Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
GAGE
Nate was the first to see the notification. He didn’t speak, just turned his screen.
Sovereign Wealth Infrastructure Alignment: Provisionally Approved.
Gage stood at the head of the long conference table, one hand on the back of a chair, the other loosely curled near his side. Victoria’s eyes snapped to him. Nate sat forward. The rest of his team, six of the sharpest minds King Global had, watched for his reaction.
He gave none. Except a slow exhale.
At what it meant for London.
Three years. Four at most.
Not a guarantee. A reasonable estimate: long enough to solidify the first phase, deliver enough wins to justify his return. The hardest part—the early oversight, the public performance—would fall to him and Nate.
It also unlocked something else: a phased succession plan. His father could step back.
And for the first time, he could say the words to Bea.
Come with me. It won’t be forever. We’ll come back.
He hadn’t said it earlier because there was no vision to offer her. He had no choice but to go, but he wouldn’t ask her to jump into the unknown without even a timeline.
“Lock it down,” Gage instructed.
Victoria was already moving, issuing directives, syncing calendars, notifying legal teams. The tension in the room began to dissipate. Half an hour later, the team filed out.
Only Nate remained.
Gage didn’t move until the door clicked shut behind them. 4:53 p.m.
He braced a hand on the edge of the table.
This wasn’t relief. It was calculus. One variable finally falling into place. Not just for King Global. For himself.
Bea had already adjusted for him. Bent to fit the shape of his world. Imperium. The Harvest Summit. Catherine.
London would demand more.
In the UR, he could manage the press, shield her from the worst of it. Here, she had cover. Friends, rhythm, the space to breathe. London would strip that away, and he knew realistically he wouldn’t have time to hold her hand through all of it.
“You finally gonna tell her?” Nate guessed.
He nodded once. “Tonight.”
The room was cocooned from the noise of the main dining floor, a space reserved for conversations that didn’t belong in public.
Their waiter had appeared once to take their order, twenty minutes earlier, then vanished.
He reappeared with the wine. Gage glanced up, nodded, and thanked him.
Bea watched the exchange. He did that more often than not, she realized. Met their eyes. Spoke. The waiter finished pouring, gave them both a nod, and exited.
Bea reached for her water glass, fingers brushing condensation.
Gage was watching her.
She sipped, then lowered the glass. “What’s up?”
He leaned forward. “We need to talk.”
Okay. Those four words should come with a seatbelt. She moved back into her chair.
Eventually, he said, “London.”
She blinked. “What’s in London?”
“Our future.”
The phrase was so clean, so absurdly confident, she almost missed it.
“I…sorry. What?”
“I was meant to go after I graduated. Take over full operations in Europe.”
Oh.
That caught her off guard. Her mind scrambled to remember—had he ever said that? Had she missed it? It felt like something she should’ve known. Or something he’d never said out loud.
“When?” she asked.
“Originally, January.”
The past January. The one six months ago.
Which meant…he’d stayed. For her?
If he had, why hadn’t he said anything? And if he hadn’t, why was he still here?
She tried to stay on track, to hold the thread of the conversation where it belonged. But the question hung back, curled into the creases of her mind. “And now?”
“The next one.”
Next January was seven months away. Twenty-five weeks. One hundred and seventy-five days.
Her brain was doing math. It counted when her heart panicked. Numbers were safe. Numbers didn’t move to London.
Her nails bit into her palms. “So you’ll be living in London,” she summarized slowly.
“Not on my own,” he clarified. “With you.”
Cool. Casual.
Hey sweetheart, no pressure, but it’s empire time.
“Would it be a permanent move?” she asked slowly.
“Three years. Possibly four.”
Okay. At least they’d come back eventually.
She’d be twenty-six or seven. He’d be thirty or thirty-one. Was that still young?
“Nate’s coming too,” he continued. “Europe needs to work before the UR seat is handed over.”
Those were the words that cut through her useless calculating.
This was it. What Victor had warned her of. The choice between two futures. Because London wasn’t an average posting. It was a proving ground. The final trial before he took the throne.
Gage met her eyes with the look he used when he wanted to reassure her and warn her at the same time.
“Sweetheart, I know you won’t have an answer tonight.
” His hand found hers. “It’s not public knowledge yet.
