Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
They were supposed to be heading to a lunch reservation, until Bea spotted the market. Koopstraat. Literally, Buy Street. Open every day since the dawn of time, apparently, but brand new to her. It might’ve been waiting its whole life for her to stumble upon it.
“Ten minutes,” she said, tugging his hand before he could argue.
“Is that going to be real or interpretive?”
“You’ll survive either way.”
He did not look convinced. “Victoria had to book that table,” Gage reminded her. “There’s a waiting list.”
It was a small sort of celebration for finishing exams.
“Well don’t tell her,” Bea said, alarmed. Not that she was scared of Victoria, but it was always better not to provoke essential people. “Gage…there’s a stand selling pomegranate gelato and ceramic espresso cups painted like farm animals.”
He exhaled. And indulged her.
They walked slowly through the rows—well, she did. Gage’s version, coupled with the two security trailing him, resembled a motorcade.
Twenty minutes in, they hit the cheese stand. A small chalkboard outside read:
Think you’ve got the palate? Enter the Market Cheese Gauntlet.
Bea didn’t ask. She just put down their names.
“We could be eating French food,” Gage said flatly.
“We could win a Camembert wheel.”
“I’ll buy you one.”
“I want the one we win,” she said sweetly.
“You’re aware the prize has a retail value of eighteen dollars.”
“Priceless,” she said, and smiled like that ended the argument.
The vendor handed them blindfolds.
They sat at a folding table. The woman with the clipboard leaned in. “Please describe the first sample using mouthfeel, finish, and emotional resonance.”
“It’s…cheese.”
Bea elbowed him. “You’re going to get us disqualified.”
She chewed thoughtfully. “Nutty. Hints of caramel. Creamy finish. Childhood joy, but the European kind.”
The woman scribbled furiously. The second cheese arrived.
“Sheep’s milk. Manchego, aged twelve months. Spanish origin,” Gage said after a moment.
“Whoa. Specific,” Bea said. “Is he right?”
“He actually is,” the woman confirmed.
The fourth sample made Bea cough. “That one tastes like wet hay and heartbreak.”
“Roquefort,” Gage said.
They got nine out of ten.
Just when she thought she knew the limits of his résumé, he added dairy whisperer. She briefly considered hiring him out at dinner parties. If this whole finance dynasty thing didn’t work out, it was a relief to know they had a fallback plan.
The vendor, visibly impressed, handed them the Camembert wheel in a little paper box with a bow.
Bea lit up like he’d just won her a giant stuffed bear with a single throw. “You’re amazing at cheese.”
He gave her a look. “Let’s never say that sentence in public again.”
She pointed across the path. “Can we do the chocolate one now?”
He turned.
She tugged his hand. “Come on. This one’s quick.”
“I’ve been lied to before,” Gage said, but he let her pull him anyway.
Forty-five minutes later, he was standing next to her at a stall covered in artisanal cheeses, his sleeves rolled exactly three inches, expression somewhere between resigned and quietly amused.
Bea handed him a toothpick.
“Try this one,” she said. “It’s got truffle.”
He raised a brow. “Should we be eating food that markets itself with the word ‘funk’?”
She ignored him, already lost in a swirl of delicious-sounding names and tiny samples.
A moment later, he pressed a small but weighty bag into her hand.
She peeked inside.
Fig and rosemary jam. Candied butter pecans. Pule cheese. Gruyère AOP Réserve. Ibérico ham. Honeycomb. Like he was trying to recreate the most expensive charcuterie platter in existence.
“Gage.”
“For your cheeseboard.”
“I don’t have a cheeseboard.”
“You do now,” he said. The vendor passed Gage the leaf-shaped slab of polished wood he’d just purchased, all elegant curves and artisan detail. It looked too beautiful to actually be used.
She smiled. “It’s gorgeous.”
By the time they reached the edge of the market, Gage’s bag was even heavier, with olive oil and a bottle of fancy hand cream she hadn’t meant to buy.
They hadn’t made it to lunch yet. But she’d had dessert—hot, fresh, filled with strawberry jam.
She remembered a moment like this last year when he’d brushed sugar from her cheek and told her he loved her.
This time, she said it first.
“I love you, Gage.”
His head tilted as he looked at her. “I know.” Then, wry: “Can we eat now?”
Bea climbed onto the bed beside Georgina, and laid against the tall pillows. Georgie’s room was all perfectly arranged candles, linens, and soft finishes. It was like stepping into a lifestyle spread called Women Who Wake Up Like This.
Their faces were mid-marination under Korean sheet masks. Georgina had two claw clips in her hair. Bea had given up and let hers flop sideways, half mummified by the snail essence or whatever it was currently doing intense cellular renewal on her cheeks.
Bea stretched out one leg, then the other, ankles knocking against Georgina’s giant satin-covered hot water bottle.
“I’m just saying,” Bea murmured, trying not to move her mouth too much, “if Hunter showed up with a ring, you wouldn’t exactly throw it into the sea.”
Georgina reached blindly for a grape from the little marble dish on her nightstand. “I would if it were a cushion cut.”
Bea laughed. But not too hard. “That’s fair.”
“Seriously,” Georgie continued. “I told him. No proposal this year. We’ve only been together ten months, and I’ve known him since I was fifteen. I’m not about to end my university experience by becoming Hunter’s fiancée.”
“So you do think he’s going to propose.”
“He’s in love. And who knows? I might love him back.” Georgina plucked a macaron off the tray, broke it in half, and handed the bigger piece to Bea. “But he’s not subtle. He asked me if I preferred circles or ovals. Then added ‘for a mirror.’ Honestly.”
