Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Gage had told her, weeks ago.
Two weeks in London. Dealing with the subterfuges of a certain Cassian Montenegro. She’d nodded, said of course, tucked it somewhere between a lecture on sovereign bond markets and the moment he’d invited her to the Harvest Summit.
She’d known it was coming. She just hadn’t known she’d miss him this much.
She’d gotten used to the fact she never ran into him on campus anymore. But now he wasn’t there to have dinner with. And because of the time difference, even video calling was hard.
She was fine. Busy. But it felt like Toronto all over again.
8:02 p.m.
GAGE: About to step into a meeting.
GAGE: I’ll call in the morning.
BEA: Okay. Goodnight.
Her days were full.
In the lecture hall, someone beside her scrolled through a fashion house invite. Bea took notes, half listening, half thinking about the policy memo she had to rewrite for Monaghan & Stowe.
At night, she studied with one leg tucked under her, foot nudging her laptop charger, chamomile cooling on the desk beside her.
Across the apartment, Georgina’s speakers clicked on. Instrumentals only. That was their rule: no lyrics during study hours. It wasn’t written down, but they both knew that if the vocals cut out, someone was trying to focus.
Mondays and Wednesdays she tutored Nico.
Tuesdays and Thursdays she did Pilates with Lillian.
They walked back to campus in their gym clothes, hair still damp, mango froyo in hand.
The fruit was a local variety that ripened in late March, which was fall by the UR calendar, summer by taste.
Lillian insisted it beat anything she’d ever had in Melbourne, and Australians were notoriously obsessive about their mangos.
Bea didn’t argue. It was perfect. Cold, golden, and almost too sweet.
One of those small, stupidly good things she would’ve told him about if time zones weren’t so rude. Some things just didn’t land in texts.
The office was nearly empty.
It was past eight, and Monaghan & Stowe had shifted into its second personality: quieter, more focused, lit from within by desk lamps and the blue glow of spreadsheets.
The sound of Bea’s keyboard was one of the few things competing with the hum of the air system and the occasional shuffle of paper from across the bullpen.
She adjusted a figure on the third slide.
The numbers were clean. And honestly, a little shocking. To her, at least.
Bea leaned forward and began typing.
Internal Memo – Monaghan & Stowe
Subject: Gender Pay Gap in the UR
Author: Beatriz Cruz (Analyst, Financial Policy Research Unit)
The gender pay gap—often cited as women earning 15% to 20% less than men—has returned to the spotlight in Western markets.
Much of this can be explained by industry and seniority, but a 10% gap remains, particularly in roles tied to negotiation and performance.
Research suggests this is linked to lower risk appetite and higher conflict sensitivity among women.
The UR has recently faced criticism for its lack of engagement in gender pay gap debates common in other Western nations.
The rebuttal is simple: it hasn’t been an issue here for over thirty years.
While men still dominate the billionaire class (88%), women under 40 in executive tracks consistently out-earn men. They score higher on national exams, rise equally fast in their careers, and, importantly, report greater job satisfaction.
This isn’t aspirational. It’s long-established.
Three pillars underpin this structural advantage:
Demographics/Structure: With 1.3 men per woman, women are treated as limited national assets. Policies around health, education, safety, and employment reflect this scarcity, ensuring strong retention and outcomes.
Culture: From childhood, women are taught their social and economic value, removing the confrontational aspect of the discussion. They negotiate earlier and more effectively.
Sponsorship Model: Most senior women have male sponsors—fathers, brothers, or husbands—who intervene if and when needed to ensure they aren’t undervalued.
The result:
A male-dominated system, designed to protect what it values, has produced ongoing female success.
While other nations still debate equality, the UR has already acted and succeeded.
This memo is part of Monaghan & Stowe’s commitment to highlighting systems that produce real, pro-female outcomes. Our mission has always centered on women and girls.
She hadn’t expected to believe every word she’d written. But after two months of deep-dive into datasets, regressions, and meta-analyses, the conclusion was clear.
Behind her, the glass door whispered open.