It can’t be. Not until the announcement is made in October.
But I need you to know now that this is what we’re walking toward. ”
Toward. Not away, not around. Through.
There were a hundred things she could say. A hundred questions she wanted to ask. Some of them solid, some insane.
Do they even have oat milk in London? I don’t understand cricket, is that a requirement?
But none of it would change the path already forming beneath their feet.
She squeezed his hand and said, as bravely as she could, “Okay.”
The elevator slid open on the top floor of Mayfield Hall.
Bea stepped out in a daze. The weight of dinner still clung to her skin.
Gage was leaving.
Not on my own. With you.
He had a late-night call with London, so he’d dropped her off home.
Her phone buzzed in her bag, loud enough in the silence to jolt her. She’d forgotten it entirely, and it’d been on silent during dinner. Now it was blinking with twenty-seven notifications. Someone was either dead or had been photographed in satin under flash lighting.
She pulled it out. The messages started an hour ago.
Group Chat: Therapy Club
NAOMI: I’m engaged. I repeat. The future of the UR’s political machine just put a ring on it.
GEORGINA: It’s 4.5 carats and has its own security.
ISABEL: I knew he was going to do it!
LILLIAN: Congratulations!!!!!
NAOMI: Everyone assemble at Mayfield Hall. It’s most central.
NAOMI: I have binders. Plural.
ISABEL: Leaving my photoshoot now. Traffic is hell. I’ll be an hour at least.
LILLIAN: Me, too. I’m bringing cake.
GEORGINA: I already ordered six bridal sample racks. I had a premonition.
NAOMI: BEA. Tell Gage to release you. The Republic needs you.
GEORGINA: I’ve alerted his concierge. He’ll tell me if Bea shows up at the penthouse.
NAOMI: BEA DO NOT SLEEP WITH HIM this is more important.
NAOMI: You can have sex forever. I’m only engaged once.
GEORGINA: (debatable)
NAOMI: THE POINT STANDS
NAOMI: The Krug is open!
Bea huffed out a laugh. She punched the code in, and pushed open the front door.
Naomi let out a scream the moment Bea stepped through the door. A full-body, multi-octave, slightly deranged squeal.
“There she is!” Naomi shrieked, launching across the room in a pair of ivory La Perla pajamas and enough lip gloss to light a runway.
Bea barely got her shoes off before she was swallowed into a hug that smelled like champagne, Jo Malone, and political ascendancy.
“I’ve been engaged for four hours and you’re just arriving,” Naomi accused, grinning against her ear. “You’re lucky I like you so much.”
“I’ve just been emotionally waterboarded by my boyfriend,” Bea said into her shoulder. “But congratulations, you lunatic.”
Naomi froze for half a second, then stood back just enough to look at her. “You okay?” she asked quietly.
Bea blinked. Then gave her a dazzling, slightly too-wide smile. “Of course. I’m thrilled. I love love.”
Naomi narrowed her eyes. Then huffed and shoved her left hand in Bea’s face. “Okay well, look. LOOK. LOOK.”
Bea held Naomi’s fingers steady to keep from going cross-eyed. “That’s not a ring. That’s an offshore bank account.”
Naomi held the pose like she was doing product placement for dynastic wealth. “He proposed in front of the presidential gardens. There was a violinist. I think he was wearing morning tails.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t televised?” Bea asked, eyes still adjusting to the carat count.
“It better not have been,” Naomi said, “because I wasn’t even wearing eyeliner.”
Bea laughed and dropped her bag as she crossed to the living room. The coffee table was a battlefield: glossy French bridal magazines, crystal flutes, Naomi’s laptop mid-Pinterest spiral, and Georgina’s iPad swiping through vendor portfolios like she was shortlisting NATO candidates.
“Bey, sit,” Georgina called from the couch. “We’re eliminating bridal photographers who say things like ‘whimsy,’ ‘ethereal,’ or ‘candid love stories.’”
Naomi looked radiant. Hair glossy. Skin glowing. Probably hadn’t stopped smiling since sunset. “We’ll lock in the wedding planner shortly, but Georgina has veto power on photography. Isabel’s on PR. Lillian’s got cakes. I’ve assigned you stationery. I trust your font instincts.”
