Where in the UR it was a towering glass skyscraper, here it was something else entirely: a limestone building on a privatestreet near Mayfair, four stories high, framed by wrought iron and stone. It didn’t need height because it had history. And here, that was louder.
There was no boldly visible signage. In Mayfair, it was considered gauche to slap a corporate logo onto heritage.
As they approached the brass-plated doors, she caught their monogram discreetly etched into the glass:KGC.
Inside, the lobby was regal and ambiguous. There was no receptionist, only a man in a suit, clearly waiting, who stepped forward the moment he saw them.
“Mr. King,” he said, and Bea immediately thought of Alfred from Batman. Mid- to late-forties. Polished, observant. “Welcome back.”
“Good to see you, Rhys.” Gage’s voice was calm, contained. “This is Beatriz Cruz.”
Rhys offered her a nod, but not a handshake. “Miss Cruz. We’re honored to have you with us.”
He didn’t ask who she was. He likely already knew. And even if he didn’t, the way Gage rested his hand at the small of her back said it clearly enough.
They passed through corridors of frosted glass and smoked oak. Everywhere they went, people moved around him with an air of deference. Some stood when he entered, others merely straightened.
They joined the London team for lunch at a private restaurant nearby. There were toasts, laughter, British accents that made even the jokes sound more refined. Someone asked about Toronto. Another about St. Ives.
A woman seated across from Bea set down her glass and leaned in, appraising without malice. “Tell me,” she said, “have you managed to survive the weather?”
She was older, poised, with silver at her temples and a composure that’d been honed from decades in boardrooms.
Gemma Darcy. Senior partner. She hadn’t been introduced with a title, but Bea knew enough to tell who mattered.
“I packed SPF just in case,” Bea said, smiling, “which should tell you a bit about my level of optimism.”
That earned a faint smile from Gemma. “Sunshine isn’t our strength. But we make a proper cup of tea.”
After lunch, they stopped at the base of another building.
“This is where we’d live,” Gage said.
The tower rose clean above the street, modern and minimalist, set back slightly from the others. Close to Hyde Park; she could see the treetops between buildings.
Doormen glanced up and nodded at his approach.
The penthouse was still occupied for now, but the concierge escorted them to Level 17, where they could preview a smaller unit with the same view from the living area.
Gage unlocked the door and let her step inside first.
A wall of glass stretched the entire length of the far side, revealing the skyline in full. London in all her imperial confidence: stone and steel and sky.
Bea walked toward it, her breath catching as the city opened around her.
It was beautiful. Cool and commanding. A view that suggested you’d made it. That someone expected great things of you here.
She stepped closer, shoes silent on the polished floor, and pressed her hand lightly to the glass. Sunlight spilled through, turning the river into a ribbon of gold.
She could imagine mornings here. Coffee in one hand, fluffy robe against her skin. Gage, already dressed, already reading.
His reflection hovered behind her in the window. Watching without pushing.
And then she saw herself.
Just for a second, the shape of it all shifted. And suddenly she couldn’t tell if it was her reflection she was looking at…or the woman he needed her to become.
Chapter Thirty-One
