Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Bea wasn’t trying to look glamorous, but Isabel would’ve called it a decent attempt. She’d picked her outfit carefully: black trousers, a soft cream sweater, and satiny flats Naomi insisted she needed because “serious girlfriend on a private jet” shoes were a thing.
Gage led her inside.
It was luxury that lived in the details. Buttery leather seats, dark walnut trim, champagne resting in coolers. The King crest etched tastefully into the headrests, the glassware, the linen napkins. The cabin was warm, perfectly temperature controlled.
There were a total of seven people on this entire airplane.
They took their seats across from each other. The jet taxied, then took off.
As they smoothed into altitude, Gage removed his jacket and pushed his sleeves up, the movement drawing her eyes to his forearms, the glint of his watch.
He turned. Traced her face with his eyes.
“Have I smudged something?” she asked, half joking.
“No. I just haven’t had you to myself in days.”
Her chest tightened. She’d been in study and exam mode for the week. He’d been under the pump at work. Their schedules had kept overlapping.
Macy passed by with a tray, offering Bea a glass of sparkling water with lime. Remembered, from the first time they’d flown together. Gage took one also.
“The call button is there if you need us,” Macy said with a smile. “Otherwise, lunch will be served at twelve.”
Bea watched her disappear behind a partition at the rear of the plane, closing the door softly behind her.
Which meant the entire center of the cabin was theirs.
“Where are we stopping over?” she asked, facing Gage.
“Nevada. Faster for private planes,” he replied.
Bea reached forward into her bag, and pulled out a novel.
His brow quirked. “Is that what you plan to do for sixteen hours?”
She gave him a look. “I thought you’d have work.”
“Not that much.”
“Oh.” Her fingers brushed the edge of her book. “What do you want to do?”
He unbuckled his seatbelt. Stood. Crossed the aisle. Sat beside her.
Their knees touched. Her pulse jumped.
He wasn’t even speaking. But she’d learned to understand him so well that even his silences had tone.
They were on a plane. She’d just seen Macy disappear behind a door she wasn’t even sure was soundproof, with two guards who probably had military-grade hearing.
She shifted slightly in her seat. Not away. Just enough to try to breathe like a normal human.
Gently, he took the book from her fingers.
“You’re not going to let me read, are you?”
“Not when we have two hours before she comes back.”
Which meant she had to be very careful. Because he hadn’t touched her in days, and she had a feeling her body had missed the memo about dignity.
Gage wasn’t the type to make a scene. But if he decided he wanted to…Macy and the guards were going to get the soundtrack.
They landed at Heathrow mid-afternoon, into cloudy skies and greyscale light. A black Bentley waited on the tarmac. One of his security guys opened the door. Bea slid in, followed by Gage.
The car pulled out in silence, as a couple of idle raindrops began trailing down the windows. The city unfurled around them: brick terraces with flower boxes, red double-decker buses, cabs like oddly shaped ink blots in traffic.
Bea stared out the window, heart open wide. It was just as chaotic, just as iconic, as she’d expected.
The driver took them through Chelsea, past low-slung bakeries and tall-windowed townhomes. Gage reached over and rested a hand over hers. His palm was cool, and large enough to cover hers completely.
The city wasn’t waiting for her, but it didn’t seem to mind that she’d come.
They spent the next day as tourists, if being “tourists” meant no queues, private guides, and the occasional subtle nod of deference that followed Gage even to the other side of the world.
They walked the Tower Bridge first.
The air was cool and thin and made her wish she’d brought something thicker. But it didn’t matter, because Gage had put his jacket on her shoulders, immediately enveloping her in his warmth and scent. Everything looked like a postcard.
She glanced at him. “You’ve been here before.”
“Several times.”
“But you brought me anyway?”
“You’ve never been,” he said. “And it’s different with you.”
She smiled.
Westminster Abbey came next. The air smelled of candle wax and centuries-old stone.
She tilted her head back beneath the lofty ceilings stretching overhead, her breath catching. The space swallowed sound. Swallowed thought. For a moment, she felt small—not in stature, but in time. She’d stepped into something that had outlasted kings and queens, empires and wars.
“This is insane,” she whispered. “The ceilings…”
Gage followed her gaze. “Meant to remind people how temporary they are.”