“You’ve already assigned roles?”
“We’re on a seventy-two-hour press countdown,” Georgina said, like it was obvious.
“You’ve been engaged for four hours and you’re already planning the press cycle?”
Naomi arched one perfect eyebrow. “We’re not savages.”
Bea took the champagne Georgina offered her. “So…” She tilted her head. “Why aren’t you…celebrating? You know. With Charles?”
“He had a Foreign Ministry call. Something about sanctions,” Naomi said breezily. “And his mother said no visible hickeys during the first press window.”
Bea choked on her drink. “That’s sound advice.”
“Now. While you were off having intimacy with the future CEO of global finance—” Georgina began.
“I wasn’t having—”
“Sure, sure. We have real problems. Like whether Naomi should do a cathedral veil or a shoulder sweep.”
“It’s going to be a summer wedding,” Naomi said, as if that explained the dilemma.
“Clear your calendar for December,” Georgina ordered.
Bea gave a mock salute.
A knock at the door.
“That’ll be Isabel and Lillian,” Georgie said without looking up.
Naomi drained her glass and stood. “Good. We need everyone in the war room.”
Bea rose too. “I didn’t know I’d joined a Cabinet.”
“You didn’t,” Naomi said, already striding toward the door. “This is what they call a draft.”
It was nearly one in the morning when the girls finally left, and Bea was alone in her bedroom. The champagne buzz had worn off hours ago. Now she was just tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
She dropped onto her bed, dress wrinkled. She stared at the ceiling for three full minutes before reaching for her phone.
BEYA SLAYA: Gage is leaving.
CLAIRE BEAR: ???
CLAIRE BEAR: What the hell do you mean he’s leaving?!
BEYA SLAYA: Literally what I said.
The typing bubble appeared. Vanished. Appeared again. Then:
CLAIRE BEAR: Video. Now.
Bea reluctantly hit Video Call. Claire picked up on the first ring. The light behind her was the faint glow that came barely after sunrise.
“Okay,” Claire started, “from the top. Use small words. I haven’t had caffeine yet.”
Bea flopped back onto her pillows. “I can’t tell you the details. I think I might literally cost his company billions of dollars if this becomes public, so you have to swear you won’t tell.”
“Bea. Who would I tell? My plants? The ghost that’s been stealing my socks?”
“Claire Bear.”
“I swear,” she said solemnly, raising a hand like she was about to testify in court. “On the grave of my social life and the half-dead basil I keep forgetting to water.”
Bea put her arm over her eyes. “He told me over dinner. One of those silent, soundproof rooms where the waiter disappears for two hours and everything smells like truffle oil.”
“A breakup restaurant?”
“Apparently a relocation restaurant.”
“What details can you give me?”
“He’s going in January. For three to four years. He wants me to know…that’s the future we’re heading toward.”
“What did you say?”
“I said Okay, like a moron.”
“Ah. The verbal panic button.”
Bea huffed a small laugh. “It was the only thing that didn’t come out shaky.”
“You freaking out?”
“Yes. And no.” She sat up. “Everything’s just starting to fit here. And now he wants to move away. But then, I’ve done it once, I know I could do it again.”
Claire was quiet for a moment. Then asked, “Do you want to go?”
“I want Gage,” she said. “And I think if I want him, it comes with this.”
“Like what Victor said,” Claire recalled.
“Yeah,” Bea said softly. “Apparently he wasn’t speaking metaphorically.”
“You should start keeping a list on your phone,” Claire advised. “Future-father-in-law idiosyncrasies.”
“Don’t even kid, you know that list is coming.”
Claire leaned back. “Well Bey, it looks like you’re officially dating a man with a succession plan. That’s rarer than a good Hinge date.”
“I think I might be moving to London.”
Claire paused, then said, “Okay. But like, do they have oat milk?”
“Get. Out. I asked myself the same thing!”
“And?”
“I Googled it. Thankfully, yes.”
“That means it’s inhabitable, at least.”
Bea exhaled. “What if I say yes?”
Claire studied her for a moment. “Then you’ll figure it out. You always do.”
But what if this time, I don’t?
“And if not”—some days, Bea swore that Claire could actually read her mind—“you’ll come back with a posh accent and at least one pair of Wellingtons.”