Bea looked up. Maris Chen. Junior partner. Deadly shoes. Perfect skin. A woman who never raised her voice because she never needed to.
“Ready to publish the pay gap memo tonight?” Maris said, crossing to her, heels sharp on the polished floors. Her eyes darted quickly across the screen. She’d seen the draft already.
“I was just attaching the longitudinal data from the Northern districts in the references,” Bea replied.
“What’s the summary?”
“The system is behind these women, too. Not just the elite ones. It’s middle-income momentum.”
“Good. Include that in the commentary,” Maris said, then walked away.
Stopped. Came back.
“And add a footnote. Bold text. ‘This is an example of why the UR doesn’t waste time entertaining Western critiques of our system.’ Then send.” She paused. “Good work, Bea.”
That time, she left.
The cursor ticked. Bea reached for the keyboard, rolled her shoulders back, and added the line.
GAGE: You on your way?
BEA: We’re nearly there.
BEA: You just woke up?
GAGE: Yep. I’ve got a breakfast meeting.
BEA: Wow. Can’t even have eggs without talking business.
GAGE: I like my pain early and on my terms.
She shook her head, smiling. Masochist. Unethically hot, alarmingly competent masochist. Why was he totally her type?
BEA: Hope I’m half as ready for mine as you are for yours.
GAGE: Are you closing a deal?
BEA: No. Just walking into a room where everyone is the product.
GAGE: Then walk in like someone already paid top dollar.
“Bey, we said no boyfriends for today. Practicing for Harvest Summit,” Georgina complained from the front passenger seat.
“If you look like that when Gage isn’t even here,” Naomi teased, “I don’t think you’re going to last next weekend.”
She tapped the screen, slid her phone back into her purse. “Sorry. I’ll be good.”
The girls arrived just before twilight.
The Dahlia House had a red-brick facade framed by sculpted gardens and a riot of late-season blooms in cream, blush, and oxblood.
Twisting chimneys and leaded windows gave it the air of a manor lost in time, but the glass conservatories gleaming at the back were evidence of very real and present currency.
Isabel parked and the five women got out. Georgina led the way, her maroon dress sleeveless and understated, pearls at her wrist. Isabel and Naomi flanked her in stiletto heels, groomed for this kind of gathering since they could walk.
Bea followed in a dress Georgina had insisted on—knife-pleated, in champagne—because apparently the only acceptable tones mimicked the dahlias themselves. Lillian, in thrifted alabaster linen and inherited earrings, her signature braid down her back, looked like she’d wandered out of a fairy tale.
A woman in nude gloves checked their invitations, then ushered them through the rose-stone arch. The villa opened before them in tiers of floral salons, mosaic courtyards, and manicured alcoves glowing with lantern light.
“It’s not official,” Naomi said, adjusting her hair with one hand. “But the weekend before Harvest Summit helps the ladies prepare. Ease in.”
They moved as a unit through the first garden, accepting drinks from a passing waiter. Girls clustered under ivy-twined trellises, sipping pale mocktails garnished with orchids and heritage citrus. It was louder than she expected—laughter, heels on stone, the energy unmistakably young and rich.
“I heard Natalie Stratton set up a gallery for today,” Isabel said. “Care to wander?”
The girls all nodded.
“Who’s Natalie Stratton?” Lillian asked as they followed the signs.
“We told Bea about her last year. Except then she was Natalie Wu,” Georgina explained. “She was the St. Ives girl who left for two years to party around Asia.”
“Her husband, Lucian Stratton, runs Stratton Shipping,” Isabel said. “They met in Rotterdam, fell in love in Paris, and married in Northgate.”
“Paris might be the city of love,” Naomi added, “but Northgate’s the city your man brings you home to.”
The makeshift gallery wasn’t large, more like a curated hallway lined with canvases, each spaced with intention. It felt more private than public. Like a collection meant to be shown to the right people, not the most.
Bea didn’t know much about art, but the first stirred something wistful. A tangle of rose and smoke. Two forms reaching, almost touching, but not quite. There was yearning in it, and restraint. Not romance, exactly. Recognition. The kind that happens before anything is said.
