“What time will you be back?” Bea asked, watching as Gage slipped his arm into his jacket.
“Shouldn’t be later than six,” he said. “Eat in or go out?”
“In,” she murmured, steeping her tea. “It’s meant to rain tonight.”
Drizzle here was constant. She was starting to see that summer in London was more like a rumor than a season.
“I’ll message when I’m on my way back.”
Mornings and evenings were theirs. Between lunch and dinner, he disappeared. That was the deal. Half-days. He’d told her before they came.
Gage King couldn’t fly halfway across the world and not take meetings.
“Where are you exploring today?” he asked.
Yesterday was the Tate Modern. She’d lingered in front of a Rothko longer than she meant to. Blocks of color and silence and a feeling she couldn’t name.
The day before was Harrods. Magnificent. Discombobulating. She’d left with a cashmere scarf and lipstick in a shade she’d probably end up giving to Georgie. Part indulgence, part performance for the staff who, without words,had somehow managed to make her feel like she should’ve worn heels.
“A bookstore in Marylebone.” Somewhere calm, where the only people making life-altering decisions were fictional.
Gage’s mouth twitched. “You sure you’ll make it back before me?”
“Yes,” she said, mock affronted. “And I resent the implication. That was one time, and I maintain the staff should’ve warned me before locking me in with the Brontës.”
He fixed his cuff. “Then let’s not make it twice. The callout fee here is in British pounds.”
She stuck her tongue out at him.
“You’ll have a shadow again today. Ignore him unless you need him.”
Bea nodded. She’d spotted him once or twice already. Always a few steps behind. Not close enough to draw attention but always close enough to act.
It was different from the UR. Gage hadn’t said it out loud, but she understood. Here, he wouldn’t allow her to walk alone.
He kissed her forehead. “See you tonight.”
GAGE
Gage stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled, jacket discarded hours ago. His team sat tense around him. Partners, finance leads, counsel, two envoys from the UR Embassy. No one reached for their coffee.
A document glowed across the central screen.
Sovereign Wealth Infrastructure Alignment.
Decades of legacy. Billions in capital. The kind of move that didn’t just shift markets, it carved dynasties.
“What happened to Clause Fourteen?” Gage asked. “We won’t commit King Global to a multi-decade build unless we have anchor ownership. And control.”
The UR envoy shifted. “Cassian Montenegro has proposed an open equity structure. He’s already received interest from at least four Middle East partners. London is…reconsidering.”
“Cassian Montenegro isn’t serious about building anything,” he said. His voice didn’t betray his frustration. “He’s serious about exiting for profit.”
This was the second time Montenegro had made himself a problem for this project.
One of the lawyers cleared her throat. “We’ve drafted some countermeasures. I can circulate them first thing tomorrow.”
“No,” Gage said. “We’ll go through them now.”
