Chapter 6
Chapter Six
GAGE
Sun spilled through the glass, low and golden across the long conference table in Gage’s office. The skyline stretched beyond floor-to-ceiling glass, a kingdom observed from above. Inside, the room was stark: leather, chrome, control. Files and folders were arranged in disciplined rows.
Nathaniel West, his friend and right-hand, sat across from him, jacket off. His eyes scanned over the numbers.
“Margin’s tighter than I like,” Nate said, nodding toward the screen. “We can squeeze it in post-close, but I’ll need autonomy.”
“You have it,” Gage replied without looking up, finishing the notation on his tablet. “We’ll restructure the back-end next quarter.”
“Good.”
The door opened, and Victoria stepped in, heels soundless on the polished floor, a crisp folder in one hand, her tablet in the other.
“Ready for final sign-off,” she said, crossing the room and placing the folder at Gage’s left, open to the signature page, aligned ninety degrees with his keyboard. “Legal’s standing by.”
“Tell them I’ll have it done tomorrow,” Gage said.
“Of course.” Victoria turned on a heel and exited, typing something into her tablet before the door closed.
Nate leaned back slightly. “She scares the interns.”
“She should.”
Gage reached for his phone, his screen alight with a single message.
BEA: Landed.
He set the phone face down, closed the folder Victoria had brought, and stood.
Nate watched him. “She’s back.”
Gage adjusted his jacket, smoothing the cuff. “She is.”
Nate considered him. “She doesn’t know you stayed for her?”
“Does it matter?”
“It will.”
The room went still for a moment. Nothing moved but the light on the walls and the low hum of air conditioning.
Gage’s voice was quiet. “She’s not ready.”
“You think a year will do it?”
Gage exhaled. “It has to.”
Nate didn’t say more. They both knew the kingdom wouldn’t wait longer than that. Neither would his father.
Gage reached for his keys, and with a nod toward Nate, walked out.
The glass doors opened with a hush, letting out the slow tide of passengers from Flight 819.
Bea stepped through with her carry-on, shoulders slightly tense. The cool air of the terminal clung to her skin, sterile, bright lights, the shuffle of tired feet on tile. Her sneakers squeaked slightly as she moved.
The UR belonged to the opposite hemisphere. Where January in Canada meant frostbite and fogged-up windows, here it was summer. Full sun, thick heat, light stretching long into evening.
Christmas and New Year’s had been magical in the snow.
Coming back to warmth felt like a return to life.
The airport was just as beautiful as she remembered. But that wasn’t what caught her eye.
It was him.
She saw Gage before he saw her. Broad-shouldered, striking, commanding in the very stillness of his posture. Dark suit, sunglasses perched on his head. One hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone.
Her feet slowed. Last time she’d arrived here, she’d been wide-eyed with awe yet blind to what the future held.
Now she was walking toward it. It was right there. Waiting for her.
He lifted his head and saw her. His eyes moved over her face, her hair, the way her dress clung slightly from the heat.
She crossed the final stretch between them. When she was close enough to breathe him in, he reached for her. One hand on her waist, the other sliding up into her hair. For a long beat, they stood there in the middle of Arrivals like nothing else existed.
“Welcome back,” he murmured into her hair.
The last of her anxieties melted away. “Thanks.”
“Ready?”
She nodded. Then, glancing at his bodyguards, she leaned forward and whispered so they wouldn’t hear, “Can I…come home with you?”
“You never need to ask.” He placed his hand on her lower back. “You have the code.”
Bea noted the two men posted just outside the penthouse entrance, different faces from the ones she’d gotten used to. He must rotate teams at night. Which meant his security was twenty-four seven now, even in the UR.
Another reminder of how much had changed in only a month.
Gage punched in the combination, then pushed the door open.
Clean hardwood floors caught the last of the daylight.
She slipped off her sneakers, tucked them neatly by the bench, and moved into the expansive living room, where Northgate stretched beyond the glass, as sharp and breathtaking as she remembered.
“You hungry?” he asked as he pulled her carry-on and suitcases inside and closed the door.
“You cooked?” She turned with a smile, smelling something wok-tossed.
“Not this time. I ordered.”
That’s when she noticed the kitchen island was already set. Plates, cutlery, linen napkins folded with care. Thai, from the place she liked near his office. A pitcher of water, sliced citrus, mint curling at the top.
