Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Bea had let him hold her through the night. And the next.
By the time she returned to Northgate, the appointment reminder was already in her inbox.
And now a woman with a headset was gliding toward her with the confidence of a military strike. She had the kind of posture that made other people straighten, shamed by comparison. They sat at Rafael’s dining table.
“Miss Cruz, you’re sure you’re not pregnant?” Adriana asked, tone light but surgical.
Bea blinked. “That’s…quite an opener.”
Adriana smiled thinly. “I prefer to rule out variables before we talk timelines. Pregnancies complicate fittings.”
Rafael’s brow lifted; an entire paragraph of amusement in one expression.
“I’m not pregnant,” Bea said quickly, heat rising to her cheeks.
Adriana nodded briskly, already flipping to a new tab. “Good. Guest list of…?”
“Two hundred and eighty, give or take,” Rafael replied, as though it were nothing at all.
A little over six weeks to plan a wedding for a cinema full of people. When she’d only been dating Rafael for twelve. And a half. This was what her former tutoring student and Rafael’s godson, Nico, would have called stressful math.
Adriana looked up. “You’re aware that most couples take eight months to a year to plan an event of that size?”
He leaned back in his chair, the picture of unbothered confidence. “We’re not most couples.”
Bea crossed her legs. “He means we’re delusional. Utterly divorced from reality.”
Adriana opened a logistics spreadsheet, fingers flying. “Alright. We’ll need a venue with privacy, scale, and clearance for media restrictions. Hotels are out; resorts are booked. I can pull options on the east cliffs, though their access road is narrow.”
“I know a place.”
Both women turned to him.
“There’s a beach for the ceremony. We could have marquees for the reception.” Rafael’s arm slipped around her shoulders. “You okay with our house as the venue?”
Our house. So cool, so casual. Like a ten-acre beachfront estate was normal, and brides always had them at their disposal. She smiled. “Sounds great.”
He played with the ends of her hair, then addressed Adriana. “We’ll clear an extra acre by the sand, lay a semi-permanent road in. Power and water lines run close enough from the house for catering.”
Adriana paused mid-note. “You’re proposing to build a temporary wedding site in a month.”
“I’ve already got the crew. Two, actually.”
Without missing a beat, Adriana tapped something on her tablet, already color-coding tasks. Somewhere, an assistant probably fainted. “Theme ideas?”
Rafael turned to her. “This one’s all yours, baby.”
Bea paused, the image already there waiting for her. “I want the ceremony to be at sunset. Have you ever watched Tangled?”
Group Chat: Basketball War Crimes
CLAIRE: Ok so it’s been over a week since we’ve been wedding ON
CLAIRE: Beya Slaya, when exactly are you writing your vows?!
BEA: I have a Notes app file titled “stuff to say before surrendering my entire life”
LAURENT: Just remember, vows must be romantic and legally submissive
RAFAEL: Max is on the legal part
LAURENT: Do we need to talk about your vow tone? I imagine it’s giving blood oath
RAFAEL: That’s because it is
CLAIRE: Can you men at least PRETEND this isn’t a medieval transfer of power?
BEA: It’s fine. I’ve mostly accepted I’m marrying the CEO of Mount Doom
RAFAEL: Do you want a different ring?
BEA: Not unless it glows when you lie
LAURENT: One ring to stake his claim…
CLAIRE: One lawyer to write it
LAURENT: One groom with a god complex
CLAIRE: And a bride who might just like it
BEA: I cannot believe I’m letting you two speak at the wedding
Bea had chosen the font, the acrylic, and the pale blue edge. That didn’t stop her breath from catching when Jaxon pulled it out of the envelope.
The private decision was now public.
This was happening.
“It’s translucent,” Lillian said admiringly, turning it in the light.
Adam tilted his. “It’s practically a mirror. I can see my own reflection wondering what kind of money this man makes.”
Bea sipped lime spritzer. “I’m still pretending Adriana’s catering quotes were satire.”
Jaxon scanned the card with his usual calm. “He talked you into marrying him next month?”
Bea thought back to the morning after he proposed.
The negotiation itself had lasted three minutes, maybe less.
The rest of the time had been spent with Rafael proving that timelines were flexible when leverage was applied in erogenous places.
Heat rolled through her. Five more weeks felt impossible.
