Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Bea had a new theory about Mondays. They were perfectly nice days. The trouble only started when someone insisted you work during one.
The sun was shining, she was halfway through a smoked salmon and arugula salad, Claire was mid-rant to Lillian about the final episode of a K-drama she’d stayed up to binge.
BEA: Hi Umma, are you and Papa at the airport?
UMMA: Yes we are here.
UMMA: We arrived in a limousine. I felt like Yoon Se-ri.
BEA: lol. Are you at the lounge now?
UMMA: Yes, it is very quiet. Like a rich library.
BEA: Try the gimbap. I had it last time, it’s pretty good.
UMMA: I will.
UMMA: Someone just asked if I wanted a massage. Do I have to pay?
BEA: No, it’s part of their service.
UMMA: They give a free massage before a flight?
BEA: To relax you
UMMA: Is it stressful to fly?
BEA: Not in first
UMMA: I told Papa. He’s going to get one.
BEA: I’m shocked. Papa doesn’t usually let strangers touch him.
UMMA: He said he should get Rafael his money’s worth
Bea grinned, and put her phone down. She was just in time to hear Lillian, who had joined for lunch, ask an earnest question about the lifespan of nine-tailed foxes.
Her phone buzzed again.
Incoming call: Martin (Building Manager)
“Hi, Martin.”
“Bea. There’s a delivery for you.”
“Okay…”
“It’s a portrait.”
“Of what?”
“You and Mr. Griffin.”
Her mind attempted computation, then rejected the data. “Uh, could you keep it behind the desk for me? We’ll be home soon.”
“That’s the thing. I can’t. It’s…exceptionally large.”
“How large?”
Claire and Lillian stopped talking and leaned in.
“Life-sized,” Martin said. Then, after a beat, “If you were the size of a Nephilim.”
That sounded biblical, and she did not want her likeness involved.
“I see. So where is it now?”
“Out on the street,” Martin answered. “Watching people.”
She grimaced as she pictured herself looming over pedestrians. She was so ending up on the neighborhood Facebook group.
“We’ll be there in ten.” Her chair scraped back. “Please don’t let anyone else see it. I’m begging you as a fellow human.”
“I’ll do my best.” This time there was definitely a chuckle in his voice.
The call ended.
Lillian was already reaching for her bag. “What’s the emergency?”
“A portrait of us is terrifying our neighbors.”
Claire shot to her feet. “Should we call Rafael?”
Bea shook her head. Rafael was in back-to-back investor meetings. This was manageable. It was art. Art was flat. How heavy could it be?
They were halfway to Bea’s building, power-walking, when Bea rounded a corner and ran straight into someone solid.
She bounced back. “Sorry.”
Laurent Duret steadied her. Cassian stood beside him, dark glasses spotless. Three days together at Westhelm and she hadn’t heard him laugh once. Anne Shirley would have labeled him ‘not a kindred spirit.’
Laurent’s gaze swept Bea’s face. “What’s wrong?”
Bea exhaled. “We have a situation involving life-sized iconography outside our apartment.”
“Oil?” he asked, putting one hand in his pocket.
“I don’t know.”
“Called Griffin?”
She shook her head. “He’s in meetings.”
Cassian turned. “Let’s go.”
“You don’t have to—”
“We’re coming,” Laurent said, already moving.
Lillian seemed less than enthusiastic about this development.
“And here come the well-dressed cavalry,” Claire intoned, trotting along beside them. “I feel safer already.”
Laurent’s mouth twitched. “You narrate often?”
“Only when the plot thickens.”
They reached the end of the block together, and then Bea saw it. “Oh no.”
“Sweet mercy,” she heard Claire whisper.
Martin was on the sidewalk, arms spread wide in what could only be described as an act of faith. The portrait loomed behind him. Subtle it was not. Even at this distance, the scale felt nothing short of confrontational.
Someone across the street slowed and took a photo. Bea committed to ignorance.
Relief washed over Martin’s face when he spotted them. “You’re here.”
Bea missed her cue to answer. Her attention had locked on the painting. It was well wrapped, technically, in clear plastic that left nothing to the imagination.
Rafael stood with a hand on the back of her chair, the other in his pocket, expression stately. She was seated with terrifying elegance in an ornate chair, wearing a burgundy velvet gown she didn’t own.
They had not commissioned this. Which felt relevant. Possibly in court. She spotted an envelope tucked neatly behind the frame and pulled it free.
Congratulations on your wedding.
St. Ives Alumni Society.
She took in the painting once more and briefly considered arson.
“That’s Griffin’s ‘I own this city’ expression,” Laurent observed.
“It’s a very good likeness,” Lillian added.
“You look like a mafia wife,” Claire said at the same time.
“We look like we’re recruiting for the UR,” Bea muttered, laughing despite herself.
Cassian crouched, tested the bottom edge with one hand. Nothing happened. He tried again, bracing with his foot. The portrait did not acknowledge the attempt.
Claire folded her arms, delighted. “I love that it’s also immovable. Very on-brand.”
Martin cleared his throat. “We can’t leave it here.”
Bea pinched the bridge of her nose. Right. Yes. Of course. She was blocking a public walkway with her future.
“Okay,” she said, summoning competence. “New plan. Everyone who is tall and emotionally stable, please form a wall.”
Channing and Jack stepped forward instantly. Laurent gave his men a nod and they fell in line. Cassian’s team moved last. Despite every man being over six feet tall, Rafael still appeared to be supervising them. Jack shifted left. The green eyes followed him.
“The only place this monstrosity will fit is your beach house,” Laurent said.
“How would I get it there?” Bea asked, biting her lip.
Cassian was already speaking in quiet, clipped tones into his phone. He ended the call and put it away. “A truck will be here in twenty.”
“That’s faster than Uber Eats,” Claire said, impressed.
“I’ll go back inside, Bea,” Martin said.
“Yes, thank you,” Bea said gratefully. “Please forget you saw this.”
“I can’t.” He grinned. “It’s burned into my retinas.”
A couple of cars rushed past as they waited. Cassian shifted, reaching out with light fingers for Lillian’s elbow. “You’re too close to the curb.”
Lillian startled. “I—sorry.”
She moved closer to Bea.
“I didn’t mean it as a reprimand.”
“Okay.” Lillian didn’t look at him.
Bea pulled her phone out.
BEA: Hello, are you at the house?
TITA TESS: Yes Ma’am Bea. What’s up?
BEA: Delivery incoming. It’s large and judgmental.
TITA TESS: Is it a portrait? Because we specifically said no portraits.
A low rumble rolled down the street.
The truck that pulled up was matte black and almost tall enough to block the sun.
“That’s not a ‘truck.’” She glanced askance at Cassian as two enormous, tattooed men alighted. “Exactly what kind of business are you in?”
Cassian shrugged. “This and that.”
The painted Bea and Rafael watched in silence as they were lifted like royals being relocated.