Victor’s face shutters like a light went out behind it. “Can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“The CulinaryVision acquisition costs a lot of money. And to be frank, StreamEats has to project stability. That means not taking any risks.”
I scoff. Because it’s nothing like what FoodFirst is offering.
A chance to produce a show—however small—of my own.
Real Food, Real Life.
With a real budget. A better time slot. Creative control.
I lift my chin. “Well, what can StreamEats offer?”
I’m not an idiot.
The first shows to go when corporate shake-ups are made are well-loved tiny shows like the one I’ve just joined.
Weeknight Wins has an audience, true. But I just started, and everyone knows independent contracts like mine are the first to be killed—a fact that Vanessa Chu so obviously pointed out when she found out I already signed over my likeness rights to the likes of StreamEats.
Victor at least has the decency to look sheepish.
He steps closer, and suddenly I can smell his cologne—a clean and expensive scent that makes me think of snow and libraries and bad decisions.
"Harper," he says, the sound of my name in his register causing a ripple down my spine. "I know this is complicated. I know it's not ideal. But it's practical. We both get what we need. The board backs off. Your show continues uninterrupted. Rachel controls the narrative. Everyone wins."
"Except it's built on a lie."
"It's built on a mutually beneficial arrangement." He pauses. "Just like most marriages."
I want to argue, but I can't. Not really. Because didn't I learn that from Thomas?
That marriage is just a contract, and the best you can hope for is that both parties honor their side of the deal?
Except the “honoring” part was a task my own husband was incapable of doing. Especially when it came to his wayward penis.
“By the way, we finally settled on the terms of our little arrangement.” Victor pulls out his phone and shows me a document. "Rachel drew it up the other day. It’ll include shared living arrangements but separate bedrooms. Public appearances coordinated through her. No expectations of... intimacy. Clear exit strategy by year’s end.”
I knew this was coming, so I read through it, my sister Margot’s voice in my head pointing out clauses and contingencies.
I point at a particular clause. “Oh look. Matching hoodies. Coffee mugs. Possibly a TikTok account."
He glowers. “Harper?—“
“Yes, I know, I know. You don’t have to remind me. I’m on board.”
"So?”
“So what?”
“Are we doing this? Seeing it through? You’ll move in with me. Commit to this temporary marriage, and help me mend things with Richard. And in return, I’ll formalize your contract protections.”
My pulse jumps.
Control. Stability. A safeguard.
Tempting. Dangerous.
