Chapter 3
Chapter Three
GAGE
Gage King had no particular interest in his cousin’s latest project.
He knew she was entering as a junior, raised in Canada. Knew Georgina had been indifferent, then unexpectedly attached. Beyond that, Bea Cruz barely registered. Just another girl passing through St. Ives, unremarkable in every way that mattered.
When the door to Mayfield Hall opened, it wasn’t Georgina standing there.
It was her.
And for the first time in a long while, Gage paused.
Sunlight poured through the apartment behind her, catching in the dark silk of her hair, burnishing the ends bronze. It was long—absurdly so—falling nearly to her waist.
Petite. Golden-skinned. Full mouth. Large, dark, unguarded eyes.
She was beautiful.
But beauty was common at St. Ives.
What caught his attention was the way she looked at him. No pretense. No performance. No attempt to impress or defer.
Just quiet, effortless warmth.
“You must be Gage.”
Her voice matched her look. Bright but not bubbly, clear without force. Like the first real day of spring.
He tipped his chin in acknowledgment, though inwardly, he recalibrated.
“Bea?”
She nodded and extended her hand. Small fingers, delicate wrist. But her grip was steady.
“Thanks for pronouncing it right,” she said with a small smile. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
Bey-ah. Rhymes with Princess Leia.
Georgina had drilled it into him twice. He hadn’t thought much of it, until he saw her expression soften. In that moment he was glad he hadn’t gotten it wrong.
Gage held her hand just a moment longer than necessary. “You as well,” he murmured.
Bea stepped back, gesturing him inside. “Georgie’s just finishing up in the shower. She won’t be long.”
The apartment had changed. Softer now. Lived-in. A throw blanket over the sofa. Books on the table. Small white sneakers by the door. R&B played in the background, rich and languid, like the morning wasn’t in a rush.
“Would you like something to drink?” Bea asked, drawing him back to her.
He almost declined, the polite reflex on the tip of his tongue. But she tilted her head, waiting, as if she honestly wanted to do something for him.
“Cold water would be perfect.”
She padded into the kitchen while Gage watched. Slim legs. Long, impossible hair, the kind you noticed from across a room.
When she returned with the bottle of Evian, there was a hint of playfulness in her expression.
“Georgie says this is the only water I’m allowed to be seen with on campus. I figured I should start practicing at home.”
Gage almost smiled. “Not a fan?”
“Pretty bottle,” she conceded. “Still not sure why I’m paying six dollars for it.”
Gage’s lips twitched in amusement. He took a sip.
“So this used to be your place?” Bea asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said sincerely. “I’ve never lived away from home before, but I’m glad it’s somewhere like this.”
He nodded once. Most scholarship students he encountered either shrank in his presence or overcompensated, desperate to prove themselves.
Bea did neither.
She simply spoke to him. And was completely unaware of her effect on him.
“When did you get in?” he asked.
“Yesterday.”
“Jet lag?”
“Normally I sleep fine,” she said with a sheepish smile. “But I’ve been too excited. It probably sounds silly.”
He shrugged. “Hope it lives up to the brochure.”
Her smile curved slowly. “So far, it’s surpassed it.”
Without meaning to, he returned her smile. Subtle. Understated. But real.
Before Bea could say more, Georgina breezed in, barefoot, flipping through a textbook. “Gage! Here’s your book.”
He took it. “Appreciate it.”
“You’re seriously off to work already? It’s seven thirty.” Her voice was half affection, half exasperation.
“No rest for the wicked, Georgie.”
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. You’re coming Friday, right? You might as well enjoy it since your name is literally all over it.”
The words hit before she could process them.
Her mind rewound, replayed. Then it clicked.
Friday. The gala. His name all over it.
Gage. King.
The pieces slotted into place so fast it almost knocked the air out of her.
Her housemate’s cousin was Gage King. Of King Global Capital.
The gala invitation in her suitcase—the one printed on heavy, gold-embossed cardstock—was his.
No wonder Georgina had told her to try not to be too impressed.
And now here he was, standing in her new living room, flipping through a book like he wasn’t one of the most powerful people she’d ever casually offered bottled water to.
She risked another glance…and found Gage looking back, cool and unreadable.
But she’d caught that brief flicker in his eyes. Like he knew exactly what epiphany had just struck her.
Her pulse climbed beneath her skin, but she didn’t look away. If he was waiting for her to stumble over herself now that she understood who she was talking to, he was going to be disappointed.
There came a slight twist to his lips. It was barely enough to notice. But she did.
