Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, Bea limped toward a sun-dappled café nestled between two ivy-draped buildings on St. Ives’ grounds. Every muscle in her body filed a formal complaint. Her arms had not rejoined the union. She deserved a medal. Or a medic.
St. Ives didn’t do cafeterias. Not like normal college campuses.
Just a network of restaurants, bistros, and tea lounges, catering to every cuisine, dietary requirement, or mood imaginable.
She’d even passed a café yesterday that served only alkaline-forming foods.
Students never paid per meal. It was all handled by way of their accounts, a privilege woven into campus life.
Beside her, Lillian Clarke adjusted the sleeves of her cardigan, tucking a loose strand of light brown hair behind her ear.
She had a soft kind of beauty—delicate features, dark eyes that noticed everything, and a way of holding herself like she didn’t want to take up too much space.
Her braid was slightly loose, like she’d redone it a few times on the way in.
Lillian was Australian, and in Bea’s head that meant confident, easygoing, a little loud. But no, she was quiet. Careful. The kind of person who listened first and unfolded slowly. The very opposite of her endearingly maniacal bestie, Claire.
She was also the only other female scholarship student in finance Bea had met. It was a relief to find someone else who hadn’t grown up in this world. Lillian might not say much, but when she did, Bea listened.
Bea shifted her bag, trying to ease the dull throb in her shoulders. “What’s wrong, Lils?”
Lillian surveyed the café like she wasn’t sure if they’d be let in. “Are you sure this one’s included?”
Lush greenery curled around iron fixtures, golden light pooled over linen-draped tables. It didn’t look like a place for college students.
Bea nodded, ignoring the way her body screamed every time she moved. “I’m sure. Everywhere on campus grounds is.”
Lillian looked unconvinced.
The scholarship dining cards were black, embossed, and just heavy enough to feel important. A symbol of access, but also a quiet reminder that she wasn’t from here.
Bea caught sight of Georgina and her friends by the windows. Their jackets were casually draped over the backs of their chairs, designer handbags arranged around them.
Georgina spotted them and waved. “Come, join us.”
Bea nudged Lillian. “Come on. They don’t bite.”
They slid into two empty seats as everyone introduced themselves. Lillian didn’t say much, but the girls’ manner was genial and unfazed. It made it easier.
“You look like you got hit by a truck,” Naomi remarked, taking in the way Bea ever-so-gingerly removed her jacket.
Bea grimaced. “Pretty sure it backed over me twice.”
“Do I want to know?”
“Pilates.” Bea sighed, rotating her shoulder with a wince.
“Ahh, must have been your first class,” Naomi said with a knowing smile.
“I thought it was going to be more like…stretching.”
Georgina reached for her drink. A peach jasmine spritz with basil seeds, whole raspberries, and a delicate sugar rim. “Oh, babe. That’s yoga. Common mistake. Pilates is where rich women go to suffer on purpose.”
Bea groaned. “This morning, I had to roll off the bed instead of sit up.”
Isabel, unbothered, flipped through the menu. “You’ll be addicted by next week.”
“Yeah, I can see that. Torture aside…I liked it.”
Something about the control, the slow-burning strength, the way her mind had finally quieted for the first time in weeks, had felt right.
Naomi’s eyes sparkled. “Well, look at you. Enjoying exercise. I thought scholarship students were supposed to be all about the books.”
Bea showed her palm. “Smashing stereotypes over here.”
Naomi turned to Lillian. “What about you? Into exercise?”
Lillian shook her head, tucking a loose strand of light brown hair behind her ear. “I like reading.”
Naomi sighed indulgently. “Adorable.” Then, as if that settled it, she perked up. “Speaking of physical trauma, Katie’s engaged. Thomas locked it down last night.”
Georgina leaned forward, like the conversation was finally getting good. “She picked Thomas?”
“Which means Marcus is back on the hunt,” Naomi added.
Isabel snorted. “Guess that spreadsheet of eligible girls is getting a refresh.”
