Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
There were still stars in the sky. Bea was almost never awake for this part of the morning. The horizon was only beginning to turn bruised, as if the world were being developed slowly in a darkroom.
Rafael sat behind her on the blanket, legs bent on either side of her, her back tucked against his chest. His hoodie swallowed her down to her thighs. She’d layered up and still underestimated how much coastal winds cut through everything.
She tipped her head back against him and yawned, not even attempting grace.
“One Sunrise Without Complaints,” he murmured into her hair. He’d cashed in another one of his Christmas vouchers to bring her to their beach. The man treated those things like binding legislation.
Bea blinked blearily. “I’m not complaining. I love being here with you when the nocturnal animals are still awake.”
A quiet exhale that might have been a laugh warmed the top of her head. “Good. Once we live here I’ll wake you for runs, then.”
She decided to pretend she hadn’t heard that.
Rafael drew her closer, his forearm firm across her middle, anchoring her as if the tide might try to steal her away. Gold began to seep into the margins of the world.
“Don’t work late tonight,” she said. “We have to be there by six thirty on the dot.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Laurent’s involved,” Bea warned. “So it’s either a party or an incident.”
Despite the chaos, she was giving him a proper birthday celebration. She’d spent hours trying to find an appropriate venue before finally caving and asking Laurent for help.
He’d sent her the link to a driving club an hour from Northgate, one with a circuit where cars like the McLaren could be driven properly.
Bea hadn’t been sure how many of Rafael’s friends even owned supercars, but Laurent had dryly reassured her that a few of them had two, so no one would be without.
For a few minutes they sat silently, watching the horizon together.
The water took on a hard shine, as if someone had laid metal across its surface.
Then the colors began, honey and rose easing the grey away.
With them came the first hint of warmth, permeating the cold, and slowly, patiently, the world was reborn.
Bea pictured years ahead on this strip of sand, home behind them, a thousand mornings arriving this way. Maybe she could learn to love dawn, if it was always like this.
Rafael shifted behind her. “I have something for you.”
He brushed sand from his palm before reaching into the pocket of his jacket, then holding out a small envelope.
“What’s that?”
He only tipped it toward her, waiting. The envelope rested against her knee, stark and official-looking, the kind that usually meant a government office somewhere had decided to involve itself in your day.
Bea tried to recall if she’d recently exceeded the speed limit along that boulevard where the posted number felt more like a suggestion for bicycles than cars.
Bea slid a finger under the flap and pulled out a single sheet. The title blared:
PROPERTY TRANSFER AGREEMENT
The ocean kept rolling toward shore. The wind tugged at the paper in her hand. Somewhere a gull let out a startled squawk that captured her exact emotional state.
Her brain stalled, then immediately sprinted in twelve different directions. She twisted so quickly she nearly cracked him in the chin. “Rafael.”
“Read it first.”
“I did.”
“Already?” His mouth tipped up. “Impressive.”
“This isn’t the time to admire my talent for absorbing alarming information.” Bea gaped at him. “I read the words. I’m not understanding why they exist.”
He was transferring the beach house into her name. The one that cost as much as her entire childhood postal code.
“Because I heard you,” he said, matter-of-fact. “About the cage. I don’t want you living here wondering if you’re a guest.”
“I won’t,” she assured him. “Tita Tess is helping me fill it up with all kinds of things you’d never pick for yourself. There will be pillows. So many pillows.”
His hand came up, cupping her face and turning her toward him.
His palm was warm against skin cooled by the morning air.
“I have power here. I could turn it into something ugly. I won’t.
” His thumb grazed her cheek, the slight roughness making her shiver.
“This goes in your name. You could hurt me with it. You won’t. ”
Heat rose behind her eyes. Words abandoned her. She reread the page, trying to understand how something legal could feel so intimate. Trying to assemble a sentence that contained both no and thank you and also Rafael, are you out of your mind?
“You don’t need to do this,” Bea whispered, looking back up at him.
His fingers slid into her hair at the nape of her neck, combing through it as the wind kept trying to push it into her face. “You think it’s free?”
She blinked, sand skittering across the paper between them.
“It’s not.”
“What’s the catch?” She tipped her head back. The sunlight was beginning to catch in his hair, burnishing the ends.
“You have to marry me.”
A laugh bubbled from her throat. “Are you bribing me with a beach house?”
“Think of it as a pre-wedding gift.”
“You realize normal men panic-buy flowers when their fiancée has an existential crisis.”
“I considered flowers.”
“And?” She twisted one of the drawstrings of his hoodie around her finger.
“They felt insufficient.”
She snorted and shook her head. “This is wildly disproportionate problem-solving.”
“Which just means it’s exactly my style when it comes to you.” His knuckles brushed the side of her neck, idly tracing the line there.
Rafael Griffin was incapable of half measures. A terrifying quality in a man. Which meant she definitely had to marry him.
Bea slid her hand into his hair, curled her fingers at the back of his neck, and pulled him down to kiss her.