The second painting made her throat tighten—a figure half bent in a field of color that bled upward. The posture was familiar. That shape of solitude. The loneliness of it.
The next was colder. Also floral, but fractured. Thin lines like spindled glass ran through blossoms too neat to be wild. It felt like waiting. Not passive, but coiled.
The fourth was sparse: two strokes only. Pale gold, a diagonal bloom. Together.
Free.
Bea stopped. Her chest felt oddly full, like she’d swallowed something heavy that hadn’t landed yet.
Lillian appeared beside her. “I think she arranged them on purpose. Like a story.”
Bea nodded. She couldn’t name the artists or explain the brushwork. But she knew what it was to walk through them.
And somehow, she felt almost like she understood Natalie Stratton—not as a name, or a legend, but as a woman like any other.
One who had broken. And come back.
The Rose Parlor was pure saturation—candlelight, crimson dahlias, velvet upholstery in shades of blush and wine.
The noise didn’t hush. It swelled like dividends after a good quarter.
Laughter spilled between circles of young women who lounged like they owned the estate, legs crossed, shoes off, drinks in hand.
No parents, no men, no press. Just capital-backed femininity at leisure.
Someone had kicked off her heels. Someone else had climbed onto the window seat with a fruit tart and no shame. Austerity was clearly not on trend. This wasn’t a gallery. It was the green room before the main event.
“I still think it’s funny,” Isabel said, stabbing a strawberry with her tiny gold fork, “how Mason keeps masquerading as a man who hasn’t picked a villa.”
Naomi rolled her eyes. “Charles literally said, ‘We should look at rings,’ and then told me to clear my December. Subtle.”
“I told Hunter to wait,” Georgie said. “I’m not marrying him this year.”
Three girls approached, champagne flutes in hand and confidence in every step.
“Naomi,” the first said, raising her glass. “Still managing Charles’ calendar?”
“Only the parts that involve me,” Naomi replied, all teeth.
“I’m told Mason’s been looking at real estate,” said the second.
Isabel barely looked up. “Maybe it’s a hobby.”
The third girl, nearly six feet tall and iced in diamonds, gave Georgina a once-over. “Still playing the long game?”
Georgie sipped her drink. “Hunter’s housebroken. No need to rush.”
A summons from the terrace pulled them away, and they flitted off, their exit looking at once rehearsed and radiant.
“Enjoying your pre-Harvest Summit experience?” Naomi asked Lillian.
“Actually, it hasn’t been as bad as I imagined.”
“What did you imagine?”
“More mean girls, to be honest,” Lillian replied.
Isabel leaned in, tone dry. “We’ve all learned to play nice. At least in public.”
“You generally only get special mean-girl attention if you’ve taken a man someone particularly wants.” She turned to Bea. “Case in point: Catherine Vale haunting the lover of Gage King.”
If only she could be got rid of with an exorcism.
“Catherine isn’t here today,” Lillian observed.
“I actually heard…she’s in London,” Isabel said.
Bea’s head jerked up.
Oh. Perfect. London. Where Gage was. What a thrilling coincidence. Definitely nothing to spiral about.
She tried to smile. “Good for her.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s just sad, chasing a man who’s chosen someone else,” Lillian said quietly.
Even the mocktails went quiet.
“This is exactly why I insisted you come, Lils.”
Lillian turned. “Why?”
Naomi smirked. “Because you’re not clueless. But you speak truth so gently it’s impossible to get upset at you.”
Isabel lifted her mocktail. “And because it’s inevitable.”
Lillian raised a brow. “What is?”
Georgina leaned back on one elbow. “That you’ll end up in a room like this with a ring on your hand and no idea how you got there. Better to be prepared.”
A pair of girls brushed past. She heard one whisper to the other. “My sister said that’s her. The one from M and S who wrote that memo.”
Bea’s head whipped around. She’d said her. Like she was an actual person who’d done something cool, besides attract Gage King.
Lillian’s lips quirked. “Guess you’re a main character now.”
Bea took a slow sip. “That’s new.”