Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Three months later
This was not how Bea had envisioned spending her birthday: seated in a Canadian federal boardroom, her name stamped into the day’s schedule in crisp black ink.
Maris Chen sat to her left, immaculate as ever, wearing the moment like it was just another Wednesday at Monaghan their clearance didn’t extend past the threshold.
Beyond the glass, Ottawa lay pale in fall light, grey stone and orderly streets stretching toward the river.
A man at the head of the table in a severe suit adjusted his papers.
“Good morning,” he said, cordial in the way governments are.
“My name is Brian Callahan, Deputy Minister for Justice Policy.” He indicated the Canadian side of the table, a neat line of suits and notebooks.
“On behalf of Canada, I want to thank the United Republic for accepting our invitation. We hope today marks the beginning of a bilateral framework that can serve as a model internationally.”
A few nods. A soft shift of chairs.
Brian’s voice cooled a degree. “As you’re aware, one of the primary catalysts for this meeting is the ongoing case involving Mr. Oliver Fox.”
One of the UR officials spoke without preamble. “He remains detained under UR law. The United Republic is grateful for Canada’s full cooperation.”
Bea’s fingers laced together under the table, knuckles pressing faintly white. The investigation was all over the news thanks to the virality of the interview.
A Canadian official spoke next, grey hair cut as precisely as her tone.
“Additional women have come forward, above those initially suggested. Forty-three thus far, spanning most of a decade. A majority described feeling they had no safe alternative but to comply. Few had the resources to fight him legally.”
Forty-three.
The number made Bea’s stomach churn. Anger followed, steady and clarifying. He’d calculated the cost of their dignity and set it just out of reach. That was the model.
A technician clicked a remote. The screen flared to life.
Internal Memo – Monaghan & Stowe
Subject: Image-Based Coercion Is a Capital Markets Risk
Author: Beatriz Cruz (Senior Analyst, Financial Policy Research Unit)
Reputational assault, which is now easier than ever to achieve through doctored images and sexualized scandal, is widely treated in Western markets as private drama.
In practice, it functions as economic coercion aimed disproportionately at women, with measurable impacts on mobility and security…
“Mrs. Griffin.” Brian looked to her, and the attention in the room tilted with him. “Your interview with Mr. Fox several months ago was enlightening. You have firsthand proximity to this issue.”
Bea started to nod, then stopped. “Proximity, yes. Consequence, no.”
“What are you hoping to see?”
“A change in incentives.” Her hands shook under the table, but her voice was clear. “Mr. Fox had everything to gain and almost nothing to lose by turning my life into content. The system rewards attention. It doesn’t price harm.”
She let that settle, taking the chance to take a long, silent breath.
“I value privacy. I have the structures in the UR to protect mine. Most women don’t. That imbalance needs to be corrected.”
The steel-grey-haired official inclined her head. “And how would you see yourself contributing?”
Before Bea could answer, a man two seats down interjected. “Public confidence and persuasion are critical in matters like this,” he said. “A visible survivor advocating for reform can be persuasive. Particularly one with your qualities.”
“What qualities, exactly, are you referring to?” Bea asked.
“You’re credible, Mrs. Griffin.” He cleared his throat. “And, if I can be frank, the cameras would agree.”
The cameras.
Bea felt her hands steady, and moved them to the tabletop, flattening her palms. “With respect,” she said, “that is the same argument Mr. Fox made: exposure as strategy. I agreed to do that interview to expose him. After that, I can offer analysis, not publicity.”
A subtle recalibration moved along the Canadian side of the table.
Bea’s attention returned to the woman who had asked the question originally.
“In terms of contribution, I work with aggregate data. AI now makes fabrication cheaper and more scalable than ever. The cost compounds: lost earnings, cost and time for the judicial system, reduced participation in certain industries. We can model the losses at scale.”
Pens resumed moving.
“This is core competency for us,” Maris spoke up. “Gender-based outcome analysis has shaped UR financial policy for decades. Bea has already prepared samples for you based on UR data, but we can do the same if you give us access to the Canadian numbers.”
Bea let her gaze travel the length of the table. “We’ll provide the model. The policy response is yours.”
Silence held, heavier now.
Brian gave a single nod. “Your expertise would be an asset to this group. Let’s begin.”
RAFAEL
Bea thought he was here to monitor risk. That was part of it. The truth was, he wanted to see this moment with his own eyes.
Bea under pressure was something else to watch.
He had seen her sit across from Oliver Fox, fists clenched in her lap, calmly dismantling a man twice her age.
And years ago, at IGNITE, pulse visible at her throat as she pitched a business plan before a panel of industry titans when she was still new to St. Ives.
Every time, she was nervous. And each time, she was ready.
“Particularly one with your qualities,” he heard a man say at the table. “The cameras would agree.”
Rafael understood the rationale. Bea was young, beautiful, and married into the UR elite.
The kind of symbol governments liked behind a podium.
But the suggestion still rankled enough that he had to grind his molars together to keep from intervening.
Public opinion moved faster than markets and was even less rational.
No one got to use his wife for their own ends.
Then he heard her: “I can offer analysis, not publicity.”
He nearly smiled. Bea was good at that. Setting boundaries.
Staying true to herself, without coming off as moralizing.
Standing in something where she was outmatched, outsized, or even unwelcome and still giving it her all, whether it was beach volleyball or a weekend at a vineyard full of rich people waiting for her to fail.
He had always admired that about her. More than admired: he’d been drawn to it. The way she hovered at the edge of things, curious as well as afraid. As if she wanted to know what lived just past the drop.
Watching her now in this room full of power, the pieces aligned.
For years he had believed her warmth absorbed what burned in him. That her softness was what allowed her to stand beside him without being consumed.
But that had never been the whole truth. It wasn’t just that she could hold his fire.
She had always been made of the same damn thing.