Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
The lift doors opened directly into the penthouse. No foyer. No threshold. Just uncompromising opulence unfolding in every direction.
It was in a different part of Northgate than Gage’s place but twice as large, and, based on what she could see so far, ten times more intimidating.
To the left, a staircase wrapped around the space in a smooth, architectural curve—brushed gold railings, polished stone steps, and not a single sign of wear.
The floors were cool stone, the walls pale and textured.
A crescent-shaped sofa anchored the living space, perfectly arranged beneath a wide, recessed television and a sleek, unlit fireplace.
Beyond that, a curved bar gleamed like a command post, set with crystal, silver, and untouched glasses.
Bea stood still for a moment, taking it in. This wasn’t merely a place you lived in. It was a place you maintained power from.
She fidgeted, pulling at the folds of her dress.
“You look perfect,” Gage murmured beside her.
Bea wore a floor-length gown in soft, silken chiffon in a shade of winter white just shy of silver, with crimson florals blooming across the skirt and bodice in bold, careful sweeps.
The neckline was edged in delicate beading, the waist ruched and wrapped, and the gossamer sleeves floated to her wrists.
Georgina’s advice had been: “When Gage says wear something nice to dinner, remember he’s going to be in a three-piece suit and dress accordingly.”
Georgie understood high-stakes attire the way surgeons understood arteries: one wrong move and everything could bleed. Bea was smart enough not to second-guess a specialist.
He led her inside.
The table was obscenely long for four people. Sleek black lacquer. Chairs spaced like territory.
Elena stood first. “Bea. How lovely to see you.” Poised, elegant, not cold—just refined within an inch of humanity. Chestnut hair pinned back. A cream sheath dress, diamonds at her ears.
“Thank you for having me,” Bea said.
Victor rose and nodded. “We’ve been looking forward to this.”
No kiss on the cheek. No hug. But somehow welcoming, in an austere way.
They sat.
Gage took the seat across from his mother, beside Bea. His father sat at the head of the table.
Dinner unfolded in quiet, ordered courses. Chilled soup with lemongrass. Salmon with a citrus glaze. A palate cleanser that tasted like crushed air.
“Montenegro still chasing the London committee?”
Bea glanced at Gage. His knife hadn’t paused. “Yes.”
Elena lifted her glass but didn’t sip. “I heard he floated a revised model last week. Open equity?”
“London didn’t bite,” Gage replied. “We’re five weeks into Phase One now.”
Victor gave the smallest nod. “Clause Fourteen.”
“Holds,” Gage confirmed. “I had Nate initiate with two of Montenegro’s original backers. They’ve taken a minority stake in our model. Three percent each.”
“You turned his coalition,” Victor summarized.
“It was the most efficient way to move forward.”
Bea listened. This wasn’t just dinner conversation. It was an unofficial board meeting.
Victor took a long sip of wine. Then: “You secured the runway. Use it well.”
That was it. The highest praise she’d heard all night. No congratulations. No back-patting. Just the next expectation.
Elena turned to Bea. “How was your first London experience?”
“It probably would’ve overwhelmed me before,” Bea said honestly, “but not after eighteen months in the UR.”
“Eighteen months here will prepare you for many things,” Victor agreed. “Do you see yourself there?”
She felt Gage stiffen beside her. His shoulders tightened, as if his father had spoken out of turn.
“Bea hasn’t decided yet,” he said, calm.
“Of course not,” Elena smoothed. “But she must have had an impression.”
Bea chose her words carefully. “It reminded me how far I’ve come—and how far I still have to go.”
His parents both seemed to turn that response over in their minds.
Dessert arrived, a dark chocolate tart with edible gold leaf.
“May I ask…how the two of you met?” Bea ventured.
Evidently surprised by that turn in conversation, Elena’s eyebrows rose a fraction. She set down her wineglass. “Victor and I were both at a finance conference in Austria. Everyone else tried to impress me. He corrected me.” She smiled faintly. “It was profoundly irritating. But also, memorable.”
“Memorable enough that you married him,” Bea surmised, unable to keep her lips from curving up at the corners.
Elena’s mouth moved into the closest semblance of an earnest smile Bea had ever witnessed on her. “Yes. He offered something better than charm: purpose. A future bigger than either of us.”
