Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
The next morning, Bea once again found herself seated between Gage and Nate for breakfast. Once the plates were cleared, Nate pushed back his chair. “King. We’ve got to move.”
Gage rose, fingers brushing the inside of her wrist as he passed.
Words lined up in her mouth like they were waiting for clearance. She hesitated, just long enough for it to register. Gage turned to Nate, gave a slight nod for him to go ahead. He looked back at her, expectant.
“Did…Catherine fly back with you from London?”
He met her gaze without flinching. “She was on the jet. But it wasn’t just us. Nate was there. Legal was there. She was in the back row,” he said, then added, “She invited herself.”
Ah. So not a nostalgic gesture. Not even a logistical one. She’d hitched a ride. Sixteen hours staring at the back of his head, trying to make it mean something.
One arm curled behind her body. She could probably deduce this. And yes, technically, the past was inadmissible. But she had to know.
“Also…did you really insist on teaching her to ride a horse when you were younger?”
“Sweetheart,” he said, dry as quartz, “do I look like a man who would?”
Well. No. Not even slightly. Now that he said it out loud, the image of him demonstrating how to mount from the left felt like something that would’ve been cut from a romance movie for insulting the audience’s intelligence.
“She booked her lessons at the same time as mine. Quit after a couple of days. Dawn isn’t ideal if you hate horses.”
His response was like clean air handed to her in the smog. She bit her lip, trying—and failing—not to look too pleased.
Watching the Catherine Myth collapse in real time? Unspeakably satisfying. Even if she were the only one with access to the behind-the-scenes footage. Even if everyone bought Catherine’s director’s cut.
Perhaps even better was the reminder that Gage never made her feel small. Not even when she knew she was being petty.
“Anything else you need clarified?”
She shook her head. No further questions, Your Honor. The prosecution rests. The defendant is excused.
She wanted to thank him, but knew she didn’t need to.
Because it wasn’t just that he’d reassured her, it was how he had. Straight truth, like she had a right to it.
“Okay,” he said, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist. “I’ll see you on the lawn in an hour. Can you get back to your room?”
“I’m not a kid.” She smiled. “I’ll work it out.”
Probably.
They walked out the door. Gage turned left. She turned right.
She had memorized the route from her room: straight, left at the angry portrait, down the staircase, then head toward the light. Now, she just had to do it in reverse.
She’d barely made it past the corridor arch before Georgina intercepted her, hair immaculate, lips glossed in a shade only money could name.
“My mother is having a wardrobe meltdown,” she announced. “Naomi’s going to come grab you in an hour. Be ready. The next part is my favorite.”
Bea walked with Naomi across the lawn, heels sinking into the earth, hem of her sundress catching the breeze. Naomi looked like a Vogue editorial in motion beside her.
“Do you remember the rule about the sheet-shaking?” Naomi looped an arm through hers.
Bea gave her a sideways look. “None this weekend.”
“Repeat it to yourself. Like a prayer. Because Gage is about to turn into your personal human power fantasy.”
Bea snorted softly. “You’re unwell.”
“I’m accurate.” Naomi smirked. “This whole morning is a setup.”
“Setup for what?”
They rounded the hedge, past the orchard fence.
Bea stopped cold.
The lawn split like a fable.
On one side: the soft civility of generational wealth—buffet tables gleaming with raspberry tarts and chocolate éclairs, waiters offering drinks, parents lounging in scattered chairs.
Girls in linen glanced at her like they might miss a car crash in slow motion. Horrified, but unwilling to look away in case they missed the worst part. Waiting for the next scene after yesterday’s confrontation with Catherine.
She tried not to care about the scrutiny. Which, today, was oddly easy.
Because on the other side of the lawn: war.
That stretch had been transformed into an infantry tactical course: sandbags, barrels, climbing ropes, steel target racks. It looked legit. Disturbingly so, like someone had filed permits.
And in front of it, forty men stood in formation like a private army of mercenaries.
Clad in black tactical gear. Ready.
Bea’s pulse kicked hard. Her brain fought to comprehend. She’d expected croquet. Fencing. Maybe polo. But this? This was something else. Something only the UR would do.
Naomi handed her a fresh glass of wine. “Surprise.”
“Someone explain,” Bea breathed.
“These are the military games,” Naomi told her, relishing the moment. “Five events. The men prove they still remember what they learned in the service.”
Bea’s eyes swept the field. She spotted Hunter. Mason. Charles. Nate. Rafael. Laurent. Men she’d seen on campus at St. Ives.
And then there was Gage.
