Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Group Chat: Therapy Club
NAOMI: I swear on my future firstborn I’d come if I could
NAOMI: But Charles just roped me into a fundraising dinner with the Minister of Housing.
ISABEL: Tragic, but excused. The Republic needs you.
LILLIAN: The DJ has a PhD in music theory.
ISABEL: Lils, that’s not why we’re going to Club Azur.
LILLIAN: What? Taste matters.
GEORGINA: Bea. You’re coming.
ISABEL: No excuses.
GEORGINA: The dress code is ‘Alive and hot’
LILLIAN: Pants ok?
ISABEL: Pants are NOT ok.
LILLIAN: It’s barely spring. 17°C this morning!
ISABEL: And 35°C on the dance floor. Nothing below the knee.
GEORGINA: Bea. Don’t make us drag you.
GEORGINA: You’ve been in recovery mode for nine months.
GEORGINA: And we all need the catch up.
ISABEL: Also: we know where you live.
9:25 p.m.
The music didn’t wait. It bled through the marble floors, curled under Bea’s dress, pulsed at the base of her spine. The air shimmered with perfume, expensive sweat, and crushed citrus. Azur was where Northgate’s elite came to let loose: black glass, velvet booths, security that looked ex-military.
Georgina, Hunter, Isabel, and Lillian were all in the booth already, drinks in hand. The moment Bea stepped into view, four heads turned in unison.
Her hair was twelve inches shorter, now a rich brown shot through with light, in waves that cascaded around her shoulders.
Six months of small recoveries—remembering how to eat, sleep, breathe.
Sad playlists. Too much caffeine. She’d poured herself into work, study, BJJ, tutoring, learning to cook decent dinners for her and Lillian.
She’d finally stopped checking for updates on him online.
Stopped staring at her phone agonizing over whether she should have sent that thank-you text months ago.
The twinge had dulled to something she could carry, something that no longer ruled her. The hair felt like proof that she was becoming someone who didn’t hide behind straight lines and safe choices.
“Mother. Of. Everything.” Georgina’s jaw dropped. “Bey…your hair.”
“You’ve retired your halo,” Isabel said, raising her glass in approval.
Lillian smiled. “And nailed the dress code.”
“Doesn’t she look hot, Hunter?” Georgie asked, turning to him.
Hunter raised his eyebrows. “That question feels like a trap,” he said, sipping his whisky. Then, with a quick grin, “But yeah, it suits you, Bea. Good to see you out.”
Bea gave each person a hug before sliding into the booth, warmth in her cheeks. She stole the lychee from Lillian’s cocktail. “The threats were escalating.”
Isabel raised her glass. “To the first night of your resurrection.”
Georgina raised hers, knocking Bea’s knee under the table. “To legs.”
“To not spending another Friday night watching whale migration documentaries,” Lillian said, clinking her glass.
“It was one time, Lillian,” Bea rebutted, mock betrayed.
The waiter came and jotted down her order.
She’d been a little nervous about coming. The haircut had been more impulse than statement, but now that she was here, under the lights, it felt exactly right.
Her head tipped back and she let the bass roll through her, shoulders moving in time with the beat. Six months ago she’d have been stiff in her seat, but now she was here for it.
Georgina was laughing at something Hunter said, her hand resting lightly on his knee. Lillian was mid-story with Isabel, who was shaking her head, smiling, one heel tapping to the beat under the table.
And then she saw him.
Rafael. Crossing the room like gravity tilted in his favor.
Black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves pushed up, forearms cut and golden under the lights. He hadn’t spotted her yet.
Bea’s gaze dragged up his body. Landed on his face. And stayed there.
That face could ruin a girl.
All masculine geometry—strong jaw, wicked cheekbones, brows that sat too confidently above eyes made for undoing women. The kind of face that didn’t ask permission. It just happened to you.
It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen him. Sightings had been frequent, but he never lingered.
Hardly spoke ten words at a time to her.
Hello.
Coffee’s on me.
She’s next.
It should have been a relief. And maybe it was, at first. But lately it was oddly…irksome. And, honestly, disappointing.
He found her.
The hairstyle suddenly felt too obvious, her dress too deliberate.
When his eyes met hers, the knowing curl at one corner of his mouth said everything.
He was done passing through, keeping a careful distance. Tonight, he was here for her.
The whole table felt it. Conversation stuttered like a record skipping. Lillian bent her head to her straw like it had become fascinating. Isabel stirred her drink with ferocious concentration. Even Georgina stalled out.
