Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Four nights she’d woken at this hour. The bags under her eyes were approaching carry-on status.
Bea pushed herself upright, hair falling into her face. She’d told herself she needed room to think. Now she was trapped in the echo chamber of her own mind, dissecting every permutation except this last one:
What if I just…don’t marry him?
Her vision adjusted to the dark. The outline of her dresser. Her desk. The wooden box with the kris inside that Rafael had brought from Malaysia.
She could keep living with Lillian. Wake early, walk to Monaghan & Stowe. They could even stay together, if he was willing, just without that final binding decision.
But the idea didn’t bring peace. It felt smaller than her life had become. She could do it. She knew she could. But knowing wasn’t the same as wanting it.
Her hand drifted to her engagement ring.
It lay where she’d left it earlier, in its box next to her phone.
Where she’d been putting it every time she got home.
She opened the box and slid it back onto her finger.
The panic quieted, her body seemed to exhale.
The cool band against her skin felt like a brand. And part of her…liked it.
Bea stared at it, annoyed. The ease of it grated. She pulled it off again, set it, and closed the lid. Ignored the way the hollow rushed back.
Her phone buzzed and she startled. Only one person would message her at this hour.
RAFAEL: Baby, I’m staying a day longer than planned.
They hadn’t stopped talking completely. Just enough messages to keep the thread alive.
LITTLE BEA: So you’ll postpone the interior designer?
RAFAEL: Go without me. Make the decisions.
LITTLE BEA: You’re handing me the reins?
RAFAEL: It’s your house, too.
She didn’t know what to say to that. The typing bubble appeared again.
RAFAEL: You liked that peanut toffee last time. Want me to get it for you?
She hesitated briefly, but wasn’t about to cut off her nose to spite her face. Given what he was putting her through, he owed her candy.
LITTLE BEA: Yes please.
RAFAEL: Done. Why are you awake? It’s after 2 there.
LITTLE BEA: I was thinking.
RAFAEL: About what?
Her thumbs hovered, then moved before she could second-guess it.
LITTLE BEA: About us.
RAFAEL: Can I call?
LITTLE BEA: It’s easier for me to answer your question if I text.
RAFAEL: …
LITTLE BEA: Please.
RAFAEL: What are you thinking about us?
She typed something, then deleted it. Typed again, then deleted. Finally, she landed on:
LITTLE BEA: That I love you and that’s the only reason I’m considering this.
RAFAEL: Let me call.
LITTLE BEA: Please don’t.
LITTLE BEA: Did you know that me loving you would put me in this position?
RAFAEL: Yes.
LITTLE BEA: I hate that.
The dots appeared. Stopped. Appeared again.
RAFAEL: We’ll talk when I’m home.
“Ah. You’re early,” came a Filipino accent.
So was she. That was unfortunate. Bea had been hoping for five minutes alone to pace and catastrophize.
She emerged into the early autumn light to find a petite woman, barely five feet tall, standing with a tablet tucked under one arm. She looked to be in her late fifties, hair swept into a low bun that suggested she did not tolerate nonsense or humidity.
“You must be Ma’am Bea,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m Teresa. But everyone calls me Tita Tess.”
Rafael’s briefing surfaced immediately.
Lead residential designer for Griffin Ventures. Been with us forever. Knows my mother. Frequently speaks Taglish. Disconcerting in meetings.
Bea smiled and shook her hand. Tess’ grip was firm. “Hi, Tita Tess. Bea is fine.”
“Ay, hindi pwede,” Tita Tess said at once, cheerful and unmoved. “Ma’am Bea is correct. Proper way.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Channing, registered him as furniture, then returned to Bea. “Come. The light is good now.”
The light was always good when billionaires built mansions along half a mile of untouched coastline.
Bea pressed her thumb to the biometric scanner and the front door unlocked with a soft click. She slipped her white sneakers off without thinking and padded a few steps inside.
High ceilings opened above her, the light wooden floors beneath her feet catching the sun without glare. It smelled new and yet somehow lived-in, impressive without ever feeling untouchable. Bea shifted her weight, aware of how comfortable she felt here.
There are worse problems than being the future wife of Rafael Griffin, her mind supplied dryly, staring out at the endless blue beyond the glass.
It doesn’t mean it’s not a problem, she argued with herself.
Tess cleared the entry foyer and stopped short. “Ang ganda,” she murmured.
Bea glanced at her, waiting.
“It’s beautiful,” Tess translated, smiling. “Sir Rafael is like his father. They live in houses built for memories, not showrooms.”
