Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The lobby of King Global Capital exuded cold elegance with its marble floors gleaming under soft lighting. Dark glass panels reflected an air of hushed efficiency, and the scent of clean, polished wood and understated opulence permeated the air.
Bea paused just inside the entrance, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag.
This wasn’t merely Gage’s office. It was his world. The real one. Not a candlelit dinner, not a black car at the curb. This was where the numbers moved. Where decisions were made that shifted entire markets.
Something turned in her chest.
She had sent dozens of internship applications trying to convince companies like this that she was smart enough, sharp enough, worth enough.
She hadn’t succeeded. The uniform rejection still stung.
Before she could speak, the receptionist looked up with a polite, expectant smile. “Miss Cruz?”
Bea blinked, caught off guard. “Yes.”
“Mr. King is expecting you. You can head right up.”
No questions. No waiting. Just access.
Here, with one name, the doors opened.
Not because of me.
She stepped into the private elevator. The doors closed with a whisper of sound.
Bea exhaled slowly, staring at her reflection in the brushed-steel walls.
At least she hadn’t applied to King Global. Some higher grace had kept her from clicking that particular link. Being rejected—or worse, accepted after she started dating the boss—would have been unbearable.
Recently, she’d applied to one last firm. Female-founded. Focused on female initiatives. Not through the St. Ives program. She was quietly hopeful.
She shook her head, shelving that thought.
Focus. Lunch with my boyfriend. In his skyscraper.
She snorted softly at the thought.
Her phone buzzed.
GAGE KING: Come straight into my office.
She stepped into a spacious reception area. A desk sat unoccupied, but held evidence it was in use. To the left, an expansive hallway stretched into boardrooms and private offices. To the right, an imposing corner suite behind frosted glass.
She suddenly felt younger. Less polished. Not obviously, but enough. Her dress was fine. She’d put on a tiny bit more makeup today. But the people here didn’t walk like students. They carried certainty like a second skin.
From behind the nearest boardroom door, she heard clipped voices.
“Mr. King isn’t going to like it. We’re still short on time.”
“That’s not my problem. Tell Zurich we’re holding to the original terms. They’re out by a hundred million and I’m not walking across the hall to explain that.”
Bea stilled.
So this is what power sounds like.
The starting bid was a hundred million.
The first voice had been tentative. The second, unshaken.
“You’re sure Mr. King will back it?”
They weren’t just negotiating. They were waiting for Gage.
Her gaze cut toward the heavy wooden doors that could only lead to his office.
He’d said to come straight in.
Bea took a deep breath. Then pushed.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline.
It reminded her of his penthouse, not in design, but in philosophy.
Power and structure were echoed in the space.
The color palette was monochromatic with sharp contrasts.
Everything was positioned with perfect symmetry, with one key difference.
Piles of documents and folders were stacked in the space: beside the leather sofas, across the sideboard, down a long conference table.
This was where he truly lived.
Her eyes caught the nameplate on the desk.
GAGE KING
Executive Director, Strategic Investments
So that’s what he does all day.
This wasn’t Gage, student and boyfriend. This was Gage, the formidable force in a world she had not yet earned entry to.
“You made it.”
He was leaning against his desk, watching her with that unreadable intensity she was still learning to navigate. His three-piece suit, a sharp charcoal-grey with a subtle houndstooth pattern, was impeccable as always.
His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “Planning on standing there all afternoon?”
Bea smoothed down her dress. She stared at him almost cautiously. “Everyone here calls you Mr. King.”
His head tilted. “That is my name.”
“It just…sounds different.”
Gage’s gaze held hers for a moment before he pushed off the desk, gesturing toward a seating area by the window. “Come sit. Lunch is ready.”
She crossed the room to join him.
GAGE
Gage had expected her apprehension.
Bea wasn’t easily intimidated, but entering this new stratum of his world was unfamiliar ground.
That was the point.
Ever since that conversation weeks ago, when she had looked at him, earnest and unguarded, and told him that sex, for her, was intertwined with love, his mind had been in problem-solving mode. From that moment, he’d started mapping the path forward.
Not toward seduction. Toward certainty.
Her vulnerability had been palpable. Her admission, irrevocable. Because there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to let another man unwrap that particular gift.
And since love was the goal for her, for them both, he needed her to see him clearly.
