Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Sun slanted across the long table in the GEP War Room, catching on water bottles and open laptops. Half the cohort had already drifted out; Bea and Jaxon lingered, elbows-deep in data.
Bea scrolled, talking half to herself. “If we adjust the baseline inflation rates for Veldil…”
“Then your projection holds,” Jaxon finished smoothly, tapping his pen.
They fell back into silence, flipping through papers for minutes that felt unending. A printer somewhere hummed.
“Sometimes I ask myself if I’ve accidentally stumbled out of economics and finance into a math or actuarial degree,” she said with a sigh, picking up the paper. His handwriting was as precise as his voice, letters sharp.
“You might be employable at DSF,” he said absently, flipping to a fresh sheet.
Dao Strategic Forensics was his family’s quiet empire—part accounting firm, part compliance consultancy. They specialized in finding what others missed: hidden liabilities, sloppy filings, irregular disclosures. The kind of work that didn’t make headlines, but kept powerful families out of them.
“Yeah, right. Only cum laudes work there.”
One corner of his mouth tilted. “You exaggerate.”
“Says the human calculator.” She slumped back in her chair. “Remind me again why we’re friends? You don’t talk to anyone else.”
He set his pen down neatly. “Most people are noisy.”
“And I’m not?”
“You’re loud,” he confirmed, “but not noisy.”
They continued sifting through data in silence until the room emptied, leaving only the two of them.
Bea capped her pen. “Can I ask you something? Since you’re a friend, and a man, and also one of those legacy types?”
He cocked his head. “Odd criteria.”
“Lucky you, you qualify.”
“Go ahead.”
“I don’t know how to say this without sounding conceited. Like I think I’m more important than I am.” She drummed her fingers on the table, then stopped.
“Bea.” His voice was steady, not unkind. “Spit it out.”
All at once she wanted to crawl out of her skin. Because the past few days had stacked too much on top of her—Rafael fishing beside her father on the sand, Claire’s laughter on the court, her own voice admitting out loud to her parents that he was someone she was considering.
Which only made the guilt harder to ignore.
“What do…people…say? About me.”
This was absurd. She was being absurd. And yet she didn’t take it back.
“People, or men?”
“The latter.” The words scraped her insides.
He tipped his chair back, balancing on two legs. “Besides that you’re hot?”
Her head snapped up. “Don’t joke.”
“Am I?” His expression didn’t shift.
“Jaxon.”
“They call you vetted. No scandals with King. He went to London, you stayed. You kept your mouth shut, so did he,” Jaxon said. “But people still wonder who left who.”
She’d heard the whispers. Some said he chose his empire. Some said she chose her freedom. They didn’t know that in a sense, they were both right. “What difference does it make who left who?”
Jaxon gave a rare grin. “It matters if you left him. King’s a tier-one heir.”
She spun her pen in her fingers.
“Why the sudden need to know what the men think of you?”
It wasn’t…quite that.
It wasn’t really about her at all, not the part that felt guilt. It was about Gage. She didn’t want to be the cause of a blemish on his name. If she continued down this road with Rafael…would people think less of Gage?
Because the more she admitted to herself, the clearer it became: Lillian was right.
Some part of her had always sparked when Rafael was near.
Thinking back, she couldn’t unsee it: the flickers, the lean of her body, the breath she held.
Tiny betrayals of attention she’d buried, ignored, told herself meant nothing.
But they’d existed. And knowing that made her a little sick.
Her voice dropped. “Does it seem…wrong? This whole thing with Rafael?”
Jaxon leaned forward, the two legs of the chair hitting the ground with a dull thud. “Why would it be wrong?”
She rubbed her palms against the edge of the table. “Because I think…some part of me always noticed Rafael. And felt something.”
He didn’t fidget, just sat steady while she unraveled.
“It feels like I betrayed Gage,” she whispered, nausea rising.
“Attraction? That’s betrayal?”
“Isn’t it?” The words came out like a gasp.
Her stomach twisted. The knowledge that she’d felt anything at all made her feel unfaithful in hindsight. Like she’d loved Gage with one hand while keeping something clenched in the other.
Jaxon studied her in silence for what felt like eternity. “Stop punishing yourself. King wouldn’t have kept you if he thought it was more,” he said, frank as ever. “You didn’t act when you were with him. Hell, you’re a year broken up and you’re still hesitating.”
She pressed her nails into her palm, at once grateful and uncomfortable at how much lighter his logic made her feel. It almost sounded like absolution.
He watched her a beat longer, then tipped his chair back again. “This kind of answers one of the other big questions going around.”
“What’s that?”
“What the hell Griffin’s been waiting for.”
The embargo he’d laid on the men of Northgate sprang to mind.
“Put it this way: if you wanted Griffin, King noticed. And if King noticed, Griffin definitely did.”
Her stomach flipped. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“Ask yourself why he’s still waiting. From where we sit, the only variable is you.”
Bea gripped her pen. “You think I’m holding him off.”