Bea thought of his Dutch-storybook house in St. Ives and the absurd little bell by the door, and warmth spread behind her ribcage.
“First question, Ma’am,” Tess said briskly. “Where do you drop your bag when you come home?”
The question caught Bea off guard. It was personal, not aesthetic. She crossed three steps to the left and mimed setting her bag down near the wall. “Here. Keys here, too. I don’t like clutter where I can see it first thing. It makes my brain scratchy.”
“Good to know. We design for how you live.” She tapped on her tablet, then looked up. “Second question. Where will you put your tsinelas?”
Bea’s eyebrow ticked upward.
“Your home slippers, Ma’am Bea.”
Oh.
Bea smiled despite herself. This woman had clocked her entire upbringing in two minutes. Umma would love her. “By the door, too.”
“Perfect,” Tess said. “I will find something deep. Sir Rafael has very large shoes.” Her eyes dropped somewhat dubiously to Bea’s much smaller feet.
They moved deeper into the house. Somewhere between the library and the living room, Bea realized she hadn’t crossed her arms once since they started. She’d braced herself for questions she couldn’t answer, fabrics with names that sounded like rare diseases. Art references that required a degree.
What she got instead were simple questions about her and Rafael’s daily routine. She was almost…enjoying herself. That felt dangerous. Enjoyment was how things slid past her defenses.
She pictured the house immaculate for about seventy-two hours.
After that her books would begin appearing in small, hopeful stacks on every flat surface despite the existence of an entire library, while Rafael’s basketball would turn up in rooms that had absolutely no relationship to sport, followed closely by Muay Thai wraps draped over chairs to dry.
They entered the main living.
“Do you sit or sprawl?”
“Plants you can kill, or plants that forgive you?”
“Leather or fabric?”
“Rafael would like leather,” Bea answered automatically.
Tess didn’t note it down straight away. “And what does Ma’am Bea like?”
Bea almost said she didn’t mind either way, then caught herself. Was she compromising, before she was asked to? Was this her problem?
“I like to curl up on fabric,” Bea shared. “Leather makes funny noises when you change position.”
“Your sofa must never shame you,” Tess said gravely. “Fabric.”
They entered the master suite with its curved white walls and the terrace that led out to the sea.
Tess gave Bea a once-over, thoughtful. “Sir Rafael is a very tall man.”
“He is.”
“And you are small,” she added. “You will need furniture that does not bruise.”
“I—what?”
Tess waved a hand. “For knees. Hips.” Her expression never changed. “We do not want accidents.”
Heat swept straight up her neck, down her spine, everywhere at once. She covered it with a laugh that came out half a beat too late. “Yes,” she said weakly. “Safety first.”
“Rounded edges,” Tess mumbled, tapping. A pause. More tapping. “Soft headboard.”
Bea was dying in real time, without the courtesy of speed.
Tess, apparently done tormenting her, moved on to logistics. The reality of shipping times. Bea was astounded to hear that Italian lounges took twelve weeks minimum, like there was some sort of gestation period.
“Usually,” Tess said, “I recommend we complete three rooms before you move in. Bedroom, dining, one living space. The rest we do while you’re here.”
Bea nodded, then paused. The image in her mind was Rafael at his desk, shoulders tight, working late. “Actually…could we do Rafael’s study first?”
“We can, if you’re okay with watching Netflix on your bed.”
“We don’t watch TV much anyway. I’m happy to read in bed.
” Bea drifted toward the terrace doors, drawn to the open stretch of ocean outside.
It was a noticeable upgrade from the view at her current place, which consisted mostly of the neighboring apartment building and a man who watered his plants in plaid boxer shorts every morning.
“I’d prefer him to have somewhere comfortable to work from home. ”
Tess regarded her for a long moment. Then gave her a smile that hinted at approval. “Sige. Okay.”
They looped back toward the foyer.
“One last question, Ma’am Bea. Do you want these decisions approved by Sir Rafael?”
“No. I’m enough.”
Tess nodded, and didn’t say more.
Rafael’s assistant, Mark, had built the plan with military detail.
Wedding Logistics Proposal: Beatriz Cruz’s Family Travel Plan.
It wasn’t like she hadn’t been told this was being developed, but no one had asked her to approve it. Which felt like a metaphor.
Bea sat cross-legged in the middle of her bed, fabric samples scattered around her while the laptop fan whirred like it had opinions about this situation.
Tita Tess had given her a very simple task: tell me only what you love and what you hate.
Go by your gut, don’t think too much. Since she happened to excel at thinking too much, she’d decided to evaluate upholstery while simultaneously reviewing her wedding logistics.