My office phone rings, the direct line that only a few people have.
I pick it up immediately. “Kade.”
There’s a beat, a soft shift of air, and then?—
“Victor? I didn’t wake you, did I?”
Harper. Her voice is quieter than usual. Lower. Like she’s been lying down, likely thinking too much.
I lean back in my chair, gaze drifting to the dark reflection in the window—watching myself stare back, my tie loosened, frustration on my face.
“No.” I loosen my tie further. “I’m working. What’s wrong?”
“Why do you assume something’s wrong?”
Because it’s eleven at night. Because you’re calling me. Because I can hear it in your voice.
“Because it’s past nine,” I reply. “And I distinctly remember you telling my grandmother at dinner that that’s prime Buffy The Vampire Slayer viewing time.”
A soft huff of laughter ghosts through the line. “Wow. You do listen. That’s new.”
“I catalog useful information.”
“Is that what I am? Useful data?”
“Occasionally.”
She exhales again—longer this time, less defensive. “Okay, fine. Something’s wrong. Sort of. Maybe.”
“Pick one,” I say. “I don’t do ‘sort of maybe.’”
She pauses. “I can’t sleep. My brain won’t shut up. And there’s packing for the move and overthinking and… impending doom.”
“That seems dramatic.”
“Says the man who probably schedules his emotional breakdowns in fifteen-minute increments.”
“I’d give myself ten. Efficiency.”
That earns me a real laugh, short and warm. A beat passes before her voice softens again.
“I’m moving tomorrow, Victor. Into your place.” A pause. “It’s a lot.”
“You’re anxious.”
“Score two points for Mr. Minimalism.”
“Would you prefer I pretend you’re fine?”
“No. That would be worse.”
“Then stop arguing with the diagnosis.”
She exhales, a quiet sound of surrender. “God, you’re bossy.”
“I run a company. It’s a requirement.”
“And yet somehow still less intimidating than your espresso machine.”
