The hickey on my neck is barely visible above my collar. The one I left on Harper's neck is more obvious, but hopefully her hair will cover it.
When I return to the ballroom, Harper is at our table, calmly eating dessert and chatting with a board member like she's been there the whole time.
She doesn't look at me as I sit down.
But under the table, her hand finds mine and squeezes. I squeeze her hand back and listen to her charm the board member to her left, letting myself enjoy the feel of her soft skin, keeping thoughts of Monday’s board vote at bay.
At least, for now.
25
EXIT INTERVIEW
VICTOR
It's harder than it looks to watch the woman you're insane about charm a group of venture capitalists while trying not to look like you just had filthy sex in a powder room twenty minutes ago.
I'm barely managing.
It's been twenty-three minutes since I made Harper come—twice—on a vanity at the St. Regis, and I'm still weighing the pros and cons of so-called "corporate propriety."
Because there's not a damn thing proper that I want to do to the woman I now call "wife."
The gala is winding down. December sleet continues to hit the windows, but inside the ballroom is warm and golden and full of the pleasant buzz of successful networking and expensive champagne.
As far as the actual gala itself, everything seems to be going fine. More than fine.
Harper has more than proved she belongs in this world. The board can't argue with how well she handled herself tonight. And in three weeks, I'll be taking her to Roman's wedding in the Hamptons as my actual girlfriend, not some fake wife from a drunken Vegas mistake.
For the first time since Christian and Lucia’s vows, I'm actually looking forward to a wedding.
I'm also possibly still sex-hazed, because I keep catching myself staring at Harper's neck where I left a mark that her hair isn't quite covering.
"You look remarkably pleased with yourself," Rachel says, appearing at my elbow with a glass of wine. "Should I be concerned?"
"About what?"
"About the fact that you disappeared for almost half an hour with Harper and came back looking like the cat who got the cream."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Victor. I've known you for eight years. You're terrible at lying when you're this relaxed."
"I'm not relaxed."
"You're smiling. You never smile at corporate events."
"I smile."
"You smirk. You don't smile. But right now, you're full-on smiling while watching Harper talk to investors, which means something happened in that little absence of yours."
I take a sip of my scotch and don't respond.
My PR agent sighs, one hand rubbing above her brow—presumably to wipe away the sweat that's accumulating there. "At least tell me you were discreet."
"Exceptionally."
"That's a lie, but I'll take it." She pauses. "The evening went well, by the way. Harper was perfect. The board members I've spoken to seem impressed. You might actually survive Monday's vote."
