"More or less. Francis is facing civil penalties and possible criminal charges. Vanessa Chu resigned from FoodFirst under pressure. Patricia's being sued by StreamEats for breach of fiduciary duty." I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "They made their choices."
"And you?"
"The board voted to keep me as CEO. Unanimous decision after the Thanksgiving episode numbers came in—forty-three million views and counting across all platforms. Patricia's firing and the corporate espionage case actually made them more confident in my judgment, not less." I smile slightly. "Turns out firing a traitor and protecting your company is good leadership."
"Who knew?"
"Rachel knew. She's been insufferably smug about it."
Harper grins. "And what about me? Am I still employed at StreamEats?"
"You're still under contract for Weeknight Wins. But—" I pause. "I have a proposal. A professional one this time."
"I'm listening."
"I want to greenlight Real Food, Real Life as a StreamEats original. Your show. Your vision. Full creative control. Prime streaming slot—Thursday nights at eight. We'd handle production, distribution, marketing—but the content is entirely yours."
Harper's golden glare narrows. "Are you serious?"
“As a heart attack. The Thanksgiving episode proved you can carry a show. The audience loves you—we've done the market research, the focus groups, everything. Your approval ratings are through the roof." I pull her closer. "And more importantly—you deserve it. This is your thing, Harper. I just want to give you the platform to do it right."
"That's—that's huge, Victor."
"The board approved the budget yesterday. Twenty-six episodes for the first season, option for a second season if the numbers hold. Full production team, your choice of director, complete creative control." I pause. "Think about it. No pressure. If you'd rather go independent, I'll support that too. But I think we could build something incredible together. Professional and personal."
"Professional and personal," she repeats, smiling. "I like the sound of that."
"So you'll think about it?"
"I'll think about it." She kisses me. "But right now, I'm thinking about other things."
"What kind of other things?"
"The kind that involve you being inside me again."
"I can work with that."
And I do.
Much later—after round two and most of the second bottle of champagne—we lie tangled together in the firelight, the ocean sound a distant rhythm through the windows.
"Victor?" Harper's voice is sleepy, muffled against my chest.
“Yes, love?”
"I'm really glad you brought the ring."
"Me too."
"Even though you didn't plan to propose tonight."
"Especially because I didn't plan it." I kiss the top of her head. "Turns out the best moments are the ones you don't control."
She falls asleep then, warm and trusting in my arms, and I lie there listening to her breathe, thinking about everything that's changed in the past three months.
I punched my brother. Lost a hundred-million-dollar deal. Accidentally fell in love with my wife. Fired a corporate spy. Hosted a Thanksgiving dinner. Proposed during sex at my best friend's wedding.
Six months ago, I would have called all of that a disaster.
