Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Bea woke to an empty bed.
She sat up, sheets pooling at her waist. She didn’t need a clock, her body knew the time.
She pulled on her nightie—crumpled on the floor from last night—and padded barefoot down the hall.
She found him in the same place he’d been almost every morning since returning from their honeymoon, as if the world were waiting for him to blink first and he refused to.
As soon as she entered, his chair swiveled toward her. His hair was wet from a shower; he’d already gone for a run.
She went to him, stepped between his thighs and wrapped her arms around his neck. Felt him exhale, slowly, as his hands encircled her.
“Come back to bed,” she whispered. “Let me take care of you.”
“I can’t.”
Her fingers moved over the back of his neck, stroking where the tension had gathered. “It’s getting worse?”
He didn’t answer at first. Just leaned down and pressed his face into her sternum like it was the only quiet place left, and nodded.
“Tell me.”
“It’s the same site issue,” he said, voice muffled against her. “That first accident. Not fatal, but it shouldn’t have happened. We halted the section to review protocols and they called it overreach.”
She’d heard that part before. “They think you’re imposing foreign standards because they’re compliant under local code.”
He lifted his head. “Now we’re recalibrating in real time. Every adjustment hits cost, schedule, investor confidence.” His jaw tightened. “If I can’t stabilize this soon, share price will reflect the doubt.”
Bea kissed his hair and slipped out of his hold. He let her go, reluctantly, but kept watching.
She found his jacket from yesterday, flung over the chaise, and checked the pocket.
As suspected, inside was the Christmas voucher book she’d made him.
He’d already cashed in most of them with great pleasure: One Song Sung Just For You.
One Unlimited Plate Night. One Massage. She still flushed remembering how quickly that one had escalated.
She flipped until she found the one she wanted:
One Workday Mascot (Quiet Bea included).
“Feel like redeeming this today?” she asked, placing it on his keyboard.
“Don’t you have a memo due?”
“I do,” she said as he drew her back between his legs. “But I also have two junior analysts. They’ll survive a day without me.”
“I’ll be in meetings all day.”
“I know.”
“I won’t be good company.”
“I don’t need to be entertained.” She wrapped both hands around his jaw. “I can’t fix anything. I just want you to feel me there.”
Something let go in his shoulders. He leaned in and kissed her tenderly, finishing with a small bite on her bottom lip. “Go get dressed.”
Rafael had moved the entire Malaysia project team into his office so she wouldn’t be out of sight. Bea was comfortably tucked on the soft leather lounge, present but peripheral, while he held the room together with sheer force of will.
A foreman sat among suits, a face she recognized as one of the workmen Rafael, Laurent, and Max had shared a beer with at a nearby pub, in workboots and a dust-marked GV jacket.
When his turn came, he spoke without slides, without polish.
He knew exactly what the difference between ‘compliant’ and ‘safe’ was on a live site.
When he was done, one of the senior leaders said, “Field input is noted. But this has evolved into a capital markets issue.”
“Capital follows performance,” Rafael said evenly. “Performance starts on site.” The authority in his voice went straight to her stomach, warm and immediate.
The clock kept moving. Numbers and clipped directives threaded through the room while she read.
Lunch arrived in neat catered boxes from the Korean place she’d recommended.
He watched her lift her fork, take a bite of bibimbap, chew, and swallow.
Only then did he turn back to the screens, dissecting site plans with two managers.
The boxes emptied around the room. Assistants cleared containers. No one interrupted him. Bea rose quietly, grabbed one of the untouched boxes, and went to the kitchen. The microwave hummed, and when she opened the door, steam unfurled.
She returned and set the warm rice at his place with a bottle of sparkling water. She ran a hand along his back as she walked past. Rafael paused to watch her curl back onto the couch. He reached back, took the box, and ate it standing.
By mid-afternoon Bea realized that twelve people at that table were focused on salvaging the project. One of them was focused on Rafael.
She’d taken the seat that was usually Laurent’s because he was in New York handling the other front.
Her hair was done up so high and tight it resembled a facelift.
She was tall and competent, yet used a babyish voice that was all sugar and upward inflection, like she’d read somewhere it made men lean in.
Bea’s eyebrows twitched at the subtle reaches of familiarity. She grazed a hand on his arm as she gestured to the screen. Once, she adjusted his mug like that right belonged to her. Rafael never shifted his focus.
The voucher said mascot. Not assassin, mascot.
BEYA SLAYA: I might need bail money.
CLAIRE BEAR: I only need one kidney.
CLAIRE BEAR: Who are we burying?
BEYA SLAYA: Before I commit a crime
BEYA SLAYA: Question, hypothetically.
BEYA SLAYA: If someone keeps touching your husband in a boardroom
BEYA SLAYA: Is that networking or flirting?
CLAIRE BEAR: Does she think he’s single?
BEYA SLAYA: I am LITERALLY on the couch
CLAIRE BEAR: And she sees the rings?
BEYA SLAYA: These rings are visible from space
CLAIRE BEAR: Flirting.
CLAIRE BEAR: Is he giving her anything?
BEYA SLAYA: Not even eye contact.
CLAIRE BEAR: What’s he doing?
BEYA SLAYA: Running a meeting
BEYA SLAYA: Being hot just by existing.
CLAIRE BEAR: That’s your cross to bear.
CLAIRE BEAR: Are you glaring?
BEYA SLAYA: Internally.
CLAIRE BEAR: Show her your canines.
Max’s voice cut through. “The panel needs to rein in sentiment. The traders are twitchy.”
“Rafael should join them,” the blonde ponytail suggested. “The market loves a handsome face.”
Some men didn’t get to choose whether they were symbols. Rafael did. He built things. He didn’t pose for them. The thought curdled into sound, and four heads turned toward Bea. Including Rafael’s. He held her eyes a moment, then checked his watch.
“Break. Ten minutes. Mark, coffees.”
Chairs scraped, people stretched. The glass-walled room emptied, leaving only them.
Rafael crossed to her and sat, arm settling along the back of the couch. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“That sound.” His gaze held hers.
Her mouth tightened. “Nothing.”
Rafael’s hand slid into her hair, thumb finding the spot behind her ear. “It wasn’t nothing.”
“Nothing important.”
“Bea.”
Her name, from him, left no room to dodge. She looked past him, toward the corridor where the blonde ponytail had disappeared.
“It’s stupid,” she said, smoothing the page she hadn’t been reading.
He took it gently from her, and set it aside. “Tell me.”
“She kept reaching for you.”
Rafael’s fingers stilled on her earlobe. “Who?”
“The stand-in for Laurent.” Bea’s cheeks warmed. He continued his caressing, and she caved a little more. “Your arm. Your mug.”
“And that bothered you.”
“No,” she said automatically. It’s just that his triceps weren’t communal property.
Amusement caught at his mouth. One brow raised.
“Fine. A little,” Bea muttered. “I’m sitting right here. Position’s taken.”
His tongue found the inside of his cheek, a smile breaking through. “My wife is jealous.”
It was the first time she’d seen him smile all day. Worth the humiliation. Maybe.
“I just don’t like extra hands.”
“Then we agree. Only yours,” he said, hand cupping her face.
She poked her finger straight into the middle of his chest. “Correct.”
“Extra hands,” he repeated, focus snapping back. “No panel. One voice.”
Voices returned at the door, his team filtering back in.
He brushed her cheek briefly. “Don’t leave early.”