Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
The studio itself was normal enough. Mirrors. Speakers that could wake the dead. Polished floor. The difference was the wall of glass overlooking the marina outside. Bea had never practiced choreography in a place where the scenery came with captains.
“Happy hens!”
The exclamation was clearly unrehearsed and slightly off on timing.
Bea lost her footing as she was pulled forward, arms looping around her from both sides until she was boxed in by warmth and noise from more than a dozen friends in Lululemon tights and ponytails.
Even Maris stood, arms folded, in sleek black athleisure that she’d bet had never known sweat.
“Careful,” Isabel said from behind her head, steadying her. “We need her intact.”
“We don’t,” Georgie deadpanned. “Rafael does.”
Bea chortled to herself. Seven nights left. They were clinging to this vow of celibacy with their fingernails.
“Shhh.” Naomi laughed, waving a hand. “Don’t scare her.”
Lillian hovered, tucking the tag of Bea’s tank top neatly inside the fabric. “Bey can handle it. She’s marrying him, isn’t she?”
Claire chose that moment to reappear, shoving a towel into Bea’s hands, then a cold bottle of barley tea.
“Hydrate,” she ordered. “We’re about to sweat off several poor life choices.”
Their instructor clapped for attention. Flannel tied around her waist, white crop top, black kicks. Bea would have followed her into a dogfight.
“Welcome, future Mrs. Griffin,” she said with a light Korean accent, grinning. “Let’s have some fun with your hens tonight. Follow my lead, ladies. And five, six…five, six, seven, eight.”
The music hit.
Georgina moved like she’d been born under a stage light, with a hint of the theatrical.
Naomi attacked the choreography with enthusiasm and nearly took it down with her.
Lillian—quiet, gentle Lils—shocked everyone by being incredible.
Fluid, committed, dutch braid swinging like she’d graduated from a Seoul underground training camp.
“I had a K-pop era in Year Twelve,” she panted at one point.
Maris danced the way she worked: no wasted movement, no apology. Claire delivered chaos powered by commitment, and Isabel…no one knew what she was doing, but it resembled summoning spirits.
Bea let her body take over. Childhood muscle memory, her mother watching from the kitchen, late-night YouTube rabbit holes all came back. Her limbs knew where to go before she thought to send them.
The group fed off each other. They cheered when someone nailed a move, dissolved into laughter when one didn’t.
Nearly two hours later, they were starfished across the studio floor like fallen idols, blissfully past caring about dignity.
It was only the promise of dinner that had them tiredly getting off the floor and heading to the showers.
Bea overheard her M but the price we pay for love is worth it.”
Bea looked down at her cup so no one would see her throat work.
Her first love hadn’t been a mistake. It had been real and beautiful, but she couldn’t follow it forward without leaving parts of herself behind. This was different: there was room for all of her.
Whatever it cost, it was worth it.
“Three years ago, I said you had a type,” Georgie said. “Smart, loyal, self-made. Able to endure suffering while you take the scenic route back to him.” A blonde brow lifted. “Am I a prophet or what?”
Claire lifted her teacup, and every woman followed. “To our Bea. May your life continue to be as dramatic and romantic as your bookshelf prepared you for.”
Bea smiled, warm all the way through, and lifted hers in return.
And then the vibration came.
The floor shuddered underfoot as engines hummed close enough to feel. Heads turned one by one, metal catching at wrists and ears, while outside white lights swept across the water and the vessel eased into its berth.
Adrenaline slid through Bea’s veins. Because that sound meant he was here. It was now.
The First Crossing.
They’d joked about it in group chats. Now she wanted to google the ritual just one more time to prevent herself from unwittingly committing a cultural faux pas.
The whole “last night of freedom” thing had never made sense to her. Freedom wasn’t ending; something better was beginning. Where in movies bucks and hens devolved into someone ugly-crying into a feather boa, the UR version capped the evening with connection.
Because at the wedding, she would walk to him before the world. Tonight, he crossed every step between them.
The men began to disembark, broad-shouldered and sure of themselves. Rafael came down last, one hand in his pocket, the sea wind pushing his hair back. Navy and khaki looked understated on him, but he carried the kind of certainty that made everything else feel secondary.
Before his shoes touched the dock, those green eyes had already found her. Even across the distance, it hit like contact.
She needed her wits to help her act normal, but her brain was too busy flooding her system with dopamine, estrogen, adrenaline…the whole chemical cocktail.
Not now, biology.
Her hens seemed to hold their collective breath with her. Cushions rustled as they rose; silk was smoothed down.
The bucks stopped at the threshold, as custom dictated, to allow Rafael to enter first. His men followed, fanning out behind him like the world’s most intimidating GQ spread.
Sugar and champagne gave way to cologne and quiet dominance.
He didn’t speak at first. Just stared at her.
A couple of girls stood up taller. One muttered, “Okay, wow.”
Bea felt strangely heady. Everything filtered through the pound of her heartbeat in her ears and the calm on Rafael’s face as he walked toward her like no one else existed. He stopped just short of where she stood.
The bridal party drew together in the center.
“Is the First Crossing supposed to feel this dramatic?” Claire whispered. “I’m almost willing to go with him, and he hasn’t said anything yet.”
Laurent’s voice came back, soft with amusement. “Wrong target, chérie.”
Claire didn’t have her usual glib comeback.
“I’ve come for my bride.” The rumble of Rafael's voice carried through her ribs.
That wasn’t the traditional phrasing; he was meant to say fiancée. From the glances across the room, everyone understood the statement he was making.
She wasn’t almost his.
She already was.
The next part was normally narrated by the Maid of Honor, but as custom dictated the participants be UR natives, Georgina stepped forward. “You sure you deserve her?”
“No,” he replied. “But I’m not giving her back.”
Georgie studied him before calling over her shoulder, “Beatriz?”
Every part of her pulsed with yes. She gave the smallest nod.
The moment stretched, suspended.
No one moved. For a heartbeat Bea forgot if she was meant to step forward. Or wait. Or say something.
And then the inches between them evaporated. His hand closed around her wrist, right over the pulse she couldn’t hide.
“Are we taking the boat?” Bea asked, not caring that she sounded breathless.
In her periphery she saw Voss toss him something metallic. Rafael caught it without looking. The McLaren fob gleamed between his fingers. “Not tonight.”