She snorted. “That sounds familiar.”
He glanced at her. “Careful.”
“Why? You’ll have me smited?”
“Tempting.” His mouth barely moved. “But I’m not in the market for a replacement.”
She stilled. Just for a second. Then she leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
The highlight was when Gage brought her to afternoon tea at Claridge’s. Because he knew she’d love it. The tiny tiered cakes. The clotted cream. The soft clink of silver spoons on porcelain. A room that looked so British, she half expected a royal to walk in.
He watched her choose between scones and macarons like it was a hostage deal.
Bea looked at his hands wrapped around the world’s daintiest teacup and bit back a laugh. “You look like you’re playing with dollhouse china.”
“The handle is unnecessarily small.”
“Are you going to give them feedback?”
“I will if we intend to come here often,” he said, setting it down.
“What do you think?” she asked, buttering her scone.
One eyebrow quirked up. “You need to try more than one before settling?”
“Only if the first one underperforms.” She slid him a glance. “So far, no complaints.”
Monday came with a shift in energy.
They took a car, though they could have walked, to the King Global Capital London office.
Where in the UR it was a towering glass skyscraper, here it was something else entirely: a limestone building on a private street near Mayfair, four stories high, framed by wrought iron and stone. It didn’t need height because it had history. And here, that was louder.
There was no boldly visible signage. In Mayfair, it was considered gauche to slap a corporate logo onto heritage.
As they approached the brass-plated doors, she caught their monogram discreetly etched into the glass: KGC.
Inside, the lobby was regal and ambiguous. There was no receptionist, only a man in a suit, clearly waiting, who stepped forward the moment he saw them.
“Mr. King,” he said, and Bea immediately thought of Alfred from Batman. Mid- to late-forties. Polished, observant. “Welcome back.”
“Good to see you, Rhys.” Gage’s voice was calm, contained. “This is Beatriz Cruz.”
Rhys offered her a nod, but not a handshake. “Miss Cruz. We’re honored to have you with us.”
He didn’t ask who she was. He likely already knew. And even if he didn’t, the way Gage rested his hand at the small of her back said it clearly enough.
They passed through corridors of frosted glass and smoked oak. Everywhere they went, people moved around him with an air of deference. Some stood when he entered, others merely straightened.
They joined the London team for lunch at a private restaurant nearby. There were toasts, laughter, British accents that made even the jokes sound more refined. Someone asked about Toronto. Another about St. Ives.
A woman seated across from Bea set down her glass and leaned in, appraising without malice. “Tell me,” she said, “have you managed to survive the weather?”
She was older, poised, with silver at her temples and a composure that’d been honed from decades in boardrooms.
Gemma Darcy. Senior partner. She hadn’t been introduced with a title, but Bea knew enough to tell who mattered.
“I packed SPF just in case,” Bea said, smiling, “which should tell you a bit about my level of optimism.”
That earned a faint smile from Gemma. “Sunshine isn’t our strength. But we make a proper cup of tea.”
After lunch, they stopped at the base of another building.
“This is where we’d live,” Gage said.
The tower rose clean above the street, modern and minimalist, set back slightly from the others. Close to Hyde Park; she could see the treetops between buildings.
Doormen glanced up and nodded at his approach.
The penthouse was still occupied for now, but the concierge escorted them to Level 17, where they could preview a smaller unit with the same view from the living area.
Gage unlocked the door and let her step inside first.
A wall of glass stretched the entire length of the far side, revealing the skyline in full. London in all her imperial confidence: stone and steel and sky.
Bea walked toward it, her breath catching as the city opened around her.
It was beautiful. Cool and commanding. A view that suggested you’d made it. That someone expected great things of you here.
She stepped closer, shoes silent on the polished floor, and pressed her hand lightly to the glass. Sunlight spilled through, turning the river into a ribbon of gold.
She could imagine mornings here. Coffee in one hand, fluffy robe against her skin. Gage, already dressed, already reading.
His reflection hovered behind her in the window. Watching without pushing.
And then she saw herself.
Just for a second, the shape of it all shifted. And suddenly she couldn’t tell if it was her reflection she was looking at…or the woman he needed her to become.