Chapter 2
Bea
I stab the close door button on the elevator, imagining that it’s Noah King’s smug face while my blood still boils from that lobby disaster.
Who does he think he is, calling me little mouse like I’m some thing for him?
I’ve met plenty of people worse than him in my life.
It’s why I learned Krav Maga, because of something that happened when I was seventeen.
I promised myself that I’d never be scared of anyone ever again.
I can stand my ground against a bully, no matter what sort of power he holds in his hands.
And Noah King has some pretty enticing hands.
Groaning into the void, I hang my head low, deflating a little from my righteous rampage while the agonizingly slow elevator creeps up to the second floor. I’ve always played the role of the obedient, mellow girl because I was trained to, so I should be happy that I haven’t blown my cover.
But him calling me that? It rattled some deep feathers I didn’t know I had. I know I’m just a pawn in this archaic alliance, and my worth according to my family is measured by how rich my future husband will be, but he could have been more graceful about it.
The doors finally slide open, and I head directly to my room, sliding the keycard in and out as quickly as possible so as not to linger and potentially run into my parents before absolutely necessary.
I enter the teak floored bathroom and stop at the sink to splash some cold water onto my face before it ignites from anger.
My battered reflection stares back—cheeks burning crimson, hair frizzed into a halo, pink sundress plastered against hips I suddenly wish were hidden. I grip the edge of the sink, my knuckles whitening.
Each inhale brings phantom traces of cedar, citrus, and male sweat I suddenly don’t find so disgusting.
Each exhale fails to steady my jerky pulse.
I squeeze my eyes shut but it’s worse. My mind brings up the way his gaze dropped to my collarbone and how a ghost-brush of his breath felt on my heated skin when he leaned closer.
My body’s betrayal is absolute. I’m supposed to marry Ezra King, not fantasize about his smug brother pressing me against marble pillars and giving in to the fire burning under my skin. Yet here I am, trembling over a man who called me a brat not five minutes ago.
And I think I liked it.
My parents booked our rooms in the same wing as usual, so they can monitor my whereabouts.
They can’t risk their prized horse behaving badly right before the wedding.
Their room is so close and their voices so loud that I can hear what they’re talking about.
I hear my name and something about how awful my hair looked at breakfast. And how red my cheeks were.
And how they don’t know where they went wrong with me.
I’ve heard all of it so many times that it has become my nightly lullaby.
They’ve never liked my sister or me. Especially not me. And especially not the real me on those rare occasions I’ve had enough courage to show her to the world—too defiant, totally unrefined, and absolutely problematic.
I should have left years ago like Maeve did, but the fear of being on my own was too great. I was never allowed to make any decisions in my life, so I couldn’t decide on something so big as leaving my abusive family and trying to find my own path. This marriage is my way out.
I turn away from my reflection and cross into the main area of the suite, air from the AC blasting into my face like a cold slap. Which is exactly what I need because my face is still burning from the outside heat and King’s scorching stare.
Collapsing onto the mattress, I kick off my sandals and grab my phone. Nothing from Maeve. She was supposed to be in the lobby an hour ago according to the ticket that Mother bought for her.
She got on that plane, I checked, and she was supposed to be on the last ferry to the island.
She hasn’t seen any of us in years. I tried keeping up communication with her after her sudden departure, but those calls were few and far between.
So I’m very excited to see her today. More excited than at the prospect of my upcoming wedding, which should be a red flag on its own and make me run for the hills from this scheme.
My texts sit undelivered, calls go straight to voicemail.
A knot twists in my gut. Maeve’s always been the wild card, but she sounded desperate when she called our parents.
I don’t think she would back away now. Or maybe she would—she did it once—but my gut tells me there’s something else going on. Something neither of us will like.
So I fire off another text.
Where are you?
And then I add something I promised I’d never say to her again.
Don’t leave me like that again.
My phone screen remains blank—no dots, no delivered receipts. I stare at it, and the feeling of unease intensifies.
Mixed with the way my skin still burns where Noah’s gaze had lingered, I’m close to screaming bloody murder into a pillow.
