Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Incoming call: Rafael
Bea’s heart stopped.
Her brain immediately started offering up options: ignore it and perish later of regret, answer and perish now of perturbation, or throw the phone into the nearest body of water and start a new life under a different name.
This was the first time he’d ever called her—called, not cornered her in a hallway, not pinned her with a stare. His voice was about to be in her ear.
The phone buzzed again in her hand. She was running out of rings.
She swiped. “Hello?”
“What are you doing?”
Ugh. That voice. Familiar, rich, rumbly. But this time, without the distraction of his face, she discovered how seductive it was all on its own.
“Planning,” she replied.
“For?”
She tapped her pen against her notebook. “My best friend from Toronto and my parents are coming to the UR in a few weeks. I’m making lists. Places to take them, things to do.”
“Nice. Any occasion?”
“My birthday,” she admitted.
Instant regret. Why had she said that? Now he knew. It was lodged somewhere in that brain of his where timing and cunning dwelt together.
The pause on his side confirmed he’d filed that tidbit away. “Where are you planning to take them?”
She rattled off some of the places on her list: St. Ives and Northgate, of course; the secret beach near Southgate; a scenic lookout her computer lockscreen had once switched to.
“You don’t have transport,” he said when she finished.
“I’ll figure it out.”
“How about I drive?” he offered. “Even better: I’ll be your tour guide.”
Her pen slipped from her fingers. Her heart did a weird two-step. He could not be serious. “That’s…I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Not because she didn’t want him there. Part of her wanted nothing more. But because she could already feel what it would do to her nerves, being trapped in a car with him, watching him watching her. They’d only just started this not-quite-friends trial days ago.
“Why not?”
Yeah, Bea, why not? her mind taunted. You’re already imagining what you’ll wear.
“It’s not convenient for you. And they’re only here for a week, so I’m playing truant from work.”
“I’ll join you. I love truanting.”
Why did that sound sexy when it came from him?
“You can’t just…skip work.”
“Actually, I can when I want to. And I want to.”
Her chest cinched like a pulled knot. He wanted to skip work to ferry her, Claire, and her parents to tourist spots. He wanted to insert himself into her plans, her family, her birthday.
The walls she’d built didn’t feel sturdy enough for that. She should say no. She opened her mouth to say no.
“Is this something a friend would do?” His question slid, smooth as silk, through the line.
Oh, he was enjoying this. Her lips betrayed her, tugging upward into the beginning of a smile. Warmth bloomed where resistance had been, spreading through her ribs, traitorous and unstoppable.
“It borders on…overly friendly,” she managed.
“Would you say yes if Dao were offering?”
Checkmate.
Her whole body lit with anticipation, tingling like he’d just touched her.
He was going to meet Claire. Her parents. She had a sinking feeling Papa was going to love him. The beer-in-hand, casual-strength, workman’s-confidence thing? Exactly Papa’s type.
“Rafael—” She tried again to think of a way to dissuade him. Or herself.
“That a yes?”
She shut her eyes. This is how it starts.
Abort. End the call. Say no.
Last chance, Bea.
Instead, she made a small sound. It could have been agreement. It could have been surrender. Either way, Rafael heard what he wanted.
“I’ll take that as yes.” His tone held the satisfaction of a man who’d won the point clean.
RAFAEL
Rafael closed the folder in front of him, the blueprint still illuminating the wall screen. A ribbon of glass and steel climbing sixty stories over the reclaimed waterfront of Northgate. A flagship tower, half commercial and retail, half luxury apartments.
Laurent leaned back in his chair, tie loosened. “The secondary lenders want comfort. They’ll put up the money, but they’re asking why GV won’t just build and walk away. Take the margin.”
“They know we build and hold,” Max said. “That’s the model. Construction plus equity plus lease management.” His tone was as matter-of-fact as the contracts he lived in.
Rafael let his gaze rest on the render a moment longer. His father had taught him early: anyone could pour concrete. The real game was ownership that lasted. Deeds that outlived men.
He leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Offer them a stake in the retail podium and the bottom section of the apartments.”
Laurent’s mouth tugged. “It gives them a headline, something to wave around.”
“Exactly. The upper apartments, offices, and management contracts stay ours,” Rafael said. “They’ll take the quick reward. We’ll take the long one. Everyone walks out thinking they’ve won.”
He could already see clauses being mapped in Max’s eyes. “We’ll structure their exit at ten years. By then the tower’s stabilized, the returns are proven, and you’ll have three more in the pipeline. They cash out, you hold.”
That was the difference between a builder and a dynasty.
