Right before he’d surprised her by being home twelve hours early. She didn’t know he’d detoured to Toronto.
Papa nodded. “Like a man who meant it. And I believe he does.”
Something sharp bloomed in her chest, too fast to shield against. A pang and a pull in the same breath.
“You’ve worn my name your whole life, mija. And I’ve been proud every day,” Papa said.
Her eyes stung, and a tear slipped free—too sudden to stop, too heavy to blink away.
“If you choose another, let it be because it fits you. Not because the world expected it.”
A matching one fell from the other side. She shut her eyes, not to block it out, but to feel it fully.
“Yes, Papa.”
Chapter Forty
Bea paused at the door of Gage’s penthouse.
Knock, or key in the code?
He’d told her more than once that she shouldn’t hesitate. So she typed the five-digit combination. The lock clicked open, and she stepped inside.
He was already standing, one hand braced on the kitchen island. His head lifted the moment the door opened, like he’d felt it before he heard it.
“Hi,” she said, breath catching.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
She went to him.
He didn’t speak at first. Just held her.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t do more this year.” There was regret in his voice, but no apology. He wouldn’t apologize for circumstances he couldn’t control.
It had been more than two weeks since the headlines faded. But the questions loitered behind like unwanted guests.
They both felt it was best to stay out of the limelight as much as possible.
They hadn’t unpacked why she’d asked her parents and Claire not to come for her birthday. If it had stung—if he’d readit as doubt—he didn’t say so. He just let the silence carry what words might have made worse.
“I don’t need more than this.” Bea smiled up at him. “Just you.” And she meant it. Completely.
“I didn’t have time to cook,” he said. “Victoria handled the food.”
“You let her pick the menu?”
“I told her what you’d want.”
He led her to the dining area, where the lights had been lowered to a soft amber glow. The table was set with bone-white dishes and deep blue napkins folded into cranes. Jasmine and peonies sat low in the center, delicate and fragrant, like the room had been scented just for her.
At the center: a jewel-toned spread of sushi and sashimi, flanked by bowls of steaming rice and miso soup.
He pulled out her chair, then took the seat across from her.
They lingered over the meal. Swapped memories, not plans. The first time they’d met in Mayfield Hall, when she’d thought of him only as Georgie’s gorgeous cousin. The time she’d visited his office with a container of bulgogi rice balls she’d made herself.
The night she’d told him, voice shaking, that she believed sex was for love. He reminisced dryly that the subsequent months had been made bearable through boxing and a running tab of cold showers.
