Chapter 2 #2
Max’s voice was amused. “You’re putting out a warning?”
“Want me to deliver it?” Laurent asked, blue eyes lighting up with mischief. “I can be subtle.”
“Subtle isn’t in your vocabulary.”
“How about—‘No hunting here. The beast hasn’t been fed.’”
Max snorted, coffee catching in his throat as he coughed into his sleeve.
Laurent tilted his head, unfazed. “Or we can go wholesome. Something like, ‘Highly protected nesting site.’ You, and the turtles.”
Rafael’s stare cut to him. “Don’t.”
Laurent lifted his brows, putting his hands in his pockets. “What? You’re territorial as hell. Save me improvising—or Mercer a week of damage control.”
Rafael didn’t take the bait.
He could see it already taking shape. A home of glass and wood and stone, the ocean just beyond. The kind of place built to be lived in. And filled.
Lillian was curled up on the floor by the coffee table, legs folded neatly, laptop angled. Her hair was in its usual braid, eyes scanning the screen as she typed up lecture notes.
The apartment appeared lived-in, no thanks to Bea. In the month she was gone, Lillian had filled the space with dark green velvet armchairs framing a floral three-seater, a brass lamp, a patterned rug, and a warm oak dining table with mismatched chairs that complemented one another perfectly.
Lils was a known thrift specialist, if such a title existed. Her taste was impeccable. Her knack for finding diamonds in salt mines? Unmatched.
Bea, lying on the sofa, idly pulled at a small thread in her sweatpants. “Do you think Georgie still considers me her friend?”
Lillian didn’t look up. “Of course.”
“But what if she doesn’t?”
“She does.”
Bea gazed out the window. She hadn’t just left Gage. She’d left the people who loved him, too. “I didn’t tell her I left. I wasn’t there for the bridal party entrance she choreographed.”
That got Lillian’s eyes.
“Georgina was my first real friend here,” Bea went on. “She vouched for me. Let me in when she didn’t have to. And then I go and reject her cousin, who’s always been good to her, and run off to Canada…”
There were still unopened group messages from the girls, photos from the wedding she couldn’t bring herself to click on. Calls she hadn’t answered.
Maybe this was her pattern—rush in, fall hard, then wreck everything without meaning to.
“What if in the month I was gone she realized I wasn’t good enough for Gage? Or that I led him on?”
Lillian closed her laptop with a soft click. “Georgie made me promise to message her when you came back.”
Bea sat up. “Really? Why?”
“In case you were like this.”
“Pathetic?”
“In her words: She’s going to spiral.”
It stung because it was true. Bea dropped her forehead against the top of the lounge. “Did you tell her? I’ve been thinking all day about whether calling or messaging would be better.”
“Actually, yes I did.”
“What did she say?”
“She said they’re coming over tonight.” Lillian checked the analogue wall clock. “She and Isabel will be here in…fifteen seconds.”
Bea’s head snapped up. “What?”
The intercom buzzed. Lillian rose with her usual grace, checked the screen on the wall, and pressed the entry button. “They’re here.”
Bea stood, hovering near the coffee table and tugging at her fingers, pulse climbing like she was about to walk into an interview she hadn’t prepared for.
A minute later, Lillian opened the door.
Georgina Ashcroft filled the doorway first: tall, blonde, and regal. Her hair was up in that messy-perfect knot that seemed one shake away from falling apart but wouldn’t. Her sequined sheath dress made her look like the rising actress she was.
Behind her, Isabel Van de Berg followed, dark hair in a high ponytail, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and an enormous bag of salt and vinegar chips in the other, like the night was already handled.
They stepped inside, Lillian closing the door behind them. For a beat, no one moved; they just stared at each other.
“I’m sorry,” Bea blurted into the silence.
Georgina crossed the space and pulled Bea into her arms. It knocked the air from her, more from relief than force.
“You’re so annoying,” she murmured against Bea’s head after a long moment. “You thought I’d drop you because of Gage?”
“He’s your cousin.”