They stepped out into the corridor, the hum of the boardroom fading behind them. Rafael slid his jacket over his shoulders. Laurent fell in step on his left, Max on his right, coffee in hand.
“You’re almost cheerful,” Laurent observed as they passed the bullpens. “It can’t be the lenders, they’re dull as drywall. Bea?”
Rafael adjusted the folder in his hands. “She said yes to something.”
“Progress at last, mon vieux. I was beginning to think you’d have a twilight romance. Candlelight vigils until you both turn to dust.”
Max chuckled. “For a man who can close a nine-figure tower in a matter of months, the years-long project is the girl.”
Rafael said nothing, but the memory flared: her voice over the phone—undecided, but yielding. He’d coaxed, and this time she’d given him exactly what he’d asked for. Satisfaction settled in his chest like banked coals.
They reached the lift. Laurent pressed the call button with his knuckle, glancing sideways. “So how’d you do it? The Griffin charm finally worked?”
“I said we could be friends.” His tone held irony.
Laurent barked a laugh. “You? Friends with Bea Cruz? That’s psychological warfare.”
“Necessary compromise.”
“Careful,” Laurent snorted. “Men die in that purgatory.”
Rafael smirked. “She won’t like it as much as she thinks.”
He thought of every moment he’d stood near her: in the earlier days of her breakup, her waist trembling in the span of his hands; when he’d moved his hips against her on the dancefloor at Azur and she couldn’t help but answer back; the quick clench of her thighs when he’d pinned her on the mat.
She didn’t want his friendship. What she wanted was the space to pretend he wasn’t a threat. He could give her that much for now.
“But what if she does? You’ll let her cling to the farce?”
“Three quarters of a beachside fortress says no,” Max said, gesturing with his cup.
Rafael’s mouth curved as the doors slid open. They stood with their backs to separate mirrored walls.
“That’s another thing. What if she hates the place?” Laurent prodded.
Rafael didn’t miss a beat. “Then I’ll build her another.”
Laurent laughed outright. “And I thought my countrymen were extravagant.”
Max sipped his coffee. “The French are romantic. Westhavians are inevitable.”
When Rafael returned to his office, contracts waited in stacked ranks across his desk. Paperwork wasn’t glamorous, but neither were foundations poured in mud or drills at dawn, and he’d long ago accepted both.
His assistant Mark gave a curt knock before entering, tablet in hand. Broad, steady, the kind of man who could brief a deal while catching a kick. “Philippines team wants an introductory call today. You want me to tell them we’ll slot it between bruises?”
Rafael’s gaze flicked to the tally board that hung on the glass wall. “Last I checked, you still owe me two bruises.”
Mark set the tablet on the edge of the desk. “One. Tuesday was a draw.”
Beyond the glass that divided his office between corporate and combat, heavy bags swayed groggily in the air-conditioning, silent conspirators in his routine.
“What are we betting for?” Mark asked.
“Loser drafts the follow-up memo.”
He gave a short grunt, already turning back toward the door. “Then I’m fighting for my life.”
Rafael gave a bark of laughter, then bent over the contracts again. His phone pinged.
NICO: Yo, can you help me out?
EL JEFE: What do you need?
NICO: An extension.
EL JEFE: For what?
NICO: Bea wants this stupid essay done by tomorrow. Thinking we push it to next week.
EL JEFE: What’s the excuse?
NICO: Do I need one?
EL JEFE: You’re asking for a favor.
NICO: What if I just tell her that deadlines are negotiable?
EL JEFE: Everything is negotiable. Convince her.
NICO: And if she says no?
EL JEFE: Then either you came without leverage, or she was holding all of it.
Fifteen minutes later, as his pen struck clean through a clause, another ping.
NICO: She’s immune to negotiation. What now?
EL JEFE: You do the damn essay.
Nico’s name popped up once more, five minutes later. Relentless pup. Of course he had one more idea.
NICO: What if I bring her a croissant? She loves those.
EL JEFE: Bring her a croissant without the essay and she’ll eat it at your funeral.
NICO: Probs would. She’s little but she’s scary.
Nico sprawled across the table like a condemned man, textbook open, highlighter bleeding neon across the page.
“This,” he groaned, stabbing his pen at the page, “is cruel and unusual punishment.”
“It’s called practice,” Bea said, flipping through his outline. “And it’s the only thing standing between you and a mediocre grade.”
“Why do I need to know who fought who three hundred years ago?”
“Because you picked history,” she answered ironically, jotting corrections in the margin. “Don’t start with Napoleon if you don’t want to sound cliché. Now sit up.”
