Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“Fifteen dollars?” Bea gasped, holding up a single tube of toothpaste like it might be diamond-encrusted. “Does it brush my teeth for me? Whisper affirmations in my sleep?”
A passing man in a pressed suit gave her a bemused glance.
Bea ignored him. It was a Sunday afternoon and she was standing in an offensively beautiful grocery store.
Pristine glass shelves, curated imports, and ambient lighting that made the fruit look like jewelry.
To top it off, she was talking to herself.
At her old college, grocery stores had fluorescent lighting, overcrowded aisles, and prices that didn’t make you question your life choices. A student discount here, a cheaper brand there. She could stretch every dollar like an art form. But here, budget-friendly didn’t exist.
With a sigh, she picked the cheapest option. Ten dollars. Absurd.
She turned to leave, only to nearly collide with someone behind her.
“Oh! Sorry—” She stopped.
Not just a man. A walking advertisement for Rolex. White-blond hair, fitted blue shirt, and the kind of unperturbed expression that came from never having to check a price tag.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said smoothly.
Bea took a small step back, suddenly aware of how many men she’d encountered since arriving in this city. Not just here, but on campus, in cafés, even at Mayfield Hall. Everywhere she went, it was like she’d wandered onto the set of some high-end cologne commercial.
She narrowed her eyes. “Why are there so many of you?”
The man reared back a little. “Excuse me?”
She winced. “I mean, uh, men. There are just…a lot of men here.”
To his credit, he didn’t seem offended, just entertained. “Well, that tends to happen when you go to a male-dominated university.”
Bea flushed. Right. That.
She’d read about the gender imbalance at St. Ives before she arrived, but living it was a whole different story. Back home, most of her classes had been near enough to fifty-fifty. Here, her morning econ lecture had six women. Out of seventy.
It was bizarre.
It wasn’t just the ratio; it was the type of men.
They were all so self-possessed. Like they’d been trained since birth to walk into a room and own it.
Even the ones her age carried themselves like mini CEOs, discussing market trends and asset acquisitions like they were talking about weekend plans.
It was, frankly, exhausting.
“I’m new here,” she explained. She held up the overpriced toothpaste. “Still getting used to things.”
“I figured.” The man glanced at her before plucking something from the shelf. “You have that look about you.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What look?”
“Like you’re one bad interaction away from an existential crisis.”
Bea let out a short laugh, despite herself. “That obvious, huh?”
“Painfully.”
She exhaled, shaking her head. “Well, that’s reassuring.”
The man gave her a lazy half-smile before turning away, tossing whatever he’d grabbed into his basket.
“Welcome to St. Ives,” he said over his shoulder. “Try not to let it eat you alive.”
Bea huffed, watching him disappear down the aisle.
Great. Even the randoms sounded like Bond villains.
The air outside of Mayfield Hall bit at Bea’s skin as she stepped onto the path. Mid-fall in St. Ives meant gold and crimson leaves scattered across the stone walkways, the acerbic scent of cold earth and woodsmoke hanging faint in the breeze.
She adjusted the strap of her bag and tucked her hands into her sleeves.
The campus was quiet at this hour. Too early for most of St. Ives’ population to bother stirring.
The only movement nearby came from a handful of eager runners and the twenty-four-seven perimeter guards stationed just beyond the gates, their silhouettes sharp against the morning light.
She was almost used to the security now.
Discreetly positioned cameras, license plate scanners, the occasional hum of monitoring drones passing overhead.
St. Ives was a fortress wrapped in elegance.
Not because the UR was dangerous. Far from it.
But this level of protection meant that inside its walls, and even spilling over somewhat into town, students moved freely, unburdened by the private security details that shadowed them everywhere else.
Here, protection was collective. It made logistics cleaner, more seamless. And it gave these heirs of privilege the illusion of being normal students.
She had just turned onto the main road when she saw Rafael.
He was leaning casually against the stone gate, hands in his pockets, one boot crossed over the other. His jacket was light, collar turned up. He looked like the cold hadn’t touched him. Like nothing ever could.
He was waiting.
Something traitorous sparked behind her ribs. Her first instinct was to look away, pretend she hadn’t noticed him. But his gaze, unholy green, locked onto hers before she had the chance.