Every experience with her was uncharted territory for him as well. The first time he’d claimed a woman publicly at St. Ives. Brought a woman to his penthouse. Cooked for someone. And now, the first time he’d invited a woman to his office for lunch.
She settled across from him at the intimate table by the window, her movements methodical. Napkin first. Then water. Only after did she glance at the spread between them, as if giving herself time to adjust bit by bit.
He recognized it for what it was: calibration. The way she set the world in order before she engaged with it.
He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t speak. He let her acclimate, like easing into deep water.
She looked up. A crooked, almost bashful smile. “We could have just talked on the phone.”
Gage picked up his water, taking a sip. “You think your voice is enough?”
Her chopsticks stilled in midair. “You work in investments. Shouldn’t you be used to high returns with minimal effort?”
“I make exceptions for worthwhile assets.”
Her lips parted, caught off guard, before she laughed—a soft, sweet sound that lightened the atmosphere.
Her shoulders loosened. The tension broke. Progress.
Gage leaned back slightly, watching as she finally reached for a piece of sushi. “This week is brutal. But I still need to eat.”
Bea lifted a brow, chewing thoughtfully. “So busy, but not too busy?”
“For you?” Gage asked mildly, picking up his own chopsticks. “Never.”
Truth. Unadorned. She needed to hear it from him.
“Wait,” Bea said, reaching into her bag.
“Before I forget. I brought you something.” She pulled out a small, carefully packed clear container.
It was tied with string, the label written in her handwriting.
“I made bulgogi rice balls. My mom used to send these with my dad when he worked late.” She paused.
“For later. I know you usually have dinner late. Thought it might hold you over.”
Gage peered down at the container.
No one brought him food. Not since childhood. Not like this.
Pressed into the top of the rice were tiny seaweed hearts. Not perfectly aligned. But unmistakable.
“Sorry. It’s the punch cutter from my mother’s kitchen.”
“Don’t apologize.” Gage ran a thumb over the edge of the lid. Held it like it was something more than food. Because it was. Care, offered without agenda. He almost didn’t know what to do with it. “Thank you.”
She gave him a slightly awkward smile, but she was pleased. “You’re welcome.”
His phone vibrated on the table. He saw Bea glance at it before she could stop herself.
Incoming call: Catherine Vale
Unmoved by the caller, he flipped the phone over, screen down. A calculated dismissal. He caught the flicker Bea tried to suppress. But she held steady. So, she wasn’t rattled. She was learning.
“Something on your mind?” he asked, tone deliberately neutral.
She matched him, her voice smooth. “No. Just happy to be here with you.”
She reached for another piece of sushi, perfectly composed, and slid it between her lips like she hadn’t just seen a woman’s name on the screen.
No dramatics. No sharp intake of breath.
She wasn’t the kind of girl who tried to hold the upper hand by making him feel guilty.
He appreciated that. He wasn’t a man well equipped for hysterics.
In his world, reactions were currency. She didn’t spend hers cheaply.
It hit him then. How much he enjoyed being with her. Really enjoyed it.
There was a quiet ease she carried with her, underneath all that youth and uncertainty. Like she couldn’t help it; it was part of her. Unpolished grace. The kind that didn’t exist in boardrooms, on spreadsheets, or under sharp lighting.
He’d planned to work late tonight. But not now.
Not when she was sitting across from him, making him see—just for a moment—what it would feel like to come home to a person, not a place.
They were halfway through lunch when a sharp knock sounded at the door.
He already knew who it was. He operated in a world where people moved when he said. The knock was a formality.
“Come in.”
Bea turned as a woman entered. Where her features were soft, this woman was all angles. Sleek blond hair in a tight, no-nonsense bun, sharp cheekbones. She wore a tailored black dress, modest but commanding, paired with pointed stilettos that clicked with every step.
She didn’t apologize for the interruption. “Mr. King.” She strode directly to the desk, setting down a thin, leather-bound folder. “You needed this before the Zurich call.”
Gage didn’t so much as glance at it. “And?”
Bea watched as Victoria flipped the folder open with a flick of her wrist, pointing to a single line in a lengthy contract.
“They’re stalling for a better valuation.” Her voice was crisp, British-tinged, ruthlessly composed.
Gage was entirely unbothered. “They’ve got two days.”
“Two days,” she echoed, as if sealing a verdict.