Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Who cleaned this thing?
The thought flared as her palm skimmed the curved glass. She touched it before she realized what she was doing, then jerked her hand back fast enough to pretend it never happened. Hopefully before anyone had seen.
The Meridian loomed above them. The official home of the First Minister was a mirrored hemisphere, wrapped in a tessellated grid of panels that reflected the clouds in fractured motion. It looked less built and more delivered, as if it had been dropped from orbit.
Bulletproof, their guide had said. Earthquake resistant. Self-cooling. Its foundation sank deeper than most high-rises soared.
You couldn’t see in, not even a hint. But Bea felt sure the eyes inside saw everything.
Peak UR.
“Did you just touch it?” Lillian murmured beside her.
“I didn’t mean to,” Bea whispered. “Do you think they’ll scan my prints and revoke my visa?”
“There are guards every thirty feet,” Georgie said. “And a drone above us. You’d get tackled first. Then it’d just be a race between Rafael and Channing.”
Bea followed the others as their group advanced, escorted by a soft-voiced staffer in blue. Charles had arranged the private tour.
The Meridian Plaza spread outward in flawless geometry, paved in pale sandstone. At the center, a massive compass rose was inlaid, its brass arms pointed not toward directions, but the Republic’s founding virtues: Discipline, Dominion, Honor, Order.
The UR flag whipped overhead on towering poles: tricolor bands of deep blue, white, and orange, with a single vertical bar near the hoist, a proud echo of the Navy roots they’d never shed.
Rafael’s arm slid around her shoulders. His forefinger brushed her collarbone as they walked. She reached for his waist.
Maybe it was that thing vacations did—that floating sense that fear and consequence didn’t quite reach here. The kind that made you jump off cliffs, buy things you didn’t need, get matching tattoos. Whatever it was, she’d stopped pretending she didn’t want him here.
Lunch was on a rooftop terrace overlooking the Rotunda. From here the Meridian seemed stranger still, its dome reflecting the city back at itself.
Bea sat beside Rafael at one end of the long table.
His hand had rediscovered her knee under the linen, and was making slow sweeps on her bare skin.
Her dress rode up with every pass, and so did her heart rate.
She nodded along to something Lillian was saying, unsure what it was.
Her brain had left the conversation to focus on clenching everything south of her bellybutton.
He stopped at the point where it could’ve been chalked up to absent-minded affection—then went a single, criminal inch higher.
She picked up her drink and chugged like it was a fire extinguisher.
Laurent leaned across the table. “Griffin. Have you seen this?”
Rafael’s hand paused as Laurent slid his phone across the wood. A clip played, Monaco qualifying, a near-miss in the tunnel.
“That’s the illegal overtake. They’ll penalize him,” Lillian said, as if she couldn’t stop herself. Then immediately backpedaled. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have…butted in.”
Laurent looked at her as though she’d just revealed a second résumé. “You follow Formula One?”
Lillian’s cheeks flushed. “Follow.” Then, doomed by honesty, “Worship.”
Within seconds the men were deep in it, talking over one another about penalties and tire strategy.
Lillian didn’t add another word, but she listened as if she’d been invited into something sacred.
Bea exhaled, grateful for the interruption, even as part of her wondered how far up Rafael would’ve taken her skirt if no one had.
That’s when the past walked in wearing cream silk and certainty. Catherine Vale.
Their eyes met. Catherine didn’t flinch, but Bea caught the glitch in her gait. It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen her around, but they’d given each other a wide berth. So it surprised her when, instead of ignoring her, Catherine came closer.
“Bea.” Cool, composed. “Congratulations.”
Bea’s grip tightened on her glass. Two years wasn’t enough to rid her of the fight-or-flight impulse whenever this particular socialite was near. “Thank you.”
“You’ve been well?” As if they were old classmates.
Seriously? Were they doing small talk now?
“A lot’s changed since the vineyard,” Bea said, steady as she could manage.
Catherine’s smile faltered. “Yes. I never got the chance to…explain.”
