“Don’t even think about it,” Bea said, then pointed at his notebook. “Sit. Maths. Let’s go.”
They worked through two sections of his revision packet before Nico leaned back and stretched his arms overhead, spine cracking.
“You’re the one who wanted officer track,” Bea reminded him. “That means good mid-sems.”
“I know, I know.” He cracked his knuckles.
Bea took a swig from her water bottle. “Seriously though, that’s a big decision. What made you want that?”
Nico twirled his pen between his fingers. She wasn’t sure if she’d get a serious answer from him. But he surprised her by saying, “I want to be someone people follow. Not because they have to. Because they choose to.”
That was more introspection than she expected from someone who still argued that you shouldn’t have to show your work in math if the vibes were correct.
“That’s a good answer.” She smiled.
“Like El Jefe,” he added.
“Rafael?” Bea opened her drink bottle, took a sip. “Y’know, it’s cool that you like your godfather.”
“Of course. I chose him,” Nico said, hand on his heart. “I asked him when I was eight.”
“Youdid? Not your parents?”
“Yeah. I even made a certificate. With, like, stamps and stuff. He framed it.”
Bea laughed, thrown by all of these revelations. “Why’d you choose him?”
Nico ran his thumb along the edges of his textbook. “’Cause he always let me play.”
“Play what?”
“Our parents would have these boring lunches all the time with the other parents. We’d watch him, Laurent, and the older guys play basketball in the backyard,” Nico said. “After their game, El Jefe and Seb would always play a game with me and my friends.”
Her throat felt tight for a reason she didn’t want to name. “That’s…kind.”
They finished the rest of his revision with sunlight warming their backs and leaves crunching under the bench.
Bea capped her pen. “Hey, what happened with that girl from last year?”
“She transferred schools. Obviously unrelated,” he said, shrugging as he shouldered his bag. Then he flashed her a grin, crooked and boyish. “Her loss now that I’m on officer track.”
It took four try-ons, as many declarations of, “Absolutely not,” from Georgina, arms akimbo, and a reminder that, “You’re Gage King’s girlfriend, not a seat filler. You don’t blend in. You headline,” for Bea to land on an acceptable outfit.
So now Bea was standing outside the grand double doors of the St. Ives Auditorium wearing a white halter-neck jumpsuit cinched at the waist, heels sharp enough to defend herself, and a black cape blazer draped over her shoulders like she was about to chair a board meeting.
Inside, the hall soared upward: carved wood paneling, two sweeping balconies, arched ceilings that swept up like a cathedral nave. The stage glowed under warm lights, a long crimson carpet flanked by rows of graduates in black gowns and satin sashes. It felt like walking into a temple, one that worshiped legacy.
She moved down the reserved section, spotting the place card with her name, because of course Gage King’s entourage couldn’t be expected to just find themselves a seat. She slid in beside Elena King, regal in a soft plum coat dress, pearls at her collar. On her other side sat Victor King, all gravity and presence, not a strand of silver hair out of place.
Next to Bea, Nate’s sister, brown-haired, brown-eyed, only a little taller than her, offered a shy smile. “Hi. I’m Harper. You look beautiful.”
“You too,” Bea whispered back, relieved by the softness in her voice. Harper reminded her of Lillian—sweet, observant, a little overwhelmed but trying her best.
Beside Harper sat Mr. and Mrs. West, both classic UR pedigree. His cufflinks gleamed with the King Global Capital insignia. Her gaze swept the room like it was an investment portfolio.
“The boys are done today,” Elena said quietly, eyes still on the stage.
“They’ve both earned it,” Victor replied, and his voice, if not proud, was content.
