"Your grandmother?—"
"Will survive five minutes without us."
He slides open the balcony door, and we step out into the October evening. The balcony is barely big enough for two people, just a narrow strip of concrete with a shiny metal railing and a view of other people's balconies.
From here, I can see Brooklyn spreading out below us—lights starting to twinkle, the distant sound of traffic, the smell of someone else's dinner mixing with the salt air from the ocean.
Victor closes the door behind us, and suddenly we're very close in the small space.
"Okay," I say, crossing my arms because I need something to do with my hands. “I’m listening.”
He runs a hand through his hair, the thick strands soft-looking as they fall forward. "I have a proposal." He pauses when I grin. “A business one, not a marriage one.”
Swallowing my smile, I watch as Victor’s gaze lowers, as if he’s wrestling with something—or some thought.
“I’ve been thinking about Rachel’s suggestions,” he presses on. “About us leaning into this marriage. I know I’ve been…reluctant to get on board with this whole ‘happily married couple’ narrative, but?—“
“But?”
“Richard Francis,” he says without preamble. “We need to get him back on our side.”
I blink. “I thought you two were… fine?”
“We were. Until Vegas.”
Right. The arrest. The news of CulinaryVision’s CEO insisting he was a martyr of corporate persecution while being escorted out of a low-budget brothel in handcuffs and shiny ass-flossing underwear.
“And now?” I ask.
“He’s embarrassed. And angry. And Richard’s anger has a very specific blast radius.”
“So you want me to help defuse a billionaire grenade.”
“Yes.”
“Because…?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “He likes you.”
“According to TMZ, he likes anything with a vagina.”
“He also likes you. Which means I need a plan. Commitment. The time for consideration is up. This CulinaryVision acquisition has to go through. I need…you.”
The silence that follows is telling, and it’s clear from the serious look on Victor Kade’s face that he is used to people just… agreeing.
Or obeying.
Or falling in line because he’s brilliant and intimidating and gives off the vibe of a man who schedules his emotions in an Outlook calendar.
But I am not one of those people.
And he knows it.
He shifts his weight. “What do you need from me for us to make that happen?”
Everything. Nothing. A time machine and better judgment and maybe a drink.
"My own show on the StreamEats platform,” I say instead. “Not just hosting. But executive producing.”