“Bea.”
Her name in his mouth felt dangerous. She noticed he’d skipped little for once.
She stopped a few steps away. Close enough to see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw.
“Hi,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
His mouth curved, deliberate. “What does it look like?”
“Looks like you’re waiting for someone.”
“Not someone. You.”
Her spine responded first, locking straight.
He noticed. “Do I make you nervous?” he asked, his voice slightly gruff. Apparently she wasn’t radiating serenity.
“What do you mean?”
“You get like this when I’m around.”
“Like what?”
Rafael stepped in, closing the gap. Still no contact, but it felt like he’d touched her all the same.
“A little too still.” His voice dropped lower. “Like you’re afraid to react.”
“I—” She faltered.
“I think about you.” He said it too quickly. Like it had been waiting at the edge of his lips.
The words landed between them like flint to stone.
“More than I should,” he added.
She opened her mouth to say something. He wasn’t finished.
“When I see you, I want to know what you’ll say next.” His stare traced the outline of her face. “And when I don’t, I wonder where the hell you are.”
She blinked. It didn’t sound practiced. It sounded like something he meant.
She wasn’t sure what the etiquette was here but…if he was being honest, then maybe she could be, too.
“I don’t like it when I can’t think,” she said quietly.
He took another small step closer, his body radiating warmth into the chilled morning air. She could smell the clean fragrance of soap on his skin.
“That’s what I do to you? Make your brain short-circuit?”
“That’s not what I said,” she said, exasperated.
“I don’t think you know what to do with me,” he murmured.
Her chest tightened. “I don’t think I should do anything with you.”
The second it left her mouth, she regretted it. Should. Not can’t. Not won’t. He heard it too.
His expression tilted into something wicked. “Might be too late for that.”
He turned without another word. Strode away.
Those six words were going to haunt her.
The late-afternoon air was warm but tinged with the faintest crispness.
Bea and Georgie leaned against a sleek wooden bench beside the busiest coffee cart on campus.
Strategically placed right between the business faculty and the administration buildings, it attracted a steady stream of impeccably dressed students who treated caffeine like a lifeline.
Bea cupped her latte, the heat seeping into her fingers.
“If I hear one more person tell me to project,” Georgie groaned, dramatically throwing her head back, “I’m going to actually scream.”
“Wouldn’t that solve the problem?”
Georgie shot her a look. “Not the point.”
Bea smiled, her gaze drifting over the crowd in absent curiosity.
The late-day glow made St. Ives look even more cinematic. Students were draped in crisp linen and styled layers. Even something as simple as a coffee run felt like a scene from a movie where wealth was always the backdrop.
That was when she spotted Gage.
He hadn’t been there a second ago. Or maybe she’d just been hoping too hard to see him.
Bea watched as students instinctively glanced his way, some acknowledging him with a nod, others simply noticing.
Their eyes met.
Bea’s breath snagged.
He changed direction, zeroing in like she was the only fixed point in the crowd.
“Bea,” he said, reaching them.
“Gage,” she returned.
“Georgie.”
Georgina grinned back.
He extended his hand to Bea. “Give me your phone.”
She frowned, but handed it over. “Why?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he angled the device toward her, letting facial recognition unlock it. A few taps, then his own phone buzzed in his pocket.
It was done in seconds.
“Now I have your number,” he said, handing it back like they’d just sealed a business deal.
Bea stared at the screen.
Gage King. No emojis, no embellishments.
Her brow pinched slightly. “You could have asked, you know.”
“And yet,” he intoned, slipping his own phone back into his pocket, “you’ll still answer when I call.”
She should have been annoyed. Instead, her fingers tightened around the phone, heat lingering where his fingers had been.
He left without another word, and Bea stared after him, shaking her head.
Georgie, who had witnessed the whole exchange with an expression of deep amusement, nudged her. “You realize he just played you, right?”
Bea sighed, thumbing over her phone screen. “Yeah,” she muttered, lips twitching. “I noticed.”
Her phone buzzed.
For the briefest, most ridiculous second, her pulse skipped.
She looked down.
It wasn’t him. And that did not disappoint her at all.
