Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Of all the things involved in publicly humiliating a man on the internet, the makeup was the strangest.
Bea held herself motionless while a stranger brushed shimmer across her cheekbones. Studio lights burned overhead, turning the small prep room into a furnace. Which was just fine with her because she got cold when she was nervous.
“Almost done,” the woman said, stepping back to examine her work.
Bea’s knee bounced hard enough to shake the chair. Above the waist, she looked composed. Below it she was pure fight-or-flight. She studied her reflection.
This is fine. You’re fine.
Not entirely true, but it steadied her long enough to remember what Rafael had drilled into her: the audience aligns with certainty.
The audience.
They were expecting ten thousand. More people than had ever watched her do anything. Ever.
She had invited this. The same way she’d asked for ten weeks of abstinence before the wedding. And that dawn loukoumádes cooking session with Yiayia. Bea was beginning to suspect she might genuinely be a masochist.
Two weeks earlier she had emailed Oliver Fox. If the public wanted her story, they could hear it from her. If she was going to do it, it would be with him.
He had replied in fourteen minutes. Honored. Reading between the lines, the man had been practically vibrating.
Her phone buzzed.
CLAIRE BEAR: Watching. GET HIM, BEYA SLAYA
CLAIRE BEAR: P.S. Please don’t start a war with Canada until I’ve moved to the UR
UMMA: Remember to breathe.
PAPA: The truth is on your side. We are here.
Bea stared at the messages for a moment.
Then the group chat lit up. The messages stacked one after another, bright and cheerful, like people gathering along the edge of a cliff to watch what happened next.
Group Chat: Therapy Club
LILLIAN: We’re online. I made peppermint tea. I’m nervous and I don’t even know why.
GEORGINA: Look at you becoming a global situation. Go Bey!
ISABEL: I’ve poured wine just in case. You were so cryptic.
NAOMI: Charles wants to know if he needs to prepare a statement.
The makeup artist capped her lipstick. “Fantastic.”
Bea slid off the chair. “Thank you. I’m hoping fantastic translates to ‘not visibly sweating.’”
Through the door, the temporary studio buzzed with activity. They had converted a Northgate hotel’s event hall into a broadcast space. Oliver had suggested filming at the Fox Hunt studio in Vancouver. Rafael ended that discussion in ten seconds flat.
The rest of the terms had been negotiated just as carefully.
The technical crew came from an independent production company.
The interview would be livestreamed instead of pre-recorded.
Oliver had agreed immediately. Livestream fed the algorithm.
His numbers would be safe. A camera set up by Jack and Channing would record the entire conversation for what they politely called “archival purposes.”
An operator adjusted the tripods on the polished floor. The bank of monitors near the control desk glowed like a row of witnesses. A large screen displayed the moderated chat feed. Bea made the mistake of glancing at it.
The viewer count already read two hundred and fifteen thousand. Bea blanched. Terror shot through her. For a moment she was frozen on the spot like her brain just hit Ctrl+Alt+Delete and was asking if she wanted to restart in safe mode.
She searched the room until she found him.
Rafael stood just beyond the camera line, arms folded across his chest, wearing a black suit with no tie.
Even thirty feet away, she felt him like a second spine.
She wasn’t facing this alone. Nothing truly bad was going to happen to her.
Not while Rafael Griffin was standing there.
Their eyes met. He didn’t smile. Her lungs finally filled.
Along the walls, Channing, Jack, Cain, and Voss watched everything.
The comments were already racing across the screen.
Wait…Oliver Fox still pulls guests like THIS??
I bet she’s even prettier live omg
Is it weird how excited I am to "meet" her?
Haven’t watched him in YEARS but I’m here for this
Oliver stood near the interview table, notebook in hand, speaking quietly with his producer. His pinstripe suit was cut within an inch of aristocracy, hair perfectly styled. He noticed her and brightened instantly, wandering over.
Bea might be imagining it, but his smile had a faintly salivating quality.
“Hello,” he greeted. “How are you feeling?”
About to puke, thanks.
She licked her lower lip. “Nervous.”
