Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
The sign outside said Famous for our Cold Brew Avocado Milkshake, like that was a normal sequence of words.
Bea had circled this one on her Countdown Coffee List last year but never made it as it was too far out of the way. Today the café, aptly called Pit Stop, sat right on her route, and with only her bodyguard trailing, she could still count it as a solo mission.
Channing pulled in behind her, as stoic as only a newly assigned bodyguard named Channing could be. He gave the café a scan, noting the exits and every person in the vicinity, before nodding at her to proceed.
The café looked like someone had designed it directly from a Pinterest board. Whitewashed brick, succulent wall, affirmation posters in fonts that wanted to change your life.
The barista wore a beanie. Mid-January, peak summer. Bea didn’t mention it, because goodness knew her own life choices were questionable at times.
“Hi,” she said to the beanie. “Can I get your signature milkshake, please?”
Five minutes later, a mason jar landed in front of her. Pale green, with light and dark ribbons through it, topped with a spray of whipped cream.
She was thirsty, so her first sip was a generous one. It hit harder than expected.
Must be packing a double shot of caffeine.
The avocado was velvety, the condensed milk a perfect counter of creamy sweetness. Altogether, delicious—until something else flared across her tongue.
Not salt. Not lime. Cayenne?
A soft burn that left her lips tingling and her airways mildly decongested. She took another sip, cautious. Sip by sip the warmth itself became flavor, until it was exactly right.
She tapped into the note on her phone:
Cold Brew Avocado Milkshake – avocado + espresso + condensed milk
Comes on sure, plays sweet after…and then it bites. So basically Rafael in beverage form. Exactly my type.
The conference room was glass-walled and over-air-conditioned, the kind of space meant to project efficiency. Gavin Trenor was already seated at the head of the table. Mid-forties, handsome, quick smile.
“Monaghan and Stowe and Dao Strategic Forensics.” He rose smoothly, extending a hand toward Bea first. A gold signet ring gleamed on his middle finger. “An honor. We don’t often get visitors of your caliber out here.”
Bea shook his hand, polite but wary. “Beatriz Cruz.”
“Jaxon Dao,” Jaxon said with a firm grip, then took the seat beside her.
Gavin moved nonchalantly to the sideboard, where four enormous banker’s boxes sat waiting. He slid the first one onto the table with a soft thud.
“I’ve prepared what you asked for. Our systems here are”—a pause—“in transition. We’re not quite online the way Northgate is. Everything’s still on paper.”
He lifted the lid and began stacking files, receipts, ledger books, each one thicker than the last. By the time he finished, the pile between them was high enough to block some of the sunlight.
“This should cover your queries. Payroll, stipends, attendance logs, ministry correspondence. It’s all there. Thorough, if a little old-fashioned.” Gavin gave a small chuckle. “I’m traveling in two days, so I’ll make myself available tomorrow to discuss.”
His tone was gracious, but Bea had the feeling he was counting on the fact they wouldn’t have gotten through enough to have anything meaningful to ask.
Jaxon’s expression was undaunted. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Their war room was Jaxon’s hotel room.
Towers of ledgers and receipts leaned, attendance logs scattered in loose piles, sticky notes on the walls like battle flags.
Bea perched cross-legged in one of the carved chairs, hair in revolt, highlighter clamped between her teeth as she pried a binder open.
“So where do we even start? Page one? Last page?”
“Where we always do. Start with what looks perfect.” Classic Jaxon, not even glancing up.
He was already setting their rhythm, sleeves rolled, pencil moving in clean ticks across the margin.
Somewhere between exhaustion and survival during their GEP alliance, they’d built a system:
If it looks perfect, it’s lying.
Fraud doesn’t hide in the skyscraper. It hides in the lemonade stand.
Don’t start with the obscure. Start with what’s so obvious it’s forgotten.
Bea pulled the attendance log toward her. Time passed, unnoticed. Then she halted at a page where each box was neatly filled, every signature in the same exact pen. As though it were written a month at a time, instead of daily.
She slid it over to Jaxon. “Page forty-nine, stipends missing. Same quarter, attendance logs ‘adjusted.’”
Jaxon picked it up, scanned it. Slid the one he’d been analyzing to her. “Page ninety-three has a similar pattern.”
