Not with Victor Kade. Not with anyone.
Never again.
8
INDECENT PROPOSAL
VICTOR
Friday morning hits me like a punch of over-roasted espresso—bitter and unwelcome.
Conference Room 7B always smells faintly of old carpet and institutional lemon cleaner, and today it’s especially suffocating.
Fluorescents hum overhead, flickering like they, too, have complaints. Outside the small, sealed window, Manhattan is draped in gray—rain threatening, taxis honking, the city already annoyed with itself before noon.
My publicist Rachel Stone sits at the head of the table in a slate suit sharp enough to be considered a weapon. Her laptop is open, her pen clicking at precise, metronomic intervals engineered to fray my remaining patience.
I skim her fourteen-page crisis deck. Every page is more deranged than the last.
Harper isn’t here yet.
Which shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
“She’ll be here,” Rachel says, without looking up.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made that face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you pretend you’re fine but you’re actually irritated, confused, or suppressing rage. Very subtle tells, Victor.”
I breathe out through my nose. “Let’s just start.”
“We can’t start without her. And you should be relieved, honestly—this is the calmest you’ll feel all day.”
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes.
I check the screen.
Not Harper.
Roman.
ROMAN: Bro. TELL ME you ordered your tux.
I exhale. Of course. Groomsman duties for his wedding. The punishment for having friends.
ME: I’m in a meeting.
ROMAN: Great. Order it in the meeting. Multitask like the CEO you pretend to be.
Another buzz.
ROMAN: Also—you’re bringing a plus-one to my wedding. Pretend your Babushka said so.