Adam leaned back, arms crossed. “You two are either crazy in love or just crazy.”
“Or,” Jaxon said, gaze dropping down to her stomach just long enough to make her scowl.
“Don’t you dare say it,” Bea warned.
“I wasn’t going to.” Bite. Chew. Smirk. Silence.
“You were thinking it,” Bea accused, jabbing her straw toward him like a sword.
Adam coughed. “To be fair, he’s not the only one.”
“You might want to reconsider making that press statement,” Jaxon suggested. “Immaculate conception won’t fly where Griffin’s concerned.”
“I am not pregnant,” Bea gritted out, eyes like slits. “Do you honestly think the only way Rafael could get me to marry him is by knocking me up?”
“It’s only the timeline,” Lillian offered diplomatically.
“And the man’s made no secret he wants a legion,” Adam added.
“To other people?” Bea asked, flustered.
“How many bedrooms are in the house he built you?” Lillian asked.
Bea counted in her head. “Six,” she said slowly. “Eight, if you include the pool house. Twelve, if you count the staff wing.”
The collective brow-lift was so synchronized it could have been rehearsed.
“Did you think he planned to fill them with puppies?” Adam asked wryly.
“We haven’t talked much about kids yet,” she said. Well, there was that time during the proposal he joked about having at least five.
“See, couples usually have that conversation month four,” Jaxon said, deadpan.
Bea lobbed a fry at his face.
“He’s already halfway to naming them all, the way he is with you,” Lillian said, not even suppressing her grin. “With their genetics they'll be so tall you'll need a step-stool to hug them goodnight...but the bright side is they'll snag scholarships so that's tuition covered.”
A beat of silence. Then the two men cracked—low chuckles that made her bristle.
“Congratulations, Lil,” Bea said flatly. “You’re officially demoted to flower girl.”
“Too late.” Lillian tucked the invitation into her bag, patting it. “Claire already circulated a spreadsheet. I’ve got duties.”
“She’s mad with power.” Bea shook her head.
Adam dipped a fry in ketchup. “You realize this wedding is basically a national spectacle, right?”
“Bit dramatic,” Bea said, but her eyes flicked to the entrance. Channing stood with his arms crossed, scanning the room like he expected a camera to appear from the wallpaper. And because one bodyguard wouldn’t satisfy Rafael, Jack was there now, too.
Even in the UR, the land of privacy and elite discretion, you couldn’t drop news of billionaire nuptials and expect the world to look away completely.
Which, in her more generous moods, made perfect sense.
Bea was still learning how to live inside it, and counted on the world’s short attention span to save her after the wedding.
The calls and emails had started almost immediately. Invitations that mostly flooded Rafael’s office, filtered by his team, but enough of them still reached her personally to remind her she wasn’t just engaged: she was news.
Bea hadn’t expected this much interest. Not even close. She was thankful that her face wasn’t everywhere. Rafael wasn’t the kind of man who regularly lived in headlines, and his team were relentlessly protective.
“The invitation’s trending,” Jaxon said flatly. “People are calling it the UR Met Gala. Vacations are being canceled so they can attend.”
Bea groaned. “That’s not what I want to hear.”
Her phone buzzed. A message preview lit the screen.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Hey Beatriz. Oliver Fox here from Fox Hunt.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Congratulations on your engagement to Rafael Griffin.
She exhaled an incredulous laugh. So it had made it all the way to Canada.
Oliver Fox. He’d been on Toronto primetime before Bea was born, then cable, and in the past decade pivoted into long-form interview podcasting. For a while, he’d owned that space. She’d listened to him through late high school and her couple of years at the University of Toronto.
She unlocked her phone.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: I imagine your world has gotten very loud, very fast.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: If you ever want the chance to speak in your own words about your experiences, I’d be glad to offer you space. No pressure.
Bea let herself feel flattered, just for a moment.
I used to watch you from my tiny life, and now you’re texting me.
BEA: Hi Oliver. Thank you.
BEA: I appreciate the message, but I’m not interested in any interviews.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Understood. If things change, let me know.
She set the phone down beside her water glass.
Jaxon leaned forward. “You good with the scale of this?”
Bea bit into her burger. “We’re trying to keep it low.”
“Sure,” he said. “You, Rafael Griffin, and a five-week countdown. Very subtle.”
