Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
The line at the coffee cart stretched across the pavement. Two lecture halls had just emptied, and caffeine was nonnegotiable.
Bea and Lillian stood in line, half considering finding another cart, half invested in this one since they’d already been standing there for ten minutes. Behind them, two guys were loudly ranking protein powders. The barista waved to the next student, and they shuffled forward.
“So I’m going to Gage’s graduation tomorrow.”
“Oh, wow. Are you sitting with his parents?”
Bea nodded.
“Like a daughter-in-law in waiting,” Lillian teased.
Bea groaned. “Please don’t say it like that. I’m nervous enough as it is.”
“But they liked you at the Harvest Summit.”
“That’s a generous summarization,” Bea said wryly.
Lillian adjusted her hairpiece. “Do you know what you’re wearing?”
“Three options. All of them black. Two require tape. I’ll ask Georgie to help me decide.”
Last year, she’d shown up to Georgina’s university theatre production in what she’d believed was a perfectly reasonable dress, until women started floating past her in floor-length gowns and enough diamonds to bankrupt a midsized principality.
She wasn’t about to make that mistake again. Not in front of Gage’s parents. Not after the Summit. She’d earned ground. She wasn’t going to lose it because she misread a dress code and accidentally showed up in aspirational cocktail when the vibe was mafia yacht wife.
Lillian nodded, pulling her phone out of her bag as it buzzed.
Her eyes widened.
Bea watched as she answered the call with an excited little breath. “Hello? This is—yes, this is she.” A pause. Her face turned pale, then pink, then pinker. “Oh, yes. Thank you so much. I’d love to accept. That’s wonderful. Yes, I’ll wait for the follow-up email.”
She hung up, staring at her phone. Then at Bea. “I got it.”
Bea was puzzled. “Got what?”
“The data entry job. At the Children’s Integration and Cultural Adjustment Institute.”
“That’s amazing!”
“I didn’t even bother applying for the fancy internships after your trauma,” Lillian said. “This one’s not glamorous. But it’s real. And they’re paying me in actual money.”
Bea grabbed her wrist. “Don’t downplay it, Lils. This is huge. We’re celebrating.”
Lillian tried to look modest. Failed. “At least now I know I can afford Pilates.”
“Your glutes are about to ascend to a higher plane.”
They reached the front. Bea ordered two iced oat lattes with a touch of vanilla, and they both slid their black campus dining cards across the counter.
The barista looked between them. “You two always order the same thing?”
“Today’s special,” Bea said, nodding at Lillian. “She just got a job.”
Lillian gave a little grin. “My glutes are employed.”
The barista didn’t look up. “Congrats to your glutes.”
Bea was already at the picnic table when Nico arrived, a highlighter wedged between her teeth and half her notes fanned out like the aftermath of an academic crime scene. Her backpack slouched beside her, unzipped and overworked.
Nico slowed as he crossed the grass. “Is this a study session or a full psychological breakdown?”
Bea didn’t look up. She just pulled the highlighter from her mouth and flipped a page. “Depends how well you know algebra.”
Nico dropped his bag with a thud and slid onto the bench opposite her. “You look stressed.”
“I have exams in three days and a vitamin D deficiency.”
“Then what are you doing tutoring me? I should go—”
“Don’t even think about it,” Bea said, then pointed at his notebook. “Sit. Maths. Let’s go.”
They worked through two sections of his revision packet before Nico leaned back and stretched his arms overhead, spine cracking.
“You’re the one who wanted officer track,” Bea reminded him. “That means good mid-sems.”
“I know, I know.” He cracked his knuckles.
Bea took a swig from her water bottle. “Seriously though, that’s a big decision. What made you want that?”
Nico twirled his pen between his fingers. She wasn’t sure if she’d get a serious answer from him. But he surprised her by saying, “I want to be someone people follow. Not because they have to. Because they choose to.”
That was more introspection than she expected from someone who still argued that you shouldn’t have to show your work in math if the vibes were correct.
