my brain searching for answers and finding none. The sound of Harper's laughter drifts from the main kitchen, followed by the clatter of pans and the production assistant's voice giving directions.
"Exactly," Roman says, grinning. "This is character development. We should document it."
"You're already documenting it. There are three cameras."
"I meant for posterity. So we can show your future children that Daddy used to be fun."
"I'm not having children."
"That's what Christian said before Lucia. Now look at him—practically domesticated."
Christian makes an obscene gesture, and Harper appears from the main kitchen carrying what appears to be a turkey the size of a small child. Her face is flushed from the heat, wisps of hair escaping from her messy bun, and she's wearing jeans and my StreamEats hoodie—the one that hangs to her mid-thigh and makes her look soft and unassuming and absurdly beautiful.
"Boys, if you're done commenting on Victor's personal growth, I need help with this bird."
All three of us immediately move to help her, and she laughs, the sound bright and warm in the high-ceilinged space.
And my fingers fight the urge to settle on her skin.
"I've got it," she motions to my two best friends. "I just needed Victor. The rest of you, go set the table or something useful."
