Chapter 24
ALOIS
“Good.”
The word settled between us and didn’t move.
Her eyes held—just long enough to confirm she’d heard what I meant and not what I said—before she broke it cleanly, turning back to the counter.
Her fingers flattened briefly against the edge of the surface, the pads pressing into the wood just enough to leave a faint shift in color before she released it.
Something was wrong.
Rafael moved first, like the silence had run its course without his permission. “You’re staying here full-time?” he asked.
I didn’t look at him immediately. My focus stayed where it had been—on Bea—tracking the way she reached for the coffee pot again even though both mugs were already full, the way she adjusted it half an inch to the left like alignment mattered.
“Yes.” She answered for me.
Her father’s gaze shifted to her without turning his head. “I asked him.”
“I know,” she said, already smoothing it, already redirecting. “I just—he’s been here. It’s not new. It’s the job”
“Full-time,” I confirmed.
He nodded once. “And the season?” he continued. “Demanding schedule.”
“It’s what it is.”
“Is it ever,” he snickered lightly.
Bea stepped in. “We should grab some lunch,” she huffed, setting the coffee pot down.
Her eyes flicked to mine again, sharper this time. I held her there for a second, long enough to feel the edge of that request before I let it go.
“Give me a minute,” I relented, already turning.
The bedroom door closed behind me, muting the apartment down to low, indistinct sound—the cadence of voices carrying through the wall without shape, the hum of heat pushing against the winter pressed up outside.
I crossed to the dresser, pulling the top drawer open, the motion automatic—muscle memory layered over routine, something simple while everything else sat just slightly off.
Fabric. Clean.
My hand moved through it, pushing aside a sweater, reaching for a shirt—something slipped. Light. Quick. Out of place. It hit the floor with a hollow plastic sound that didn’t belong in the room.
For a second, nothing moved. Not my hands. Not my breath. Not the rest of the room around me. The world narrowed to the object at my feet and the space it occupied.
I bent slowly, picking it up between my fingers, the plastic cool and weightless in a way that didn’t match what it held.
Two lines.
Clear.
Not faint. Not questionable.
My grip tightened without thinking, the edge pressing into my palm just enough to ground me there, to keep the moment from slipping into something unreal.
A pulse hit hard behind my ribs—once, sharp enough to feel like contact—before everything inside me shifted to meet it.
Not panic.
Not confusion.
Mine.
The thought didn’t hesitate. It didn’t ask permission. It settled in clean, absolute, like something that had already decided itself before I got there.
Something in my chest gave under it—not breaking, not fracturing—just… shifting. Space where there hadn’t been space before. Air where everything had been held tight and controlled for longer than I could remember.
Hope.
I exhaled slowly through my nose, the sound barely there, my thumb dragging once along the edge of the plastic before I stilled it again.
She knew.
She had to.
The way she’d moved when I walked in. The way she wouldn’t hold my gaze.
And she hadn’t said anything.
My jaw set, a slow tightening that worked its way down through my shoulders, into my hands, into the way I stood there with something that should have been shared sitting alone in my palm.
Why?
It was building its own answer.
Control. Timing. Risk. Everything she prioritized when something mattered.
Everything she was choosing now. Without me.
I looked at it once more. Then set it back. Exactly where it had come from.
Hidden.
The drawer slid shut with a quiet, final sound.
I reached for the shirt, pulling it over my head in one clean motion, the fabric dragging briefly across my shoulders before settling into place. My hands moved without hesitation after that—watch, sleeves, collar—every adjustment precise, practiced, controlled.
By the time I crossed back to the door, there was nothing in my posture that gave anything away.
But everything inside it had shifted.
The restaurant was already loud when we sat down. Not chaotic. Just full—voices rising, constant waves, silverware against plates, the muted hum of a room built to hold people without letting them spill over into each other.
I didn’t remember getting there.
The drive—gone.
The cold—gone.
The space between the apartment and this table—nothing but fragments that didn’t hold long enough to connect.
Door opening.
Light shifting.
I sat across from Bea, Rafael at the head of the table like it had been arranged that way on purpose, his posture easy, his attention not.
Bea hadn’t taken her coat off right away.
It still hung on her shoulders, one hand gripping the edge of it at her collarbone like she’d forgotten it was there.
When she finally slid it free, the movement was too quick, too deliberate, like she’d caught herself holding onto something she shouldn’t have.