Whatever emotion he was having, it had been triple-locked behind reinforced cheekbones. His hair was slicked back, black shirt clung in all the right places. She’d never seen him like that. Not a businessman.
A soldier.
Her brain, bewitched, released every hormone it had in storage. Cortisol. Oxytocin. Whatever made you salivate and contemplate joint tax returns.
Georgina and Isabel drifted over, both wearing floral dresses and oversized sunglasses.
“Hunter looks divine.” Georgina sighed, ending on a groan.
“This is the hardest part of the weekend,” Isabel muttered. “Watching them do this and then going back to your room alone.”
Alone?
Whyyyyy.
She didn’t even want to be alone now. And he hadn’t done anything. Just stood there like being vertical was a form of foreplay.
At that very moment, Gage turned his head. Scanned the crowd subtly. Stopped. On her.
And then his eyes dropped.
Down her dress. To her bare legs. To her black, strappy, obscenely expensive heels. Everything she’d bought on his dime. At his instruction. And all the way back up to her face.
It was a claim, cloaked in silence.
Her spine straightened. Her heart forgot how to beat with rhythm.
Naomi leaned in. “Yeah. Keep your legs crossed.”
The whistle blew.
Forty men launched into motion.
They hit the field like a combat unit—boots pounding, bodies honed, the line between heir and soldier blurring with every stride.
Bea’s hand on her glass tightened.
Beside her, Isabel was sipping her wine far too calmly. “Here comes your metaphor, Bea.”
She blinked back the haze. “What?”
Georgina tipped her sunglasses up. “Watch him.”
One second, Gage was in formation. The next, he had a man across his shoulders, hoisted in a single smooth motion.
He didn’t grunt. Didn’t slow. Like the weight didn’t matter. Like he could bear it, whatever it was.
Across the sandbags. Past the barrels. Over the crawl beams. Step after step.
“Look at that form,” Isabel murmured. “I swear Mason has better posture under stress than I do after a decade of yoga.”
“Charles is lifting like someone insulted his lineage,” Naomi muttered, eyes tracking the field. “It’s so hot.”
Georgie gave a reverent sigh. “Let there be deltoids.”
She couldn’t look away. Thought was a casualty. If necessary, dignity might go, too.
Gage was first across the final line, dropping his burden like a man his size weighed nothing. He adjusted his wrist strap, lifted his eyes. Found her, watching him.
Bea smiled. Bit down on the whimper that wanted to escape.
A ridiculous but sincere thought came to mind. God bless the UR and the men it produces.
“I know he beat the record,” Georgie said with lazy amusement, “but try not to look too owned, Bey.”
Too late. If he hadn’t bought it yet, she’d be gift-wrapping it and throwing it at him.
There were three more events: knife drills, rope climbs, and controlled takedowns, before the final one. Bea watched them all with awe.
These were heirs. Men raised primarily for boardrooms, not combat. And yet, not one of them hesitated to drop into mud, haul their weight and another man’s over a wall, or spar full-speed under a judge’s whistle.
There was no irony here. No bravado. Just men who knew what men should be capable of. Whose bodies were in submission to their minds.
But that wasn’t the only thing that captivated her.
It was the way they barked encouragement.
Clapped shoulders. Offered a hand after a pin.
These men had learned to walk a razor-thin line—rivals in love, in status, in legacy—but still bound by rank and nation and blood.
And in the final summation, it looked as though they knew they could fight on the same side.
The last challenge had the women gathering closer to the rope line. Parents sat forward. The air smelled like sun and grass and gunpowder.
“Rafael’s the best marksman with a net worth in ten digits,” Isabel whispered.
Bea’s eyes drifted six positions down the line.
Weapon parts were laid out in neat rows across the tables. Safety glasses beside them. Targets fixed beyond the clipped edge of the lawn.
The objective was simple: Assemble. Load. Fire. Five shots. Ninety seconds.
Rafael stepped forward last.
His hands moved like lightning—snapping the rifle together like he’d done it for a living in another life. Fast. Exact. His shoulders rolled once as he locked the magazine in place.
Then he stilled.
Raised the weapon. Exhaled.
Five shots.
Five hits.
One of them split the bullseye.
His rifle lowered.
Then—he turned.
Looked straight at her.
Bea froze.
Green eyes held her there. Like a trigger he hadn’t pulled yet. For ten of the longest seconds of her life.
Bea didn’t hear the murmurs ripple through the lawn. Didn’t register Isabel’s whispered commentary.
Her focus was on staying completely still. Movement would only make it worse. Would give him something to track. Rafael Griffin was a hunter, and she wasn’t about to play prey.