Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
RAFAEL
He’d been waiting. She turned the corner. He saw her first. Same coffee cart, same time. Rafael didn’t need her schedule to know it.
Bea’s eyes found him. She looked for a second like she might pretend she hadn’t.
Ten feet out, he held out the cup. No greeting. No explanation. Just what she liked—oat milk, sugar, hotter than it should be.
She slowed, then took it. Stopped in front of him.
“I came before the world decides what you want.”
That got her attention. Bea stilled.
“Everyone’s got an opinion,” he said, “on what name you should take. What city you’ll live in. The life you’ll belong to.”
For a long time, she didn’t speak.
And then, more vulnerable than he’d expected: “What’s your opinion, Rafael?”
That you’re the best thing he could take to London. You’d shine. Adapt.
But you’d be the King’s queen. Not the woman still unfolding here.
“The only opinion I have is that you haven’t made up your mind.”
Her gaze dropped for a second. He saw it. And that was the thing. He always did.
“Are you certain, little Bea?”
Her throat moved. A swallow. She didn’t answer.
He didn’t step closer, but it cost him. “If it’s him, then choose it. Don’t drift into it.”
Her eyes stayed on his.
“But if you’re about to give your life away because you love him enough to make yourself smaller, then look at me. Because I don’t believe that’s what you were made for.”
She flinched, small and sharp. “That’s not what I’m doing,” she said too softly. They both heard it.
“Then say it like you mean it.”
Her fingers flexed on the coffee cup.
He adjusted the coffee in his hand. Let the heat remind him not to reach for her. “You’re allowed to want more, and you know it.”
And if that scared her, good. It meant she was listening.
2:03 p.m.
Bea glanced up from her screen as the click of heels echoed down the hallway. That rhythm only belonged to one woman.
“Cruz,” Maris said evenly. “Walk with me.”
Bea rose instantly, smoothing her skirt even though she was already put-together. You didn’t make Maris wait. They walked side by side down the corridor, past frosted-glass offices, toward one of the smaller conference rooms.
The door shut behind them with a quiet click.
Maris didn’t sit. “We’ve got a new opportunity coming through. It’s going to be meaty and high-profile.”
Bea stayed quiet. Listening.
“I want you on it with me. As my shadow.”
Startled, Bea almost asked if Maris had hit her head. Then she almost cried.
Instead, she managed, “Not to ruin this, but…is this a real sentence you’re saying to me?”
The way Maris blinked captured her amusement. “You rewrite structuring briefs better than most associates. You anticipate problems before I name them. I need that.”
Bea’s throat felt dry. For a second, everything else fell away.
At Monaghan she could hear it in the background wind. “I was like…wait, is this someone else’s paper? Is this a prank? Did Bea ghostwrite my academic comeback?”
“You earned it. It was you.”
“Yeah well, you’re like my academic godmother. If fairy godmothers had resting judgment face and a color-coded Google Calendar. Which, I guess, balances out El Jefe as my godfather.”
Bea smiled into the phone. “I’m really proud of you.”
He went quiet for a second. Not awkward. More like he was shifting gears. “So, listen,” he spoke up again. “I saw on TikTok that Gage is going to London.”
“That’s on TikTok?” She could barely wrap her head around how that could become TikTok trending. Was it…a skit? A dance? Bea wasn’t on TikTok; her imagination was limited.
“So that probably means you’re going too, right?”
She froze. Her fingers curled against the edge of her seat.
“I don’t wanna make it weird.” He cleared his throat. “But if you’re really going, I just—”
“I’m not gone yet.”
“Okay. Cool. I mean, you probably will. Like…logically. There’s no way he’s leaving you behind.”
She swallowed. “Nico—”
“But, selfishly?” he went on as if in a rush to get it out. “I kind of hope you don’t. ’Cause it’s been a while since I gave a crap about school. And…we’ve got officer track to work toward.”
She didn’t say anything for a long moment. It was hard to, what with her eyes filling with tears.
She had to work the words out past the lump in her throat. “I’m not promising anything. But I’m not leaving today.”
He let out a breath, slow and defeated and a little bit hopeful, all at once. “I’ll take that.”
They hung up a minute later. Bea sat still.
She walked back to her desk without making eye contact with anyone. Pulled the resignation letter back up.
Read it once. Then again.
You’re allowed to want more.
The cursor drifted from Send to Save Draft. Bea clicked.
5:11 p.m.
Bea sat curled in the driver’s seat of Gage’s Porsche, parked in the underground garage below Monaghan & Stowe. The engine was off, her bag in the passenger seat, the glow of the center console casting soft light across her knee.
She still hadn’t taken off her heels.
Her phone screen lit up as she video-called her umma.
It was past eleven in Toronto. She hated calling this late, but she hadn’t had a chance since the announcement had gone out yesterday.
The call connected, and there they were.
Her mother’s hair was clipped back. Her father had that same faded mug in hand, the one she’d painted for him in fourth grade.
They were at the kitchen table.
“Bea,” Umma said her name, soft and warm, like something worn in.
“It’s late,” Bea said quietly.
“We don’t sleep until we see your face,” Umma replied.
Bea tried to smile. “It’s been a little insane.”
“We noticed,” Papa said dryly, lifting his mug. “Gage is trending. Therefore, so are you.”
She winced. “Sorry.”
He waved it off. “Don’t apologize. People talk.”
“But it might be affecting you,” Bea said, biting her lip. “The press, the mentions. Has anyone reached out? Anyone been…weird?”
“Your aunties keep calling. They say they were right about what they said at Christmas,” Umma said, rolling her eyes. “And some cars loitered outside, but left after Gage’s security talked to them.”
Her father’s eyes stayed on her. “Are you happy, mija?”
“Yes,” she said, automatically.
“Do you want this?”
She looked at the driver’s seat sun visor. The button for the hazard lights. The air-conditioning vent. “I love him.”
“That’s not what I asked,” he said gently.
Bea stilled.
Her father’s voice was steady. The same one he used when he used to braid her hair before a test, or help her fix her science project at midnight.
“I remember you refusing to follow the Lego instructions,” Papa said. “Said you wanted to make something no one else had. Is that what this is? Or are you being asked to move into something pre-built?”
A breath trembled out of her. “He’s not pressuring me.”
“But the timing is.”
Her mother reached out, rested her hand over Papa’s. “We were going to come for your birthday,” Umma said softly. “But if you’re not sure, maybe we won’t.”
Bea frowned. “Why not?”
“If we come, people will talk more. They will think the families are meeting,” she said. “We don’t want to make it harder for you.”
Bea pressed her fist to her mouth for a second. Then dropped it. “Yes,” she said, voice small. “I think…I think that might be wise.”
“I’ll tell Claire,” said Umma.
The pause lingered.
“He came to see me in person,” Papa told her. “On his way back from London. A few weeks ago.”
Bea blinked. “He did?”
Right before he’d surprised her by being home twelve hours early. She didn’t know he’d detoured to Toronto.
Papa nodded. “Like a man who meant it. And I believe he does.”
Something sharp bloomed in her chest, too fast to shield against. A pang and a pull in the same breath.
“You’ve worn my name your whole life, mija. And I’ve been proud every day,” Papa said.
Her eyes stung, and a tear slipped free—too sudden to stop, too heavy to blink away.
“If you choose another, let it be because it fits you. Not because the world expected it.”
A matching one fell from the other side. She shut her eyes, not to block it out, but to feel it fully.
“Yes, Papa.”