The ceremony began with a procession of robed faculty. Speeches followed: the Chancellor, the Head of Economics and Finance, and a visiting ambassador who praised the graduating class for their leadership, excellence, and service.
Bea’s eyes scanned until she saw Gage. His chin lifted subtly, like he was trying to find her through the lights. He wouldn’t be able to. But she sat straighter anyway, like maybe he’d feel it.
Finally, names started to be called.
“Gage Alexander King.”
He rose, composed. Walked like the moment was meeting him, not the other way around. Crossed the stage. Took the diploma with a quiet nod, shook hands without ceremony, and turned the tassel.
Her throat caught, not because he looked incredible under the lights, which he did, but because she knew what this moment was. More than a name being called. It was a legacy unfolding. And somehow, she’d been written into it.
Bea knew professional photos were being taken, but she reached for her phone anyway, discreetly, and took a couple shots of her own. Just for her.
Later: “Nathaniel Benedict West.”
Once all the names had been called, the Chancellor declared, “Congratulations to our graduating class.”
The applause rose in a thunder. Bea clapped with the rest, but her eyes never left him.
The dining room shimmered.
Bea followed Gage in, heels silent on the thick fawn carpet, past mirrored domes and beneath chandeliers that glittered like a constellation had collapsed just above their heads. Every detail gleamed: brushed gold accents, snow-white linens. The air was crisp with citrus and something charred.
Eight of them were seated at a round table near the far windows.
Harper sat to Bea’s right, already unfolding her napkin with soft, careful hands. Gage to her left, his palm steady on her knee beneath the table, anchoring her like he always did in unfamiliar spaces. Nate beside him. Across from them were David and Florence West, and beside them were Victor and Elena King.
The first course arrived in silence: scallop crudo with saffron oil and compressed melon.
“So, Bea,” Florence said, after a sip of white burgundy. “You’re at Monaghan and Stowe?”
“Yes. I just finished an analysis for the Ministry of Family Development. A new fund proposal for girls’ education in the outer provinces.”
Elena King nodded once. “I read your memo. It was sharp.”
“You read it?”
“Victor forwarded it to me.”
Those were internal. Weren’t they internal? She was ninety percent sure they were internal. Now was not the time to mentally audit every semicolon. Or pray she hadn’t typed “pubic funding” by mistake.
Beside her, Victor added, “It was well written.”
Conversation moved, Nate’s father asking about Bea’s travel plans.
“Nothing much planned, just Toronto in December, probably.” She glanced at Gage.
“Bit of a flight from the continent, isn’t it?” David said casually.
Bea blinked. “Continent?”
There was a pause.
Victor King’s knife clicked gently against his plate. Elena dabbed the corner of her mouth.
Nate looked up from his wine, then quietly cut in, “Every continent is far from the UR, Dad.”
She didn’t understand what had just happened. But she felt it: a soft, invisible pivot. Like someone smoothing out a crease before it turned into a tear.
