The truth was, the life waiting in London wasn’t hers. It was his.
She loved him. That part had never wavered. Now more than ever, he understood what that love would cost her.
He was selfish enough to still ask. Because the alternative?—
He exhaled.
There wasn’t one.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Hanging Garden at Viremont wasn’t really a garden. More like a secret carved into the rock, layered in terraces and whispered invitations. Southgate stretched below it, glittering in soft focus. Above, string lights swayed between pergolas wrapped in climbing roses. Tables lined the staggered platforms so every view, whether skyline or spectacle, remained unobstructed.
Bea stepped out of the car in a storm-blue silk gown, the one-shoulder drape clinging like liquid. Gage’s hand pressed low at her back, steadying.
She looked up at him. Impeccable in navy, his tux so cleanly cut it could’ve been used to breach a vault. Sometimes she forgot how he looked to the rest of the world. This wasn’t one of those times.
Gage in evening wear was the reason silk gowns got abandoned on floors.
They reached the edge of the courtyard just as Naomi’s laugh rang out from the far end. Cameras were flashing. Bea paused, then exhaled. Not press. Friends.
It had been an entire month since the engagement was announced and, finally, tonight it was being formally celebrated.Of course Naomi didn’t refer to it as simply a party. This was a statement. Maybe even a soft launch for a future First Lady, Naomi had joked.
Naomi stood beneath the lanterns, radiant in ivory, the diamond on her hand throwing light in every direction. Charles stood beside her, looking like what people dreamed of when they said the wordsenator. Bea could practically hear the ballots being counted.
“Bea,” Lillian called, emerging from the crowd. She wore the black velvet dress they’d found together on their last thrifting trip. Vintage YSL with square shoulders, pearl pin fastened unconventionally at the back.
Naomi turned. “You’re here.”
“You look perfect,” Bea said, hugging both women as Gage veered off to join the men.
“It only took three hours and two stylists.” Naomi grinned.
Bea let herself be carried by a conversation that was bright, breathless, and a little too fast. Her eyes scanned the room like a ledger: Georgie mid-command with the party planner; Isabel straight-backed beside a silent Mason; a selection of parents, including Gage’s. Rafael and Laurent, who were friends of Charles.
Rafael stood near the edge of the terrace, one hand in his pocket, the other turning a glass between his fingers. His shirt collar was open. The stubble was new. Not unkempt—intentional.
And then there was the woman beside him.
Tall, stunning, wine-colored dress. She was laughing at something Rafael said, her hand lightly touching his arm. Bea ignored the low buzz that crawled just under her skin, restless and dull.
A bell chimed for dinner, and movement swept toward the two long lines of linen and glassware glowing under a ceilingof florals and strung light. Her name was printed in gold on a small ivory square between Gage and Lillian. A few handsome graduate boys had been placed nearby, subtle temptations Naomi had clearly arranged for the latter. At the far end, Laurent and Rafael, flanked by their dates.
From the other table, Bea caught the eyes of Victor and Elena King. They nodded with something that almost resembled warmth. Bea smiled at them, nodding back, before taking her place.
The first course arrived in symmetrical rows: seared wagyu over yuzu daikon, set on minimalist white porcelain. A soy-glazed quail egg balanced delicately on each slice, like something from a design museum.
Between the second and third courses, Bea sipped her sparkling water and pretended not to eavesdrop.
“I’ve seen you on campus,” said the man beside Lillian. “Are you a guest of the bride, or just here to upstage her?”
Lillian flushed. “Neither. I’m, um, just here for the catering.”
“Then I owe Naomi a thank-you note.”
Bea bit the inside of her cheek to school her grin. She’d been clocking them for ten minutes. Lillian was trying not to melt, and failing. But not in a way that said she needed someone to step in.
Someone laughed at a joke she hadn’t heard. A waiter refilled Bea’s glass. Plates were cleared. The next course arrived, shiitake dashi broth with white truffle foam, poured at the table from a gold-lipped teapot. Bea murmured a thank-you, but her mind was elsewhere.