Her eyes didn’t come to me. She focused on the menu instead, even though she hadn’t opened it yet, her thumb tracing the edge of the paper in a slow, repetitive motion that didn’t match the rest of her.
Controlled everywhere else.
Unraveling in places she thought no one could see.
I watched all of it.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t interrupt.
Because if I opened my mouth now…Not here. Not right now.
A server appeared at the edge of the table, voice bright, practiced, asking about drinks, about specials, about things that didn’t matter.
Bea answered for all of us.
“Water for now,” she responded, smooth, composed, already back in the version of herself the world understood. “We’ll order in a minute.”
The server nodded, stepping away, leaving the three of us sitting in something that didn’t have a name yet but was already tightening.
Rafael leaned back slightly, one arm resting along the back of his chair, his gaze moving between us in quiet, deliberate passes that didn’t miss anything.
“You’ve made quite an impression,” he stated finally.
Not to Bea.
To me.
I didn’t reach for the menu. “That wasn’t the goal.”
“No?” His brow lifted slightly. “From what I’ve read, you seem to draw attention without much effort.”
“You’re mistaking that for reaction,” I replied.
A small shift in his expression—interest, not approval.
“Is there a difference?” he asked.
“Yes.” I didn’t elaborate.
“He’s been solid,” she interjected. “We’ve tightened messaging, adjusted tone. Media’s already starting to shift.”
Rafael’s gaze flicked to her, then back to me. “And you’re comfortable with that?”
“With what?” I asked.
“Being… managed.”
Bea’s head snapped up slightly, her eyes cutting to him. “That’s not—”
“It’s fine,” I cut in, not looking at her. “It’s part of the job.”
“For her,” he clarified.
I cocked my head to the side before responding. “She’s good at it.”
Bea’s fingers tightened briefly around the edge of her napkin before she forced them to relax, folding it once, twice, aligning it with the table like precision could keep everything else in place.
“You’re deflecting,” Rafael observed. “You’re choosing which parts to answer.”
“That’s how conversations work.”
A beat.
Then—unexpectedly—his mouth curved. “I can see why you’re difficult.”
“I’ve heard that.”
Bea exhaled quietly beside us, the sound controlled but not entirely steady, like she’d been holding it longer than she should have.
“We’re not doing this,” she snapped, stepping in again. “This isn’t an interrogation.”
“No,” her father agreed easily. “It isn’t.” But he didn’t look away from me when he said it.
I didn’t break the eye contact either. Because underneath all of it—under the tone, the phrasing, the careful way he was choosing his words—there was something else there. And I could taste it.
My gaze shifted, slow, deliberate, landing on Bea.
My jaw tightened slightly, the movement small enough to go unnoticed by anyone who wasn’t looking for it.
She knew.
She had to.
And she was still—
“We should order,” she sighed suddenly, her hand finally opening the menu like she needed something to hide behind.
I leaned back in my chair, the wood solid against my spine, grounding in a way the rest of this wasn’t.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. My eyes didn’t leave her. “Let’s do that.”
The server came back.
Pen poised. Smile practiced. Timing impeccable. Bea answered before either of us moved.
“Yes,” she began, already scanning the menu like she hadn’t been holding it as a shield for the last three minutes. “We’ll do the—”
“You recommend anything?” Rafael cut in smoothly, redirecting without raising his voice.
The server shifted toward him immediately, launching into something about seasonal dishes and house specialties.
Bea adjusted without missing a beat, angling her body slightly toward them, inserting herself cleanly back into control of the conversation, asking the right follow-ups, nodding in the right places, guiding it toward something efficient.
Watched the way she threaded herself between questions and answers, redirecting every path that could lead somewhere inconvenient.
My hand rested flat against the table, fingers spread slightly, the wood cool under my palm, grounding in a way the rest of this wasn’t.
The server finished, pen hovering.
Bea ordered for herself.
For her father.
Then her eyes flicked toward me—quick, precise, professional.
“What do you want?” Like I was another line item she needed to process before moving on.
“I’ll take the steak,” I grumbled finally. “Rare.”
The server nodded, jotting it down, collecting the menus, stepping away.
The second the server was gone, the space changed.
Rafael leaned back again, one hand wrapping loosely around his glass, his attention settling back where it had been since the beginning.
On me.
“You’ve been with the team how long now?” he asked.