Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Fringe was a low-slung, industrial-glass hideout on the west edge of the city, where the art students, nonprofit staff, and quietly subversive trust-fund kids came to exhale.
Inside, the walls were teal. The floor was green checkerboard tile. The ceiling was hung with massive green mesh pendant lights, glowing soft and low like jellyfish. It was nothing like midtown Northgate. And it wasn’t trying to be.
Bea stepped inside, and smiled to herself.
This place was so Lillian. Quietly offbeat, completely unpretentious. She slid into the corner booth just as Lillian arrived.
“Sorry I’m late,” Lillian said. “We had two intakes this afternoon. Siblings. One of them bit the translator.”
“What?”
“Just a warning bite,” Lillian said mildly. “Didn’t break skin.” She said it the way other people talked about printer jams.
Bea laughed, then shook her head. “You need a raise.”
“I’m in data entry,” Lillian said, unfolding her napkin. “I’d take a promotion before a raise.”
A server appeared with menus and a pitcher of cucumber-mint water.
“They know you’re a St. Ives student, right?” Bea continued. “You have so much more to offer.”
“Yeah. But I’m not sponsored,” Lillian said with a small smile. “So it’ll take a while.”
In the UR, sponsored wasn’t supposed to mean with someone important—but it kind of did.
Women aiming for coveted roles in elite Northgate firms needed a name on their application.
Technically, it didn’t have to be a man, it just usually was.
It was why Bea had been passed over for the Monaghan & Stowe internship, until Gage.
Lillian, absurdly, was still single, and therefore, in Georgina’s exact words, an unaudited asset.
“How about Seth?” Bea asked, pouring them each a glass of water. “Did you end up giving your ‘maybe’ a try?”
“I did. Seth’s nice. But he still makes me want to run away.”
Bea sighed. She had a feeling there were only two kinds of men who could end up with Lillian: one who waited forever, and one who wouldn’t ask.
Their food arrived—grilled lamb, smoky eggplant, warm flatbread folded like letters waiting to be opened.
Lillian tore off a piece of flatbread. “You’ve been back for days now, and we still haven’t downloaded.”
“London,” Bea said, moving some lamb onto her plate and smothering it in hummus.
“How was it?”
“Surreal. King Global’s London office is different from here. Less glass and steel, more townhouse of a monarch. Everyone’s posh and suspiciously attractive. The coffee’s bad, but the cufflinks are immaculate.”
She kept her tone light. Like she’d just gone on a cute getaway with her boyfriend and not…tried on a possible future life like a blazer five sizes too big.
“Did you like it?”
“I liked the city,” Bea replied. “The history. The museums. Everything smells like old books and revolution. I did one of those walking tours and accidentally learned about a guy who tried to overthrow the crown with a catapult.”
“I’m surprised Gage let you out unsupervised.”
“Not exactly, I had security with me.” Bea grimaced. “But he had lots of meetings in the afternoons so I wandered around, playing tourist. Took notes on which pastries were superior.”
“What did you two do together?”
“Hit the tourist traps. Saw a show at the Globe. Walked along the Thames. He bought me sticky toffee pudding from this little hole-in-the-wall in Soho.”
“Sounds like it meant something,” Lillian said softly.
“What do you mean?”
“You look different. Not in a bad way. Just…more.” She tilted her head. “Full?”
“Full,” Bea repeated. “Like a ravioli?”
She did feel full. Of thoughts and impressions. Of worries and fears. Of tiny moments that had made her pulse skip for reasons she hadn’t unpacked. Of the fact that nobody there—not once—had asked if she was just visiting.
She wanted to say all of that. But she couldn’t. Not yet. Not while everything was still unofficial.
So instead, she popped a piece of flatbread into her mouth and said cheerfully, “Anyway, I brought you chocolate from Fortnum and Mason. It tastes like gentrification, but in a good way.”
Lillian smiled.
The invitation paper was somewhere between eggshell and ecru, and Naomi had very strong feelings about both.
Now they were roaring down the highway, winter sunlight caught in the halo of her curls, swatch book tossed in the back seat. Inside it were samples of cream tones so indistinguishable Bea was convinced it was a long con orchestrated by legacy stationery houses.
Bea sat beside her, fingers trailing the leather door trim, watching the surf blur past.
“I mean,” Naomi said, one hand on the wheel, “who knew there were forty-two shades of white and none of them are just called white? I’m getting married, not launching a diplomatic letterhead.”
Bea grinned. “Diplomatic letterhead might be appropriate. You’re marrying a Prescott.”
Naomi rolled her eyes. “Charles’ mother suggested we add gold-leaf monograms to the envelopes. I said sure if they can be scratch-and-sniff.”
Bea laughed. Naomi made everything look easy.
“You’re doing so well getting through it all. Study, rehearsals, planning. And you’ve only got seven months until the wedding.”
“That engagement period is pretty average here,” she said. “Once you near your mid-twenties, you know your relationship is a pre-screen for marriage.”
Bea chose a song on the app. “Some people wait longer.”
Naomi snorted. “Sure. Like Georgie, who’s going to stall Hunter forever because she’s still hoping to meet someone who makes her nervous.” She glanced over. “Why, are you planning to keep Gage in the holding pen for a while?”
Bea didn’t answer. She didn’t quite know how, not without revealing too much.
Naomi reached forward to turn the volume down a notch. “Anyway. Don’t let the timeline scare you. You either know or you don’t.”