Bea didn’t look at them. Every cell in her body was fixated on the man approaching. She’d been tucked away, wrapped in routine, recovery, and careful distance. And now, on her first night back, he was already walking toward her.
She felt both ambushed and answered, as if the moment she’d imagined was finally here and she still had no idea what to do with it.
Rafael stopped beside her chair. If he noticed the theatrics at the table, he gave no sign. Just a brief nod, then his focus narrowed back to her like no one else existed. “Dance with me.”
Nerves scuttled under her skin, running down her arms until her fingertips buzzed.
Beside her, Isabel nudged with an elbow, voice tinged with amusement. “Go.”
Her pulse sped into overdrive. For a moment, she stayed rooted, balance tilting between sense and temptation.
But there was no reason not to, except the fears in her own head.
And for once, for a few minutes, she wanted to see what would happen if she fed the flame.
She rose.
He reached for her.
His hand caught hers, fingers sliding over her palm with a drag that felt closer to possession than courtesy. Callused ridges brushed tender skin, rough meeting soft, and the glide twisted her stomach into knots.
Heat flared in sequence—wrist, arm, shoulder—her whole body sparking awake. For two years she’d kept her distance, certain one touch would undo her.
Now his grip anchored hers, warm, unyielding, and she knew she’d been right.
He drew her into the crush of bodies until they were swallowed by it, the two of them just another pair in the dark.
Her heels brought her nearer to his height, but he still towered over her.
Her head fit just beneath his jaw. His body easily bracketed hers.
She felt every breath of space between them—and then he closed it.
The beat dropped like a hammer. The remix was deep and dirty, bass grinding, vocals sultry. They moved like they’d done it before. Caught the rhythm and rode it, sinuous, fluid. The man could move.
His hand found her hip. Then the other. His thumbs traced in, just slightly, dragging fire across her dress. He rolled his hips once—perfect, aligned—and she felt it everywhere. In the backs of her knees, the pit of her stomach, somewhere low and aching and unspeakable.
Her arms looped around his shoulders without meaning to. Her fingers dug into the hard lines of him. She moved with him, against him.
“You always wanted to dance,” he said, dipping his head until his mouth brushed her ear.
The words slid into her, too close, too true. The wanting was there, undeniable, rising through her. And it scared her senseless because there was no buffer left, no safe distance. Just her and the fire.
Her step faltered. He tightened his hold, catching her, holding her steady. But his steadiness only magnified the chaos inside her.
The words scraped out, raw. “I can’t.”
“Bea.”
“I can’t.”
She turned away. It was too loud, too much. Her chest was tight, her pulse too fast. She’d just started breathing again. And this—he—was taking all the air.
She cut through the crowd, heels skimming the marble, until the cool night air met her skin.
RAFAEL
He didn’t follow.
I can’t.
He’d felt her tremble. Felt her move against him like she didn’t know how not to.
She wanted him. She was still afraid. But it wasn’t completely stopping her. Not anymore.
He made his way to the bar, flagged the bartender and ordered a cognac he wouldn’t taste. Took a seat to wait.
Tonight, she hadn’t just walked into Azur. She’d walked in changed. That long, straight curtain of black hair he’d tracked in every room had marked the days when she was untouchable.
Now it fell in waves, loose and alive, brushing her shoulders like an invitation. It belonged in his hands.
He hadn’t planned to go out, but when Laurent had appeared in his office doorway that afternoon and drawled, Your girl’s going dancing tonight, Rafael didn’t ask how he knew. He just reached for his keys.
“You’re actually in pain,” Laurent said now, sliding onto the stool beside him. “Which means it went well.”
Rafael drank half in one mouthful. “It did.”
“She finally let you touch her, and you didn’t follow when she bolted?”
“She didn’t bolt,” Rafael said evenly. “She reacted.”
Laurent cocked a brow, signaling for his own drink. “With panic.”
He inclined his head once. “But not the kind that ends things.”
“You’re pleased.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
Rafael turned the glass in his hand, watching the light catch the amber. “Because this is where it begins.”
The Graduate Enrichment Program called it the War Room.
Bea could see why. Nothing about the GEP was casual.
Every exercise felt like a skirmish, every presentation a siege.
Three long tables stretched beneath wall-mounted monitors that pulsed with live market feeds, graphs spiking and crashing like seismographs.
On their table, the mock portfolio sprawled in a tangle of contracts, risk sheets, and glossy prospectuses laid open like the body of a crime no one had solved yet.