Despite the appeal of the idea, I press my fingertips against my temples and start circular motions that do nothing to erase the memory of his voice dropping not an octave but a whole pitch when he called me little mouse.
Three familiar sharp raps on the door make me flinch.
“Beatrice?” The voice cuts through wood like a blade. “Open this door immediately.”
I drag myself up, yanking the door open to find my mother standing there—her back straight as a ruler, fingers clutching her ever-present pearls, and lips pinched so tightly they’ve nearly disappeared.
Behind her, a maid scurries past us with her eyes downcast, probably ashamed on my behalf, because I sure am.
“What now, Mother?” I lean against the doorframe.
“You made a scene.” Her back turns even straighter as she stares me down.
“I didn’t,” I reply, fighting an urge to roll my eyes. “I stumbled over a suitcase. The hotel’s still standing.”
“That suitcase belongs to Noah King,” she hisses, pushing inside without waiting for an invitation which would never have followed.
“Your fiancé’s brother. Not a good way to introduce yourself to your future brother-in-law who is promised to be the best architect of our generation.
And you were causing a scene.” Her nostrils widen as if she smells something sour.
“Do you have any idea what’s riding on this? ”
I cross my arms. It’s so typical for my mother to judge people’s value by their net worth. If he wasn’t the best architect of our generation, she wouldn’t have cared if I sent his bag flying into the ocean.
“Yeah, the family name or whatever vague legacy you keep dangling. Which is odd, considering our family has the name and the money. So why do you want to marry me off so badly?”
She points her index finger into my face. “That’s why. We’re tired of dealing with you.” Her words slap me across the face, leaving yet another permanent mark. “No one from our close circles will take you, and it’s a bad image for us.”
“So I’m just a bargaining chip?” My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
Mother’s fingers tighten around her pearls. “The Kings need our shares, and we need—” She pauses, eyes flicking over me like I’m merchandise with a defect. “Well. You know how things are. A daughter of mine marrying into the King family—people will forget your… incident.”
Something cold slides down my spine. The incident that happened because of them. I swallow, tasting metal.
“What about Maeve?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. “She should have been here hours ago.”
“Flights get delayed all the time. Or she’s wandering lost somewhere—you know your sister.” She flicks her wrist dismissively toward the window where rain has started to patter. “Focus on tonight’s dinner. Don’t embarrass us again. The Kings must be charmed, Beatrice. Everything depends on it.”
“One King,” I correct, though the words taste bitter. “My husband-to-be is nowhere to be seen. Maybe he decided to call this scheme off.”
Her eyes narrow. “Don’t be dramatic, Beatrice.” She adjusts her pearls, making a clicking sound that always triggers bad memories. “Maeve is flying across the world for this wedding. The least you can do is smile through dinner.”
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper. Five years since Maeve walked out the door, leaving me alone with them. Five years of double scrutiny, double expectations. Now she’s coming back because her bank account hit zero, and suddenly she’s the golden child again.
“Fine,” I mutter, just to make her leave. “I’ll play nice at dinner.”
Mother’s lips curl into something adjacent to a smile. She sweeps out, trailing Chanel No. 5 so thick it coats my throat. I collapse onto the bed and check my phone again. The texts to Maeve remain unread, little gray bubbles of desperation floating in digital limbo.
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling, wondering why I’m still here, in this voluntary cage. There’s nothing safe or comfortable here. I’ve heard that people recall happy memories when they are feeling sad, and my mind’s drawing a blank.
But then a memory flashes. A recent one.
Not exactly a happy one but a strong one. Dark eyes turning darker when he called me little mouse. The almost touch of his massive hands that felt like a cage of a different kind.
And suddenly, my skin prickles with heat that has nothing to do with the island sun, and I slowly realize that the heavy stone sitting on my chest is not from sadness anymore.
I change for dinner, opting for a red dress that makes my body feel like a weapon—if I’m facing the lions, I’ll do it armed with my best gun: the color red, when it’s not on my cheeks of course. I feel good in it. Maybe even a little powerful.
In the restaurant, the dining hall is lit with dull, warm lights. With not many people yet seated, it feels like a very personal affair.