“That’s a good answer.” She smiled.
“Like El Jefe,” he added.
“Rafael?” Bea opened her drink bottle, took a sip. “Y’know, it’s cool that you like your godfather.”
“Of course. I chose him,” Nico said, hand on his heart. “I asked him when I was eight.”
“You did? Not your parents?”
“Yeah. I even made a certificate. With, like, stamps and stuff. He framed it.”
Bea laughed, thrown by all of these revelations. “Why’d you choose him?”
Nico ran his thumb along the edges of his textbook. “’Cause he always let me play.”
“Play what?”
“Our parents would have these boring lunches all the time with the other parents. We’d watch him, Laurent, and the older guys play basketball in the backyard,” Nico said. “After their game, El Jefe and Seb would always play a game with me and my friends.”
Her throat felt tight for a reason she didn’t want to name. “That’s…kind.”
They finished the rest of his revision with sunlight warming their backs and leaves crunching under the bench.
Bea capped her pen. “Hey, what happened with that girl from last year?”
“She transferred schools. Obviously unrelated,” he said, shrugging as he shouldered his bag. Then he flashed her a grin, crooked and boyish. “Her loss now that I’m on officer track.”
It took four try-ons, as many declarations of, “Absolutely not,” from Georgina, arms akimbo, and a reminder that, “You’re Gage King’s girlfriend, not a seat filler. You don’t blend in. You headline,” for Bea to land on an acceptable outfit.
So now Bea was standing outside the grand double doors of the St. Ives Auditorium wearing a white halter-neck jumpsuit cinched at the waist, heels sharp enough to defend herself, and a black cape blazer draped over her shoulders like she was about to chair a board meeting.
Inside, the hall soared upward: carved wood paneling, two sweeping balconies, arched ceilings that swept up like a cathedral nave.
The stage glowed under warm lights, a long crimson carpet flanked by rows of graduates in black gowns and satin sashes.
It felt like walking into a temple, one that worshiped legacy.
She moved down the reserved section, spotting the place card with her name, because of course Gage King’s entourage couldn’t be expected to just find themselves a seat.
She slid in beside Elena King, regal in a soft plum coat dress, pearls at her collar.
On her other side sat Victor King, all gravity and presence, not a strand of silver hair out of place.
Next to Bea, Nate’s sister, brown-haired, brown-eyed, only a little taller than her, offered a shy smile. “Hi. I’m Harper. You look beautiful.”
“You too,” Bea whispered back, relieved by the softness in her voice. Harper reminded her of Lillian—sweet, observant, a little overwhelmed but trying her best.
Beside Harper sat Mr. and Mrs. West, both classic UR pedigree. His cufflinks gleamed with the King Global Capital insignia. Her gaze swept the room like it was an investment portfolio.
“The boys are done today,” Elena said quietly, eyes still on the stage.
“They’ve both earned it,” Victor replied, and his voice, if not proud, was content.
The ceremony began with a procession of robed faculty. Speeches followed: the Chancellor, the Head of Economics and Finance, and a visiting ambassador who praised the graduating class for their leadership, excellence, and service.
Bea’s eyes scanned until she saw Gage. His chin lifted subtly, like he was trying to find her through the lights. He wouldn’t be able to. But she sat straighter anyway, like maybe he’d feel it.
Finally, names started to be called.
“Gage Alexander King.”
He rose, composed. Walked like the moment was meeting him, not the other way around. Crossed the stage. Took the diploma with a quiet nod, shook hands without ceremony, and turned the tassel.
Her throat caught, not because he looked incredible under the lights, which he did, but because she knew what this moment was. More than a name being called. It was a legacy unfolding. And somehow, she’d been written into it.
Bea knew professional photos were being taken, but she reached for her phone anyway, discreetly, and took a couple shots of her own. Just for her.
Later: “Nathaniel Benedict West.”
