Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
The Graduate Yacht Party didn’t mark the end. It announced the future.
It was held on a superyacht gleaming beneath a star-dusted sky, moored at a private pier reserved for the elite.
Guests arrived in sleek black cars, stepping onto the polished teak deck, as the usual legion of security threaded through the crowd, discreet but unmistakable.
No one paid them any mind. These were young adults who had grown up with shadows in suits.
Inside, those about to complete their St. Ives journey gathered. At this point, exams were a formality; careers had already been signed and sealed. Tonight, before the rest of the university even began study week, the next generation of billionaires toasted to the inevitability of their success.
Gage was impeccable in his tuxedo, the sharp cut of his tailored suit molding to his frame.
Bea wore slate-blue silk, the fabric catching the light as she moved.
People were accustomed to seeing them together now.
They ascended to the upper deck, weaving through the brazen opulence, past tables lined with delicate canapés and couples leaning close in shadowed alcoves, murmuring secrets only the night would keep.
The yacht pulled away from the pier, slicing through the dark water.
Bea turned toward the horizon, watching as the water stretched into endless darkness, and the city shimmered in the distance.
The Northgate Bridge glistened, steel and stone, a testament to world-class engineering. The King Global Capital Tower dominated the skyline, every light a pulse of empire.
And then her eyes found a newer tower, one she hadn’t noticed before.
GV.
Beneath it, the emblem caught the light: a lion’s body with an eagle’s head and wings, sharp and unmistakable. It stood apart. But as Bea took it in, something struck her.
It was taller.
By mere meters, but higher than King Global Capital.
And she knew, here, among them—that was deliberate.
At the railing, she and Gage stood slightly apart from the heart of the party. Bea lifted her glass and took a long sip.
She had to tell him. The decision had been made days ago. Her flights were booked, the dates confirmed. The airfare had been too good to pass up. It had been the plan anyway. And had absolutely nothing to do with Cassian’s little taunt. Nothing at all.
She hadn’t meant to decide without telling him.
Now, standing beside him, it felt less like practicality. Something more reckless. More like defiance.
She set her glass on the railing. “I booked my flights home.”
Gage stood beside her, hands taking up residence inside his pockets. He didn’t react immediately.
Then, he reached for his drink, rolling the liquid in his glass before taking a languorous sip. “We weren’t done talking about that.”
The breeze stirred, cooling the warmth gathering at her collarbone.
“I know,” she said. “But there was a deal. For twenty-four hours. I caught the tail of it…and I got them. After that…I couldn’t find the right moment to tell you.”
Gage turned to her. “When are you leaving?”
“In two weeks. Right after my last exam.”
“Remind me for how long.”
Bea winced. “Ten weeks.”
His jaw tightened, just enough to catch. He lifted his drink again, took another slow sip. “Without a conversation first.”
Bea swallowed. “Yes.”
“No.”
Her pulse ticked up. “Gage—”
“Why not bring your parents here instead?”
“They can’t travel that far in coach.”
“Of course not,” he agreed easily. “First.”
She shook her head. “No.” There was no way her parents would believe she could afford that. And they didn’t know about him. And even if they knew, they wouldn’t accept it.
Gage set his glass down once more. “You dismiss me too easily.”
She blinked. “What?”
“It’s not that you say no. It’s how quickly you do it.”
A gust of salt air cut between them. Gage watched her, still as stone. He wasn’t going to push—not here, in front of anyone. But his silence spoke for him.
She hated the weird space she’d somehow created.
A new presence arrived. “Am I interrupting?”
Bea whirled.
Nate West stood there, grey eyes taking in the scene like he understood enough to know his presence was needed.
She opened her mouth. Closed it again.
Nate held out a hand. “Come dance.”
“You dance?” she asked.
“Only when it’s necessary.”
Gage watched it happen, but said nothing.
And that was the second surprise.
Bea hesitated, glancing between them. He didn’t stop her. Didn’t even look annoyed. Because of course, if there was one man Gage trusted with her, it was Nate.
She took Nate’s hand.
The dance floor was full. Slow movement, soft light, and the hush of ocean air. Nate pulled her in, one hand steady against her waist, the other clasping hers in a firm grip.
Bea half expected him to be stiff and awkward. Instead he moved smoothly, instinctively, like this was second nature to him.
“You can dance,” she acknowledged.
Nate’s lips barely tilted. “It’s a tactical advantage.”
Bea blinked up at him. “You’re kidding.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
Bea exhaled a quiet laugh, a little bit of tension easing from her shoulders.
They moved together, slow and controlled, the music winding around them like silk. But she could still feel it—the weight of Gage’s gaze from across the deck.
“What happened?” Nate asked finally.
Bea’s reflex was to deflect. “What do you mean?”
He studied her. “You both look like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you just made a move that neither of you knows how to take back.”
Was it that obvious? She almost glanced over her shoulder just to see if it was written somewhere. Billboard sized and neon.
Nate waited. Not pressing, just letting her come to it.
Finally, she looked up at him. “I told him I booked my flights home for the summer.”
Nate’s fingers flexed briefly against her waist. Barely noticeable. Except Bea noticed everything now.
