Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Twenty-four was shaping up to be her best birthday yet.
Dark walls, glowing screens, sushi wreckage. A lone tempura floated in someone’s wineglass.
Claire was mid-serenade of Naomi, while Georgina howled with laughter. Between choruses, Hunter and Charles argued about fiscal policy. Isabel’s director boyfriend, Dante, was gamely embracing his first karaoke experience.
Across the room, Rafael sat beside Laurent, who lazily flipped through a songbook.
One forearm was slung over the couch, his thumb moving distractedly over the glass in his other hand.
His gaze landed on Jaxon and cooled by degrees.
Jaxon, posture just shy of military, was nodding politely, in conversation with Papa and Umma.
Lillian, who had masterminded the surprise, was curled against Adam.
Was it awkward? Of course. But she’d known Bea would want them both there anyway.
Rafael’s green eyes met hers.
And oh, he was unfair in this light. The open collar framing the strong column of his throat, the shift of his Adam’s apple. The kind of jaw you wanted to run your thumb along, just to see if he’d let you.
Her skin responded to him in secret places. Beneath her bra strap. The hollow of her spine. The space around her navel where her body still remembered his hands pressing.
This week he’d been warm instead of scorching. Friendly. Almost maddeningly good. Not fake, just…contained. He’d scaled himself back to the outline she’d told him she could handle.
That incident in his kitchen had made it clear: she didn’t want the outline anymore. She wanted the version of him drawn in bold. The one that bled past the edges. She just needed the courage and opportunity to communicate that to him.
Claire clapped her hands, capturing Bea’s attention. “Okay! Time for the birthday girl to remind us why I dubbed her Beya Slaya.”
The mic was thrust into her hand.
“No—”
“Yes,” said Umma, eyes bright. “We’ve been waiting all night.”
“Sing for your old man,” Papa said, patting her back.
Her face flamed as she rose, adjusting her skirt and pretending this wasn’t a nightmare and dream colliding.
Rafael leaned forward. She could almost hear it: Show me, little Bea.
Past Bea might’ve made an excuse. But tonight, surrounded by the people who knew her best, people she loved, she felt the spark rise.
Alright. I will.
She scanned the songs for something fun. Found something she could groove to. Pressed play.
Claire shrieked like a groupie. “Beyoncé?! Beya Slaya is back.”
She clicked in with the opening bars, the spotlight hot. But it was his gaze that set her alight. Whatever hesitation she’d had dissolved in the beat, in the melody. Her body snapped to rhythm. Her heart was in the moment.
She hit the chorus hard enough that Georgina slapped the table and Laurent whistled, two fingers in his mouth. She spun once, dropped a shoulder, hit the high note and held. The room roared.
When it ended, she struck a diva pose, and blew a kiss over her shoulder to Claire.
Hands pounded on tabletops, shouts rebounded off the walls, and someone clinked a wine bottle with a fork like it was a cowbell.
She hadn’t sung like that in years. Not since she’d come to the UR armed with her scholarship and she’d somehow taught herself the mantra: earn your place, keep your place.
She’d been herself here, but mostly the parts that felt curated enough to pass.
Tonight, in this room, it felt like the rest of her was reawakening.
“What the hell are you doing in finance?” Georgie demanded when Bea handed off the mic, Claire tackling her in a hug.
Lillian passed her a bottle of water like she was a tour manager. “I should’ve charged for tickets.”
“My family could build a show around you, Bey. Just say the word,” Isabel said.
Bea beamed so hard it hurt.
“Glad I let you have that salmon tart,” Jaxon said mildly. “That was my entry fee.”
“Generosity always gives back.” She laughed.
At last she risked a peek across the table at Rafael.
He was leaning back, eyes lit, mouth curved, as though her performance had indulged him in some private way.
The pleasure sat at the corner of his mouth: pride, praise, enjoyment.
She couldn’t parse it, but whatever it was, it left her stomach in knots.
She turned to her father, and sat next to him.
“You happy, mija?” he asked, his thumb brushing her wrist.
“I am, Papa.”
He put his arm around Bea on one side, Umma on the other. “Good. That’s all I want. My girls, happy and loved.”
They’d spoken more fully earlier about the night before. Her parents thought the Griffins impressive yet familiar, the kind of people who made dinner feel less like an introduction and more like catching up with old friends.
Here, now, Papa added more: “You know, Rafael’s father asked me how often a man should be home for dinner. I told him, always if he can help it.”
Bea’s chest tightened. “Papa…”
Umma touched Bea’s knee lightly. “He said he raised his son the same.”
