Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Since the start of her internship, Bea had been lunching with Gage most days. Nothing elaborate—sushi, salad, sandwiches in his office while he asked about her day.
She liked those lunches. Liked the way he sat across from her while they ate, listening with amusement at her stories, even though he had much bigger deals that he was playing with. She just liked how it felt to be near him.
But ever since Catherine had appeared in her office, Bea had started making excuses. She wasn’t proud of it. It was hard sitting across from Gage and acting like she was fine. Like Catherine’s words weren’t still lodged beneath her skin.
Today’s latest was: “It’s so charming how you work by instinct. It’s so…unfiltered.”
Not inspired. Not original. ‘Unfiltered.’ Like her work was too cloudy to serve.
She’d said it with a smile, in front of two associates and Bea’s supervisor. It had landed like a pin. Sharp enough to sting. Small enough to pretend she imagined it.
She needed air.
She crossed the street, weaving past suits and heels toward the park just off Temple Row.
She’d never set foot in it before—purpose-built for the kind of people who ran five kilometers between conference calls—but there were benches along the edge. Shade. Space. And, most importantly, no one watching her try to prove herself.
She wished she could talk to her friend Lillian Clarke, fellow scholarship girl, observant, exactly the kind of outsider who wouldn’t need it explained. Or Georgina Ashcroft, Gage’s cousin and Bea’s housemate, who would’ve said something outrageous just to make her laugh.
Someone who was here, but wasn’t Gage. Who wouldn’t be obliged to fix it, and could just sit beside her and commiserate.
She found an empty bench. Runners blurred past on the path ahead, one after another. She barely noticed them. Until her eyes landed on someone familiar.
Rafael Griffin.
There was no mistaking him. Not at full tilt, tearing down the asphalt like he was chasing something that owed him blood.
He wore a dark athletic shirt, damp and clinging, outlining a body sculpted by force, not vanity. Built for speed, combat, and starring in the kind of inappropriate fantasies that queued up unbidden in the female brain.
On his next lap around, he saw her. Eyes locked onto hers and didn’t let go. He altered course, but so subtly it was as though he’d been heading for her the whole time.
He was meters in front of her before she remembered to look unaffected.
“Little Bea,” he said, tugging one earbud free as he slowed to a prowl, corded forearm flexing with restrained power. Sharp-jawed, clean shaven, all symmetry. “Back in Northgate.”
That nickname. The one that definitely did not get under her skin.
His breathing was elevated, every inch of him alive—skin gleaming, chest rising, heat radiating like a furnace. Like standing too close would melt you.
Her pulse stuttered. “Hey.”
“When’d you get back?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“And I’m only seeing you now?”
She tried to shrug. “It’s not like I’ve been hiding.”
“Guess not.”
She crossed her arms. “Where’ve you been?”
That earned a smile. Crooked. Knowing. It made her feel too warm in the sun. “Why, were you looking for me?”
She knew better than to answer.
He checked his watch. “You eaten?”
“Uh, I was going to—”
“Good.” He was already turning. “Come on. I’ll take you to the good place.”
He didn’t wait for a yes. He walked, as if it had already been decided. And worse, she stood and followed.
Two blocks and several turns later, they reached a battered, silver food cart tucked between two high-rises. The awning was faded green. The steam hissed from vents. The air smelled like fried oil and garlic.
He steered her toward an aluminum table slightly off-kilter, having endured too many summers in this alley.
“This is the good place?” She giggled.
Definitely not Gage’s kind of eatery.
“Sit,” Rafael instructed, then went to order.
She sat carefully, not quite trusting the chair to take her weight.
“You look tired,” Rafael said as he returned, dropping two bottles of water and a stack of napkins in front of them.
She cracked hers open, took a sip, grimacing. “Thanks.”
“I didn’t say you look bad.”
Their food arrived—thick-cut fries drowning in mayonnaise, golden croquettes in paper cones balanced inside metal holders. Rafael slid them toward her like it was routine. Like he always fed her in alleyways that smelled like vinegar and heat.
She stared at it, then at him. “You come here often?”
“Surprised my taste isn’t five-star?”
“No. Just that you can eat like this and still look like that.”
His green eyes glowed, the corners creasing at her implication.
Her cheeks went warm. Then warmer. Probably glowing like a liability. Half exasperation, half embarrassment.
