Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Crown Moves: Gage King to Lead London Division of KGC in January
Nathaniel West, longtime strategist and King’s closest confidant, has been named Head of Special Projects, Europe. The two have operated as a unit since their teen years and are widely seen as the next generation of the King Global legacy.
Until now, King’s travel to London had gone unacknowledged by the firm. His increasing visibility at international investor summits signaled a rising profile, but today’s announcement confirms a formal transfer of power abroad.
No official comment was made on King’s private affairs, but speculation is persistent. Many, both within and beyond the firm’s inner circle, are said to be hoping the London move won’t be the only thing he formalizes this year.
She read it three times.
The headline was bold. The timing was clear. The tone: absolute. She let the screen fall to her lap.
He’d prepared her for the formal language, saying it wouldn’t match their reality. Her name hadn’t appeared. He’d even agreed to an in-person press conference in Northgate—on the strict condition that she was off-limits. No interviews. No comment.
Thankfully, she’d warned her parents.
Gage had told her not to worry. The security stationed outside her parents’ house in Toronto were precautionary. A visible deterrent, not something meant to be activated.
The UR didn’t tolerate foreign press crossing lines when it came to the private lives of its citizens.
Two reporters and three paparazzi had tested the boundaries in the ’90s and early 2000s.
They no longer worked in media. Their publications no longer existed.
You didn’t provoke the legal machinery or the wrath of the UR. The world had learned to stay well in its lane.
Social media was the biggest chink in the armor. No one, not even Gage King, could control every netizen’s opinion.
@URSocietyLine | 7:41 AM King to London = date confirmed. Unconfirmed? The wedding date.
@URInsider | 7:52 AM The King’s heading to London. When will the Queen follow?
@CrownWatchUR | 8:05 AM The crown awaits in London. No word yet on when the jewel joins him, but no one’s betting against it.
Her pulse thudded as she doom-scrolled through comments. A gut-sick mix of panic and inevitability. It was happening—headlines, reposts, tagged speculation.
She hadn’t actually said yes yet. Not fully. But now it felt like maybe she couldn’t. Like she’d let momentum stand in for choice, and the future was barreling toward her whether she was ready or not.
The messages started flooding in.
GAGE: Call me when you’re up.
She took a deep breath, about to dial, but her phone kept buzzing.
CLAIRE BEAR: I knew it was coming but seeing it in print is something else.
CLAIRE BEAR: Are you okay?
CLAIRE BEAR: If you want to scream into the phone for 10 minutes, I’m free.
UMMA: Beatriz. I saw the article.
UMMA: I will not pressure. I only ask you think carefully.
UMMA: When you are ready, call. Papa and I are here.
Group Chat: Therapy Club
ISABEL: The internet says you’re becoming the Queen of London.
ISABEL: Do I need to start practicing my curtsy?
NAOMI: Wait. You’re going to LONDON??
NAOMI: I have three group chats blowing up.
LILLIAN: Want to sit outside later?
LILLIAN: I’ll bring us some pastries.
Bea put her phone down, and dropped her face in her hands.
A knock came at her bedroom door.
Before she could answer, it opened.
Georgie stepped in, reading the room—the undone bed, the flicker of panic Bea hadn’t hidden fast enough.
Her tone was brisk, as if she understood that what Bea needed most right now wasn’t sympathy—it was something to stop the spiral. “Come on, Bey. Clothes, makeup, hair. We’re going full armor. The first forty-eight hours are brutal. You need to look perfect.”
Bea nodded numbly.
8:56 a.m.
Bea called Gage just outside her first lecture hall.
“Hey,” his voice soothed her immediately. “You alright?”
“I’m fine,” she said, too fast, then caught herself. “I’m wearing my blazer. The serious one. With the shoulder pads.”
“You’re in fight mode.”
“I’m in survival mode.”
“Press conference is at one. You don’t have to watch.”
“I know. But I will.”
He let the silence stretch, but not too long. “Stay at St. Ives today, sweetheart. You’re off-limits. But campus is still safest, just for the next forty-eight hours. Until the news cycle shifts.”
She nodded, shifting her folder under one arm. “Got it.”
“I’ll call after. And I’ll see you tonight.”
“Good luck.”
11:25 a.m.
“Bea!”
She turned. It was Hannah from policy class, trailed by two others from their cohort. All three were practically glowing with vicarious pride for her.
“We just saw the article. Is it true?”
“Which part?”