He slipped the book under his arm, adjusted the cuff of his shirt. “I’ll be there,” he said simply.
Why did it feel like the words were meant for her?
The Welcome Gala was already in full swing by the time Bea and Georgina arrived.
The Hall of Masters shimmered with old wealth and tradition.
Stone archways loomed above herringbone wood floors.
Candles burned in towering candelabras. Damask-draped tables groaned with caviar, canapés, and wheels of imported cheese.
Waiters moved in silence, offering flutes of champagne and trays of oysters and rare vintages.
A string quartet played near the hearth.
This wasn’t an ordinary university event.
At St. Ives, the celebration of new beginnings was steeped in quiet, unshakable dominance.
In every corner stood a man in a black suit, earpiece coiled neatly behind his ear.
She hadn’t expected security, but she should have.
Wealth like this wouldn’t walk unguarded.
Bea felt it immediately. That sense of being somewhere she didn’t quite fit.
Not because she wasn’t dressed appropriately—Georgina had personally terrorized no less than three shop assistants to make sure of that—but because everyone here seemed to have known each other since birth.
She smoothed a hand over the soft pink lace of her gown as they stepped inside. Elegant, with thin straps, a fitted bodice, and a sheer, floral overlay that flowed to the floor. With nude heels and her mother’s bracelet, it was the loveliest thing she’d ever worn.
But still…she knew what she was walking into.
Georgina, radiant in sapphire-blue silk and effortless confidence, steered her toward a high-top table near the bar, where a group of men and a couple of women stood in relaxed conversation, laughing and sipping cocktails as if they owned the night.
“These are some of the other seniors,” Georgie whispered to her as they approached. “Might as well introduce you.”
Bea inhaled, bracing.
They’re just people.
Terrifyingly wealthy, supremely poised people…but their blood was still red. She assumed.
Before they reached the table, a velvety voice slipped into the space beside her. “I love that St. Ives offers scholarships.”
She felt rather than heard Georgina’s sigh.
Georgina turned slowly. “Bea, Catherine Vale. Catherine, Bea Cruz.”
The woman was stunning in the deliberate way of someone used to being seen. Deep pink silk clung just right. Her brown hair was swept back, diamond earrings catching the terrace light.
Her smile was polished to perfection. “It must be such an opportunity for students like you.”
Bea registered the words. The precision of them. Not students. Students like you. The cut wasn’t obvious unless you were on the receiving end.
Bea’s body tensed, but she smiled back. “I intend to make the most of it,” she said simply.
Catherine sipped her champagne. “Yes, I imagine you would.”
Georgina’s smile never faltered. All practiced urbanity. “You’ll have to tell me what happened in Milan later,” she said casually, “but for now, I promised Bea I’d introduce her around before she gets trapped in one conversation all night.”
Catherine didn’t miss a beat. “Of course. Don’t let me keep you.”
Georgina linked her arm through Bea’s, steering her away at a graceful, unhurried pace. Only after Catherine was out of earshot did Georgina exhale, shaking her head.
“I’d steer clear of her,” she said in a low voice. “At St. Ives, there are catty girls you don’t have to worry about, and ones you do. She’s the latter.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” Bea muttered, mentally adding Catherine to her list of things to survive tonight.
By the time they reached the group, Georgina’s expression had already shifted. Bright, carefree, like Catherine had never happened.
“Ladies and gents, let me introduce you all to Bea,” Georgina said with her usual effortless charm, sliding into the circle like she belonged there. Because she did. “She’s a junior in economics and finance. And my housemate.”
Bea smiled warmly as polite introductions were exchanged, nodding at names she barely caught. Until the last one.
“…and Rafael Griffin.”
Bea looked up—and promptly forgot whatever name had come before his.
Green eyes. Electric, devastating green.
Rafael wore the night the way he wore his midnight-blue tuxedo: without trying yet somehow setting the standard. Sharp cheekbones, a mouth made for secrets. His wavy brown hair was slightly tousled, darker at the roots, with tawny streaks that suggested time spent in sun and salt air.
Her instincts filed him somewhere between irresistible temptation and probable regret.
“Hello, Bea,” he drawled, his voice as smooth as aged whisky.
He’d said it perfectly. Not Bee. Not Bee-uh. Bey-ah. It slid from his mouth like a caress.
He took her hand, holding it a beat too long. His grip was firm, the texture faintly rough against hers, and somehow unexpected. Even in heels, Bea had to tilt her chin to meet his eyes.