Once all the names had been called, the Chancellor declared, “Congratulations to our graduating class.”
The applause rose in a thunder. Bea clapped with the rest, but her eyes never left him.
The dining room shimmered.
Bea followed Gage in, heels silent on the thick fawn carpet, past mirrored domes and beneath chandeliers that glittered like a constellation had collapsed just above their heads. Every detail gleamed: brushed gold accents, snow-white linens. The air was crisp with citrus and something charred.
Eight of them were seated at a round table near the far windows.
Harper sat to Bea’s right, already unfolding her napkin with soft, careful hands.
Gage to her left, his palm steady on her knee beneath the table, anchoring her like he always did in unfamiliar spaces.
Nate beside him. Across from them were David and Florence West, and beside them were Victor and Elena King.
The first course arrived in silence: scallop crudo with saffron oil and compressed melon.
“So, Bea,” Florence said, after a sip of white burgundy. “You’re at Monaghan and Stowe?”
“Yes. I just finished an analysis for the Ministry of Family Development. A new fund proposal for girls’ education in the outer provinces.”
Elena King nodded once. “I read your memo. It was sharp.”
“You read it?”
“Victor forwarded it to me.”
Those were internal. Weren’t they internal? She was ninety percent sure they were internal. Now was not the time to mentally audit every semicolon. Or pray she hadn’t typed “pubic funding” by mistake.
Beside her, Victor added, “It was well written.”
Conversation moved, Nate’s father asking about Bea’s travel plans.
“Nothing much planned, just Toronto in December, probably.” She glanced at Gage.
“Bit of a flight from the continent, isn’t it?” David said casually.
Bea blinked. “Continent?”
There was a pause.
Victor King’s knife clicked gently against his plate. Elena dabbed the corner of her mouth.
Nate looked up from his wine, then quietly cut in, “Every continent is far from the UR, Dad.”
She didn’t understand what had just happened. But she felt it: a soft, invisible pivot. Like someone smoothing out a crease before it turned into a tear.
“You know he practiced the tassel move,” Nate said.
“Moving it two inches back doesn’t count as practicing,” Gage replied without looking up.
Bea leaned forward, amused. “I need details.”
“I’m not saying he booked the boardroom,” Nate mused. “But I did see him checking the mirror for symmetry.”
“It was a window,” Gage said dryly.
Another dish came in a cloud of smoke: roasted quail over truffled polenta. Bea had lost track of what course this was. Fifth? Sixth?
Victor pushed his chair back and stood, glass in hand.
The conversation fell quiet. One by one, everyone picked up their glasses.
“Well done, Gage. Nate.” His tone was steady, formal. “You’ve made us proud.” He looked around the table, meeting each person’s gaze in turn. “To achievement. To legacy.” A small nod. “And to those who rise to meet what’s asked of them.”
He looked at her on that last line. Brief, but unmistakable. Her heels bit into the carpet, breath tight in her chest. Outwardly, she didn’t flinch.
They raised their glasses higher.
“Cheers,” the table echoed.
Once they’d resettled, Harper turned to her, a bit shy. “Your jumpsuit really is beautiful.”
Bea smiled. “Credit to Georgina. I had three black dresses on standby and she practically set them on fire.”
Harper giggled. It was a small sound, quickly hidden behind her glass. “If I were wearing white today, I’d worry about spilling something on it.”
“I am,” Bea whispered. “Every time they bring another sauce.”
“You’re doing great. My mom hasn’t raised a single eyebrow yet.”
“Don’t jinx it.”
Bea’s wineglass had quietly vanished. In its place: sparkling water with mint and a single slice of lime. Gage always remembered.
She smiled to herself.
Without looking, she slid her hand beneath his where it rested on her knee, curling her fingers into his palm. A quiet thank-you, just for him.
He didn’t pause his conversation. Didn’t glance down. But his thumb pressed once against her wrist, steady and certain.
It wasn’t grand, or loud. Just him, paying attention. Like he always did.