“I think guilt’s a hell of a leash,” Jaxon said flatly. “Griffin waits for no one, Bea. Except you. That has an expiry date.”
Bea slumped forward onto the table. “Maybe I should be holding him off. Out of respect for Gage.”
“Sorry but that’s the dumbest, most female line of logic I’ve ever heard.”
Bea let out a shaky laugh at his scowl of male disgust.
“King doesn’t need your pity. And Griffin won’t stomach you keeping a shrine for another man’s honor.”
Her chest tightened. There was nothing she could say to that.
Bea glanced down at her watch. The Cartier that Gage had gifted on her birthday two years ago. She still wore it. “Argh, I’m late.” She stuffed her notes into her bag.
Her stomach was knotted from the conversation, but she forced it down, into the place she buried everything she wasn’t ready to face.
“Go,” Jaxon said simply, already returning to his numbers. He didn’t need a goodbye.
The smell of espresso hit before they even rounded the corner. Her favorite coffee cart always drew a line at this hour, students clutching laptops and whatever scraps of focus they had left.
Claire and her parents were in the queue, serene and untouched by existential crises.
“This better be incredible,” Claire said, catching sight of her. “Because the rest of the campus is, and I’ll be forever disillusioned if it turns out the coffee here sucks.”
Bea slid in beside them. “What did you guys do while I was…studying?” Her voice sounded lighter than she felt, like she’d just painted over the conversation with Jaxon in a fresh coat of casual. But underneath, it still clung.
“Library tour,” Umma said, eyes alight. “I could have stayed forever.”
Her heart gave a small leap, grateful that her Umma—the woman who’d first put stories in her hands—had seen it with her own eyes.
“She did stay forever. We almost didn’t get to walk the whole campus,” Papa said gruffly, but Bea knew he was happy if Umma was.
They nearly reached the front of the line, so she pulled out her black dining card. Claire snatched it from her hand. “Ooo. The Wonka golden ticket, about to be used, in person.”
Umma leaned closer. “We passed a mushroom café. Does this card cover that?”
Bea nodded. “And the alkaline café, and the pescetarian café.”
Papa’s eyes tracked the line, the speed of transactions, the students swiping without breaking stride. “It’s an efficient system.”
“Do you want one?” Bea asked her parents, gesturing toward the board.
“Not for us, thanks,” Umma replied. “I don’t know how you two can drink coffee after three o’clock and still sleep.”
“The question,” Claire said solemnly, “is how we could survive without coffee, Imo.”
The barista spotted Bea and brightened. “Hey, Bea. Oat latte, half sugar?”
“Hey, Lydia. Make it two, please.”
Claire gasped. “You’re on a first-name basis with the barista?”
“Of at least five separate coffee carts,” Bea admitted. “Is that normal?”
“It’s cheaper than therapy.” Claire shrugged.
Group Chat: Basketball War Crimes
BEA: Rafael, can you please add Laurent?
RAFAEL ADDED LAURENT
CLAIRE: As per the terms of the wildly illegitimate and dubious bet, Bea and I owe you dinner
CLAIRE: Discuss your preferences here. For context, remember we’re both half-Korean.
LAURENT: I like anything spicy
CLAIRE: To clarify for the frenchman: dijon mustard does not count as spicy
LAURENT: It does if you know how to handle it
CLAIRE: I don’t even know how to reply to that
BEA: Focus people. Food.
RAFAEL: Impress us. Anything worth serving, we’ll eat.
BEA: Tomorrow night works?
CLAIRE: Since Bea’s parents are busy…
RAFAEL: Mine, too. What are the odds?
BEA: The only problem is I don’t have a kitchen
BEA: Lils has Adam over and they’re cooking
RAFAEL: My place is free
BEA: We can’t do it at your place
RAFAEL: Why not?
LAURENT: Yeah Bea, why not?
CLAIRE: Yeah Bea, why not?
Bea stormed out of the bathroom, phone in one hand, toothbrush in the other, foam threatening to drip. Claire was in her pajamas, head on the wrong end of the bed.
“Not helping, Claire Bear!”
Claire rolled onto her stomach. Her legs kicked up. “What? Just asking.”
Both their phones pinged at the same time. Bea peeked down.
RAFAEL: Why don’t you want to come over, little Bea?
Her pulse tripped over itself. Every self-preservation instinct screamed: trap, trap, trap.
“Ooo he’s daring you,” Claire said. “You gonna let him know you’re scared?”
“I’m not scared of going to Rafael’s house.”
“Because, you know, his bed lives there and all…” Claire grinned.
“Oh my…” Bea walked back into her ensuite, spat toothpaste into the sink, and rinsed.
She stared herself down in the mirror. She was an adult. She paid taxes. She could cook in Rafael Griffin’s kitchen without accidentally falling in love with him. Probably.
“Fine.”
BEA: Send the address. We’ll be there at six.
RAFAEL: Good girl.