Chapter 5
Chapter Five
RAFAEL
“Little Bea.”
Bea stopped. A warm breeze lifted her hair. She wore a maroon silk top tucked into high-waisted cream trousers, gold belt buckle catching the light and his eye. His hands flexed with the urge to close around her waist and feel again how perfectly she fit there.
“Rafael.”
“Coffee?” He’d never seen her drink less than three in a day.
A pause, caution more than reluctance, then she nodded. “To go.”
They stepped up to the open-air window, the shade awning flapping lightly overhead. She slid her sunglasses up into her hair; he hung his from the front of his shirt.
He ordered for them both. An oat milk latte for her, cappuccino for him.
As they waited, she glanced at him, as though she wasn’t sure if he was actually working. He was in his usual: dark jeans, white designer t-shirt. His jacket was left draped over his office chair. He wasn’t a man who defaulted to a three-piece suit, not unless the room demanded it.
He’d been in back-to-back meetings all morning at Griffin Ventures.
Her building at Monaghan enough to keep him sharp.
Now wasn’t the time nor place to mention he owned it, and that what he normally did there was talk business with Manny.
“Do you…go often?”
His tongue pushed briefly to the inside of his cheek. This question was more than just deflection. Not idle curiosity. When it came to him, Bea tried as hard as possible not to be curious. “Why, are you hoping to see me there?”
Her eyes, intelligent but too unguarded for her own good, met his. “I…don’t know.”
He inclined toward her, just enough for her to feel the difference. “Or you don’t want to say it.”
She went still, as if movement might draw him closer.
The barista slid their cups onto the counter. Rafael passed her the latte, brushing her fingers on purpose. He felt the twitch in response, the momentary slip in her breathing.
That was when he saw her. Elena King, Gage’s mother, in a tailored salmon pantsuit, blonde hair styled elegantly. She was moving through the crowd, in their direction.
Bea saw her too. Her posture changed—stillness, soft panic—and then she moved. One step closer, then another, until she was behind him.
Rafael adjusted without thought, letting his height and breadth erase the sightline. The sun was at their backs; there was no shadow to give her away.
Behind him, Bea was still. She wasn’t touching him, but she was close enough that he could feel the anxiety radiating from her.
Every nerve in his body had cataloged the silent confession of trust. She hadn’t even thought. Instinct had driven her straight into his shadow, knowing without testing that he would stand between her and whatever was coming.
Within moments, Elena’s eyes met his. A flicker of recognition, a small smile he returned. Her heels clicked past on the pavers. He didn’t move until he was sure she was gone.
When she emerged, Bea kept her gaze on the coffee cup. Her teeth caught her lip. “Did she see me?”
“No.” His voice was quiet, certain.
The relief came and went in a breath, loosening her shoulders. “Thanks,” she said softly.
He inclined his head once, and said what she already knew. “Anytime.”
The apartment was still, morning light pressing through the blinds in pale stripes. She was dressed for work, car keys cold in her palm.
She picked up her phone, brain still in tangles at the memory of what she’d done—what she hadn’t thought about before doing.
The only person she could say it out loud to was Claire.
BEYA SLAYA: So yesterday I ran into Rafael.
CLAIRE BEAR: And?
BEYA SLAYA: He bought me coffee.
CLAIRE BEAR: Oat milk?
BEYA SLAYA: Yes. And Elena King walked by.
CLAIRE BEAR: GAGE’S MOM???
CLAIRE BEAR: Did she see you???
BEYA SLAYA: No. Because I hid behind him.
CLAIRE BEAR: Rafael?!
BEYA SLAYA: It was…automatic.
BEYA SLAYA: Why do you think I did that?
CLAIRE BEAR: Does he resemble a wall?
BEYA SLAYA: Little bit.
CLAIRE BEAR: There you go.
BEYA SLAYA: You think that’s the only reason?
CLAIRE BEAR: Do YOU?
Bea gave a tiny huff of a laugh and closed the thread. Not a question she was ready to answer, not even to herself. Maybe she would have snuck behind any tall shape that cut the sunlight and gave her cover. Maybe it hadn’t been about him, just about not being seen.
She slipped the phone back into her bag. The walk down the hall felt longer than usual. She had a task to do today. One she’d been delaying, but yesterday’s incident proved she couldn’t put it off any longer.
The elevator doors opened and she entered.
Elena had never been unkind to her. Neither had Victor, Gage’s father. Showy affection didn’t run in the family, not even toward their son. They’d been polite, refined. The way Kings were, and ought to be.
But Bea couldn’t stand before a woman who had carried the weight of that name, who had understood exactly what it meant to belong to it—and had stayed. That was what Elena embodied. Not judgment spoken aloud, but the undeniable fact that Bea hadn’t done the same.
The elevator sank into the basement garage, doors opening. Fluorescent lights hummed; exhaust and concrete dust filled the air. She crossed rows of parked cars, heels clicking against the painted floor, keys clenched in her hand.
The Porsche waited in one of the two spaces allocated to their apartment. She unlocked it, the sharp chirp louder than she expected. Sliding into the driver’s seat, she tossed her bag onto the passenger side.
The car still smelled like him. The trace of his cologne was buried in the upholstery, clean and expensive. It pulled her back to every car ride, every low conversation and almost. It hit her like a punch in the chest.