He let the moment hang for one more second. “Try one.”
She picked up a fry, bit into it. It shattered between her teeth, crisp, golden, thick enough to hold its own against the cool silk of mayonnaise. Salt, heat, and cream collided in a mouthful so perfect it almost felt indecent. Her eyes closed involuntarily, just for a moment.
“Wow.”
When she opened them again, he was watching her. She reached for her drink, mostly to give her hands something to do.
“Don’t forget who brought you here first,” he said, his deep voice dropping an octave lower.
Bea tried to relax as they shared food from the same containers. The alley hummed with motion. People moved past. The wind lifted their napkins. A car horn blared two streets over. The scene wasn’t the least bit provocative. Or romantic.
Yet it still felt…precarious. She thought of Gage. He’d be at his desk now, eating while reviewing contracts. He probably wouldn’t like this.
“How’s the internship?” Rafael asked after a while.
She paused mid-dip. “How did you know I was interning?”
He didn’t answer. She hadn’t really expected him to. Rafael was a Griffin. Which meant he basically had all the same connections Gage did.
“It’s fine,” she hedged.
He raised an eyebrow.
“It’s…” She cleared her throat. “…nothing.”
“Say it anyway.”
“It’s stupid.”
“Say it anyway.”
She blew on a fry for longer than necessary. Gave a sharp exhale. “There’s someone in the office. A consultant.” She poked the fry twice into the mayonnaise. “She has a way of making me feel like I don’t belong there. While smiling like she’s rooting for me.”
Rafael leaned back, waiting for her to continue.
“It was fine. Until she arrived. Now everything I do comes with a comment.”
“Like what?”
“Stupid stuff. ‘You ask such interesting questions…the kind most people are afraid to ask out loud.’ Or, ‘There’s something so earnest about the way you try to state your case.’ She’s asked my team twice this week to be patient with me because I’m trying my best.”
He chewed a croquette as he listened.
“I hate that it bothers me. They’re such little things. But it’s like walking through a rose bush over and over.” Her fingers curled around her water bottle. “Like I’m bleeding from tiny scratches.”
Rafael rubbed his hands together, shaking the salt off his fingers. “Why do you let her get to you?”
Bea blinked. “What?”
“You’re not stupid. You know what she’s doing. So why does it land?”
She thought for a moment. Not because she didn’t already know the answer, but because she hadn’t been planning to share it with him, of all people. He had a way of watching that stripped the layers she kept on for everyone else.
But she wanted to hear what it sounded like when she said it to a person other than Claire, who’d been on her side since before she could even tie her shoes.
“Because part of me worries she’s right,” Bea confessed. “Like…maybe I am just there because of Gage. Maybe I don’t belong in it the way she does, because I wasn’t born into any of it.”
It landed with a sick sort of relief. Like lancing something that had been throbbing under the surface.
Then just as quickly, the doubt surged back. What the hell was she doing, saying this to him?
The city moved around them. Footsteps, the rumble of traffic. The silence dragged a second too long.
“Rafael,” she muttered, “you better say something soon or I might hit you.”
That earned a faint tilt of his mouth. “You got into St. Ives University through the Exceptional Women program, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You know what that is?”
“A scholarship?”
He shook his head. “It’s a recruitment strategy.”
That drew her eyes to his and kept them there.
“Ever wonder why the UR’s so short on women, but doesn’t throw open the gates?” He let that hang. “This country doesn’t import placeholders, Bea. It selects women who are two things at once: a weapon. And a gift.”
The words hit. A chill raced down her arms.
“You went through hell to get in, didn’t you?” he prompted.
She remembered. The process had been efficient, but exacting.
Every stage unlocked the next. Some elements were expected: transcripts, essays, IQ testing, full health and personality assessments, panel interviews.
But scrutiny came in subtler forms. A string of formal dinners where nothing was explained, but everything was noted.
Surprise speeches with no time to prepare.
And once, a late-round summons to a boardroom—no instructions, no introductions, just twenty women and absolute silence.
“Not hell exactly,” Bea said.
Rafael slid her a knowing smirk. “The UR believes you can survive this place. You have to believe it, too.”
She stared at the food between them. Cooling with the moment. It felt ridiculous to tear up, but there she was. She couldn’t look at him. He’d see, and her pride wouldn’t let him.