“That’s the part that matters to us, mija. The rest—money, contracts—they’re pleasures, but not true riches.”
She surveyed the room, heart full. Leaned her head against his shoulder, held her mother’s hand. “I’ve always been rich.”
Northgate International buzzed around them. Families clustered near luggage scales, flight boards blinked, boarding announcements crackling over speakers.
Bea stood near the security gates, clutching her mother like it would stop time. Nine days had come and gone.
Claire wiped her eyes, scowling. “I hate this airport. I hate these carts. I hate real life.”
“Remember to drink water. And wear a jacket on the plane,” Bea instructed.
“I have been on a plane before, Beya Slaya,” Claire said, eyes bleary.
“Don’t cry, Claire,” Papa said with a grunt. “You’ll set off your Imo.”
“Too late,” Umma said, already dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “Take care, sweet girl. See you at Christmas.”
“I love you, Umma.”
Bea let go of her umma only to be embraced by her papa. His hug lasted three seconds but she’d feel it for days. “Look after yourself, mija.”
“I love you, Papa.”
Then he turned to Rafael, offering a firm shake. “Keep watch of her.”
Bea felt those words in her chest.
“I will, sir,” Rafael said simply.
Claire slammed into him like a linebacker. “Thanks for not being a rich-people weirdo.”
Rafael’s hand braced her back in return. “See you soon, Claire.”
“Maybe Christmas?” Claire said, with a cheeky little smile.
One of Rafael’s eyebrows curled upward. “Let’s see.”
Umma stepped forward next, pulled him into a quick hug. “Thank you for everything. And please send our thanks to your parents.”
“I will, ma’am.”
Bea watched as they walked toward security. A final glance over shoulders, waving hands—before the trio was swallowed into the stream of passengers.
And then it was just the two of them, standing in the warm light of the Northgate terminal. Her family had left. The reason he’d been a daily presence, and yet also the buffer between them.
“Come on, little Bea. I’ll take you home.”
The valet drove up with the Urus. Soon enough she’d slid in, shoes off before Rafael even closed the door behind her. It suddenly occurred to her how easily she moved around him now. How many times she’d done this without thinking.
The air shifted when he got in: awkward, electric. She was sure he felt it too. The friendship was fraying. The mask was slipping. And so was she.
“Thank you,” she said, biting her lip, watching the city lights sweep across his face as he pulled into the lane. “You made this week easier.”
“That was the goal.” His thumb tapped once on the wheel. “Check the glove box.”
“Why?”
“Your birthday present’s inside.”
Her brows drew in, but she opened it. Found a white envelope with her name handwritten across the front.
Two tickets fell into her palm.
Arctic Monkeys.
For a second, she forgot to breathe. The paper shook between her fingers.
“Rafael.” Just his name, but the whole car vibrated with it. “These were gone in five minutes. How did you pull this off?”
“I know people,” he said casually. Then, “but they come with conditions.”
She clutched the envelope as if he might try to snatch it away. “Conditions? You villain.”
“Do you want the tickets?”
“Obviously! What kind of monster wouldn’t—”
“Then listen.”
She shut her mouth.
“First,” he said, eyes still on the road, “you go with me.”
Butterflies went feral inside her. “Okay. What’s condition two?”
“We go back to how it was before. I want you to know me as I am so you can decide. Not the safe version.”
Her heart gave a full-bodied lurch. She didn’t say anything right away. Didn’t trust her voice. Because she knew what he meant. Not the version who made space. The version who seized it.
Jaxon’s voice came to mind. Griffin waits for no one, Bea. Except you. That has an expiry date.
They braked at a traffic light. His green eyes caught hers. “So what’s it gonna be, little Bea? Still playing friends—or ready for real?”
Her pulse thudded in her ears, but for once she didn’t dodge.
“Real,” she said, voice thinner than she wanted. She cleared her throat, then tried again, stronger this time. “I’m ready for real.”
The sides of his mouth lifted, tongue touching briefly against his top teeth before the grin broke free, bold and unguarded. She stared out the window instead of at him, but she was smiling, too.
The curtain swept shut, and the whole audience surged to its feet.
Bea was already standing, palms stinging as she clapped, throat hoarse from shouting Georgina’s name. Isabel whistled like a cabbie, Naomi clapped with campaign-rally ferocity, and Lillian dabbed at her eyes, muttering, “I should’ve waterproofed.”
Kroon Zaal blazed around them from the light of chandeliers and balconies dripping gold.