“Wait. What does Thomas getting engaged have to do with Marcus?” Bea asked.
Georgina didn’t miss a beat. “They were both after her. Won’t fight the prenup, all legs, and no lawsuits. Thomas got it done first. At least it’s still fall. Lots can happen in two and a half seasons.”
Bea did the mental math. “Are you saying Marcus needs to find a new fiancée before graduation? Is that a thing?”
“It’s not a rule. More like…a strong suggestion,” Naomi explained. “And if you’re a low-tier heir, you lock someone in before the good ones are gone.”
Lillian’s curiosity outweighed her shyness. “What’s a low-tier heir?”
“Unofficially, it’s if your family is worth less than three-digit millions.” Isabel said it the way other people might say middle class.
Lillian’s eyes widened. “Only.”
“Welcome to the UR,” Isabel murmured. “Love’s flexible. Marriage isn’t.”
Two women nodded at the words; the other two just looked struck by them.
“Thank God I’m not part of that circus,” Bea said.
“You’re an eligible female at St. Ives. You’re part of it by default,” Georgina said.
“What tier is below Marcus? Like all the way down the list?” Bea asked, confused.
Naomi laughed. “The tiering doesn’t apply to females.”
Lillian blinked. Bea’s brows pulled together.
Georgina lifted her glass. “You’re the prize, remember?”
Isabel smirked. “Our parents might not always agree, but the mantra from Gen Z onward is: we have enough money to choose whoever the hell we want.”
“Now just throw a tiny gender imbalance into that mix,” Georgina said, droll.
Naomi stirred her dragon fruit and coconut refresher. “That’s when things get fun.”
Bea let out a slow breath. “This all sounds way too ominous.”
“It’s thrilling,” Georgina corrected with a dreamy sigh. Then she looked pointedly at Bea. “Or terrifying, depending on who decides you’re theirs.”
Lillian let out a shaky breath. “I think I need tea. And maybe a sedative.”
Bea laughed, trying to ignore the warning in her stomach. “Yeah. Same.”
Between the time difference and how busy they both were, with Bea drowning in coursework and Claire working shifts as a waitress while finishing her degree, they rarely found the energy for full phone calls anymore.
Too tired to type and too busy to talk, they’d gotten into the habit of trading voice notes instead.
Bea flopped onto the bed, tugging off her heels with a groan, and opened Claire’s latest.
CLAIRE BEAR: How’s life, Beya Slaya? Did you survive brunch with the Gucci-scented toddlers today? Or did you spill your six-dollar water on the heir to Downton Abbey?
Bea smiled at the nickname—bestowed at age six, back when she couldn’t stop singing and dancing to the song “Single Ladies” at recess. Claire had declared she was “killing it,” dubbed her “Beya Slaya,” and insisted she’d help make her as famous as Beyoncé one day. The name had stuck.
She pressed Record.
BEYA SLAYA: First of all, it was eight-dollar water, including tip. And second, please respect the fact that I’m barely holding it together here. Apparently if I’m not engaged by finals, I get assigned someone from the clearance bin.
A minute later, Claire fired back.
CLAIRE BEAR: I mean, it depends what kind of clearance guy we’re talking.
Emotionally unavailable with a helicopter?
Fine. Emotionally unstable with a podcast?
Too much drama. Also, I just fished a chicken nugget out of my bra with a pair of chopsticks, so my life skills have leveled up since you’ve been away.
Bea laughed, dropping her phone onto her chest by accident. She recovered it.
BEYA SLAYA: I miss you. Come visit. I swear this place has the best croissants I’ve ever had in my life, and you’re not even here to judge them with me.
CLAIRE BEAR: Tempting. But unless I can pay for my plane fare with crippling student debt and a lack of serotonin, I think I’m stuck here for now. Eat a croissant for me tomorrow.
BEYA SLAYA: Fine. But next year you’ll visit, right? Someone has to make fun of the rich people with me.
CLAIRE BEAR: Oh babe. You ARE the rich people now.