Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Golden hour hit her bedroom like it had a crush on her, painting warm shadows across the desk and the half-read book splayed on her duvet. Bea sat cross-legged on the bed, earphones in, chewing absently on a pen cap as her laptop glowed in front of her.
The video call connected, and there she was: Claire Park in peak late-night Toronto form.
Oversized flannel, chaotic topknot, mug of tea balanced in one hand—and behind her, a laundry pile large enough to qualify for disaster relief.
“Okay,” Claire said, squinting. “It’s just a little offensive that you live inside a perfume ad while I’m here wearing two pairs of socks so my toenails don’t go blue.”
Bea grinned. “I didn’t choose the cinematic backlit life. It chose me.”
Claire squinted at the screen. “Is that a sports bra?”
“I have Pilates tonight,” Bea said, taking another sip from her sparkling water.
“Who are you and what did you do with the girl who used to wheeze from climbing the stairs to the science labs?”
“I even walk the twenty minutes to Pilates,” Bea said proudly.
“Wow. Exercise,” Claire deadpanned. “People change.”
Bea grinned. “Still the same me. Just with more core stability.”
Claire put her mug down. “Okay, Beya Slaya—give me the download. What’s new?”
“Nothing. Which is a relief.”
“That sounds like fake news.”
“No, really. Last year was too much new. Country, school, rules, friends, job. Gage. Even a new driver’s license photo. Total system reboot.”
Claire’s brows lifted. “Just casually tossing the crown prince of capitalism into that pile, hm?”
Bea smiled. “He’s not new anymore, either.”
“So he’s like a pair of comfortable socks now?”
“He’d be offended by the comparison,” Bea said dryly.
“True. He’d never be a sock,” Claire pondered. “Military-cut coat energy. Dry-clean only. Possibly bulletproof.”
Bea listened indulgently. This was not her first Claire tangent. She weathered it like a seasoned professional.
“Remember how I told you I asked him once—how someone becomes Gage King?”
“Yeah, the origin story,” Claire recalled. Her voice deepened, becoming theatrical. “Groomed for the throne since birth. Conquered spreadsheets and men. Deadly with both weapons and silence.”
“He’s just so…impressive,” Bea mused. “Sometimes I look at him and wonder—what does a man like that even need?”
Claire tilted her head. “In general, or from you?”
“Either. Both.” She toyed with the pen cap again. “He’s got money, power, abs. What can I give him?”
“Love? Sanity?” Claire offered. “The best rendition of ‘Listen’ he’s ever heard in this life?”
Bea smiled faintly. “Yeah. Maybe.” She reached for a piece of mango. Chewed on it contemplatively. “Enough about me. Have you done any job apps yet?”
Claire blinked. “Wow. From love to business. That was such a Gage King transition, I’m almost concerned.”
“You have, haven’t you?”
Claire sighed. “Fine. I’ve applied to three places in Toronto, one in Vancouver, and—don’t freak out—I’m thinking about applying there.”
Bea paused mid-chew. “Here-there?”
“Yes. The UR. Only because of the quality of the stationery at that expo stall, Bey. You know I’m weak for free office supplies.”
“Get. Out. Are you serious?” Bea could barely contain herself. “Because if you move here that’s thirty-three percent of my reason for moving back to Toronto, gone.”
“The other sixty-seven are your parents?” Claire sipped her tea.
“Of course,” Bea said, leaning back against her pillows. “Okay, but how serious are we talking?”
“Not very. The application process sounds brutal. Six rounds, group assessments, panels, IQ testing…not that any of that scares me.” She drifted, then smirked.
“It’s the psychological profile I’m worried about.
I’m not convinced ‘occasional chaos goblin’ qualifies as a desirable archetype in the Republic. ”
Bea snorted a laugh. “I wonder if…”
“What?” Claire pressed.
“If it would help if you put Gage’s name on your application.”
“Pfft, please. I refuse to get in via the friend’s billionaire boyfriend loophole. This much fun deserves to earn her own visa.”
Bea didn’t argue. A year ago, she wouldn’t have listened either. But now? She knew what that name carried.
“Don’t get your hopes up.” Claire propped her phone up, and started folding her laundry. “I probably won’t apply. But if I end up in the UR, I expect a welcome parade. With cake. And confetti.”
“Confetti’s a choking hazard. But I’ll allow it—if you promise not to try eating it this time.”
Claire pointed a sock at the screen. “You swore we’d never speak of that again.”
“Your sixth birthday. Metallic stars. You thought it was edible glitter.”
“It was shiny and unattended. I was six. Let it go.”
Bea laughed so hard some mango juice ended up on her chin. “Fine. Cake it is.”
Claire wrestled with folding a fitted sheet, then gave up and scrunched it into a ball. “Anyway. Forget me. You’re killing it. Look at you. Functioning. Emotionally regulated. I’m weirdly proud.”
And the thing was, today Claire’s words felt a little bit true. As much as Bea wanted Claire here, she didn’t need her. Not to survive. She was good.
But if Claire ever did make it to the UR? That would push things into excellent-slash-unhinged.
Bea’s phone buzzed.
Incoming video call: Umma
“Hold on,” Bea said, grinning as her thumb hovered. “It’s my mom. Time to initiate chaos.”
“Ooo yes add her.”
Bea tapped Merge.
Her mother’s face filled the screen. Soft pink blouse, hair pinned up in its usual neat twist, a mug of ginger tea steaming somewhere just out of frame. There was always tea.
“Bea!” Umma said, lighting up. Then her eyes shifted. “And—Claire!”
Claire’s head poked into view, filling her entire segment. “Hi, Imo.”
Umma squinted. “Why do you both look tired? Are you eating? Beatriz, your collarbone is too sharp again.”