“Let’s not pretend charm played no part,” Victor said dryly, as he set down his cutlery.
“So…it wasn’t just romantic?” Bea wondered.
“Not in the fairytale sense. But it was deeply chosen,” Elena said.
Victor’s gaze rested on Bea. “I knew the life that awaited would demand everything, not just from me, but from the woman beside me.”
“He didn’t ask for less,” Elena added. “But he never gave less, either.”
Bea peered toward Gage. He was watching her, listening like the words belonged to him, too. And maybe they did.
He was his father’s son. His birthright defined him. He would ask for everything, but not without offering everything in return.
Elena lifted her napkin. “Shall we call for tea and coffee?”
They drifted into lighter conversation but it stayed de rigueur, cordial, and never chaotic. This wasn’t a table for teasing or touch. It was elegance, at rest.
When the plates were finally cleared, Victor stood. “My apologies, I have a call. Thank you for your company tonight, Bea.” He brushed a kiss to Elena’s temple before disappearing into the hallway.
Elena turned to Bea. “I hope you come again.”
“I’d like that,” Bea said, and meant it.
Elena rose. “I’ll leave you two to your evening.”
And then it was just her and Gage.
“Do you want to see my old room?”
She followed him upstairs.
The second floor was vast, hushed, and tastefully underused. Too many rooms for just two people. Not that the house seemed to mind.
Gage’s room was immaculately kept—grey built-ins, sharp lines, everything aligned like it had been arranged with a ruler.
On the shelf, tucked between The Art of War by Sun Tzu and Titan: The Life of John D. Rockefeller, Sr., sat a gleaming fencing mask and half a dozen narrow, silver trophies engraved with his prep school’s crest. Evidence that even then, Gage had been mastering control with a blade.
“No posters on the walls?” she asked, fingers grazing across the shelves.
“Wasn’t in my room enough to warrant interior decorating.”
Of course he wasn’t. He was too busy preparing for the future to do something as mundane as think about what he enjoyed from popular culture.
“How long did you live here?”
“We moved in my first year of high school. Closer to King Global. Easier to shadow my father.”
“Did you like it?”
“I didn’t not like it.”
She went to him. He fixed her necklace. “You did well tonight.”
“I didn’t drop anything or insult anyone. I call that a win.”
“They like you,” he said.
“I can’t really tell.”
“They’re not demonstrative.”
“That’s okay,” she said, “they don’t have to be for me.”
He held her gaze. “You’re the first woman I’ve brought here.”
She stilled. “To your room?”
“To this house.”
She bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to look too pleased.
She was the exception.
…His first.
Gage’s hand found her wrist, the other her jaw. He kissed her, thankfully keeping it restrained because she was pretty sure his childhood furniture was silently grading her.
Then, against her skin, he murmured, “London will be better with you in it.”
Georgina was curled on the window seat, legs tucked under her, wearing one of Hunter’s oversized crewnecks and sipping something fizzy from a glass. A ceramic tray sat between them, scattered with dewy, cut fruit.
Georgina stabbed one with a silver pick, because in Mayfield Hall, no one was so crass as to use the wooden ones.
Bea sat at the end of her bed, back propped against the carved headboard, hair still damp from her shower. The lights were low, the apartment hushed except for the occasional sweep of wind against the balcony doors.
“You never told me how dinner went yesterday,” Georgina said, gaze still on the night skyline. “With Gage’s parents.”
“It went well, actually.”
“They like you, right?”
“Gage thinks so,” Bea said, unconvinced.
“My aunt and uncle have to appear stoic,” Georgie explained. “But they’re actually soft.”
Bea’s face must have looked somewhere between surprised and mildly disbelieving.
“It’s true. Once, when I was fifteen, I burst into tears at a gala because I’d left my heels at the hotel. Aunt Elena gave me hers and walked around barefoot all night like it was completely intentional.”
Bea smiled, faintly. “Wow. That’s actually kind of bad-ass.”
“It was,” she agreed. “Not one person dared to comment.”
Bea took a bite of orange, dabbing at her chin where some juice had dripped.
“I saw his old bedroom,” Bea said. “Everything about it—his desk, the bookshelf, the layout, trophies lined up like they were earned on schedule—was so…Gage.”
“He’s been in training for decades,” Georgie said. “You should’ve seen him at sixteen, explaining estate liquidity while the rest of us were trying to flirt.”
