"I fired her in public instead of listening in private."
"I chose my fear over her love."
"I believed the worst of her when I should have believed the best."
By the sixth attempt, he finally gets it right.
The sauce is perfect. The dish is plated beautifully. It looks exactly like it did when I made it.
He sets down the whisk and looks directly at the camera.
“So it’s basically like this—Harper Beaumont is my wife. We got married in a video game chapel in Vegas while extremely drunk. It was impulsive and ridiculous and legally binding. And for nearly eight weeks, I tried to figure out how to undo it. How to get out of it. How to protect myself from the terrifying fact that I'd accidentally married someone who made me feel things I didn't want to feel."
His voice drops, gets quieter.
"But here's what I realized: Harper was never the mistake. Walking away from her was. Firing her was. Believing that she was just another person who would betray me was."
He reaches off-camera and pulls out a folder.
"Eight days ago, I was shown screenshots of emails between Harper and a competitor. Emails that suggested she was considering corporate espionage. And I fired her. Without giving her a chance to explain. Without trusting that the woman I'd fallen in love with would never actually betray me."
He opens the folder, shows documents to the camera.
"These are phone records. Email logs. Evidence that proves the person who sent me those screenshots was the actual corporate mole. That Harper told the competitor no. That she chose me over money she desperately needed. That she chose her integrity over her fear."
He sets down the documents.
“And I destroyed her because I was a complete chickenshit. Because I've spent the last few years believing that love is always a performance and trust is always a trap. Because it was easier to push her away than risk being hurt again."
His hands are shaking slightly as he grips the counter.
"So Harper, if you're watching this—and God, I hope you're watching this—I'm so fucking sorry. I'm sorry I didn't trust you. I'm sorry I compared you to someone who hurt me instead of seeing you for who you actually are. I'm sorry I fired you in public instead of fighting for you in private. I'm sorry I chose my fear over your love."
He picks up something from off-camera.
Two plane tickets.
"Your mother mentioned once that you always wanted to spend Christmas in Quebec City. That your family used to go when you were little, before—before things got complicated. So I bought tickets. Two of them. December twentieth through December twenty-sixth. They're yours if you want them. Both of them. I'll go with you, or I'll let you take someone else, or you can go alone. Whatever you need."
He sets the tickets on the counter.
"I'm not asking you to forgive me. Not yet. I'm asking you to let me spend the rest of my life earning that forgiveness. To let me prove that what we have is real. That you were never the liability—I was. That I trust you. That I choose you. That I love you more than I'm scared of being hurt."
He takes a breath.
"This video has probably destroyed what's left of my professional reputation. The board will use it against me. The business press will have a field day. But I don't care. Because you deserve a public apology for the public humiliation I put you through. You deserve to know that I'm fighting for us now. And I won't stop until you believe me."
He looks at the camera—at me—with so much vulnerability it makes my chest ache.
"I love you, Harper Beaumont-Kade. I loved you when you bathed me in tomato juice on a plane. I loved you when you made my kitchen smell like brown butter. I loved you when you charmed my grandmother and my friends and made my penthouse feel like a home. I loved you when you wanted to slap me across my smug face so many times.”
He exhales. “And I love you now, even though I don't deserve you. Even though I might have destroyed any chance we had."
The video holds on his face for a long moment.
Then it cuts to black.
The final frame is text:
