Part of her had been bracing for him to offer her a role at the London office of King Global.
Options elsewhere she could handle. It was a relief.
“Have you applied to King’s College yet?” he asked.
“Not yet,” she replied, playing with her fingers. “I’m going to finish the academic year here. The next intake there is April. Applications close at the end of December.”
“So there’s still time.”
She nodded. “I’ve bookmarked everything. Course lists, personal statement prompts, references. It’s all open on my laptop. Just…not filled in.”
He didn’t say anything at first, but she felt the pause. Like he was weighing something invisible.
“Bea.”
She looked up.
“Everything okay?”
“I’m…trying to stay focused,” she said finally. “There’s a lot to finish here first.”
The car slipped past a row of lit storefronts. His hand remained relaxed on the wheel. But she could see the barest trace of tension that her response caused at the corner of his jaw.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
“The article is going out next week,” he told her.
“How does it read?”
“Factual. You’re not named,” he assured. “But to people who know us…your friends, your parents…the implications will be obvious.”
She watched the light flare gold against the glass.
“Cool. So I’m anonymous…but only to strangers,” she joked.
“Are you ready for that?” It sounded like a question, but it wasn’t really.
She thought of Lillian’s excitement about the apartment. Of Umma and Papa, parsing an article for clues, wondering why their daughter hadn’t told them first.
“Can I tell my parents, at least, something before it runs?”
“Of course. Just keep the business details vague.”
She nodded.
“I’ll protect you as much as I can for this next part, sweetheart,” he said. “But it’s a Pandora’s box. We don’t know what will come out until we open it.”
Bea wasn’t sure she wanted to lift the lid.
They weren’t here to party. They were here for Isabel.
Which was why Mayfield Hall had been transformed. Glamorously, of course.
Several layers of thick duvets covered the rug in front of the TV. Five beanbags were positioned, along with five blankets, neatly folded. Matching silk pajama sets hadbeen distributed upon arrival—Georgina’s idea, naturally—while Lillian organized snacks into thematic categories.
Isabel sank into a beanbag. “This is the most glamorous pity party I’ve ever attended,” she muttered.
“We’re not doing pity, Iz,” Bea replied, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “This is emotional recovery. With catering.”
