His parents exchanged a look.
Victor’s voice was even. “Weekends like this tend to reveal more than they conceal.”
“Some things are meant to be seen,” Elena predicted.
“I’m sure it will be informative.” Gage’s voice was smooth. “We’ll see you both at dinner.”
A signal. The conversation was over.
Bea tried not to let her expression show her relief.
He touched Bea’s elbow, just enough pressure to move her. “Come on. One more,” he said, low, as they walked. “You’re doing well.”
They crossed the balcony to where a sun-burnished man stood with his wife, both nursing iced spritzes. The woman’s dress was linen, uncreased. Her diamond earrings caught the light but not the eye.
“Gustave, Carine—this is my girlfriend, Bea Cruz.”
Gustave offered his hand. “So. You’re the Canadian.”
Was there something specifically wrong with being Canadian? Bea wasn’t sure. So she just smiled and said, “Yes.”
“You’re very pretty,” Carine said, in a way that made Bea unsure if that was a tribute or a barb.
“It’s the first thing you notice,” Gage said, dry. “It won’t be the only thing.”
Still a little vague. Did she need to be prettier or smarter to please them? The one-percent dialect really needed subtitles.
Carine smiled faintly. “Then I look forward to the rest.”
Bea shook their hands, thanked them. Played the part. But underneath it, she recognized that these were not friends. They were gatekeepers.
Before the next volley of questions could land, a staff member approached. “Mr. King, your rooms are ready. Shall we take your bags ahead?”
Gage nodded. “We’ll come now. Bea will want to change for dinner.”
Wardrobe change, emotional recalibration, brief existential crisis in front of the mirror. Then back into the arena.
Bea’s suite was on the east side of the Aurelle estate, second floor, just past a sun-drenched hallway lined with framed black-and-white photos of vineyard harvests and legacy weddings. The room was silver-toned, with heavy drapes pulled back to reveal an arched window that looked out over the vines and the rolling hillside beyond.
She could see the men’s wing across the courtyard, separated by a hedge wall and a trellised path. Gage’s room was likely on the opposite corner, with the same view, mirrored in reverse.
The ensuite bathroom was marbled and spotless, with fresh orchids on the vanity and thick towels embroidered with the Aurelle crest.
A small card on the nightstand had her name handwritten in looping gold ink:Welcome, Miss Cruz.
An hour later, not waiting for Gage, she wandered out of her room and followed the gentle buzz of conversation, past the men stationed with earpieces tucked behind clean-shaven jaws, to the Gold Room on the same floor. It was named not for its walls, which were paneled in walnut, but for the chandelier that crowned the space, which looked like it had been made of falling stars.
The room was intimate by estate standards. It fit sixty people at most, standing with drinks, soft jazz playing under the conversation, buffet tables set up on the side. The first evening was informal. The idea was that guests would stream in and out over a few hours to eat and mingle. So far, none of the Kings were in the room.
Bea lingered near one of the windows, watching the light fade behind the hills. She didn’t know why she’d come alone. Maybe she didn’t want to enter as an accessory.
“Bea?”
Her name had been called perfectly,Bey-ah, in a voice that was lightly accented and almost melodic. She turned.
A woman in her late forties or early fifties stood before her, not much taller than she was, striking, with olive-toned skin and dark hair pulled into a low chignon. She wore a cerulean blouse and white trousers, an outfit that had been made to move, more than impress. Her smile was disarming.
“I’ve been dying to meet you.”
