That stretch had been transformed into an infantry tactical course: sandbags, barrels, climbing ropes, steel target racks. It looked legit. Disturbingly so, like someone had filed permits.
And in front of it, forty men stood in formation like a private army of mercenaries.
Clad in black tactical gear. Ready.
Bea’s pulse kicked hard. Her brain fought to comprehend. She’d expected croquet. Fencing. Maybe polo. But this? This was something else. Something only the UR would do.
Naomi handed her a fresh glass of wine. “Surprise.”
“Someone explain,” Bea breathed.
“These are the military games,” Naomi told her, relishing the moment. “Five events. The men prove they still remember what they learned in the service.”
Bea’s eyes swept the field. She spotted Hunter. Mason. Charles. Nate. Rafael. Laurent. Men she’d seen on campus at St. Ives.
And then there was Gage.
Whatever emotion he was having, it had been triple-locked behind reinforced cheekbones. His hair was slicked back, black shirt clung in all the right places. She’d never seen him like that. Not a businessman.
A soldier.
Her brain, bewitched, released every hormone it had in storage. Cortisol. Oxytocin. Whatever made you salivate and contemplate joint tax returns.
Georgina and Isabel drifted over, both wearing floral dresses and oversized sunglasses.
“Hunter looks divine.” Georgina sighed, ending on a groan.
“This is the hardest part of the weekend,” Isabel muttered. “Watching them do this and then going back to your room alone.”
Alone?
Whyyyyy.
She didn’t even want to be alonenow. And he hadn’t done anything. Just stood there like being vertical was a form of foreplay.
At that very moment, Gage turned his head. Scanned the crowd subtly. Stopped. On her.
And then his eyes dropped.
Down her dress. To her bare legs. To her black, strappy, obscenely expensive heels. Everything she’d bought on his dime. At his instruction. And all the way back up to her face.
It was a claim, cloaked in silence.
Her spine straightened. Her heart forgot how to beat with rhythm.
Naomi leaned in. “Yeah. Keep your legs crossed.”
The whistle blew.
Forty men launched into motion.
They hit the field like a combat unit—boots pounding, bodies honed, the line between heir and soldier blurring with every stride.
Bea’s hand on her glass tightened.
Beside her, Isabel was sipping her wine far too calmly. “Here comes your metaphor, Bea.”
She blinked back the haze. “What?”
