Let me know your availability.
Best,
Vanessa
My stomach twists.
Because I did promise to try to commit to this farcical marriage with my CEO.
And if I had any real assurances from Victor or even his publicist Rachel, that my job is not at risk apart from this so-called marriage, I’d tell Vanessa Chu, inform her that I'm committed to StreamEats, that I'm not interested, that I'm?—
Except I don't know any of those things for sure, do I?
I type out a quick response before I can overthink it.
Thanks Vanessa! I'd be happy to meet. How about the first week of November? Coffee works for me.
I hit send and immediately want to throw my phone into the Atlantic Ocean.
What am I doing? I'm about to go have dinner with my fake husband's grandmother while secretly meeting with a competitor and pretending my entire life isn't held together with duct tape and wishful thinking.
Another buzz.
VICTOR KADE: You close, Beaumont? My grandmother just texted asking if you got lost.
VICTOR KADE: She's tracking your location somehow. I don't know how
ME: That’s…disturbing
VICTOR KADE: Welcome to my life.
I take a deep breath, smooth down my dress, and walk toward the building entrance.
The building itself looks like Old-World glamour married Modern Manhattan money — a meticulously restored prewar façade, wrought-iron balconies, soft amber exterior lighting, and a discreet brass plaque that reads:
THE NEVSKY RESIDENCES
EST. 1928 — RESTORED 2004
Inside, the lobby is nothing like the crumbling, cabbage-scented walk-ups I’d imagined. No. This lobby is architectural eye candy.
Marble floors. A chandelier dripping with crystals. A concierge in a navy blazer who greets me by name before I’ve even opened my mouth.
Which is… mildly terrifying.
“Ms. Beaumont? Mrs. Kade is expecting you. Penthouse Two.”
With a quick thanks, I step inside building two’s elevator — all polished brass walls, velvet bench, soft instrumental music playing — and watch the button light up beneath my thumb.
PH2.
I’m practically sweating through my polyester dress, when, thirteen floors later, the doors slide open into a private vestibule straight out of a European boutique hotel.
There’s ornate wallpaper, a gilt-framed mirror, and a discreet security camera that is absolutely sending footage straight to Victor’s phone.
Taking a deep breath, I smooth my dress and try to remember how to smile, just as the penthouse door swings open.
"Harper!" Babushka Katya stands in the doorway, and she's... tiny. Maybe five feet tall in her sensible shoes, with silver hair pulled back in a neat bun, sharp blue eyes that seem to see directly into my soul, and a floral apron that says "KISS THE RUSSIAN COOK."
