Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The Distillery District felt sprinkled with memory—brick lanes and crooked alleyways lit by warm bulbs overhead like stars someone had strung by hand. Snow clung in patches along the edges of the pavement. The wind carried hints of roasted nuts, woodsmoke, and fresh bread from somewhere nearby.
Now that he’d finished at St. Ives University and was stepping more fully into his role as heir to King Global Capital, security came with him everywhere like shadows.
Bea hadn’t realized until now that St. Ives, with its collective safeguards, had actually been a reprieve from what he’d lived with all his life.
The men, wordless but deadly, still caught her off guard sometimes.
Bea and Gage slipped into a bookstore near the corner. A hanging fern brushed Gage’s shoulder as they stepped between shelves.
“They still have it,” she said, crouching by a short bench tucked between the fantasy shelves. “I used to sit here and play make-believe that I was picking books for my castle’s library.”
Gage tilted his head. “Were you a princess?”
“I was the royal librarian,” she said proudly.
He gave her a long, amused look. “You’d be terrible at it.”
Bea stood. “Excuse me?”
“You’d read everything before shelving it.”
She laughed. “You’re not wrong.”
She angled her head sideways, tracing her fingers along the spines of the books as she read their titles. “You know…it’s funny being here with you.”
“Why?”
“I just wouldn’t have pictured it. A year ago I was still just a girl from Toronto.” She shrugged. “I came back to end the year the way I started it. But then you showed up on New Year’s Eve.”
Gage looked at her. “So you ended the year with me.”
She nodded, fingers brushing the edge of the book.
“Good,” he said.
Outside, snow had started to fall. Thin, scattered flakes drifting down like ash. The lights overhead stirred to life as the sky deepened to indigo. A violinist had set up near the corner, the music haunting and lovely.
They walked slower now, their pace falling into rhythm with the snowfall. Couples brushed past, hands linked. A group of college students laughed too loud behind them, then peeled off into a side street.
After a few blocks, Bea said, “Do you want some mini-donuts? They’re kind of a holiday Distillery thing.”
He lifted a brow. “Are you asking me, or telling me you want some?”
She smiled, nudged him lightly, and veered toward the vendor. A moment later, she returned with a small paper bag. She pulled it open and offered him one.
He took it, ate it without expression, then said, “They taste like sugar.”
“They are sugar.”
“I wasn’t complaining.”
She smiled.
He reached over and gently tugged the bag from her hands. “You’ll freeze your fingers. Put your gloves back on.”
Bea let him take it. “You’re bossy when it’s cold.”
“I’m bossy when it’s necessary.”
They kept walking. Snow crunched beneath their boots. Light from a firelit café spilled across the sidewalk as they passed.
“Have you decided?”
She didn’t pretend not to understand. “Not yet.”
They walked a few more steps before he asked, “What’s holding you back?”
“I don’t even know,” she admitted, looking at the snowy road ahead of them. “Sometimes I feel like I’m two people.”
“Maybe you’re just one person that’s changing.”
She glanced at him. He held her gaze, but something else flitted behind it. Like there was more he wanted to say.
Bea slowed. “It’s a great opportunity, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
She stopped. Tugged his hand until he stopped, too. “Is it wrong that I want to say yes,” she asked, “even if it wasn’t entirely because of me?”
He looked at her then, choosing his words like he always did: as clear and economical as possible. “I was born a King. That wasn’t because of me, either.”
There was no arguing with that logic.
Sometimes life handed you something—power, access, a way forward. You could apologize for it. Feel guilty about it. Or you could take it. And try to deserve it.
She reached for the donuts again, peeled the bag open, and started moving.
“You use that solemn delivery thing at work, too?” she asked, tossing him a sideways glance. “Because it’s weirdly persuasive.”
The stairs creaked under their boots, old wood worn soft by years of foot traffic. Bea led the way, her gloved hand trailing lightly along the wrought-iron railing as they climbed.
Halfway up, she paused. She hadn’t thought about this place in over a year—not since before St. Ives.
But the memory came back all at once: late nights after U of T exams, shoes kicked off under velvet benches, split bottles of red, someone always forgetting their wallet. It had felt grown-up. Sophisticated.
Bea glanced back at him. “I used to come here with friends.”
Gage’s hand pressed lightly against the small of her back. “Lead the way.”
Bar Léonard was just as she remembered it—mismatched chairs, narrow windows fogged with condensation, vintage jazz murmuring beneath the hum of voices. Tables were scattered in odd shapes, mostly twos and fours pushed together, and the scent of baked brie and spiced wine hung dulcetly in the air.
Gage helped her out of her coat and scarf, his fingers brushing her shoulder as he hung them on the rack near the door.
She caught a glimpse behind them. One of Gage’s security details had peeled off at the stairwell, staying just outside near the entrance. The other had followed them through the door, and settled into a small two-top near the back. Unobtrusive. Watchful.
They were halfway to the bar when Bea stopped cold.
She knew the voices. The laughter. The rhythm of a story being told too loudly. And then she saw them: Maya, Jenna, a couple of guys from U of T, and Logan.
He was leaning back in his chair, drink in hand, legs casually crossed. His head turned just as Maya spotted Bea.
“Oh my gosh!” Maya stood up, beaming. “Bea? Wow, what are the chances?”
Bea smiled, even as her stomach dropped to her knees. “Hey.”
Maya was already stepping over. “We were just talking about you! Come sit. Who are you—” She stopped midsentence, eyes catching on the man beside Bea.
Jenna looked up too. One of the guys nudged the other. And then Logan stood, slower than the rest, his gaze fixed on Gage.
Bea swallowed the fist that had lodged in her throat. “This is Gage,” she introduced.
“The Gage,” Jenna said a little too brightly.
