“Beaumont.”
“Yeah?”
“…Get some sleep.”
Her voice shifts again—quieter, steadier. “Okay.”
“And Beaumont?”
“Yes?”
“…Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For calling. You had options.”
“Yeah. I did.” Another pause, longer this time. “Goodnight, Mr. Kade.”
“Goodnight.”
I hang up, the office settling into quiet.
And suddenly I'm the one who can't sleep.
Because Harper Beaumont is moving into my apartment tomorrow.
I set the phone down and stare at the acquisition documents spread across my desk—numbers that should have my full attention, projections that need analysis, contracts that require my focus.
But all I can think about is Harper Beaumont lying on her floor with cold tiramisu, calling me at eleven-fifteen at night because she needed someone who wouldn't tell her to breathe through it.
And I realize, with uncomfortable clarity, that I'm smiling.
I force my expression back to neutral and pull up the CulinaryVision files, reminding myself that this is business. This arrangement is business. Harper Beaumont is a strategic asset—a tool to manage the board, stabilize the acquisition, control the narrative.
That's all.
The fact that I ignored Natasha's text because I was thinking about Harper is a coincidence. The fact that I may have enjoyed our call tonight means nothing.
I signed up for this. I agreed to this arrangement. It's not like I care about Harper Beaumont. And after the screwed-up way she barreled into my hotel suite, business, and life, most times, I barely trust her.
…Right?
Trusting or not, less than twenty-four hours later, I'm standing in my penthouse living room, watching movers carry my new employee’s boxes through my front door.
My executive assistant Gina had been horrifyingly efficient when it came to this move, it turns out. She'd arranged movers, coordinated with Harper's building, and even had fresh flowers delivered to the guest room "to make Mrs. Kade feel welcome."
When I'd pointed out that Harper wasn't actually Mrs. Kade, Gina had given me a look.
"For the press, sir," she'd said. "Also, it's polite."
Now Harper is here, directing movers, wearing jeans and an oversized sweater that differs from her usual office look…and is somehow more dangerous to my equilibrium.
"That one goes in the bedroom," she's saying, pointing to a box labeled "BOOKS & PLANTS." "The kitchen boxes can go—oh, hi, Victor."
She's noticed me standing here like a statue.
I blink. “Beaumont.”
