ISABEL: The internet says you’re becoming the Queen of London.
ISABEL: Do I need to start practicing my curtsy?
NAOMI: Wait. You’re going to LONDON??
NAOMI: I have three group chats blowing up.
LILLIAN: Want to sit outside later?
LILLIAN: I’ll bring us some pastries.
Bea put her phone down, and dropped her face in her hands.
A knock came at her bedroom door.
Before she could answer, it opened.
Georgie stepped in, reading the room—the undone bed, the flicker of panic Bea hadn’t hidden fast enough.
Her tone was brisk, as if she understood that what Bea needed most right now wasn’t sympathy—it was something to stop the spiral. “Come on, Bey. Clothes, makeup, hair. We’re going full armor. The first forty-eight hours are brutal. You need to look perfect.”
Bea nodded numbly.
8:56 a.m.
Bea called Gage just outside her first lecture hall.
“Hey,” his voice soothed her immediately. “You alright?”
“I’m fine,” she said, too fast, then caught herself. “I’m wearing my blazer. The serious one. With the shoulder pads.”
“You’re in fight mode.”
“I’m in survival mode.”
“Press conference is at one. You don’t have to watch.”
“I know. But I will.”
He let the silence stretch, but not too long. “Stay at St. Ives today, sweetheart. You’re off-limits. But campus is still safest, just for the next forty-eight hours. Until the news cycle shifts.”
She nodded, shifting her folder under one arm. “Got it.”
“I’ll call after. And I’ll see you tonight.”
“Good luck.”
11:25 a.m.
“Bea!”
She turned. It was Hannah from policy class, trailed by two others from their cohort. All three were practically glowing with vicarious pride for her.
“Wejustsaw the article. Is it true?”
“Which part?”
“Thewholepart,” one of the others chimed in. Asha, maybe. “That he’s moving to London, that he’s taking over, that you”—she lowered her voice dramatically—“might become Mrs. King?”