“The whole part,” one of the others chimed in. Asha, maybe. “That he’s moving to London, that he’s taking over, that you”—she lowered her voice dramatically—“might become Mrs. King?”
Bea let out a startled laugh. “That wasn’t in the article.”
“Exactly.” Hannah grinned.
Someone else passed by, catching Bea’s eye. “Congrats,” they said with a little wave. “Big day.”
Bea smiled faintly, dazed. “Thanks.”
Hannah looped her arm through hers as they exited the hall. “You need to say something. Even if it’s just an outfit post. Do you know what your name is doing to our group chat right now?”
Asha nodded. “There’s a poll running on whether the wedding will be in the UR or a London estate. I voted London. That man gives ‘historic chapel and diplomatic guest list’ energy.”
“You have very specific imaginations,” Bea said wryly.
They all laughed, and she laughed too—on cue, like someone who belonged in the room. But it felt strange, like she was acting out a scene she hadn’t rehearsed properly.
She’d known this part would be hard. The attention. The eyes. The assumptions. Even so, it hit harder than expected.
Something low and off-kilter curled in her chest, like she’d missed a step, the floor had kept moving, and now she wasn’t entirely sure where she was meant to land.
And then her phone vibrated.
Reminder: Press Conference – 1:00 PM
12:58 p.m.
Bea slipped into the farthest alcove of the library just before one, settling into the high-backed chair beside the window. She’d gone all the way to the top floor, finding a spot that was half forgotten, shadowed by tall shelves of dusty tomes and a grand old globe no one spun anymore.
She opened her laptop for cover, then angled her phone behind it. AirPods in. Volume up. No distractions.
The broadcast had already begun.
“You’re watching UR Financial Now,” the anchor said crisply. “We go live to Northgate, where Gage King—heir to King Global Capital and newly appointed Managing Director, Europe—is set to speak any moment.”
A panel of suited analysts hovered in a box in the corner, gesturing at charts behind them.
“KGC stock is up nearly thirteen percent on the news,” one was saying. “Investors are responding to the consolidation of power. This isn’t just a promotion. It’s a generational shift.”
“London’s about to be the new center of gravity for King Global,” another added. “They’re not just sending someone. They’re sending him.”
Bea adjusted her AirPods. Her heart was already beating harder than she liked.
The camera cut to the marble podium. Northgate Press Hall.
Gage stepped into frame.
Charcoal three-piece suit. The blue tie she’d given him for their one-year anniversary. Clean shaven. Calm. His hair was perfect.
Her thumb pressed tighter against the edge of her phone.
“Thank you for joining us,” he began, voice immediately quieting the room. “As you would have read, from January second, I will be relocating to London to assume leadership of King Global Capital’s European division.”
He looked completely unfazed. Like he was born for this moment.
“This transition reflects the strength of our long-term vision. The Sovereign Wealth Infrastructure Alignment is a cross-border initiative that channels long-term capital into long-term assets: transport, energy, and digital corridors. King Global is proud to help shape the next chapter of European infrastructure.”
He didn’t glance at the notes in front of him. He spoke like a man already standing in the future.
A reporter stood up. “Mr. King, congratulations. There’s been widespread speculation about your personal life. Can we—”
“No comment.”
Another started to press. “There’s acute public interest in who might be joining you in London. Will you—”
“This press conference is about King Global Capital,” he said. “I would be happy to take questions directly related to that.”
The room understood. They would lose him if they didn’t keep in line. After about twenty minutes of back-and-forth, the time was called.
“Thank you for your attention.”
A soft rustle of camera shutters. The screen returned to the anchor desk.
“A clean showing from Gage King,” the anchor said. “Clear vision, zero distraction. The market approves.”
Bea pulled out one AirPod and stared at the phone screen, now frozen on his face.
And it struck her, quietly but completely: he wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t. Not even if she didn’t go with him. Not because he didn’t love her, but because this future—his future—was already in motion.
And it didn’t need her to work.
3:22 p.m.
Bea sat on the library lawn with Lillian, a couple of half-eaten pastries between them. The grass was warm beneath her, the air lazy with late sun.
Her phone was face down beside her knee. She hadn’t checked it in over an hour.
Bea had never been so grateful for the privacy of St. Ives. And for the Republic, where press boundaries weren’t a guideline; they were gospel. Somehow, not a single photo of her had ever made it into circulation.
She didn’t know how. She just knew it helped.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t tell you about it,” Bea said, guilt choking her. “The apartment and everything.”
“It’s okay,” Lillian said. “I’ll be fine. I’d rather live with you for a week than not at all.”