"Victor, can we not?—"
"We need to talk about it."
"I know. But can we have one night where we don't think about the board or the vote or any of it?"
He's quiet for a moment. "Okay. One night."
"Thank you."
But I can feel the tension creeping back into my body, can feel the doubt reasserting itself.
But tonight?
Tonight I'm going to lie here in Victor Kade's arms, in his bed, surrounded by absurd video game wedding memorabilia, and pretend that this is enough.
That we're enough.
That love can overcome lies and secrets and the fact that I'm probably going to lose him the moment he finds out the truth.
For tonight, I let myself pretend.
And when Victor kisses me again—sensual and longingly and full of promises we both know I can't keep—I kiss him back.
Because I'm selfish. Because I'm weak.
Because I love him.
And love makes you do stupid things. Like lie to the one person who deserves the truth. Like hold on when you should let go.
Like believe that maybe you can survive the fallout when everything falls apart.
And maybe I can't.
But I sure as hell am going to try anyway.
23
DRESSED TO KILL (MY CAREER)
HARPER
By the next Friday evening, I’m standing in Victor's penthouse bedroom staring at myself in the full-length mirror wondering if I've made a terrible mistake.
Turns out time doesn’t erase all wounds. Or, at least, it doesn’t erase mine.
A week and a day later, I’m still bleeding out emotionally.
It's been eight days since Thanksgiving. Eight days since I slept with Victor in his bed surrounded by video game wedding memorabilia. Eight days of what can only be described as a sex marathon punctuated by occasional meals and one very awkward encounter with his housekeeper on Saturday morning.
Eight days of domestic bliss gained with the looming threat of tonight’s StreamEats investor gala.
December has arrived with a vengeance, sleet coming down in sheets, coating Manhattan in ice. The temperature dropped to twenty-six degrees this afternoon and shows no signs of climbing.
And inside Victor’s penthouse, I'm sweating.
Because I'm wearing a dress that could fund a year’s worth of rent—champagne-colored silk that skims my body in ways that feel both elegant and obscene. The neckline dips just low enough to be sophisticated without crossing into scandalous territory, but every time I move, I'm hyperaware of how the fabric clings to my hips, my waist, my breasts.
Margot and Amelia picked it out three days ago during an emergency shopping trip that involved me trying on twenty different options while they debated the “appropriate” amount of cleavage and visible thigh.