“That’s just how bones work, Umma.”
“If you eat enough rice, they stay hidden.”
“You tell her, Imo,” Claire piled on, all fake loyalty. “She’s been living off almonds and caffeine.”
Bea gathered her blanket like a shield. “Traitor.”
“You haven’t come over this week yet,” Umma said to Claire, ignoring the drama. “Are you surviving?”
“Barely. Final placement, night shifts at the diner, and three tables who don’t know what ‘medium rare’ means.”
“And sleep,” Bea added. “Eventually. In the next life.”
“One thing at a time. Just let me graduate.”
“Ugh, I can’t believe I can’t be at your graduation,” Bea groaned.
“Your exams are at the same time. Relax,” Claire said.
“Maybe I could fly in. Just for the ceremony.” Bea tapped her chin like she was plotting something she already knew was stupid.
“Imo, tell her she’s being insane.”
“Bea, don’t be silly. You stay in school. Papa and I will go. We’ll show you on video.”
Perfect. Claire’s big moment, filmed on parental iPhone at a 45-degree angle with bonus audio: plastic bags rustling and Umma whisper-commentating in half-Korean.
“Anyway, if you do fly in,” Claire said, smirking as she shook out a hoodie, “Gage might have to take the jet out and retrieve you again.”
Bea shot her a look but said nothing. Because in this timeline of the multiverse, that wasn’t even the most unlikely outcome.
“Is everything going well with him, Bea?” Umma asked.
“She’s got that face like I miss him even though I saw him three hours ago. That’s how you know, Imo.”
“I do not,” Bea said. But she could feel the flush climbing fast, giving her away.
“Well your cheeks are going red, my baby,” Umma pointed out savagely.
“Honestly, I support it. He let me have the last piece of sourdough at brunch,” Claire said.
“Yes, he did bring me a very large fruit basket,” Umma added a little dreamily.
“You’re not dating him, Imo,” Claire teased.
“Different life, different timing—I might have given him a chance.”
“I regret merging this call.” Bea pulled her blanket over her face.
The women laughed.
Bea peeked out from the folds of her blanket, regrouped, and rerouted. “Have your parents retired yet, Claire Bear?”
“Apa? Never. They’re going to have to drag his body out of that fire station. Remember five years ago when he almost took down his superiors for suggesting he was too old to be Captain?”
“Oh, those were dark days,” Umma said, shaking her head. She reached for something off-camera. That cup of tea.
“He was foaming,” Bea agreed.
“Well, now he’s loving being an instructor. Seems yelling at rookies is deeply therapeutic.”
“Your mom told me last week she’ll move to part time,” Umma said, sipping.
“She says that every year, Imo.” Claire was facing the screen now, while knotting pairs of socks together.
“Maybe this time, she means it.”
Claire’s fingers paused. “I’m all grown up now, so whatever they do is fine.” She said it like a joke, breezy and offhand, tossed out like a line she’d rehearsed too many times to feel. But it hit Bea in the chest anyway. Because she remembered.
The way Claire used to show up after school and sit at their kitchen table like she was soaking something in; not the food, she had plenty of that at home, but the attention.
The questions. The way Umma always asked how her day was, exclaimed over the drawings she’d made, talked her through homework questions.
Umma heard it too. Bea saw it in the way she reached for her mug but didn’t sip.
“You were grown up too early,” her mother said softly. “That’s not the same thing.”
Claire smiled, slower this time. “Maybe. But I turned out okay. Mostly thanks to this family.”
Bea cleared her throat. She rubbed her sleeve unnecessarily at the screen, as if it were the thing that was blurry, not her eyes. “Don’t get sentimental. You’ll ruin our brand.”
“Right. Sorry,” Claire said. “I’ll drop by this weekend, Imo. I have your Tupperware.”
“You kept it three years already. It is yours now. My dowry gift.”
“Okay. But what will you put my kimchi in when I come?”
Bea giggled.
Umma smiled. “I have many containers. I’ll find one.”
GAGE
The doors whispered shut behind Nate as he stepped into Gage’s office.
It was 10 p.m. Northgate’s skyline burned in the glass behind him.
Gage stood at the far end of the room, one hand braced on the edge of his desk, the other wrapped around a glass he hadn’t touched. The ice was half melted.
“He moved early,” Gage said, still facing the window. “Before the panel.”
Nate dropped into one of the chairs, ankle resting over his knee, the picture of ease. “Montenegro?”
A clipped nod. “He didn’t come for me directly. He came for Walker.”
Nate swore under his breath. “What did he hit him with?”
“Conflict of interest from a prior fund structure. It was resolved years ago, but now there’s concern about disclosure.” Gage’s voice was dry. “Convenient timing.”
Classic Cassian Montenegro. Never the blow. Just the bruise that blooms on a Monday morning.
Nate exhaled through his nose. “He doesn’t even want the deal yet. He just wants to slow you down.”
“He wants to make me look messy,” Gage said, finally lifting the glass to his lips. “Preoccupied. Unfocused.”
“Which is easier to do since we’re here, and not in London.”
It wasn’t a complaint. Wasn’t even a dig. Just the truth.
Nate was loyal. Their destinies were in lockstep for over a decade now. He liked Bea; had since the beginning.
But he also knew, as Gage did, the potential ramifications of staying in the UR for one more year—when there were a hundred reasons to be in London. And only one reason to stay.
Cassian had no one to protect, no one to choose. Only his name, and the freedom to serve it alone. That used to be Gage. Not anymore. Not when every move now had her in the equation.
Bea was the risk. And the reason.
Gage looked back toward the city, a faint edge in his voice. “Let’s pay them another visit.”