Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Gage’s Ferrari crested the final bend in the drive just as the vineyard estate came into full view, its honeyed stone glowing gold in the dying sun. Vines stretched in perfect rows down the hill in all directions.
There were currently four cars being handled in the driveway by the three-person valet team, wearing matching dark vests. Bea recognized Georgina’s red convertible among them.
The car slid into the roundabout, black against the ancient stone. It didn’t belong here—and yet somehow, it did. Not because it matched the estate, but because it dared to contrast it: horsepower in a place steeped in history.
A valet opened her door.
Bea stepped out into the evening light. The breeze carried the scent of grapes and pine. Gage emerged from the driver’s side, handing off the keys with a nod.
Bea looked up at the estate. Massive. Imposing. Timeless. And already watching.
Security, of course, was everywhere. Vineyard staff patrolled unobtrusively at the perimeter, but the real protection had arrived with the guests in sleek black cars with tinted windows. A party like this wasn’t just a social event, it was a power grid.
A sound split the calm. Low at first. Then climbing. Unapologetic. A growl more than a purr.
She turned.
The Lamborghini Urus tore up the gravel with no interest in subtlety. Matte black, massive, and thundering into the quiet, reckless and alive. The engine cut off with a final snarl.
Laurent Duret climbed out of the passenger side.
Then Rafael. Boots hit gravel. Jeans, dark t-shirt, wind-rough hair. He looked at her first, his wordless acknowledgment designed to be just enough to irritate Gage, but not enough to invite comment.
Bea couldn’t help a smile pulling up the corners of her mouth. The car was pure Rafael.
The four of them nodded at each other in greeting, then followed one of the staff through the house, past a cavernous foyer and directly out onto a sun-baked patio.
Stone archways framed the view, low couches arranged to make the most of the mountains fading blue in the late-afternoon haze. Linen cushions, tall glasses, staff that moved without being seen. Even the sun seemed to dip more slowly here.
“Finally.” Georgina rose from a cushioned chair before Bea could scan the crowd. “You’d think a Ferrari would arrive faster.”
Bea hugged her, as Gage and Hunter shook hands.
Gage glanced at Bea. “She wanted a turn.”
“You let her drive the F12?” Charles wanted to know, as he, Naomi, Isabel, and Mason joined the circle.
“She handles it better than most.” Gage picked up two flutes of champagne, handing one to Bea.
Kind of him not to mention she’d spent five minutes trying to open the fuel tank while he watched. Being a former Honda Civic owner had not prepared her for Italian design.
“Griffin brought the beast.” Mason rubbed his hands together, nodding toward the edge of the balcony where Rafael and Laurent stood talking to a staff member. “He and Duret are planning to take it off-roading.”
“I’ve got the X5, so I might join them,” Charles tossed out, slipping an arm around Naomi’s waist. “Assuming they’re not too scared of getting shown up.”
“Laurent would run it into a tree just to win the bet,” Isabel deadpanned.
“Excuse us,” Gage said smoothly. “I see my parents.”
He steered Bea with a light hand at her back. Positioning, not affection. She didn’t need a translation. Nor did anyone else on the patio.
Elena King wore cream silk, pearls, and a cool smile. Victor, beside her, was sharp in navy and stone.
“Mother. Father,” Gage greeted. “You remember Bea.”
“Of course,” Elena said, leaning in to kiss Bea’s cheek. “How lovely to see you again.”
“Thank you, Mrs. King.” Bea returned the gesture smoothly.
“Please,” Elena said, with a gracious tilt of her head. “You must call us Elena and Victor.”
Victor’s handshake was brief. His gaze was assessing but not unfriendly. “Bea,” he said, not stumbling on the pronunciation. “Enjoy the drive?”
Bea glanced at Gage. “He chose the right car for the winding roads.”
Victor looked at his son, then back at her. “Yes. Gage tends to select well.”
She didn’t miss the double meaning. The test had begun, and she hadn’t even finished her welcome drink.
Might as well lean into it. “I’ll try not to tank his average.”