“Ten weeks,” she added quietly.
Nate didn’t reply. Looked back at Gage. It was a read. Calculating risk, predicting fallout. After a few long moments, he spoke. “He’s not angry.”
“No?”
“No,” Nate said. “But he is thinking.”
Her stomach churned. “Thinking about what?”
He spun her once, guiding her back in smoothly before answering. “How to win.”
Bea inhaled. “Tell me the truth. Did I just lose?”
His mouth barely curved. “Not yet.”
Her pulse thumped. “What should I do?”
Nate hummed, considering. Then, almost gently, “Go home with him.”
She looked again. Her eyes found his. Watching. Waiting. She was pretty sure she knew how this night would end.
The penthouse door clicked shut behind them. Gage moved to the bar without a word, unbuttoning his cuffs as he reached for a bottle.
Bea hovered near the kitchen bench, fingers curling against the cool marble. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. Sit, wait…follow? It felt ridiculous to just stand there, but her feet wouldn’t move.
Across the room, she heard the faint sound of ice clinking against glass. A pour. A slow swirl. The quiet settled into the walls, into the space between them.
He turned back, eyes catching hers before he crossed the room. His shadow stretched over her, darkening the polished stone beneath her hands. Bea didn’t move, but her breath hitched—a tremor she knew he would catch—when his fingers traced down her arm.
And when he took her hand, she followed.
No words. No questions. They moved through the dimly lit space, down the hall, into the bedroom.
Her heart pounded.
There was something Gage wanted to tell her. And he wasn’t going to use just words.
And now, standing in the bedroom, she felt that moment closing in.
He sat first. Not against the headboard, not sprawled across the mattress. The edge of the bed. Feet planted. Forearms resting against his thighs. The way men sat when they were thinking. When they were preparing for something.
He didn’t reach for her. Didn’t pull her closer. Just sat there, observing.
The penthouse was silent except for her breathing. The city lights spilled through the window, illuminating sharp lines across his face.
Then he lifted his hand. One fingertip against her wrist. A silent command. Come here.
Bea swallowed and stepped between his legs, already burning where he hadn’t touched.
His hands found her.
They traced her first. A slow, leisurely journey over the outsides of her thighs, the curves of her hips. The tip of his thumb brushed the base of her stomach, pressing lightly before dragging lower.
The dress slipped away, pooling at her feet in a whisper of silk against skin. Cool air swept her shoulders. She shivered as his hands followed.
His fingers trailed around her back, unclasping her bra deftly, the straps slipping down her arms. Then lower. His fingers hooked beneath the sides of her underwear, peeling away the last barrier between her and his gaze.
Bea stood there, bare. While he was fully dressed. Still in his tuxedo.
She had never felt more exposed. Her, an unwrapped gift, and him all contour and sinew and perfect control.
His hand lifted, tracing a maddening path from her hips to her collarbone. Back down, around the curves of her breasts. Up to her cheek, over her lip. She fought the urge to lean into his touch.
“Ten. Weeks.” His hands moved to the first button of his shirt, and something knotted tight inside her began to loosen. He’d kept her standing there long enough that it had started to feel like punishment.
She watched, eyes glazed as he undid each button with intent, revealing hard muscle beneath crisp fabric. The shirt slid off his broad shoulders, and his belt followed, unthreaded in one smooth pull, the soft clink of metal against the floor grounding her.
His hands found her waist. Gripped. Lifted. Placed her on his lap. Her thighs parted instinctively, legs circling around him.
He was already there.
She gasped.
Her body tensed as he pushed in—gradual, deep—until fully seated.
Gage didn’t move. Not at first. He let her feel it. The full, unbearable stretch. Let her feel her helplessness. No room to push. No angle to resist. Her body could only yield.
Bea shuddered. Her arms looped around his neck.
Then he moved. A purposeful rhythm. His hands locked on her hips, holding her still.
She couldn’t control the pace. There was nothing she could do but take it.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Bea tilted her head back, struggling to stay upright as the room spun with every thrust. He knew her body better than she did. He slowed when she expected urgency. Built and built and built until she was shaking, gasping, arching into him.
And then he stopped.
Bea let out a strangled sound, her body caught in the unbearable space between pleasure and denial.
There it was. This wasn’t just about release. It was about control. His. Over her. Over everything. He was proving it to her, and to himself.
Finally—her breath broke. “Please.”
Gage tilted his head. “Please what?”
Bea’s jaw clenched. “…Please let me.”
He let her feel it. The denial. The weight of him inside her, unmoving.
In the next instant, she was on her back—breath stolen, mind blank.
Gage pressed her down, deeper into the mattress, body caging hers.
He took her again. This time, there was no stopping.
Bea shattered beneath him, his name spilling from her lips, the pleasure blinding. And Gage let her fall. The release crashed over her, violent and unrelenting, her body shaking against his.
Gage followed. A final thrust. A low, splintering groan—holding her down like he wanted her to remember it.
Then silence.
Bea was wrecked. Breathless. Sated. His.
His mouth moved against her jaw. “Next time, talk to me before you decide.”
Bea shuddered.