His smile had the easy warmth of a favorite uncle. “You’ll be great.”
He gestured toward the set. Two chairs faced each other across a round table that held microphones and water glasses. The background was minimal: matte charcoal wall, subtle Fox Hunt branding.
Bea walked over, and settled into the chair. Oliver took the seat opposite her, adjusting his cufflinks.
One of the producers stepped forward. “Standard format. Oliver introduces, then conversation. Live chat will be visible but don’t focus on it.” He looked up at the board. “We’re nearly at three hundred thousand viewers and we’re not even rolling.”
“Wonderful.” He picked up his glass, brushed his hair to the side in the reflection, then set it down again.
Bea nodded mutely.
Her phone buzzed again in her lap.
MAX: Mirror feed ready.
JAXON: Files queued for release.
From the floor: “Thirty seconds.”
Every survival instinct in her body voted strongly for running.
Oliver leaned toward her slightly, voice dropping. “Don’t worry, there will be no mention of anything…unpleasant,” he reassured her.
The cameraman counted down silently with his fingers.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Her heart was hammering hard enough she was sure the microphones would pick it up.
Two.
The red light linked to the studio cameras flicked on.
“We’re live.”
Oliver turned to the camera as if he had been born in front of it. “Good evening,” he began smoothly. “Tonight on a very special episode of Fox Hunt, we’re joined by Beatriz Griffin.”
Bea folded her hands in her lap. Beneath the nausea, something else was waking up. A thin, electric clarity. The same feeling she’d had the night of the IGNITE presentation all those years ago.
She wasn’t calm. She was sharp. That was enough.
“The recent marriage between Bea and Rafael Griffin has captivated audiences across the United Republic and beyond. Bea’s journey into one of Westhaven’s most prominent families has been described by many as something of a modern fairy tale.”
He turned toward her. “Bea, thank you for being here.”
“Thank you for inviting me.”
His tone softened, almost avuncular. “You’ve had a remarkable few years.
New country, new career, new husband.” He gestured, pen in hand.
“It must have been quite a culture shock for you given your parents are just a librarian and portside worker. Did you ever imagine your life would look like this?”
Bea released a quiet breath. “Not remotely.”
“You were a scholarship student who transferred as a junior to St. Ives University.” He studied her. “Some might say you’ve been extraordinarily fortunate with the men who’ve taken an interest in you. Gage King was your first beau, correct?”
She had expected it. Hearing it aloud was something else. Her training kicked in. Every panel, every presentation, every moment she’d wanted to faint in public and somehow hadn’t. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Some people have wondered,” Oliver said mildly, “whether you would be Mrs. King today instead of Mrs. Griffin, if Gage King hadn’t moved to London two years ago?”
Again, anticipated. Again, way worse than when she’d said it in her head.
Bea paused to compose herself. “I think anyone who’s been in a serious relationship knows you can’t speculate about the past that way. It’s not helpful.”
“But surely you can try to imagine.”
“I have the deepest respect and admiration for Mr. King, and nothing to reproach him with.” Her fingernails made crescents in her palms. “But I think your audience understands something very basic about love.”
Oliver was the picture of an attentive interviewer. “And what’s that?”
“Sometimes the timing simply isn’t right.”
Oliver’s lips curved, as if indulging something quaint.
“Fair enough. And anyway, you were able to find your ‘happy ever after,’” he segued.
“While I was in Westhaven I spoke with several St. Ives alumni who described your husband, Rafael Griffin, as one of the most driven men of his generation.” He tapped his notebook with his pen.
“What was it like realizing that man was interested in you?”
Bea glanced briefly toward the camera line. Rafael hadn’t moved an inch.
“Alarming,” she said with a small grin.
The crew laughed. Oliver glanced briefly at the number in the corner. Viewers had passed five hundred thousand. She saw the satisfaction in his blue eyes.
“Alarming?”
“At first.” Bea took a sip of water. “And then reassuring. Rafael has a way of making you braver than you thought you were.”
“That’s unexpected, considering the rumors about marriage in the UR.”
“Oh? What do they say?” Bea asked.