The sudden buzz of her phone against the wood startled her. Rafael’s name lit the screen. Her heart stuttered. She glanced at her watch.
Eek.
She swiped, voice pitched light. “Hey.”
“Why are you in Dao’s room at midnight?”
Her stomach dropped. “Er, because his table’s bigger.”
“Bea.” Just her name.
Jaxon kept writing.
She clutched the phone tighter. “We’re working. Trenor dumped a mountain of paper on us, and we need to know what questions to ask tomorrow.”
His exhale crackled through the speaker, irritation and restraint plaited together. “Then your bodyguard should be inside. Not in the hall.”
“Channing? Isn’t he asleep?”
“Of course not,” Rafael said. “Put Dao on the phone.”
Her eyes flicked to Jaxon. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
But Jaxon’s hand was already reaching out. “Give me the phone, Bea.”
Her grip tensed on her cell before she made herself let go.
“Griffin,” Jaxon said evenly. “Yes—Understood—Noted.”
He ended the call, slid the phone back across the table.
Bea snatched it up. “What did he say to you?”
Jaxon was already flipping a page. “That he doesn’t doubt you.” His pencil moved again. “He doubts me. Go let Channing in.”
“You got through that much?” Gavin’s voice was more annoyed than impressed. “Overnight?”
Jaxon’s pencil tapped once against the margin. “We did enough.”
Bea opened her binder and slid a page across, her notes clipped to the top. “Here. Quarter-two disbursements. Records show stipends issued for thirty-two girls. But only twenty-six are attending.”
She kept her tone calm, but her pulse ticked hard. “That means six families didn’t get paid.”
For the first time, Trenor’s smile slipped. “Ah, yes. Well. Administrative lag. Happens when you’re still running on paper. The funds would have gotten to them eventually.”
“It doesn’t appear like ‘eventually’ happened at all in the last calendar year. It’s binary. These people’s children’s tuition is either paid or not. Nothing in between.”
The air shifted. Trenor leaned back, cufflinks catching the sterile light.
“Between us,” he said smoothly, “these amounts are symbolic. A few stipends to marginal families here or there doesn’t change the arc of the country.
” His smile tilted, almost conspiratorial. “Surely you see the bigger picture.”
Jaxon’s head lifted then, pencil stilled. His voice stayed quiet. “What picture is bigger than giving people the means to stand taller?”
Trenor’s laugh was soft, dismissive. “They’ll take the money, sure. But it won’t lift them. Their kind don’t want to.”
Jaxon’s gaze sharpened, something cold beneath the calm. “I don’t know where you came from before the UR, sir, but here we don’t look down on the people who feed the country. Farmers are essential. Agriculture is a national service, and we thank them by giving their children access, opportunity.”
Bea felt the words lodge deep. It wasn’t just corporate spin. It was marrow-deep, the kind of creed you didn’t have to memorize, because you’d been raised inside it.
Gage, Rafael, Jaxon—all the men of their class treated drivers, waiters, guards, the muscular class, with their own kind of deference. In the UR, gratitude was discipline. And Gavin Trenor, with his careless words and urbane laugh, had just shown he didn’t belong.
Gavin’s fingers drummed once against the table, the charm slipping for a beat. “You’re both young,” he said. “The intent of this nation is impressive. But it’s already great. Who’s counting six families when the metrics already exceed every target?”
Bea’s pen froze on the page. She met his gaze until the silence stretched. “Our role is to document irregularities. This will be noted in my report.”
His gaze settled on her, smile thin, and for the first time she caught the steel under the polish. “Accuracy above all. I’ll be curious to see your phrasing, Ms. Cruz.”
RAFAEL
Three nights.
It had grated more than he thought it would. He knew how to wait, had proven it for years—but now that she was his, every hour she’d been with Dao instead of him felt like robbery.
Bea sat in the passenger seat of the Urus, brown hair flashing gold in the streetlights, small hands folded neatly in her lap.
She’d just gotten back from her trip. He had a dinner meeting. Another night without her was impossible, so he’d picked her up and taken her with him. Her place was beside him anyway, business or not.
Her hand on his thigh was simple contact at first. But as they got closer to Southgate, they started to coast upwards, featherlight.
Rafael made indents in his steering wheel.
“You miss me?” he asked, voice tight, jaw tighter. “Or are you just pretending you can touch me like that and walk away?”