Bea stiffened—and that was all it took. Rafael turned. He had been midsentence with Max, but now his full focus landed on Bea. Then past her.
“Catherine,” he said, unimpressed. Like the name itself tasted expired. The F1 conversation dimmed.
“Rafael.” Her smile refreshed like a screen reload. “The ring you chose is stunning. You’ve always had good taste.”
He picked up his drink. Took a slow sip. Let her wait.
Then: “In women, or in jewelry?”
Catherine’s laugh came out a touch forced. “Both.”
“I agree.” His hand came out of hiding, slipped over Bea’s shoulders. “I didn’t collect either by accident. Or as projects.”
Something passed through Catherine’s expression. Not guilt, not quite shame. She turned to Bea again. “That time. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
Bea’s spine straightened against the chair. “It felt pretty intentional.”
Forks paused. Not a soul missed a word.
Catherine looked away, then back. A tiny nod. The nod of a woman who knew she’d lost the room. “I’ll leave you to your lunch.”
RAFAEL
It didn’t matter if a house had a private whisky library, a cigar humidor, or a sauna made of petrified wood from Patagonia. They always found the table with green felt.
Rafael lined up the shot and sent the eight home.
Max exhaled. “That’s game.”
Hunter rubbed his jaw. “That’s three in a row.”
“Two and a warm-up,” Charles corrected, resetting the rack. “You were playing like a drunk Labrador for the first half hour.”
It had been a good day; better than expected. Bea was touching him again without thinking about it first. Her smile wasn’t guarded. He could still picture the outline of her legs as she’d crossed them beside him at dinner.
He wanted to be up in their bedroom, in bed with her, alone. But the girls were getting massages, so he was here.
Rafael chalked his cue. In the corner, Laurent was sprawled back in an armchair with a drink balanced on his chest.
“Madeleine still camped outside your gate?” Rafael asked.
Laurent sighed. “Not anymore. This weekend saved my life.”
“You sent the last one packing with a ten-word email,” Max said. “This one was sticky.”
“Incollable,” Laurent muttered. “She brought her family crest on a business card. My father nearly proposed for me.”
Cassian bent over the table, sank two balls in quick succession. “At least someone’s making progress. Meanwhile, the only thing no one’s mentioning is Griffin’s wedding.”
Rafael took a sip of cognac, then set it carefully on the edge of the pool table. “It’s in seven weeks.”
“Uh-huh. And we’re here for a bridal weekend, supposedly. But the bride hasn’t said a word about flowers, colors, any of it.”
Max leaned on his cue. “Desperate to know what tie you’ll be wearing, Montenegro?”
Cassian snorted. “Fine. Keep pretending. Speaking of uncomfortable timelines, let’s ask Hunter why he’s not engaged yet.”
Hunter stilled.
Laurent glanced at Rafael, who shook his head, mouthing don’t. Even Max winced.
Ever the diplomat, Charles cleared his throat. “It’s not always a linear path.”
“She’s not ready. That’s all there is,” Hunter said gruffly.
Rafael watched him. There was more. There always was.
For long moments, no one spoke.
“I don’t envy you all the pressure,” said Max, tapping the white with just enough force to bank a seven. “Low-tier heir is the way to live life.”
The tension broke.
“The only thing standing between you and being mid-tier is an extra zero at the end of your bank balance,” Hunter said.
“Miles apart, my friend,” Max said. He looked askance at Laurent. “My father isn’t setting me up with European duchesses.”
“Charming as it is to be auctioned off, I’d rather pick my own woman.”
“What’s on your list of requirements?” Charles asked.
“I’d settle for someone I actually like.”
“Just make sure she doesn’t walk into every room like she’s apologizing for it,” Cassian said, straightening after missing a four.
Hunter raised a brow. “Who are we talking about?”
“The Australian. She wouldn’t last a week as a society wife.”
Rafael caught movement by the archway; a quick shift of shadow. Someone stepping back too fast. Gone now.
He was almost certain he’d seen a braid.