At work, Victor is all sharp edges and clipped commands, cold authority wrapped in Tom Ford suits.
But at home?
At home, Victor Kade is something else entirely.
It started the first morning after I moved in.
I'd woken at 6:30 AM—old habits from my marriage to my ex Thomas, who insisted breakfast be ready by 7:15 sharp—and padded into the kitchen expecting to be alone.
Instead, I found Victor already there, barefoot, his gray sweatpants slung low on his tight hips. Dressed in a faded Harvard t-shirt that had clearly seen better days, the fabric worn soft and thin enough that I could see the definition of his shoulders and chest beneath it, his hair was still sleep-mussed, dark strands falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger—softer.
He was making coffee—actually making it himself, not ordering it from some assistant—and the early morning light coming through the wall-to-wall windows turned everything golden and warm.
"Morning," he'd said, his voice still rough with sleep.
"Morning," I'd managed, trying not to stare at the way his t-shirt stretched across his back as he reached for cups in the upper cabinet.
That was two weeks ago. And now, it's routine.
Every morning, we move around each other in his pristine kitchen—me pulling ingredients from the fridge for recipe testing. Him answering emails on his tablet while drinking coffee that costs more per pound than my first car.
The apartment smells different in the mornings—like espresso and whatever expensive soap he uses, clean and masculine with notes of cedar and something darker I can't quite place. Sometimes I catch hints of it on the elevator at work and have to remind myself not to react.
And the most dangerous part?
I’m getting used to it.
Back in the present, Rachel flips through the production stills on her iPad, her perfectly manicured nails clicking against the screen.
She's wearing head-to-toe Prada today, a burgundy suit, and her signature red lipstick that somehow never smudges despite the fact that she drinks twelve cups of coffee per day.
"These are good," she says, which from Rachel is basically a standing ovation. "The tourtière segment especially. Authentic. Vulnerable. The audience will eat it up." She pauses. "No pun intended."
"Thanks." I lean against the kitchen counter, suddenly aware of how exhausted I am. Twelve-hour shoots will do that. "I'm glad the extra budget is working out."
"It's more than working out. Your numbers are up eighteen percent from last month. Engagement is through the roof. StreamEats is very pleased." She looks up from her iPad, green eyes sharp. "Victor watched four full episodes this week."
"He did?"
"Mmhmm. And before you say it's because he's the CEO—CEOs don't 'drop in' to the editing bay four times to check on one show's post-production." She sets down the iPad. "Men with emotional constipation do that when they like someone."
"Rachel, please don't diagnose my fake husband."
"Then stop giving him symptoms."
I open my mouth to protest, but then again, what am I supposed to say? That Victor hasn't shown symptoms? That the last two weeks haven't been... something?
Rachel studies me with that unnerving intensity she brings to everything, the same look she used when she handed me a fourteen-page media strategy document and told me my life was about to become a performance.
But her expression softens—just slightly.
"How's the living arrangement?" she asks, and there's something in her tone that sounds almost... concerned, like she's asking as a person rather than a publicist.
"It's... fine."
"Harper….I’ve been doing this for fifteen years. I can spot a lie from three boardrooms away. Try again."
I should deflect, should maintain professional distance, should remember that Rachel Stone is Victor's publicist, not my therapist or my friend.