Bea didn’t have thoughts today. She had tabs. Six open, all important, none of them loading fast enough. A tiny pop-up in the corner read: Try again later. System overwhelmed.
The private training room at Havoc sounded like war prep.
Thuds. Grunts. Grit hitting padded mat. Bea sat on the side, laptop balanced on her thighs and a phone in her hands, triaging between Adriana’s color-coded emails and a multitude of group chats.
Her bun was collapsing in slow stages along with her sanity.
She glanced up in time to see Rafael duck a hook and counter with a sweep that would’ve hospitalized a civilian. Sweat tracked down his spine, darkening the waistband of his training shorts.
Was it rude to stare at your own fiancé and salivate? Too late.
Another email came in from Adriana. She needed confirmation on floral arches vs. column installations. Bea suddenly found that she had no opinion on columns, but also very strong opinions on columns. She chewed the end of her pen, clicked it twice, and kept working through her to-do list.
In front of her, new pairs had formed. Someone grunted in a very is-my-spleen-still-in-there way. She heard a low rumble that was unmistakably Rafael’s. Another heavy impact shook the mat, followed by a muffled curse in French.
“You sure you want to marry that, Bea?” Jerry called out.
She looked up.
Rafael was backlit and shirtless, his torso sculpted like someone for whom clothing was optional.
“I’m very sure,” she said, and meant it.
Her emails pinged again.
Regarding the lantern release, do you have a preference for paper density and glow temperature? Warm amber versus neutral white reads very differently on camera.
Bea pressed a palm to her forehead. Glow temperature? She was trying to recreate a Disney movie. She was one question away from suggesting they elope. Somewhere, a couple was getting married barefoot in a park and thriving.
“Baby.” Rafael’s voice cut through. “Come here.”
“I can’t,” she protested. “I have to choose a white.”
He went to his bag without responding. She watched him pull something out, and when she saw it, her jaw dropped. The Christmas voucher book.
“You brought that to the gym?”
“I bring it everywhere.” He held it up. His thumb tapped one page. Even from here, she could see the words in her own handwriting.
One Hug.
“You’re cashing in now? While you’re marinating in sweat?”
“Yep.” Rafael’s brow lifted. Nearby, someone snickered.
Bea stood reluctantly, setting her laptop down. “If I smell like you at the cake tasting after, I’m blaming you.”
“I accept responsibility.” His voice dropped. “Now come here.”
She crossed the mat straight into his chest and his arms enveloped her, wrapping around her nervous system and telling it to stand down.
The noise in her head went mercifully quiet.
His scent hit her throat, pure Rafael. He murmured something into her hair, but Bea barely heard it over the fact that her body was misreading the moment, lighting up with a desperate enthusiasm that had nothing to do with comfort.
Hug. It’s a hug.
“Adriana’s being paid to suffer. Not you,” she heard, distantly.
Adriana who?
Bea surfaced.
Right. Their wedding planner. She was in a gym, and five men were stretching around them, trying not to intrude on their moment.
“I need to contribute to the wedding somehow,” she whispered, trying to capture a single working neuron.
“Guys, keep going,” Rafael called behind him. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
He guided her to the bench, sat, and pulled her into his lap. The sounds of sparring resumed.
“Tell me.”
It took her a second to remember. She glanced at the mat. “You were busy punching people.”
“Now I’m not.” His hand slid down her side.
She sighed. “I usually love spreadsheets.”
“And today?”
“Today I want to throw my laptop out the window.” She picked at a seam in her dress. “There are so many decisions, and they’re all urgent. Who agreed to this timeline?”
The mat reverberated with a heavy impact, followed by a grunt.
“So let Adriana decide.”
“I could. But I want to do my part.”
Rafael tilted her chin up so he could speak directly into her eyes. “Your part is to show up.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Fair?” he repeated, thumb dragging across her midriff. “For who?”
“You,” she said, as if it were obvious. She fished in her pocket and pulled out a clean tissue, blotting the sweat from his face.
“How is you stressing over napkins ‘fair’ to me?”
“It’s my contribution,” she insisted. “You pay, I make sure we get what we want. Fair.”
“You think I want fair? I just want you.”
He slid both hands around her waist, his fingers meeting easily at the small of her back. Bea went weak in a way she refused to analyze. “I’m already getting everything I want out of this wedding. The part where you walk toward me.”