“That’s where the problem is,” Gage said. He turned over a card, murmured the word under his breath, and set it down. Bea watched him for a moment, distracted.
Trust Gage to study French while telling her she was wrong. If this were a text chain it would be the moment she’d put the deadpan emoji.
“You want me to start with the answer?” she asked. “What if I’m wrong?”
“Make sure you’re not wrong,” he said simply, gathering the cards into a neat stack. “Most people present everything to protect themselves. Don’t. Present to win.”
Bea looked at him. The glow from her screen caught the edge of his jaw. He wasn’t even trying. Just standing there, critiquing her presentation like he’d done it a hundred times in better suits, bigger rooms, with people twice her age. Because he had.
It was slightly infuriating. And unbelievably hot.
She worked on her deck while Gage showered. ‘Present to win’ was a much clearer objective than ‘present the options.’ She already knew her work was better because of him.
When he returned, he picked up one of her printouts. She watched the way his eyes moved over the page. He didn’t skim. He absorbed.
“Were you always like this?” she asked.
“Like what?” he said, still reading.
“Competent. Certain.”
He gave a small shrug. “Not always.”
“Serious question…” She waited until he locked eyes with her. “How does someone turn into Gage King?”
“Which version do you want, the summary or the truth?”
“Whichever one you don’t give most people.”
He set the paper down and ran a hand over it once, flattening the page into place. “I was twelve the first time my father took me into a general meeting at King Global.”
She pictured him—small, silent, out of place at a boardroom table. “What did you do?”
“Took notes. Memorized the numbers. Rebuilt the table at home. He checked every cell.” A beat passed. “I made mistakes.”
“And?”
“He didn’t let me sleep until I got it right.”
This time, she tried to imagine a barely pubescent boy staying up all night working on a spreadsheet. “When did you start working at King Global?”
“Fourteen. Nate, too. Summer breaks. Winter holidays. After school. No PlayStation. Just decks, due diligence, and watching grown men beg for capital.”
“But you were both in high school,” she exclaimed.
“Did deals. Did math homework. Did the social circuit with my mother.”
“And then the military?”
“Mandatory. No shortcuts.”
“Not even for a King?” she teased.
“Not for anyone.”
In the UR, every man served three years of compulsory military training—the longest in the developed world. The reasons were threefold: protection, balance, and culture. Defense was nonnegotiable for a nation this prosperous. The draft gave young women space to grow, too. In a place where the ratio was so askew, the buffer was essential. And after three years, the boys they used to know returned from service as men: stronger, smarter, more disciplined.
It sounded like a social experiment, but it wasn’t. And in the UR at least, it worked.