The curtain parted: Georgina in the spotlight, curls damp, cheeks flushed with triumph.
Her bow was pure theatre. This ovation belonged to her talent, not her surname. Even the critics, Bea noticed with fierce delight, had dropped their pens to clap. Her first lead, and she’d eaten it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Bea’s chest swelled with pride as the roar swelled impossibly louder.
Georgie lifted a hand against the glare, spotted them in the front row, expression wicked. She strode forward, reached into her pocket, and produced a fistful of contraband candy. A hailstorm of Reese’s and Hershey’s Kisses came raining down on them.
Naomi caught one midair. Isabel shrieked as chocolate ricocheted off her chest. Lillian dove for a rogue Reese’s.
Bea laughed so hard her stomach cramped.
Of course Georgie had smuggled their requested treats into her Southgate debut.
Bea half suspected she’d bullied wardrobe into tailoring pockets for the stunt.
They raised their candy in a one-armed salute. Georgina grinned before stepping back into the closing curtain.
“Iconic,” Isabel declared, mouth already full.
“Every show should end like this,” Lillian said, carefully unwrapping hers.
“Good thing she got the miniatures,” Bea giggled.
“Backstage,” Naomi ordered, eyes gleaming. “Now.”
Arms full of bouquets, coats, and candy, the girls squeezed down the narrow hall under the watchful eyes of ushers and security. The air smelled of roses and makeup powder.
They rapped on Georgina’s door.
It flew open and Georgie—still half in costume, eyeliner smudged—shrieked and launched herself at them. Bouquets collapsed in the crush, petals went flying. Everyone squished her at once.
“You’re suffocating me,” Georgie wheezed.
“You stole everyone’s breath,” Bea declared into foliage. “It’s only fair.”
“I almost puked in the wings,” Georgina confessed, still breathless, as they all settled deeper into the room. “Hands shaking, lines gone. Then I saw my girls in the front row and thought, It’s fine. If I bomb, I’ll jump into their arms and we’ll start a commune.”
They collapsed into helpless laughter.
“You were superb,” Isabel sighed. “I’m coming again with Dante.”
“Ooo.” Naomi added their flowers to the pile that kept increasing in the room. “Your play is about to be optioned for streaming.”
“I’ve watched so many shows here and never seen the crowd on its feet so fast,” Bea said earnestly.
Naomi and Isabel—battle-scarred theatre majors themselves—traded matching deadpan stares.
“Thanks, Bey,” Isabel said. “Now we know how you really feel.”
Bea flushed. “That’s not what I meant.”
Naomi waved her off. “Please. We peaked years ago. Georgie’s the headliner now. She’s got the thing.”
For a moment, Georgina’s grin wavered. She twisted the cap on a water bottle, hand trembling. Bea saw it: the disbelief under the swagger.
“Really?” Georgina asked, light, too light.
“Absolutely,” Lillian said, uncharacteristically fierce. “You were captivating.”
A hint of doubt shadowed Georgina’s expression. Then she seemed to come back to herself. “Well, obviously.” She leaned forward, blue eyes brightening with mischief. “I’ve got to rush to the cast party soon but before I go, I want the latest…Bea.”
“Oh no.” Bea shook her head.
“Oh yes.” She leveled the water bottle at her. “Confess. Griffin. Go.”
Bea sputtered. “Why me?”
“Because you’re the season’s cliffhanger,” she said, eyes dancing. “The rest of us are in reruns.”
“But this is your night. Can we not—”
“Adorable,” Georgina purred. “She thinks she can deflect.” She pivoted to the others. “Who votes we grill her until she breaks?”
Every hand shot up in unison.
“Motion carried,” Lillian declared.
“Lillian,” Bea moaned, already defeated.
“Spill.” Georgie leaned in, curls bouncing, pure ringleader. “We all saw you blushing at karaoke. He’s broken into the family circle. That man’s got more moves than TikTok.”
Naomi arched a brow. “Your family’s gone. What’s his next excuse to be stuck to you like glue?”
Her skin prickled hot. Around her, silence bloomed, expectant. She cracked. “Okay, yes, a concert.”
The girls howled.
“A date?” Isabel asked.
“A birthday gift,” Bea insisted uselessly.
“This is it,” Georgina crowed, brandishing a crushed rose like a scepter. “The chauffeur era is over. The escort era has begun. Long may it reign!”
The room dissolved. Laughter shook the walls. Bea buried her face, cheeks blazing, laughing—because Georgina Ashcroft could make even a dressing room feel like an encore.