Chapter 22
Noah
I catch Bea watching me from the corner of the conference room with her pen poised over her notebook and eyes sharp and focused.
For a split second, something flashes across her face—admiration?
Interest? Or maybe just my wishful thinking?
—before she schools her expression back to professional neutrality.
I force my attention back to the investors, explaining how the affordable housing component creates sustainable community integration.
My words flow smoothly even while my mind keeps drifting to her—to that almost-smile when I brought her coffee this morning, to the way she defended me to Ezra yesterday as if she were my biggest ally and not a gorgeous pain in my ass.
“The mixed-income approach actually increases property values over time,” I explain, gesturing to the projection. “We’ve seen this model succeed in three other urban developments.”
The oldest investor—Wilson, the one whom I need to convince the most—nods appreciatively. “Bold choice. Most developers would maximize luxury units for faster returns.”
“We’re not most developers,” I reply, letting confidence color my voice, feeling Bea’s gaze burn into me. “King Developers believes in building communities, not just profits, because we believe that it’s the future.”
It sounds like corporate bullshit, but I actually mean it. My buildings are the only thing I’ve ever created that make me feel like I’m worth something. Like maybe I’m not just the fucked-up little brother with anger issues who was left alone because his big brother always took the blame.
The meeting wraps up with handshakes and promises of follow-up calls.
I watch the investors leave, their satisfied murmurs echoing in the hallway, and feel something loosen in my chest. The presentation went well—better than well.
Wilson actually smiled when I explained the green space integration, and that man hasn’t smiled at anything since the Reagan administration.
“That was impressive,” Bea says, closing her notebook as she stands. Her voice is carefully neutral, but there’s something underneath it that makes me look at her more closely.
“Just doing my job,” I reply, loosening my tie. The conference room suddenly feels too small with just the two of us in it. Too hot for me to breathe.
She tilts her head, studying me with those sharp eyes that seem to see too much. “Is that what you call it? Because from where I was sitting, it looked like you were painting them a vision of something bigger than just another building.”
The observation startles me. Most people see the sales pitch, the smooth presentation designed to part investors from their money. But Bea heard something else—the genuine belief I have in what I’m trying to create.
“You were paying attention,” I say, moving closer without really meaning to. My body naturally gravitates to her.
“It’s my job to pay attention.” She steps back slightly, but not before I catch the faint flush creeping up her neck. “The Wilson Group wants to schedule a site visit for next week. I’ll coordinate with their assistant.”
Right. Work. Business. The safe territory we keep retreating to whenever the air between us gets too charged.
“Good,” I manage, watching as she gathers her things, maintaining that careful distance she’s been keeping all day.
Whatever ground we gained last night, whatever shift happened in this office, she’s clearly trying to walk it back.
I should be grateful to her for making this choice for us.
This is safer, cleaner, and definitely less complicated.
But something in me rebels against the careful walls she’s rebuilding.
“Wilson was impressed with your affordable housing model,” she continues, her voice all business. “And my father used to say that nothing can make Wilson part ways with money unless it triples his fortune.”
“It’s not about the property values,” I say before I can stop myself.
She pauses, looking up at me with genuine curiosity. “No?”
I run a hand through my hair, frustrated by my inability to explain something that feels obvious to me but probably sounds like nonsense to someone who grew up with everything just like me. But I also saw another side. My mom’s side and where she came from.
And then I remember that Bea doesn’t have a family trust anymore, and she might understand it more than anyone else.
“The affordable housing matters because people matter. Because building something that only serves the rich is—” I stop, feeling suddenly exposed.
“Is what?” she prompts, and there’s something in her eyes now, something that makes me want to keep talking even though I know I shouldn’t.
“Hollow,” I finish, the word rough in my throat. “It’s building something that looks impressive but has no soul.”
Bea stares at me, her lips parted slightly in surprise. For a moment, neither of us speak, and all I can do is stare in her big eyes.
“I didn’t think you cared about things like that,” she says finally, and her voice sounds softer than I’ve heard it all day.
“Most people don’t,” I admit. “My father certainly didn’t. He built monuments to wealth, nothing else. And that’s not what King Developers was supposed to be.”
“You don’t want to be like him,” she notes, and it’s not a question. The quiet understanding in her voice makes me want to tell her things I’ve never told anyone.
I lean against the conference table, studying her face in the afternoon light streaming through the windows. “Why does that surprise you?”
She considers this, fidgeting with the edge of her notebook. “Because when I first met you, you seemed like…” She trails off, shaking her head.
“Like what?” I press, genuinely curious what her first impression was, even though I can kind of imagine.
“Like someone who took whatever he wanted without caring about the consequences,” she says quietly, meeting my eyes. “Like someone who’d never had to think about what it means to need something you can’t have.”
The honesty in her voice catches me off guard. It’s not cruel, just matter-of-fact, and probably accurate based on how I acted on the island.
“And now?” I ask, taking a step closer.
When she looks at me, I recognize something vulnerable flickering across her features. “Now I think maybe I was wrong about you. I hope I was.”
When her words settle in my head, something tremendous shifts in my chest. She’s looking at me like she’s seeing me for the first time, and it makes me want to close the distance between us, to see what happens if I stop fighting whatever this is. And if she does too.
“Were you?” I whisper.