“Once you do, she won’t have any power over you.”
Her hand tightened around the napkin. That shouldn’t have meant so much. But it did. It cracked something. Not all the way, just enough to breathe.
“Have you told King?”
She shook her head slowly.
“I see.” He checked his watch again. Stood. “I’ll walk you back, little Bea.”
Bea looked up. “Probably shouldn’t.”
That crooked smile made a return. Smug. Gorgeous. Completely uncalled for.
“Fair enough.” He took one last fry and turned to go. He walked, shoulders loose, controlled but always ready. Just before the turn, he glanced back, as if to make sure she was watching.
She gave him the smallest nod. Then the moment passed, and so did he.
RAFAEL
By the time Rafael reached his desk at Griffin Ventures, he was once again dressed like the skyline answered to him. The heavy door whispered shut behind him. He crossed the room and stood in front of the window.
Northgate rose before him. Just across the divide stood the King Global Capital building, proud and gleaming. Three meters shorter than this one.
Deliberately. His father’s little joke.
He’d finally seen her after weeks of knowing she was back. She’d looked paler than normal. Eyes dimmer. Like something was eating away at her, and she didn’t know he could feel it from ten meters away.
Rafael pressed the intercom.
Seconds later, his assistant walked in—broad, steady, the kind of man who could field a call and a Muay Thai elbow without blinking.
Rafael didn’t hire assistants. He hired assets who could talk through a clause mid-sparring.
Combat wasn’t just training, it was discipline. A necessity. A pressure valve.
“Beatriz Cruz is interning at Monaghan and Stowe. B-E-A-T-R-I-Z,” Rafael spelled it out. “Find out who’s consulting there in her department.”
Mark nodded. “Urgency level?”
“Yesterday.”
He left without another word. Rafael had asked him for stranger things before.
He’d heard about Bea’s plan to spend the entire summer back in Toronto. Known that Gage wasn’t the kind of man who let go of what was his for ten weeks without a plan to bring her back.
And he’d been right. Gage had found a way to make it clean. An internship that placed her exactly where he wanted her: within reach.
She hadn’t expected to see him today. She’d been a breath away from crying, though she hadn’t wanted him to know that. But she’d let him hear the doubt in her voice, see the vulnerability behind her eyes like a shadow.
She still didn’t quite trust him. Didn’t trust herself around him.
Not the way she trusted Gage. Had from the beginning.
Trusted his structure, his silence. The safety of a man who never made a wrong move.
She’d fallen for Gage the way people fall for good advice—sensibly, like it would protect her from making a mistake.
He could understand that. Even if it gutted him.
Fifty-two minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Mark stepped inside with a single sheet of paper.
“Only one consultant has been assigned at M and S the last quarter.”
Rafael waited. He was ninety-nine percent sure he could predict the name.
“Catherine Vale.”
Of course it was. “Thanks, Mark.”
Mark slipped out.
The future Lady King, or so she liked to imagine. He’d seen her do it to Bea before. Once at the Imperium event. Again at the beach. Subtle. Doggedly poisoning the woman who had, in Catherine’s mind, stolen her place.
Who knew how many other times she’d done it without an audience?
Bea hadn’t told Gage. She probably didn’t want to make him choose, or risk looking insecure by telling him that his childhood friend was quietly gutting her with backhanded compliments.
She thought staying quiet was protecting him, and maybe, in some twisted way, it was. He understood the sentiment. But she was wrong. Because Gage, like any man of the UR, would hate not knowing.
There was no love lost between them, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that if Gage King ever found out what was happening, he would dismantle Catherine Vale’s world piece by piece. Men like them didn’t tolerate their girl being mistreated. Not by strangers. And never by a friend.
Rafael stared at the report but all he could see were Bea’s eyes. Rimmed with uncertainty, glossed with a shine she wouldn’t allow to spill. Because of Catherine. His hand closed around the pen, pressure building without thought.
Then—a sharp snap.
Plastic split in his grip before he even registered the force. He blinked at it, almost surprised. Ink bled between his fingers.
He wanted to make a call. There were at least five ways he could shut it down, permanently. But Bea hadn’t given him that right.
He noticed one other detail on that piece of paper: her address. It wasn’t her campus apartment, but it was familiar. He reached for a tissue, calmly wiping his fingers as he stared at the address until it came to him.
Nico’s house.