CLAIRE BEAR: You’re awfully quiet for someone living in billionaire Hogwarts. Send gossip or I’m calling your umma.
Bea snorted.
BEYA SLAYA: Just got mugged.
CLAIRE BEAR: WHAT.
BEYA SLAYA: By a rich man who knew he could get away with it.
CLAIRE BEAR: lol what did he take?
BEYA SLAYA: My number.
Later that night, Bea sat at her desk, staring at her laptop like it owed her an apology.
She didn’t hear Georgina come in until she flopped dramatically onto the bed and stretched like a cat, nail polish clutched in one hand.
“How’s the soul-crushing rejection going?” Georgie asked, hair damp, silk robe cinched at the waist.
Bea turned, exasperated.
“What does any of this even mean? ‘Stable future plans’? ‘Long-term settlement status’? ‘Prior clearance through a registered sponsor’?” She pressed a finger to her temple.
“I’m on a student visa. I’m studying finance.
I’ve worked since I was sixteen.” She paused.
“I’m not underqualified for an unpaid position taking minutes. ”
“You’re not unqualified.” Georgina gave her a sympathetic look. “You’re just unsponsored.”
Bea blinked. “What?”
“They want someone to vouch for you,” Georgina explained. “Claim you. Keep you from, I don’t know, vanishing or running off with a rival firm’s heir.”
Bea scoffed. “I’m not going to run off with anyone.”
“Of course you’re not. But they don’t know that.” She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “You’re pretty, foreign, and unattached. In the UR, that’s three red flags.”
“That can’t be it,” Bea argued. “They wouldn’t actually…”
But Georgina’s face said otherwise.
“So I’m…a risk.”
Georgie gave a noncommittal tilt of her head. “You’re more like…an unaudited asset.”
Bea groaned.
Georgina patted her back soothingly. “How many rejections now?”
“Seventeen.”
“Wow. Most girls would’ve started faking engagement rings by five.”
Bea barked a laugh. Because if she didn’t laugh, she’d fall apart.
Her finger doodled absently on the trackpad. “So that’s it? I’ve been rejected seventeen times because I don’t belong to anyone?”
Georgina was now painting her toenails a deep plum color. She didn’t look up. “You make it sound petty when you say it like that.”
Bea got up from the desk and sat next to her on the bed. “Explain it again. Like I’m five and just learned Santa isn’t real. Because that’s basically how I feel right now.”
“Okay. Look. You’re applying for elite finance firms in Northgate. Those places aren’t just hiring you. They’re also hiring who’s behind you. Who protects you.”
“I don’t need anyone to protect me.”
Georgina raised a brow, still focused on her toes. “That’s how you think. Not how they think.” She glanced up at Bea, gauging her. “It’s not about capability. You’re smart, hardworking. You’re…terrifyingly earnest.” Her mouth twitched. “That’s all great. But that’s not all they’re screening for.”
“What more could they want?”
“Stability. Alignment. They want to know if you’re safe to invest in. Politically. Socially. If you’re backed by someone with a name.”
Bea’s mouth parted, but no words came.
Just for a moment—one impossible second—her mind flashed to Rafael. And then to Gage.
She shut the thought down before it could finish forming.
“So…a man.” She folded her arms.
Georgie shrugged. “It could be a woman. But for the St. Ives finance internships? Odds are two to one it’s a man.”
“You knew all of this…” Bea’s voice was tight. “…from the beginning. And you let me send twenty applications anyway?”
Georgina set the polish down. “I wasn’t going to be the one who told you that you needed a man to get a job. And let’s be honest—you wouldn’t have listened.”
Bea exhaled sharply. That part stung, because it was true.
Georgina softened. “I wanted to see how far you’d get on your own. And maybe, a little, I hoped I’d be wrong. But, Bea, you’ve been here what…six weeks?”
She nodded.
“Maybe you need to stop trying so hard,” Georgina said, tossing her hair over one shoulder and blowing on her toes. “It’s still early. When the time’s right, it’ll fall into place.”
“You mean when I have a man,” Bea said wryly.
“No. I mean when someone with enough power decides to sponsor you. And suddenly, you’re the one they’re afraid to overlook.”