Bea tried to picture him. A smaller, but no less serious version of the man he was now. The image was adorable, but also made her ache.
Georgina looked over, one knee drawn close. “Can I ask something without you overthinking it?”
“You can try.”
“How do you feel about London?”
Bea blinked. “You know about London?”
“Not officially.” Georgina was sheepish. “I know they’re keeping it quiet—share price, succession optics. But I may have eavesdropped on my father and Uncle Victor talking about it in the wine cellar.”
Bea laughed. It was so on-brand she almost wanted to give Georgie a sticker for consistency. It was a relief, though, that someone here finally knew.
“Honestly? Excited. Terrified. And everything in between.”
“Which way do you lean most days?”
“Most days I want to say yes without thinking,” Bea said. “But then there are moments when I can’t breathe when I imagine it.”
“Sounds like a big, glittering maybe,” Georgie said.
“More like a half-panicked probably,” Bea corrected with a smile.
The car was parked nose-in to a hedge, side windows tinted dark. The world outside was soft with late sun. Inside, it was warm and quiet.
Just the hum of the engine and the pulse in Bea’s throat.
They were early. Not by much, but long enough to be unsupervised.
Bea shifted in her seat, adjusting the strap of her dress where it had slipped off her shoulder. “Are you sure this isn’t too much?”
His gaze dragged from her legs, folded neatly in his direction, up to her collarbone, her mouth, her eyes. Then he reached over and slid the strap back into place. Thumb grazing her skin. Possessive. He didn’t pull away.
Bea’s chest tightened. Every nerve sat up straighter.
“You wore this for me,” he said, voice low. “So no. It’s not too much.” The words landed in her stomach like a drop of heat, sharp and low. She could feel it coiling, pooling.
“Gage,” she warned, but without much bite.
“We have four minutes.”
She turned toward him fully. “And what exactly are you planning to do in four minutes?”
“Ruin your lipstick. Not your dress.”
His hand slid higher, up the inside of her thigh—just enough to make her breathing stutter.
Her pulse jumped. Her legs pressed together again, instinctive and useless. He didn’t kiss her. Not yet. Just watched her. Let her feel it build.
Bea exhaled, shaky. Prepared to swat him away half-heartedly.
Then outside—motion. The glass of her window caught the shape of a door swinging open. Lillian walked out. Not just Lillian. A man with Lillian.
Bea leaned toward the glass. “Lillian’s out. And she’s not alone.”
That made Gage glance over, at least. His thumb was still making lazy, damning circles on her leg.
The man, tall and relaxed, hands in his pockets, hair rumpled like he didn’t spend time in front of mirrors, was laughing as he gazed down at her. Lillian was…lit from the inside. Her scarf was falling off her shoulder, and she didn’t seem to care.
“It’s not Seth.”
“No,” Gage murmured. “That’s a man she actually likes.”
Bea grinned. “Are you noting the body language?”
“I’m noting the fact you’re trying very hard not to look at me right now.”
She bit down on a smile and turned back to the window. “Okay, yes, but for one second—just watch them. He touched her shoulder.”
Gage’s hand moved higher by a breath. “I watched. I’m done.”
“Gage.”
He kissed her. Firm, focused, like he knew exactly how short their time was, and exactly how to set himself up for later.
Her mouth was still parted when the rear door opened. She needed a second. Or several. Preferably without a witness. Gage was already sitting back, both hands on the wheel, utterly composed.
So annoying.
Lillian slid in, cheeks pink, scarf slightly askew. But also, thankfully, just self-conscious enough to make her oblivious.
“Sorry! I know I’m late. Adam was….well, you probably saw—”
Bea turned in her seat, still recovering, but hoisting herself right up onto that high horse. “Oh we saw, Lillian. You were flirting. In public.”
Lillian groaned and pulled her scarf over her head. “I wasn’t.”
“She had lint,” Gage said dryly.
“Was the full-body audit necessary, though?” Bea asked, glancing at him.
“I could just get an Uber to Isabel’s play,” Lils muttered.
Bea reached back and patted her shin. “Or you could’ve let Adam finish the job and drop you off. Lint inspection to lift service, that’s the natural progression.”
Gage pulled away from the curb, his tone cool. “Let me know if you need a background check before the promotion.”