He slumped farther, chin practically on the desk. “I’m reporting you to the UN.”
“I don’t think they have jurisdiction here.” She pushed the notebook back toward him. “Thesis statement, then evidence. Focus, future officer.”
He peered at her, seeing if she meant it. She stared back at him, no trace of mockery in her expression. Determination finally sparked in his brown eyes, the kind Rafael dragged out of him on the court.
He sat up and started writing.
Bea’s phone buzzed. She glanced down.
UMMA: Do I need to bring kimchi with me?
CLAIRE BEAR: Yes please, bring a whole suitcase. I’m not surviving nine days without it.
BEYA SLAYA: You know we have food here too, right?
UMMA: Is it good food?
CLAIRE BEAR: Forget food. I want to see hot billionaire men in their natural habitat. Do I need binoculars?
UMMA: You need church.
Bea smothered a laugh, thumbs flying.
BEYA SLAYA: Just pack normal clothes. Light layers. Comfortable shoes. That’s it.
CLAIRE BEAR: You mean no gowns? No tiaras? What kind of fantasy kingdom is this?
UMMA: Bring nice shoes. You never know when someone will invite you to dance.
“Who’s making you smile like that?” Nico asked suspiciously.
“Claire and my mom,” Bea said, shoving her phone face down.
She was about to nudge his notebook toward him when she noticed the tape. A strip of athletic wrap wound around two fingers, the skin across his knuckles scraped raw.
Bea tapped the desk next to his hand. “Highlighters bite back?”
Nico glanced down and grinned proudly. “It’s from Krav Maga.”
“Since when do you do Krav Maga?”
“Since basketball season’s over and El Jefe said it was time,” he said, straightening. “He organized for me and the team to train every day with him or one of the guys from Havoc.”
“Daily seems a lot. Can you manage with all you’ve got going on for school?”
Nico shrugged. “I’ve always done twelve hours a week of basketball anyway. I just couldn’t risk letting the team down by injuring my golden shooting hand.”
“Fair. It won you the game.” Bea smiled.
“You know it,” Nico bragged. “Anyway, El Jefe says it’ll give us a head start for military service, so we don’t get chewed up.”
It made sense. Service was mandatory, and Rafael was right to prepare them, yet the sight of bruises across Nico’s hands made it all feel too close. He was only eighteen.
Bea’s throat tightened. “Are you nervous?”
He bounced in his chair, cracking his knuckles with relish. “Nervous? Please. I’ve been training with El Jefe. The military should be nervous about me.”
Bea laughed outright, shaking her head. “If I could bottle your confidence, I’d sell it for millions.”
Nico grinned. Then his gaze sharpened, quick as a pass on the court. “You like him, don’t you.”
She tried not to stutter. “Who, exactly?”
“El Jefe.” Nico said it like it was obvious, like he’d been waiting to call her out. “You looked at him during the championship. In the MVP room. Every girl at school looks at him that way, but you”—he jabbed his pen at her—“did it every time he wasn’t looking at you.”
She could feel her dignity sliding south fast. “You’re imagining things.”
“Uh-huh.” Nico leaned back. “Please. I’m a shooting guard. Reading eyes is what I do.”
“Write, Nico.” The notebook was flipped back to him.
“Admit it and I’ll give you three paragraphs, tutor-lady.”
She gaped. “That’s blackmail.”
“It’s negotiation,” he shot back, triumphant. “El Jefe says everything is.”
Bea reached into her bag and pulled out a box of his favorite almond crush Pocky. His eyes widened like Pavlov’s dog. “Here’s my negotiation.”
“Fine,” Nico said, still grinning as he scribbled something down. Then, like he couldn’t help himself: “FYI, he likes you too. Boom.”
Her brain blue-screened. “What?”
His brown eyes glinted. “But hey, if you don’t like him, then you don’t care why his godson of ten years knows he likes you…right?”
Bea’s eyes narrowed. “Shut up and do your homework.”
He bent over the page, far too patronizing for a kid who still begged her to bake choc-peanut-butter protein bars.
And then, because she felt guilty for being mean to him, she slid a handful of Pocky sticks across the table. She knew better than to hand over just one. Nico treated that kind of rationing as a war crime. He accepted the peace offering without missing a beat, munching happily.
She wanted to scruff his hair. Tell him he was doing a great job; that he’d come so far already. Instead, she let it sit in her ribs—pride, protectiveness, and the absurd realization that in a place full of billionaires, her greatest windfall might just be a little brother.