“Some critics say marriage in the UR resembles…ownership. Do you ever feel restricted?”
Bea glanced once more at Rafael. Faced the camera dead-on, with real amusement on her face. “All I can say is he’s doing a very poor job of controlling me. Because here I am, speaking for myself.”
“True,” Oliver conceded. And then it came. The opening she’d been waiting for. “I’m glad you trusted me with your story.”
Bea’s smile was slow. “Trust.” She repeated the word as if testing its weight. “That’s an interesting way to describe what happened.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, you didn’t exactly give me a choice.”
Oliver’s smile held, but he was gripping the pen hard. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“You approached me with leverage, remember?”
Behind the cameras, someone stopped typing. Rafael and the bodyguards straightened.
Oliver chuckled, the sound of a man humoring a misunderstanding. “I think that’s a rather dramatic way to describe a journalistic inquiry.”
“Is it?” she feigned confusion. “I’m here because you showed me photos you said would become public. Images made to look both suggestive and embarrassing.”
For a moment Oliver’s composure faltered. She wasn’t meant to refer to them, that was clear. Then he waved a hand. “Well, but that’s—”
“And then you offered me an interview.”
“That’s not—” Another pause. “That’s how interviews happen sometimes.”
On the chat screen:
THAT'S HOW INTERVIEWS HAPPEN???
Bro that is literally blackmail
Tell me he didn’t just say that
uhhhh pretty sure that’s textbook NOT how you’re meant to get an interview
Oliver leaned back. “Women who marry powerful men often discover that public interest comes with the territory.”
“Did you trace the source of the material?” Bea asked point-blank.
His jaw tightened ever so slightly. “We were in the process of—”
Vibrations skittered over the control desk. The crew all across the floor were pulling out their phones. Her eyes flicked to Rafael. He gave the faintest nod, and prowled forward, stopping just outside the camera frame. Close enough if she needed him.
“Because we did.”
Oliver’s expression finally slipped.
His producer jumped up so fast the chair behind him toppled, slashing a hand across his throat at Oliver in a universal gesture: Kill the interview. Now.
Oliver glanced toward the viewer count. It had jumped to nearly eight hundred thousand. He hesitated.
Your numbers are so high, Oliver.
Then the chat exploded.
GUYS WHAT JUST DROPPED
Link to: DAO STRATEGIC FORENSICS REPORT
Link to: GRIFFIN VENTURES STATEMENT LIVE
The UR are investigating him for blackmail!!!
are we sure??? this feels like finding out your dad has a second family
His producer dropped all subtlety and started shouting, “Cut the feed! Cut the feed now!”
The red light died.
Bea looked back at Oliver. And smiled.
The color on his face ignited from cool bronze to a vivid red, like a lobster meeting boiling water for the first time. “You set me up.”
“I set you up?” It was her turn to lean back in her chair, steadying her jaw against the urge to chatter. “You wanted this interview, Oliver. An interview with a Griffin.”
“Everyone wants a Griffin interview,” Oliver snapped.
“But Leon and Selene Griffin wouldn’t give you one.”
“How did you—” He stopped himself. His lips drew a thin, tight line. “That’s not relevant.”
“You asked them right after their daughter died. The same year you were fired.”
Something ugly flashed across his face. “You should think very carefully about what you say next. Defamation works both ways.”
Rafael stepped forward and closed Oliver’s notebook with two fingers. “You’re confusing this place with Canada.”
“Did you think I was the easy target?” she quipped, as Rafael stood behind her chair.
Oliver sneered. “You don’t even understand how your world works. People with this level of wealth inevitably become public property. I don’t make reality, I just use it.”
Bea looked left and right, as if she were embarrassed for him. “You heard yourself, right? You just said the quiet part out loud.” She jutted her chin toward the doors. “The Ministry of Domestic Security is outside.” His head snapped over. “They have questions. So does the internet.”
Rafael pointed toward the second camera. Oliver looked.
“That one,” Bea murmured. Jack stood behind it, and waved. “It started streaming the moment your producer killed the feed.”