Bea huffed a breath. Half a laugh. Half something else. “I don’t belong here, Georgie.”
Georgina met her eyes in the mirror. Her voice was calm. “No, you don’t, but Catherine’s still afraid of you. Do you know why?”
Bea shook her head.
“Because you know how to throw a party with chicken nuggets and charades, and make a man like Gage King feel like a person, not just an heir.”
Bea’s eyes filled with tears.
“No crying. We don’t have time to reapply,” Georgie said sharply.
Bea tilted her head back, fanning her face. Blinked rapidly until the tears receded.
Georgina passed her a fresh lip gloss. “Touch up.”
Bea nodded, throat thick. She did as instructed. “Do wehaveto go back?”
“Yes. Smiling.”
Bea gripped the lip gloss in one hand. Her dignity in the other.
GAGE
The cellar was loud. Rafael had just arrived. Gustave was speaking about tannins and rainfall, gesturing toward the barrels like a man presenting his beloved children.
Gage stood near him, nodding when expected. But his eyes had already swept the room—twice. Bea was gone. So was Georgina. Which meant something had gone wrong.
He stepped back from the group and crossed to Naomi, who stood near the end of the table, swirling her wine.
“She leave early?” he asked, low.
“Just stepped out.”
“She alright?”
She blinked. Then, carefully said, “She will be.”
Three minutes later, Georgina reappeared at the cellar entrance, with Bea just behind her. She looked composed.
Gage clocked every detail: lip gloss reapplied, spine straight, expression set with effort. The kind of mask you wore when you’d had to rebuild it in the mirror.
Her hands didn’t tremble. Her walk didn’t falter. But something in her had fractured.
Georgina deposited her safely with Naomi and Isabel, then peeled away from her, and wandered toward the tasting barrels.
He followed, slowly. Chose one—1990, oak-aged.
Tilted his head. Said nothing. Georgina glanced once at Bea, then at him. She knew what he was asking, and gave a slight nod.
They studied the barrel in low voices, just long enough to look like they were speaking about wine.
But Gage wasn’t thinking about vintage. He was thinking about vengeance. Catherine, of all people, should’ve known childhood history wouldn’t give her immunity from touching what was his.
Lunch had been served late and alfresco, beneath a canopy of lemon trees, the tables long and white-linened.
Bea had eaten politely. Spoken when spoken to. Tried to laugh when she was supposed to. Every bite tasted like nothing.
When the plates were cleared, Gage stood beside her chair. “Come for a walk.”