“Nice to meet you.” Maya took another step forward. “We’ve heard a lot. Sort of. I mean, Bea’s been cagey.”
Gage didn’t smile, but his nod was genial. “Good to meet you.”
They were already pulling extra chairs up before Bea could protest. Maya tugged on her wrist, grinning. “Come on. You’re not leaving now.”
Bea glanced at Gage.
“If you want to sit, we’ll sit,” he said, calm.
So they did.
Conversation flowed easily, layered with old jokes and too many overlapping questions. Maya and Jenna did most of the talking, asking about St. Ives, the UR, the weather.
“So wait—tell me again, winter is summer and summer is winter? And the school year starts when you go back in February?” Jenna asked.
Bea nodded. “Yep. And they have daylight savings from October through March. We went to a Christmas market and the sun still hadn’t set at eight p.m. I was wearing a sundress in December.”
Once the topic steered to work and money, the questions naturally circled to Gage.
“So what do you do?” Jenna asked, chin in her hand.
“I work in capital investment,” he said.
“Private firm?” Logan asked, drinking his beer.
“My family’s.”
Bea had the sneaking suspicion Gage already knew exactly who Logan was, even though no one had really made introductions.
“What’s it called?” one of the guys asked.
“King Global Capital.”
Even the background noise seemed to hush.
“Wait. King Global Capital?” Maya echoed. “And you’re—Gage King?”
Bea looked down at her glass.
“Yes.”
One of the guys gave a low laugh. “So you’re what…a billionaire?”
Déjà vu. Bea winced inwardly. How many times was she going to make him sit through this exact script?
“On paper,” Gage replied calmly. “I’m a shareholder.”
Bea felt the table recalibrating around her. Not merely because of Gage’s money, but because of how unbothered he was by it. Like he didn’t need anyone here to understand him. Like he had nothing to prove.
She wasn’t embarrassed, just exposed, the way you feel when someone walks in on you mid-change, even if you were doing nothing wrong.
Mercifully, the conversation shifted once more to lighter things. U of T holidays were ending soon, so everyone had final plans before classes resumed. Her old friends included Gage in their chitchat, asking if he’d been to this restaurant or that gallery.
Midway through, Gage flagged the server. Ten minutes later, a bottle arrived—red, deep, and expensive. A cheeseboard, too, artfully arranged, which the girls immediately exclaimed over. A step up from wedges and sweet potato fries, but not obnoxiously so. He knew exactly what he was doing.
Logan lifted his glass to Gage. “Nice of you.”
Gage met his eyes. “It’s a good night.”
That was all. No rivalry. Recognition. Logan saw what Bea had become part of. Gage saw that he saw it. That was enough.
Bea floated above the conversation, watching herself perform it—laughing, answering, sipping, smiling. She didn’t know which version of herself they were all looking at. Only that, to her, Gage felt like the most real thing in that moment.
She was sitting between two worlds: the one she’d come from, and the one that now sat beside her, unmoved by the one that came before.
The house was quiet when Bea came in, just the soft tick of the hallway clock. She unbuttoned her coat slowly, hanging it in the dark. The scent of simmered tomato and bay leaf still clung to the kitchen, earthy and bright. Whatever it was, it would taste better tomorrow.
The kitchen light was still on.
Her papa sat at the table, sleeves rolled, glasses low, reading a thick packet. Old habits—he never read anything serious on a screen. A mug of something dark and lukewarm sat untouched by his elbow.
Bea paused in the doorway.
He didn’t look up. “You’re back late. Gage drop you?” His voice was deep, lightly accented. The same voice that had walked her through bike falls and high-school algebra.
“Yeah. We ran into some friends.”
He turned a page. “Good ones?”
She shrugged. “Old ones.”
That made him glance up.
She stepped into the room and took the seat across from him, the one she used to curl into after school, and spring from when he walked through the door at night.
“Papa…the internship starts next week,” she told him. Then she watched as he folded the papers. Just once, a clean crease down the middle. “I think I want to take it.”
“You should.”
“It means I’ll be going back early, though.”
He studied her then. Really studied her, like he was trying to match this version of her to the girl who used to fall asleep in the back seat on the way home from tutoring.
“You’ve always done the right thing,” he said. “You’re like your mama that way.”
Bea smiled faintly. “Not always, Papa.”
He didn’t argue. “You’ve never just taken the easy way. Even when it’s hard, you work for what you want.”
Her eyes stung, sudden and uninvited.
Then he said, like it had been waiting inside him all this time, “But you don’t have to carry it all, mija. You never had to be enough for two.”
She went still.
“You’ve already given us so much to be proud of.”
A tear escaped, ran down her cheek.
Her parents had conceived her easily. But no siblings followed.
Not for lack of hope. Years of IVF came after her, filled with silent heartbreak they’d never named, but that she’d felt anyway.
Somewhere along the way, she’d started trying to shine enough for two children.
To fill the space with double the memories.
Twice the milestones. So they didn’t have to look back and wish there’d been more.
She’d never known he saw it. And now he was telling her: she could put it down.
“You’re not lost, mija. You just want something different now.”
She blinked, throat thick. She didn’t answer, just leaned across the table, laid her head on her arms beside him like she used to when she was five and tired. He put his large, warm hand over hers.
“Tell your mama in the morning. She’ll cry a bit. Then she’ll start packing you snacks.”
Bea gave a breath of a laugh into her sleeve.
He rose, collecting his mug, and set the folded pages aside. As he passed behind her, he touched her shoulder. “Go where you need to go. We’ll be right here.”
Bea didn’t say thank you. She just stayed there, breathing in the warmth of her childhood kitchen, knowing what came next.
She’d found it again. Not permission. Release. Assurance. Encouragement to fly.
The kind only her father could give.