She didn’t know how it had ended up plated instead of dropped at the door. His assistant, Victoria, maybe. Or whatever quiet sorcery kept Gage’s life running like clockwork.
She folded one leg beneath her as they settled onto the stools, twirling noodles with real hunger now. She never touched the food in coach. And she’d turned down Gage’s offer to upgrade her, twice, on principle.
“You don’t even like this restaurant.” She pointed with her fork.
“I know”—he refilled her glass without looking up—“but you do.”
Bea shouldn’t have felt undone by a plate of Pad Thai, but warmth spread in her chest anyway. She caught herself staring, noticing how even here, at his own table, refinement clung to him with every bite. A man who didn’t know how to be anything less. And still, he remembered her favorite takeout.
After they cleared the plates, Bea drifted to the window. Dusk was settling over the city, the skyline igniting one light at a time.
She stretched, arms overhead. “Can I use your shower?”
“Towels are fresh. All your things are still there.”
The bathroom was familiar. Her skincare lined the vanity, identical to what she normally kept in her apartment in Mayfield Hall.
Gage had stocked the penthouse last year, wanting her to feel at home.
She stepped into the rain shower, letting the water wash away the flight and the cold of Toronto. When she was done, she blow-dried her hair, then opened her carry-on, pulling out the small box she’d packed before the flight.
It housed navy silk. The sleep shirt he’d given her on their one-month anniversary.
Delicate buttons down the front. Embroidered BC on the pocket.
She slipped it on. The silk cooled instantly against her skin, clinging like water and memory.
She smoothed the hem where it fell mid-thigh, then padded through the quiet penthouse.
He was still in the living room, eyes closed, leaning back with a lowball glass in hand. He didn’t open his eyes until she was in front of him.
His gaze swept the length of her—bare legs, freshly washed hair, wrapped in something he’d given her.
Gage saw it for what it was: a return. His jaw flexed. He set the glass down. Stood.
His voice cut through the silence. “You know what it means to wear that now.”
Her throat tightened. “I do.”
The silk was soft. The message wasn’t.
Gage watched her for another breath. Reaching for her hand, he turned toward his bedroom. She followed.
The sheets were cool against her spine.
Bea blinked up at the ceiling, dazed. She barely remembered falling asleep. Her muscles still ached, low and tender.
Gage was already up, immaculately dressed. Espresso in hand, he sat in the armchair by the window. His tie was slung over his shoulder.
Their eyes met. Or rather, his caught hers. He took another sip, a satisfied curve at his mouth, like he was very pleased with the outcome of the evening.
And maybe that was why, before even wishing him good morning, she said it. “I found a place to stay.”
That got an entirely new kind of attention. “Mm?”
Bea pushed the hair off her face and sat up, dragging the sheet with her. “Nico’s family has a pool house. His mother offered it.”
Nico was sixteen and had been one bad exam away from academic exile when she’d met him.
Boarding school in Switzerland had been on standby.
Through a strategic mix of threats, snacks, and relentless encouragement, Bea had dragged him back from the edge.
He’d burned through half a dozen tutors before her.
His mother now treated Bea like she walked on water.
Gage set his cup down. “You don’t want to stay here.”
“I don’t want to live with you,” she clarified. “Appearances still matter. So does space.”
“You wouldn’t be living with me. You’d be staying here while you work. It’s logistical.”
“Nico’s is walking distance to work,” she pointed out. “And to you.”
That last line wasn’t meant to be soft. But it was. And he heard it.
His eyes didn’t narrow, but something in them tightened. “I see.”
Bea reached for her sleep shirt and pulled it on like armor. “I figured you’d want me close.”
“I want you here.”
She shook her head, slipping out of bed. She approached, then sat sideways on his lap.
“How about walking distance?” she asked as his arms went around her lightly. “That way we both get what we want, don’t we?”
He exhaled softly through his nose, almost amused.
He saw it. What she’d done by giving him what he wanted—her proximity, the rhythm of daily reach—without giving him the win.
“You thought this through,” he murmured.
“I did.” She pulled his tie through her fingers, doing it up while he watched her. She couldn’t help the triumphant little smile from peeping through.
“Not bad, sweetheart,” he said. Then he leaned in and kissed her.
She knew that was the closest he’d come to admitting she’d outplayed him.