“Only one consultant has been assigned at M and S the last quarter.”
Rafael waited. He was ninety-nine percent sure he could predict the name.
“Catherine Vale.”
Of course it was. “Thanks, Mark.”
Mark slipped out.
The future Lady King, or so she liked to imagine. He’d seen her do it to Bea before. Once at the Imperium event. Again at the beach. Subtle. Doggedly poisoning the woman who had, in Catherine’s mind, stolen her place.
Who knew how many other times she’d done it without an audience?
Bea hadn’t told Gage. She probably didn’t want to make him choose, or risk looking insecure by telling him that his childhood friend was quietly gutting her with backhanded compliments.
She thought staying quiet was protecting him, and maybe, in some twisted way, it was. He understood the sentiment. But she was wrong. Because Gage, like any man of the UR, would hate not knowing.
There was no love lost between them, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that if Gage King ever found out what was happening, he would dismantle Catherine Vale’s world piece by piece. Men like them didn’t tolerate their girl being mistreated. Not by strangers. Andneverby a friend.
Rafael stared at the report but all he could see were Bea’s eyes. Rimmed with uncertainty, glossed with a shine she wouldn’t allow to spill. Because of Catherine. His hand closed around the pen, pressure building without thought.
Then—a sharp snap.
Plastic split in his grip before he even registered the force. He blinked at it, almost surprised. Ink bled between his fingers.
He wanted to make a call. There were at least five ways he could shut it down, permanently. But Bea hadn’t given him that right.
He noticed one other detail on that piece of paper: her address. It wasn’t her campus apartment, but it was familiar. He reached for a tissue, calmly wiping his fingers as he stared at the address until it came to him.
Nico’s house.
Chapter Nine
It was her third night in.
Noodles on the stove, playlist humming, and Bea half singing as she dug through the drawer for chopsticks.
The music swelled and her hips moved with it. She didn’t hear the first knock.
Only when the water began to bubble and a second knock came—louder, firmer—did she glance up. Fork in hand.
She looked toward the glass-paneled door. Paused. Did a double take.
Rafael?
Hands in his pockets, wearing a polo shirt and dark jeans like he’d just walked out of a fight, or a date, or maybe both.
She reached for the speaker and slowly turned down the volume. His eyes locked on hers through the glass. A storm waiting for permission to enter.
Bea walked over, opening the door cautiously. “Did you get lost?” she asked, glancing behind him like the answer might be standing in the dark.
His gaze dipped before he spoke. Took in her soft blue pajama set. The neckline of her white ribbed tank. Her bare legs. “I was in the area.”
“You don’t live in this area.”
His mouth curved. More heat than humor. “I know this area better than you think.”
“How’d you know I was here?”