“I loved you before he did,” Georgie said, leaning back just enough to meet her eyes. “And I know better than anyone what it would’ve meant for you to say yes. You should’ve known I’d understand.”
Something in Bea’s chest clenched so sharply it hurt. The tears came fast.
“I was furious, sure,” Georgina went on, dabbing delicately at the corner of her eye with one knuckle. “Because you left like a thief in the night and didn’t call. Or call me back. I wanted to come to Toronto, drag you to Naomi’s wedding, and stuff you into Spanx myself.”
Bea choked on something halfway between a laugh and a hiccup. For someone supposedly smart, she had a terrible tendency to assume her friends wouldn’t be on her side. “What stopped you?”
“Hunter.” Georgie scrunched her nose. “Boyfriends are way too reasonable when we all know the chaos would’ve been cathartic.”
Isabel set her burdens down on the coffee table, then stepped in for a hug. It was briefer, but solid. “Glad you’re back, Bey.” Her hand skimmed Bea’s shoulder blade. “Though you feel like you’ve been living on toast. What’ve you been eating?”
Bea winced. “Whatever Umma force-fed me.”
Lillian reappeared from the kitchen with a tray of wineglasses and a plate of cut fruit. They hadn’t been living together long, so it was the first time Bea had seen her play host. She was a natural at it. “Let’s sit.”
Wine was poured, chips torn open as everyone settled in. The conversation slipped into easy territory: gossip from Naomi’s wedding, horror stories from the set of Georgie’s play. And, news to Bea, that Isabel had decided to stop acting altogether.
“I’m full time in the business now,” Isabel said, delicately nibbling on an apple slice. Her family owned Lumen, the second-largest streaming service in the UR, a glossy empire she’d grown up orbiting but never joined.
Last year, the family of her ex-boyfriend, Mason, had blindsided hers by snatching the Pacific media pipeline deal Isabel’s father had been building toward for two years.
“It reminded me where my loyalty belongs,” Isabel explained. “I’m in content acquisitions. Regional and international. So we don’t get Masoned again.”
Bea caught the steel under her words. “Is that why you moved to Southgate? I thought it was just to be near Georgie.”
Isabel snorted. “We live near each other, but she’s only visited once.”
“I’m on set nights, she works days,” Georgina said, shrugging. “At least Southgate’s only an hour from here. Could be worse; we could be in Westhelm like Naomi.”
“Rude of her,” Isabel agreed. She topped off her glass. “Still, we need to make an effort this year. Life’s getting too busy for lazy catch-ups.”
The intercom buzzed a second time.
Lillian rose to let Naomi in, radiant in a white and blue gown that was all angles, and orange heels that could drive nails in. The colors of the UR flag.
“I have forty-five minutes and a driver waiting downstairs,” Naomi announced. “So who’s going to update me first?”
“Bea cried,” Georgina said around a strawberry.
“We forgave her,” Isabel added, sipping her wine.
“I cut a fruit plate,” Lillian murmured.
Naomi grinned. “Sounds about right.” She accepted the offered glass, picked up a handful of chips, and folded into the circle like she’d been here all along.
Bea let her shoulders loosen. This—these women—had been one of the reasons she’d stayed. While she’d been in Toronto, a small voice had whispered she might have ruined this, too. But they still sat beside her. Cried with her. Maybe she hadn’t lost her place after all.
“How was the fundraiser?” Georgie asked, dusting crumbs from her dress. “Is the country solvent?”
“Considering we’re one of the few nations with debt under half the GDP, I wouldn’t worry,” Naomi said, bone-dry.
“Talking like a politician’s wife,” Isabel teased. “I have no idea what you just said but it sounded important.”
Naomi tipped her glass, waving her hand. “No need to understand, Iz. Politics is fashion week with worse tailoring. Honestly, if everyone spoke for half as long but wore the right color palette, they’d raise twice as much.”
“What was Charles wearing?”
Mischief crept across her face. “Exactly what I chose. Charles in navy, me in the flag. A campaign poster designed by Vogue. The donors didn’t stand a chance.”
Their laughter filled the room, and Bea sat quietly inside it, grateful she still belonged.