She gripped the wheel, leather smooth beneath her palms, and sat there for a beat.
Eventually she pulled onto the ramp, headlights cutting across concrete pillars, merging at last into the steady stream of Northgate traffic.
She drove slower than usual, as if minutes and memories could be stretched like toffee.
Bea remembered the day she’d passed her driving test. She’d been glowing with pride, wanting to buy something sensible and secondhand to ferry her around St. Ives. Gage had insisted she use this instead.
And now she was giving it back.
The King Global Capital Tower appeared ahead, glass and steel against a pale sky. It had been his building, once. Now his life was in London, and she had no part in it.
She stopped in the fifteen-minute zone right in front.
Maybe she still had underground access, maybe not.
She didn’t want to find out. She didn’t turn off the engine.
Just sat there, breathing him in one last time.
The sound of a distant bus horn threaded through the hum.
Her fingers traced the dash, as though bidding the car farewell.
Her thumb brushed the FM button by accident. Static burst, then a crisp anchor’s voice:
“…King shows no sign of slowing down. The KGC London division continues its accelerated progress. This quarter’s results are expected to exceed projections, positioning the firm for record-level returns in the fiscal year…”
A hot blur pressed at her lashes as she fumbled to turn off the radio, but it was too late. A tear caught and slid.
The report was a lightning bolt of reality: they were both exactly where they had to be.
He couldn’t have stayed. She couldn’t have gone. Two absolutes that left a small, hollow space where the maybes used to live.
Bea let her forehead touch the wheel.
You were mine for a while. I liked who I was with you.
Thank you. Goodbye.
She got out, and told herself not to glance back.
The lobby was cool compared to the street. Bea set the fob on the concierge desk. “For Mr. Gage King.”
“Thanks, Miss Cruz,” he said, recognizing her. He passed the key behind him to another assistant, who disappeared immediately.
One of the receptionists she’d always waved at glanced up from her screen, her mouth softening as if she wanted to say something. The finality felt public. Witnessed.
Another younger staffer caught her eye. Her skin prickled at being remembered as someone she no longer was. She smiled, a little one. By the time she stepped back into the daylight, the car was gone.
The courtyard behind the Graduate Wing resembled a private garden of a five-star resort. Ivory stone colonnades framed the space; ferns and trailing greenery swayed overhead, threaded with white lanterns.
On the buffet tables were seared scallops on black salt, miniature lobster rolls, avocado and tuna tartare balanced on crisp sesame crackers. It was the kind of menu that made you feel clever for eating it.
Bea smoothed the front of her dress, wearing confidence like a costume today. The square neckline skimmed her collarbones, and the skirt swung just enough to catch the breeze.
Thirty of them had been chosen, the top ten percent of their class. A list she still couldn’t quite believe her name had been on. It was one of the things she would have passed up if her life had gone another way this year. But she was here now, and she intended to be glad she was.
“Good afternoon,” the dean said. Students in clusters around high tables fell silent. “Congratulations on being selected for this year’s Graduate Enrichment Program. This is more than an academic honor—it is an investment. One St. Ives is making in you, and one we expect you to make in yourself.”
The year ahead loomed like a gauntlet: guest lectures from Northgate’s corporate titans, extra assignments deliberately designed to thin the herd, and a capstone project to be defended in the St. Ives Hall of Masters, under the eyes of men who had built empires and destroyed careers before dessert.
When the applause finally came, it sounded nervous, the slow and nervous clap of students who suddenly realized they’d signed up for survival training, not social mixers.
Bea made for the canapés. She’d promised Lillian a full report, which meant forcing down at least three while trying not to think about how much coffee she was about to mainline this year just to stay alive.
She reached for a salmon tart at the same moment a man’s hand—steady, long-fingered, and marked by a simple steel watch—did the same.
“Go ahead.” He gestured with an open palm.
She glanced up and almost blurted his name. Jaxon Dao: top of their cohort, summa cum laude inevitable. They’d never spoken, but she’d seen him in lectures, always in the same seat, always making it look easy.
He was slightly shorter than the average UR man, probably five foot ten, built with lean lines. Short black hair, a jaw you could measure angles against. His eyes were tapered at the corners, watchful, like he was running a regression analysis on her in real time.
“Thanks,” she said, sliding the tart onto her plate. They both moved sideways in the slow shuffle of the buffet line. Proximity to a brain like his was unnerving. She wanted to test if he was human. “Though now I’m wondering…if this had been the last one, would you still let me have it?”
“That depends.” He reached for a lamb skewer.
“On what?”
“If we were competing, I’d have taken it. If we were partners, I’d have given it to you.” He dolloped a generous spoonful of tzatziki onto his plate.
“And which is it?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
After careful consideration of the options, she picked both the scallop and the lobster. “So this is your strategy for the GEP? Keep everyone guessing?”
“No,” he said. When they reached the end of the table, he picked up two sets of cutlery and two folded napkins before glancing toward the seating area. “My strategy is to find the person who’d split the last one with me without being asked.”
It was such a clean answer that it landed like the last line of a proof.
“Jaxon Dao.”
“I know,” she said. “Bea Cruz.”
His eyes, so dark they were basically black, gleamed. “I know.” Then he nodded toward a small cocktail table next to the lattice. “Let’s sit.”