A flicker passed through Victor’s eyes—surprise, maybe amusement. From beside her, Gage’s lips tipped up by a fraction.
“I imagine you’ve already felt the weight of what this weekend asks of you,” Elena said, surprising her with directness.
You knew this was coming. You dressed for it. Time to perform. English only. No blinking. No breakdowns.
“The pressure’s real, but so is the tailoring,” Bea said. “Georgie, Naomi, and Isabel have made sure of it.”
“They do seem to like you,” Elena mused. “Three allies. In a room like this, that’s currency.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“She’ll be fine,” Gage said. Like he had no doubt.
His parents exchanged a look.
Victor’s voice was even. “Weekends like this tend to reveal more than they conceal.”
“Some things are meant to be seen,” Elena predicted.
“I’m sure it will be informative.” Gage’s voice was smooth. “We’ll see you both at dinner.”
A signal. The conversation was over.
Bea tried not to let her expression show her relief.
He touched Bea’s elbow, just enough pressure to move her. “Come on. One more,” he said, low, as they walked. “You’re doing well.”
They crossed the balcony to where a sun-burnished man stood with his wife, both nursing iced spritzes. The woman’s dress was linen, uncreased. Her diamond earrings caught the light but not the eye.
“Gustave, Carine—this is my girlfriend, Bea Cruz.”
Gustave offered his hand. “So. You’re the Canadian.”
Was there something specifically wrong with being Canadian? Bea wasn’t sure. So she just smiled and said, “Yes.”
“You’re very pretty,” Carine said, in a way that made Bea unsure if that was a tribute or a barb.
“It’s the first thing you notice,” Gage said, dry. “It won’t be the only thing.”
Still a little vague. Did she need to be prettier or smarter to please them? The one-percent dialect really needed subtitles.
Carine smiled faintly. “Then I look forward to the rest.”
Bea shook their hands, thanked them. Played the part. But underneath it, she recognized that these were not friends. They were gatekeepers.
Before the next volley of questions could land, a staff member approached. “Mr. King, your rooms are ready. Shall we take your bags ahead?”
Gage nodded. “We’ll come now. Bea will want to change for dinner.”
Wardrobe change, emotional recalibration, brief existential crisis in front of the mirror. Then back into the arena.
Bea’s suite was on the east side of the Aurelle estate, second floor, just past a sun-drenched hallway lined with framed black-and-white photos of vineyard harvests and legacy weddings.
The room was silver-toned, with heavy drapes pulled back to reveal an arched window that looked out over the vines and the rolling hillside beyond.
She could see the men’s wing across the courtyard, separated by a hedge wall and a trellised path. Gage’s room was likely on the opposite corner, with the same view, mirrored in reverse.
The ensuite bathroom was marbled and spotless, with fresh orchids on the vanity and thick towels embroidered with the Aurelle crest.
A small card on the nightstand had her name handwritten in looping gold ink: Welcome, Miss Cruz.
An hour later, not waiting for Gage, she wandered out of her room and followed the gentle buzz of conversation, past the men stationed with earpieces tucked behind clean-shaven jaws, to the Gold Room on the same floor.
It was named not for its walls, which were paneled in walnut, but for the chandelier that crowned the space, which looked like it had been made of falling stars.
The room was intimate by estate standards.
It fit sixty people at most, standing with drinks, soft jazz playing under the conversation, buffet tables set up on the side.
The first evening was informal. The idea was that guests would stream in and out over a few hours to eat and mingle.
So far, none of the Kings were in the room.
Bea lingered near one of the windows, watching the light fade behind the hills. She didn’t know why she’d come alone. Maybe she didn’t want to enter as an accessory.
“Bea?”
Her name had been called perfectly, Bey-ah, in a voice that was lightly accented and almost melodic. She turned.
A woman in her late forties or early fifties stood before her, not much taller than she was, striking, with olive-toned skin and dark hair pulled into a low chignon. She wore a cerulean blouse and white trousers, an outfit that had been made to move, more than impress. Her smile was disarming.
“I’ve been dying to meet you.”