“I missed you,” she said softly.
The pad of her finger drew a deliberate circle on his inner thigh. He hit the blinker and took the next exit.
She sat up straighter. “This isn’t Southgate.”
“Dinner can wait. I won’t.” He veered onto a slip road, the city dissolving behind them. Turned off the engine. Killed the headlights.
“Do you have a spot like this scouted in every district?”
He ignored that. “Climb over.”
She looked around, scandalized. As if someone else might be watching. “Now? Here?”
“Now. Or the bathroom in Southgate. Your choice.”
Her lip tucked between her teeth. Protest and want. Rafael was already pushing his seat back.
Bea unclipped her seatbelt. Started to move.
“Panties off first.”
She froze. Met his gaze. He waited.
Slowly, she slid them down.
Bea swiveled over the console, skirt catching, leg tapping the wheel. It wasn’t graceful, but it didn’t need to be. She was bare. He was hard. Nothing else mattered.
“You were teasing me,” he murmured, hands sliding under fabric.
“A little bit,” she admitted.
His fingers found her. Slid through the heat of her, one curling in deep. A second. She shivered. His hand slicked as he worked her. Varying the speed. Her moans got breathless. Disordered. Need leaking out in every exhale.
Time condensed. All of his plans, his meetings, the empire shrank to a single rhythm—how she moved under his hand. “Do you want it?”
“Yes,” she breathed, then pressed her mouth to his ear: “Please give it.”
Three words. Barely a whisper. Just the beginning. She was learning how to use her mouth, and once she got good, he was done for. He unzipped, freed himself, and hauled her onto him, entering her in one deep thrust.
She bit down on a gasp, but the sound still escaped. Her fists clutched his shirt.
The space was tight, forcing her knees higher. His hands locked her hips in place. Every thrust a punishment for the distance, a reward for her return.
The car filled with sound. The creak of leather. The slap of flesh. Glass fogged, hiding what no one else would ever get to see. A matter of days apart, but the hunger had been waiting under their skin. Neither of them was going to last.
“I’m—” she breathed.
He felt it first. The clench. The quiver. The fall. His release chased hers—deep, hot, a groan echoed in the small space.
They stayed there, tangled, her heartbeat pounding against his chest.
“That’ll keep me sane through dinner.” He smoothed a hand over her back. Kissed the side of her neck. Then another at the tip of her ear. “The rest can wait until we’re home.”
RAFAEL
Late that night, after deals had been signed and the men had noticed the creases in his shirt and the way she bloomed beside him, he drove her home to do it again.
Now they lay face to face.
The sheets swirled at their hips. Her hand was on his chest as usual, fingers mapping the valley between his pecs.
The darkness beckoned candor.
“I like this,” she said softly.
His hand moved along her spine, reading the tiny relaxations. “Tell me.”
She hesitated, then offered a shy smile and lowered her lashes. “Lying down. Facing each other.” She looked back up at him to finish the thought. “It makes me feel tall.”
He almost laughed. The admission was absurdly, achingly cute. He relished her smallness: how she fit under his arm, how, when he took her, her body seemed to sigh and give in. Physically he could handle her completely—and she wanted it. So much she didn’t even notice how readily she arched into it.
But he didn’t laugh because he knew what she meant was that emotionally, intellectually, she needed to feel they were equals.
“I can give you that,” he said, steady. “Being eye to eye.”
Her expression softened, as if he’d said just the right thing. “Is there anything you want from me?” she asked, searching his eyes, before faltering slightly. “I mean…aside from…the words?”
Those three words—her final bastion.
He watched her for a long beat, deciding if she was ready to hear it. “I want everything.”
Her lips pressed together.
“Every version of you. Your future.”
She tried to joke. “That all?”
“Not quite,” he murmured. “Your surrender.”
Her breaths became short. She poked at his ribs. “Has anyone ever told you you’re intense?”
“You asked, little Bea.”
For a while it was silent between them.
“How will you know when I’ve…surrendered?” She tried the word. Like a taste.
He cradled her face with one hand. It was so soft, so smooth.
“Your body already does. Your head keeps making sensible lists—‘It’s too soon,’ ‘Be careful.’ When you stop holding back what’s already true, that’s when I’ll know.”
Bea only looked at him.
And then she tucked her face into his shoulder.