Chapter 17 #2
“A complete nightmare to work with?” she finishes with that direct honesty I’ve come to expect from her. “Terrorizing assistants? Making impossible demands?”
I let out a laugh that sounds hollow even to my own ears. “That’s just my winning personality, princess.”
“Bull,” she says simply, crossing her arms. “You weren’t like this on the island. Not all the time, anyway.”
The mention of Maupiti Island drops between us like a giant stone that has been hanging over our heads. We’ve been dancing around it since she walked into my office, pretending that night on the balcony never happened. That the whole week didn’t happen.
“The island was different.” My voice drops because this is not the topic I’m willing to discuss so early in the morning. “Things were simpler there.”
“Simpler?” She raises an eyebrow. “I was going to marry your brother who was missing, presumed dead. My sister too. There was nothing simple about it.”
I stop at the central stairwell with my hand on the railing.
The cold metal under my palm grounds me to the present as the memories of the island flood back—the heat, the confusion, the way she looked in that white dress soaked in pool water.
I recall very vividly that I imagined her in another white dress, walking down the aisle, hand in hand with my brother.
I also recall the rage I felt at that thought.
“On the island, it was you and me. Before everyone else showed up.” I glance at her over my shoulder.
“Before you had to marry my brother. I met you before.” I accentuate the word for her to catch the true meaning of my words.
“When you were just Bea. Not my brother’s fiancé.
Just a fiery woman who stomped over my bag. ”
She’s quiet for a moment, standing a few steps below me with her face tilted up and staring at the half-covered window at the far wall.
In the hard hat, with those serious eyes and her lips pressed together, she looks both vulnerable and strong—the way Mom used to look before our father bullied her to the point of a mental health breakdown that resulted in her needing frequent care.
“I’m still just Bea,” she says finally, turning to me. “But the Wrong part doesn’t really apply anymore.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“I left,” she admits simply with a tiny shrug.
“After the island. I walked away from all of it—the family name, the money, the expectations.” She gestures to herself with a small, self-deprecating smile.
“This is what ‘just Bea’ looks like. Secondhand clothes, tiny apartment, temp jobs to make rent and buy ramen.”
The revelation hits me like a sucker punch I missed right in front of my eyes.
I’ve been assuming she’s still living off the Wrong fortune, still connected to that world of privilege and power.
The thought of Beatrice struggling to make rent (a problem I myself have never faced), working temp jobs—it doesn’t compute with the sharp-tongued, confident woman who’s been matching me blow for blow.
“You really left everything that night, didn’t you?” I ask, unable to mask my surprise. That night when I saw her dragging a giant suitcase behind her, lurking in the shadow of night. “I didn’t think you’d go through with it.”
Her eyes harden slightly, that defensive wall sliding back into place.
“I had to! After that disaster on the island, after watching my parents try to pawn me off because I was too difficult, I was done.” She crosses her arms, looking away.
“I wanted to live by my own rules. Not theirs or anyone else’s. ”
Something clicks into place—her desperation for this job, the way she’s endured my worst behavior without quitting, the cheap clothes I mistook for a deliberate choice rather than necessity. Guilt twists in my gut that is sharp and unfamiliar.
“So that’s why you’re putting up with my bullshit,” I say slowly. “You need the money.”
Her chin lifts, pride flashing in her eyes. “I need the job. There’s a difference. If I just wanted money, I could ask Maeve for a loan. But I need the job so I can earn money on my own.”
“And I’ve been making it hell for you,” I murmur, more to myself than to her.
“You’ve certainly tried,” she agrees, but there’s a hint of amusement in her voice now. “I’m tougher than I look.”
I study her face, seeing her differently now.
The soft curve of her jaw, the determined set of her shoulders, the proud lift of her chin—they all tell a story I’ve been too blind to read.
She’s not just another Wrong, not just Maeve’s sister, not just my temporary assistant.
She’s fought her way here, clawed out an independence that cost her everything she knew.
“What?” she asks, catching me staring.
I shake my head, looking away. “Nothing. Just reassessing.”
“Careful,” she warns, but there’s a softness in her eyes I haven’t seen before. “People might think you’re capable of human emotion.”
“Let’s not spread rumors,” I reply, feeling the corner of my mouth lifting despite myself. “I have a reputation to maintain.”
She laughs—actually laughs—and the sound echoes through the empty building, bouncing off the exposed beams and concrete floors and landing straight in my chest. It’s like hearing music in a place that’s been silent too long.
“Come on,” I say, gesturing toward the stairs. “There’s more to see.”
I lead her up to what will eventually be the rooftop garden, a space where residents can grow their own food and kids can learn about sustainability.
Right now, it’s just a flat expanse of weathered tar paper, but in my mind, I can see the raised beds, the greenhouse, the gathering spaces where a community will form. Mom will love that.
“This will be incredible,” Bea says, turning slowly to take in the 360-degree view of the city skyline. “I can see why you care about this one. It’s not just another luxury building.”
I nod, watching her face as she takes it all in.
“This is what architecture should be about—creating spaces that actually improve lives.”
“Not just making money?” she asks, but there’s no judgment in her voice now.
“Money’s not everything,” I note with a half smile.
“Says the man who’s never struggled with the choice of taking the subway or buying ramen,” she adds with a sad smile. “Trust me, after I’ve seen both sides, I appreciate having money much more.”
I watch her face, and for the first time notice that she might have lost weight since last year.
Her cheeks are hollower, and her whole body is more frail.
I’ve been too blinded by the brightness of her defiance to notice anything other than her pride.
The thought of Bea struggling to eat right under my nose makes my skin crawl.
In the meantime, unaware of my internal turmoil, she studies me for a long moment. The wind tugs at loose strands of her hair, making her appear more relaxed. “You’re full of surprises, Noah King.”
The way she says my name—soft, almost like she’s testing how it feels on her tongue—makes a stone shift in my chest. For a moment, we’re just two people standing on a rooftop, watching the city wake up around us. No history, no tension, no battle lines drawn.
“We should head back,” I say finally, checking my watch. “I’ve got a meeting at one.”
She nods, following me toward the stairs. As we make our way down, I notice her navigating the construction debris with surprising agility despite her inexperience on job sites.
“You’re doing better than I expected,” I comment as we reach the main floor.
“With the boots?” She lifts one foot, showing off the steel-toe boot that looks monstrous on her petite frame. “They’re actually comfortable. Who knew?”
We walk back to the car in peaceful silence, the morning sun warming our backs.
She stops to return the hard hat to Hank, chatting easily with him about the neighborhood while I wait by the Range Rover.
Watching her laugh at something Hank says, I feel an unfamiliar tightness in my chest. Here, at the construction site, I feel more like myself than I ever do in the office, and seeing Bea fitting in so easily makes me swallow a lump in my throat.
When she reaches the car, she’s still smiling. “Your site manager thinks you’re secretly a good guy,” she informs me as she slides into the passenger seat. “I told him not to spread such vicious rumors.”
I snort, starting the engine. “My reputation would never recover.”
As we pull away from the site, I catch her looking back at the old factory building with a thoughtful expression on her face.
“What?” I ask, merging into traffic.
“Just trying to picture it,” she explains, settling back in her seat. “What it’ll look like when it’s done. The families who’ll live there.” She pauses, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s a good thing you’re doing, Noah.”
The sincerity in her voice catches me off guard. “Thanks,” I mumble, focusing on the road ahead.
The drive back is different—lighter somehow. The silence between us lacks the usual tension, and when we arrive back at the office, I know our war will never be the same.