She leaned in before Bea could react, brushing one cheek, then the other, hands clasped like they were already old friends.
Bea blinked. Her brain stalled. What was the protocol here? Should she curtsy?
“I’m Selene Griffin,” the woman said. Oh. Oh.
Rafael’s mother.
“It’s…really nice to meet you, Mrs. Griffin.”
“Selene,” she corrected, eyes twinkling. “Mrs. Griffin makes me sound like a banker’s wife. I married a force of nature.”
Said force of nature arrived. Rafael’s father was tall, commanding, in a beige suit he managed to carry like armor, not flair. Cream didn’t soften him, it dared you to underestimate him.
She remembered him from IGNITE, the Griffin Ventures invitational where Bea’s group and nine others had been selected to present live in front of a panel of venture partners. The memory of that experience still thrilled her.
“Leon,” he said, voice gravelly, like his son’s. He extended a hand, which she took. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”
From who? Why? Was this a setup? Was she about to be politely dismantled?
“From Nico’s parents,” Selene clarified immediately, blissfully unaware of her internal spiral. “They’re obsessed with you. I was fully expecting wings and a halo.”
A real laugh escaped Bea, startled and unguarded. “Nico does most of the work. I just reward him with snacks, and threaten him with boarding school.”
“Well he says you’re ‘pretty dope.’” Leon’s smile tugged at the corners, like the phrase amused him as much as the boy who said it.
“His mother’s convinced you’re the only reason she hasn’t strangled him over his grades,” Selene added, with that twinkle in her eye.
She’d practiced for scrutiny—angles of attack, veiled insults, condescension. Praise required a finer balance: accept it, don’t flinch, and for goodness’ sake don’t beam like a Labrador.
Thankfully, Leon spoke. “You presented at IGNITE last year.”
“I did,” Bea said. “It was such a great opportunity.”
“I remember. You spoke clearly. Captured the room. Your group placed third.”
“Thank you,” she managed, surprised by the sincerity and specificity of his praise. “We all did the work together, I just happened to be holding the mic.”
Leon nodded. He looked like he wanted to say more, but excused himself as he was pulled into another conversation.
“You’re with Gage,” Selene said once they were alone. “The pressure this weekend must be immense.”
Bea risked a glance, half anticipating amusement of the voyeuristic variety. What she found instead was…understanding. “Honestly, it is,” she admitted, still not quite sure if she should say it out loud.
“I understand. I’ve only been in this world for a little over a decade.” Selene’s voice was low and wry. “It takes some getting used to.”
Bea recalled the Griffin Ventures case study from one of her classes last year.
They’d started as a modest construction company, then, after securing Duret Bank as a backer, grew fast and scaled faster.
The company’s billion-dollar valuation hadn’t come until Rafael’s first year at St. Ives.
Which meant the present set of Griffins had lived the rise.
“Have you gotten used to it?” Bea asked.
“Not entirely. But I’ve learned how to walk through it without setting the place on fire.”
Bea huffed a laugh. “My mother would say that’s a waste of good fire.”
Selene turned to her fully then. “Korean?”
Bea nodded. “And extremely skilled at silent judgment.”
“Greek,” Selene said, lifting her glass. “We do loud judgment. With olive oil.”
“Koreans prefer sesame oil.” Bea grinned. “But I’m sure it’s not too different.”
They laughed. The kind that she hadn’t known she could share with a woman who had a factor of ten on her net worth, in a room designed to inspect value.
Then she saw him. Rafael had entered the room, drink in hand. He hadn’t approached, but he was watching. He met her eyes for just a second too long to be casual, then looked away. A shiver skipped up her spine, so quick and traitorous she could almost ignore it.
“Well,” Selene said, unaware of the way her son had just reminded Bea exactly whose mother she was, and patted Bea’s hand. “I’ll let you do what you’re here for. If you ever need a sympathetic ear, or someone to judge loudly with you, do come find me.”
“Thanks. That might be the best offer I get tonight.”
And she meant it. She’d braced for a test, but that had felt more like a welcome.