Chapter 3 #2
“Hi,” she managed softly, cursing the slight tremor in her voice.
The conversation around them resumed instantly. Someone was talking about market performance and how they related to their family’s quarterly earnings. Bea barely heard it. Rafael angled his body toward her, casually blocking out the rest of the group with nothing more than a shift of his stance.
“Fresh meat,” he murmured, amusement tugging at his mouth.
Bea’s grip tightened on her flute. “Excuse me?”
He took a lazy sip of his drink. “Transfer student. Fresh blood in the water. Always the most interesting to watch.”
She stiffened. “Are you a shark, then?”
He didn’t laugh, but the gleam in his eyes said he wanted to. “That depends. Are you afraid of sharks, little Bea?”
She didn’t know what bothered her more—the nickname, his arrogance, or the fact that he was, inconveniently, gorgeous.
A voice entered the space between them. “Griffin.”
He’s here.
Gage looked exactly as she imagined he would at his own event.
Composed. Commanding. He wore a charcoal-grey three-piece suit, the cut so precise it could have been sculpted onto him.
His black hair was neatly styled, blue eyes cool and unreadable.
He was breathtaking in a way that didn’t invite touch.
“King,” Rafael said smoothly. “I was just getting acquainted with your cousin’s latest project.”
Gage’s gaze flicked to Bea, then back to Rafael. “I doubt she needs your attention.”
Rafael’s smile curved. Like he understood something she didn’t. “And yet, somehow, she has it.” He looked at Bea. “See you around, little Bea.”
Rafael strolled off, leaving behind the faintest trace of cologne and trouble.
Bea watched him go. Gage watched her.
“He’s…something,” Bea mused.
“That’s a generous adjective.”
She held his gaze. “Rivalry?”
His mouth hitched, but it wasn’t a smile. “Mountains aren’t bothered by storms.”
She sipped her champagne.
The space Rafael left didn’t stay empty for long.
“Bea, isn’t it?”
GAGE
Gage had seen it happen a hundred times before.
The way new girls got swept into conversation.
How St. Ives men circled. Assessed. A test disguised as charm.
The man knew exactly what he was doing. Bea didn’t.
“Bea, isn’t it?”
She turned toward the sound of Dean’s voice. “Bey-ah,” she clarified. “Like the Spanish pronunciation.”
She was open. It was clear in the way she took Dean’s hand as introductions were made. Polite. A little eager. Willing to give him a chance.
Dean’s attention volleyed between her and Gage. Then, assured by Gage’s indifference, settled back on Bea.
Gage let it happen.
“Finance, right?”
“And economics.”
“Strong choice. Third year?”
“Yes.”
Dean swirled his drink. “Big change from your last school, I’d imagine.”
She stilled, almost imperceptibly. But Gage caught it.
“Pardon?” she asked, voice even.
“I just mean, the curriculum, the connections, the…” His eyes dipped briefly to her dress, as if choosing his next word delicately. “…resources.”
She tucked one foot behind the other, grounding herself.
He could have stopped it there. Could have shut Dean down with a glance, a word.
But he didn’t. He wanted to see what she would do.
Dean took another sip of champagne. “I’m doing investment banking myself. I’m sure you’ll find that St. Ives’ finance program is leagues ahead of…Toronto?”
“Toronto,” she confirmed. “I did a few years there before transferring.”
Dean nodded. “The models we use here, especially for valuation—I imagine the approach at Toronto is more traditional.”
There it was. The opening.
Bea hesitated. Long enough for Gage to wonder if she’d let it go.
And then, to his absolute satisfaction, she didn’t.
“Not necessarily.” Her voice held, but there was something careful about it.
Dean didn’t register the shift at first. “From what I know, most programs use DCF modeling as the primary framework for valuation, and adjust depending on industry focus,” Bea continued.
Not dismissive. Not confrontational. Just factual.
“In my first year, we forecasted cash flows at the balance-sheet level before incorporating weighted assumptions into a larger model.”
A pause.
Gage watched as she breathed. Like she wasn’t sure if she’d said too much.
He knew she’d said exactly enough.
“I imagine at St. Ives, the approach is more flexible?” She didn’t pose it as a challenge.
Gage caught it in real time.
Dean stalled, regrouping.
Bea didn’t overplay her hand. She’d returned the ball she’d been served. Then waited.
Dean exhaled a quiet laugh. “You’ve done your research.”
Bea took a slow sip of champagne, gave a small shake of her head. “I just studied.”
“Well, St. Ives is lucky to have you.” Something like interest shone in his eyes, and he gave her a quick once-over.
Before the man could get too cozy, Gage spoke. “Excuse us. Georgie needs Bea.”
Dean went still. Brown eyes met blue.
No hostility. Just a line drawn.
Gage moved. And, like it was natural, she nodded at Dean, and followed.
Her shoulders relaxed as they left.
“He assumed he knew more than you,” Gage said as they walked.
Her fingers bunched in the fabric of her dress, then let go. “I did some accounting.”
He inclined his head once.
She’d passed the test. That was enough.