I’m close enough to catch the light playing on her skin and to take in the sweet scent that’s been driving me crazy for weeks. Close enough to see the way her pulse flutters at the base of her throat.
Her lips part slightly, and for a moment I think she might actually answer. But then her phone buzzes on the table, shattering whatever spell we were under. She jumps back like I’ve burned her, a professional mask slamming back into place even though her cheeks remain deliciously blushed.
“I should get back to work,” she says, gathering her things with movements that are too fast and clumsy. Something that Bea is not. “The Peterson contracts need reviewing before five.”
Total BS because this is not an urgent project at this point. The meeting was a total success, and a couple extra hours won’t change a thing.
I watch her retreat, trying to suppress the frustration warring in my chest. Every time we get close to something real, she runs. And maybe that’s smart. Maybe she’s the only one of us thinking clearly.
But as she reaches the conference room door, I can’t help myself. “Bea.”
She stops with her hand on the doorframe but doesn’t turn around. “Yeah?”
“For what it’s worth,” I say, echoing her words from last night, “I was wrong about you too.”
Her shoulders tense, and she doesn’t turn around, but I see her grip tighten on the doorframe.
“Were you?” she asks, her voice barely audible.
I want to tell her that I thought she was just another spoiled princess playing at independence.
That I expected her to crumble under pressure, to run crying to daddy when things got difficult.
That I never imagined she’d sacrifice a Chanel bag for a zoning permit or stay until midnight helping me rebuild something I destroyed in a fit of rage.
I also never knew she hated her parents so much that she would choose to live a simple life rather than taking their money.
Instead, I say, “Yeah. I was.”
She nods once, still not looking at me, and then she’s gone, leaving me alone in the conference room.
I sink into one of the leather chairs, running my hands through my hair. This is exactly what I was afraid of: the careful, professional distance we resort to crumbling the moment we’re alone together.
But fuck if I can stop myself from wanting more.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ezra.
“The dinner we spoke about is this Thursday. 7 PM. Don’t be late.”
Right. The family dinner Bea declined. Part of me is relieved she won’t be there—it’ll be easier to pretend whatever this is between us doesn’t exist if I don’t have to watch her laugh at Martin across the table or try not to stare at the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating.
The pressure of being in her presence is strong. The familiar intensity of want starts brewing in my chest, and I know there’re only two ways to get rid of it—it will not go away on its own.
I grab my jacket and stride out of my office, stopping at Bea’s desk.
She’s typing furiously with her brows furrowed in concentration, and for a moment I just watch her work.
There’s something almost hypnotic about her focus, the way she attacks her keyboard, waging war against inefficiency.
If I had her a year ago, we would have conquered the world by now.
“I’m heading out early,” I announce, and she looks up with surprise.
“Everything okay?” Her concern makes me falter slightly in a daze.
“Fine,” I lie, shrugging on my jacket. “Just need some air. You can finish up and head home whenever you’re ready.”
She nods, but I catch the way her eyes linger on my face, trying to read it. “See you tomorrow, then.”
“Yeah. Tomorrow.”
I’m halfway to the elevator when I hear her call my name. I turn to find her standing by her desk, something uncertain in her expression.
“Noah?” Her voice is softer than usual, almost hesitant. “The thing you said about your buildings having a soul? I think you’re right. I see it now too.”
Her gentle voice hits me square in the chest, and for a moment I can’t breathe. She gets it. She actually understands what I’m trying to do, why it matters to me. Maybe not the root reason behind everything but the majority of it.
“Thanks,” I manage to croak.
She nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear—that gesture that’s been driving me crazy for weeks—and sits back down. I watch her for another heartbeat before forcing myself to turn away.
The elevator ride down feels like I’m moving away from oxygen.
It feels like I shouldn’t have left but I couldn’t stay either because I don’t know what to do or say.
This obsession with Beatrice that started on the island has taken new, deep roots as of late, and I have no fucking idea what to do with this feeling.
The more we dance around this situation, the more anxiety I get.
Do I go for it? Does she want me to? Is it the right time?
By the time I reach the parking garage, I’ve made a decision that’s probably going to get me into trouble.
I’m not going home. I’m not going to a bar.
I need something else, something that’ll burn off whatever’s building in my chest before I do something monumentally stupid like march back upstairs and kiss my assistant for the whole floor to see, which will surely ruin her career before it’s even started.
I drive through the city with no real destination, and soon the evening traffic becomes a blur of brake lights and impatience.
As I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles split open again right after they’ve barely scabbed over.
The blood starts seeping through the bandage as the pain starts a familiar itch.
My hands tighten on the wheel even more when I recall Bea’s scent when she leaned over my shoulder when she needed to pick something up. How her arm brushed mine. And how her mouth opened slightly as she let out a surprised exhale.
Fuck.
I need to clear my head before I do something I can’t take back. Something that would complicate everything beyond repair. So I take a sharp right, cutting off a taxi and earning a blaring horn, but I barely register it. My body knows where I’m going even before my brain catches up.
Twenty minutes later, I pull up to an unmarked warehouse and step out of the car. Music pulses from somewhere deep in the building, a heavy bass line that matches the rhythm of my heart.
“King,” a voice calls out as I push through the double doors. “Been a while.”
Yeah. It’s been a while, and I just broke my promise to myself.