Was there a scientific term for the radiance someone got after their first business-class flight? ‘Enlightenment’ seemed close, but not nearly self-satisfied enough.
Bea’s best friend emerged sparkling, like someone had rinsed her in rosé. “I have seen heaven and it reclined flat.”
“Claire Bear!” They collided, all arms and bags and uncontained joy.
“Beya Slaya, I slept horizontally on a plane.” She turned to Rafael and pointed a finger at him. “You might be my new favorite person.”
“Might?” he asked, taking her suitcase. “Welcome back.”
They piled into the Urus, the interior swallowing them in quiet luxury.
Claire collapsed into the back seat with a satisfied sigh. “I had a warm towel, real cutlery, and unlimited Belgian truffles.”
“Glad you enjoyed it,” Rafael said, merging into traffic.
Autumn sunlight lingered stubbornly, layering the skyline in metallic blues. The city buzzed with its usual efficiency around them.
“So,” Claire said, and her head appeared suddenly between their seats from the back. “Update me. Wedding countdown. Are we stressed? Are we thriving?”
“Thriving,” Bea answered. A partial truth. Thriving with asterisks.
“Good. I want glossy wedding photos, no philosophical panic.”
“Too late. Panic RSVP’d first.”
“Source of panic?”
“I still don’t have a dress.”
“You don’t—Beatriz Cruz,” Claire demanded, “what do you mean you don’t have a dress yet?”
“I have options,” Bea clarified. “Naomi’s in fashion, Georgie has wardrobe connections. I just haven’t picked anything.”
“You’re aware you’re getting married in eight days?” Claire’s voice had gone up an octave.
“I know,” Bea said. “I know. But I had to wait for my Maid of Honor to arrive first.”
Silence.
“…you waited for me?”
Bea nodded, feeling the sting behind the bridge of her nose. “We’ve done so much of the past three years apart. I wanted to do this together.”
Claire’s mouth wobbled. “You’re the best.”
Her head disappeared as she reached for the tissues in the back seat.
Bea swiped at her cheeks with her knuckles. Rafael’s expression softened, but he stayed silent, letting them fill the car with shared history.
Claire regaled them with more tales of feeling like royalty at the pointy end of the plane. Soon they reached Bea’s apartment.
Rafael came around and opened her door.
Claire hopped out behind her. “Thank you for the pickup. And the flight. And the emotional space.”
“You’re welcome.” He turned to Bea, pressed a brief kiss to her mouth. “See you at the First Crossing.”
Bea’s bones practically sighed.
Claire watched her watch him go. “You have it so bad for that man.”
“Shhh.” She wasn’t wrong.
Inside the apartment, Bea tugged Claire’s suitcase into place. “Hungry?”
“Starving,” Claire declared. “The downside about having a bed that good is you sleep through a plated breakfast.”
“Lil is joining us for dinner, but we’re doing lunch at my new obsession.”
They walked fifteen minutes through the streets of Northgate, stopping at a tucked-away Indonesian restaurant that smelled like barbecue, garlic, and some kind of higher purpose. She loved this place far more than was reasonable.
Claire inhaled deeply. “Oh yes. Feed my feelings.”
“Get the booth,” Bea said, nudging Claire toward the window seat with its mosaic tiles. “I’ll order.”
Soon the table overflowed: nasi goreng glittering with prawns, velvet-soft rendang, satay skewers, sambal potatoes, glossy greens, and krupuk.
Claire stared. “Is this…heaven?”
“Eat first,” Bea said. “Spiritual revelations can wait.”
They dug in, the conversation veering from wedding chaos to work gossip to life updates.
Bea admitted the only reason the past month had been manageable was because Adriana was handling the wedding and Tita Tess was handling the house.
She left out the part where, besides work and coordinating her family, it had left Bea with just one impossible thing to manage herself: the abstinence agreement with Rafael.
They ordered dessert and Claire put down her cutlery. The brightness slipped. “Marco and I broke up.”
The reveal wasn’t dramatic. Claire never was when it came to her real pain.
“I’m so sorry.” Bea squeezed her hand.
“Don’t do the face. I can’t handle the face.”
Bea schooled her features into something more neutral. “What happened? You made it past a year together; I thought things were good.”
“It just…wasn’t working anymore,” Claire answered. “He wanted more. I couldn’t give it to him.”
Something fragile lived beneath that tone. “What did he want?”
“What men inevitably want.”
“Commitment?” Bea tilted her head as Claire stayed mute. “You’re being cryptic.”
“I know,” Claire said, rubbing her forehead. “But if I crack this open I don’t know if I can put it back together again. And I refuse to be immortalized beside you in your wedding photos looking like an imported raccoon.”
“Claire—”
“Nope.” Claire lifted her palm like a stop sign. “Emotional embargo. Let me get away with it, Bey. For now. I’ll explain later.”
Bea chewed the inside of her cheek. “We’re circling back to this.”
“I know,” Claire said, finally giving her a faint smile. “But I do have a second piece of news. Don’t freak out.”
“No promises.”
“I’m moving to the UR.”