I open it with dread.
The attachment is fourteen pages long.
There's a timeline. Talking points. A list of "approved responses" to potential questions. A section titled "What Not To Say (Ever, Under Any Circumstances)."
And at the bottom:
"Meeting scheduled for tomorrow (Friday) at 10 AM. StreamEats HQ, Conference Room 7B. You, Victor, and me. Dress professionally. Coffee will be provided. This is going to take a while."
I show my sisters the phone.
Margot reads it and whistles. “Fourteen pages."
"She's thorough," Amelia says.
"She's terrifying."
"Also that."
I set the phone down and grab another spring roll. "This is a nightmare."
"Or," Amelia says, eyes gleaming, "it's an opportunity."
I stare at the invite, pulse thudding hard enough to make my ears ring, and my younger sister points her crochet hook at me like she’s issuing a royal decree.
“Okay. New rule. No secret work spirals tonight. Tonight we eat Thai, drink wine, and decide which of us gets to punch Victor Kade in the throat if he’s mean to you tomorrow.”
Margot lifts her wine glass. “I’ll help you handle the legal ramifications.”
“I’ll take care of the emotional devastation,” Amelia says, dead-serious.
I lock my phone and set it face-down like that makes it disappear.
Amelia bumps my shoulder again. “You’re going to be fine.”
Margot nods. “You are.”
I nod back, because it’s easier than explaining that “fine” is something I’ve been performing for years.
We toast, and I try to ignore the way my hands are shaking.
Because tomorrow, I have to face Victor Kade in a conference room. Tomorrow, I have to be professional. Strategic. Smart.
A vision of a rare, laughing Victor Kade flashes through my memories, but I instantly push it away.
Because that Victor doesn't exist anymore.
Maybe he never did. Maybe he was just drunk-Vegas-Victor, a temporary glitch in the Ice Prince's programming.
The real Victor Kade is the one who had me investigated while I slept, who forced me into a two-month arrangement I couldn't refuse, who looks at me now as a problem to be managed instead of a person.
And I need to remember that, to keep in mind that this is a business transaction only.
And in two months, when this is over and we go our separate ways, I'll still have my career. My dignity. My ability to look myself in the mirror.
I will do my job. I will play my part. I will smile for the cameras and curtsy for the press and pretend we're happily married. And when it's over, I will walk away with my heart intact.
Because I've already learned this lesson once during my divorce, and I’m not learning it again.
