"Deal's been in the works for about a week, from what I hear. Nothing official yet, but the industry gossip is that it's happening." Roman pauses. "Which means your very public decision to walk away from the deal might have just handed your competitor a strategic advantage."
"Fuck."
"Yeah." Roman claps me on the shoulder. "But hey, at least you got to punch your brother. That's worth something."
He walks away to find Christian, and I'm left standing there processing the implications.
That’s the thing about having best friends in the food business. They know everything just seconds before you do.
And in this case, if FoodFirst and CulinaryVision partner, they become a legitimate threat to StreamEats' dominance in the food streaming space. Which means the board can argue that my emotional decision to walk away from the yacht dinner cost the company a major strategic opportunity.
Which means Monday's vote just got significantly more complicated.
I need to find Rachel. Need to strategize. Need to?—
"Victor."
Patricia Franklin materializes beside me like a particularly expensive ghost.
"Patricia. Enjoying the evening?"
"Very much. Your Ms. Beaumont is quite charming." She says it like she's complimenting a well-trained dog. "Very polished."
"She's talented."
"Mmm. Yes. I've been doing some background research on her, actually. Due diligence, you understand."
My stomach tightens. "Of course."
"Interesting employment history. There's a gap between her last position and StreamEats—about six weeks. What was she doing during that time?"
The question is casual. The trap is obvious.
"Job searching, I assume. It's a competitive market."
"Of course." Patricia takes a sip of her champagne. "It's just that six weeks is rather quick to go from unemployed to hosting her own show at a major streaming platform. Some might call it... fortuitous timing."
"Some might call it recognizing talent when they see it."
"Indeed." She smiles. "I look forward to discussing it further at Monday's board meeting. Have a lovely evening, Victor."
She glides away, and I resist the urge to throw my scotch glass against the wall.
Of course I don’t actually know what Harper was doing during those six weeks before StreamEats. She never told me. I never asked.
And the doubt—that insidious, familiar doubt—starts whispering, “What if there's a reason she didn't tell you? What if there's something she's hiding?”
I scan the ballroom and find Harper near the bar, laughing at something one of our investors is saying. She looks relaxed. Natural. Perfect.
Too perfect.
Stop it, I tell myself.
You're being paranoid. This is what Isabelle did to you—made you unable to trust anyone.
But I can't shake it.
The evening progresses. Dinner is served. Harper sits beside me at the head table, her hand occasionally finding mine under the tablecloth. She makes small talk with the board members flanking us. She laughs at appropriate moments. She's the picture of a CEO's perfect wife.