Bea wheezed, then had to press a hand over her face to keep the mask from sliding off. “I can’t believe this is your final year at St. Ives. Why didn’t I transfer earlier?”
Georgina sighed. “Graduating, I can handle. Not coming home to you every night? Tragic.”
“You’re going to make me cry into the snail essence,” Bea said.
“Okay let’s not think about it yet, it’s barely May. Once hay fever kicks in come September we can start our slow emotional breakdown.”
“Deal. Although, I probably need to start thinking about who I’ll be living with next year.”
“That’s easy,” Georgie said. “Lillian, of course.”
“That would actually be fun.” Bea rolled her head to look at Georgina. “But I don’t think I get to keep this place without you, do I?”
“Unfortunately not. Gage and I only got it because our grandfather donated a building.”
“That’s not very good ROI.”
They lay in a contented sort of silence for a minute. Georgina was scrolling on her phone. Bea traced her pinky along the edge of the macaron tray, wondering why something priced exclusively for wealthy adults came in portions designed for toddlers.
“Oh, speaking of eviction,” Georgina said casually, putting her phone aside. “Did I tell you Gage pulled Catherine’s board seats?”
Bea shot upright so fast the mask nearly fell off. “Wait—what?”
“Two of them. The women’s leadership one and the finance scholarship one. She still has a few elsewhere, but those were the feathers in her cap. The ones she put in every bio.”
“He didn’t say anything.”
Georgina gave a sly grin. “That’s how you know it was for you.”
Bea didn’t quite know what to feel. Partly victorious. Slightly alarmed. A tiny bit sorry for Catherine. Ant-sized.
Mostly, she was stunned. Gage hadn’t just given her a stern warning. He’d filed the paperwork and shut the door.
“I don’t know whether to kiss him or install parental controls.”
Georgina snorted.
It was easy to forget how much power he actually had. How cleanly he could cut. Like a scalpel in cufflinks. She adjusted her mask back in place. “So what happens to her now?”
“Now she stays the hell away from you if she has any sense,” Georgina said, stretching her arms overhead. “She’s been trying to contact him. He’s not responding.”
Bea reached for a spoonful of sorbet from the little glass bowl between them. “It’s almost surreal to think that it’s all just…handled.”
Georgina shrugged. “That’s what happens when you let the right man off the leash.”
Bea smiled, a little crookedly. “Guess I had to learn it my way first.” Then, softer: “Still. I could’ve saved myself a lot of nights staring at the ceiling.”
Georgina glanced over. “Maybe you needed the nights.”
Maybe she had.
“Your play’s next week, right?” Bea asked, moving on.
“Yep.” Georgie started pulling her mask at the edges. “And my dress might actually kill me. They had to custom-fit the corset because I refused to go up a size.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
“It is. I’m the lead. I’m supposed to suffer. Naomi’s show has a severed arm. Isabel’s has a goat. I have two costume changes and Oscar Wilde’s ghost haunting me from the wings. We all have our crosses to bear.”
“I need to put all these opening nights in my calendar. What time should Gage and I get there if we want a photo with you first? We’ll grab Lillian on the way.”
“Six thirty.” Georgina reached over and tapped Bea’s watch, the Cartier Gage had given her for her birthday. “Don’t be late.”
“Me? Tell your cousin to stop operating in three time zones and maybe I won’t have to sprint inside in heels.”
Bea adjusted her coat as she stepped into the administration building. The place always reminded her of an old estate house turned headquarters. It was grand, but clinical, with towering windows, gleaming floors, and the smell of pine cleaner.
She gave her name at the desk and was directed upstairs to a corner meeting room, the kind lined with landscape prints and too many chairs. A woman from Housing Services was already there, shuffling papers.
“You’re Beatriz Cruz?”
“Yes. Thank you for seeing me,” Bea said, offering a quick smile.
“Of course. This is about your housing request for next year?”
“Yes. Lillian Clarke and I were hoping to move in together, ideally still in Mayfield Hall, if that’s possible.”
The woman nodded, flipping through a file. “That’ll depend on capacity.”
“We understand that. That’s why I thought I’d ask early. We also both work in Northgate. Lillian is at the Children’s Integration Institute and myself at Monaghan and Stowe. Is there a possibility for subsidized off-campus housing? Something in the city?”
The woman nodded. “You’re not the first to ask. That’s a newer policy, still in pilot. But yes, there might be options. You’ll need to submit a request with employer verification and updated financial need forms.”
Bea nodded and signed where indicated. The rest of the conversation passed in administrative shorthand as she was walked through deadlines, portals, initials on the last page.
“Thanks again,” Bea said, gathering her folder. “I really appreciate your time.”
The woman gave a tight smile. “We’ll be in touch.”
Bea stepped back into the hallway, letting the door click shut behind her. She’d only taken a few steps when movement at the stairwell caught her eye.
A girl stood there, clutching a thin green folder like a shield, her dark hair pulled into a too-tight ponytail. The receptionist must’ve waved her upstairs, but no one had followed up. She looked about eighteen and heartbreakingly hopeful.
Bea offered a soft smile. “Are you here for a scholarship advisor?”
The girl blinked. “Yes. I was told to wait in Room 2C but I’m not sure where that is…”
“You’re close. I was you last year. That folder gave you away.”
The girl flushed. “I’m Beth.”
“Hi, Beth. I’m Bea.” She stepped toward her, gesturing left. “Room 2C is just this way.”
“Thank you. I’m sure the woman downstairs explained it. I was just so nervous I forgot.”
“I understand completely.” Bea smiled. “But you don’t have to be nervous. If you were accepted to St. Ives, that means you belong here.”
“Really?”
“Really.”