“How did you know? That Charles was it?”
Naomi’s lips pursed. As if she had to think about that seriously. “I knew when I stopped wondering if I needed to be anyone else for him.”
Bea’s attention sharpened. “Explain.”
“I’m an actress, Bey,” she continued. “My life is a series of costume changes. But I do that because I love the artistry of it, the technique. I don’t do it because I actually want to be different people all the time.
” She peered over. “I don’t have to play a role with Charles. I can be me, and it’s enough.”
They pulled up in front of Mayfield Hall, warm light spilling across the steps.
Bea didn’t move to get out of the car. “Do you ever worry…that one day you’ll wake up and just be Mrs. Charles Prescott?”
Naomi didn’t take offense. “Of course I worry.”
“But you’re still going to do it?”
“Mrs. Charles Prescott is still Naomi Amari. And I’ve spent twenty-four years making sure I won’t forget her.”
Bea smiled. That sounded right.
The only problem was, she wasn’t sure if she’d known this version of herself long enough to fight for her.
Naomi tilted her head, reading something in her face. “Is everything okay with Gage?”
“Yeah,” Bea said. “Just thinking.”
“You have that look sometimes, you know.”
“What look?”
“Like someone handed you a crown and forgot to tell you it was thirty pounds.”
“Ha. It’s not that dramatic.”
“Mm. Says the girl dating a King.”
She glanced at her. Naomi’s gaze was steady, but unblinking. Patient. Bea exhaled. “I think I’m just starting to feel it. The weight of everything.”
“Yeah. It creeps up on you. You think you’re dating a man, and then suddenly you realize, oh no, I’ve been drafted into a dynasty.”
“Exactly. I walk into a room and feel like I’m being appraised for durability.”
Naomi made a face. “Prescott family dinners are like that, too. Charles’ aunt once told me I had ‘a face made for ribbon cuttings.’ I’m still not sure if that was a compliment.”
Bea laughed, but there was tension in it. “I’m proud of him. I’m proud of being with him. I just… Sometimes it feels like I have to build myself faster. Just to keep up.”
“You don’t keep up with men like Charles or Gage. You love them. And you decide whether you can still see yourself clearly in the life he offers.”
Bea blinked hard.
Naomi reached over and took her hand. “He hasn’t asked yet. But when he does…make sure it’s your voice saying yes.”
One thing Bea had learned from her London preview was that the coffee was decidedly not better across the pond. The pastries, she was optimistic about. Cobbled markets, custard tarts, the butterfat content in everything.
But the coffee? No.
The coffee had tasted like filtered sorrow.
So she’d started yet another list in the Notes app on her phone. One that grew daily.
UR Countdown Coffee List
? Charcoal Roast at The Greenhouse – beans roasted onsite over coals
(May taste like arson. Georgina says it smells like a forest fire in a suit.)
? Lavender-Honey Flat White at the Beehive – floral and sweet with honey drizzle
? Smoked Orange Latte at Ember – cold brew with smoked citrus peel
? Foamy Finish at The Froth Society – piccolo with passionfruit foam
(Not sure I can order this out loud while making eye contact.)
? Coconut-Whip Cortado at Island Grind – cortado topped with coconut cream
(Isabel described this as “a vacation in a cup.” Might be a good one post-finals.)
? Cold Brew Avocado Milkshake at Pit Stop – avocado + espresso + condensed milk
(Nico’s rec, strong. He also said, “If you die from it, can I have your books?” Comforting.)
? Honey-Cardamom Latte at Spice Rack – warm spice latte sweetened with honey
(Gage’s version of adventurous. Might be the closest he’s come to chaos.)
? Black Sugar Flat + Burnt Cinnamon Scroll – the unnamed café off Dover Street
(Must go. Cinnamon scroll is layered like betrayal. Coffee crackles on top.)
Her plan was to try each one on her own. Like a slow, solitary farewell to the UR, one bittersweet cup at a time.
Today, she was starting at the top of the list.
The Porsche made that satisfying low growl when she punched it. It was the sound of money and confidence and German engineering, and also the reason she couldn’t sneak in anywhere without turning heads.
Gage’s car, lent to her indefinitely last year when she’d passed her UR driving test. According to Gage, since he was her emergency contact, her safety was his responsibility, and only a Porsche could be trusted to ferry her in safety. He’d called it the sensible option.
Which said a lot about both Gage and the Republic.
She pulled into a rocky drive, the wheels crunching over crushed basalt.
The sign was carved directly into the concrete wall: THE GREENHOUSE, barely visible unless you were looking for it.
There were no windows. Just vertical steel slats and a single doorway flanked by towering rosemary shrubs and matte-black compost bins.
The café had only ten seats. All reclaimed oak. The ceiling beams were charred. A single brass plaque on the wall read:
We roast our beans over fire. We do not explain ourselves.
On the wall, under Signature Menu, was one line:
Charcoal Roast. Choose your mood: Smoky / Aggressive.
Bea stared at it.
The barista caught her eye. “First time?”
She nodded. “Aggressive, please.”
The espresso came in a dark ceramic cup. Carefully, she sipped. It was dark and blazing hot, with notes of singed cedar and campfire pride. No sugar. No syrup.
But it was alive. And honest. Like a truth no one had tried to sweeten.
She opened her Notes app.
Charcoal Roast at The Greenhouse – beans roasted onsite over coals
Unexpectedly emotional. Char in a cup, but weirdly congenial. Would return in secret.