Bea’s pulse flatlined. Then spiked. She didn’t even know how to begin to explain.
“I’m not chastising you,” he told her. His eyes, blue like Gage’s, saw too much. “This is the UR. Interest like that makes sense.”
His assessment was clinical, but she knew he wasn’t a dispassionate observer.
“If anything,” he continued, “it confirms you’re not merely ornamental.”
“I don’t believe I am,” Bea said, trying to sound competent and assured, instead of what she actually was at the moment.
Freaking out.
“You’re being watched now. You know that, don’t you?”
She cleared her throat delicately. “I figured.”
“Not just by the parents. By the women. By the men. By everyone who wants to know whether Gage King is making a mistake.”
On top of his shoulder, the fingers of one hand curled against her palm, nails biting into the skin.
“You’ve done well. But the real test isn’t this weekend.” He looked down at her for a long beat. “It will be when the moment arrives that you and my son realize he carries four generations on his shoulders. And you have to decide whether you’re prepared to carry that burden with him.”
Not walk beside him. Not love him. Carry it. With him.
Bea had no answer.
Victor’s gaze found something beyond her shoulder. “Sooner than you think, you’ll be asked to make a choice, and it won’t be between two men. It’ll be between the life you imagined—and the one that’s waiting for you.”
He let go of her hand, guiding her into a turn.
And when she came back around?—
Laurent Duret was there.
Like the universe had whispered,Let’s add a wildcard.
It was impossible not to clock the contrast. Victor was carved from tradition—dark wool, gravitas, upright posture. Laurent, in his cream tuxedo, with his dirty-blond hair careless and fashionable, had just enough debonair to be charming and provoking at once.
“Forgive me, sir,” Laurent drawled. “I need five minutes with your potential daughter-in-law to unsettle the room.”
Victor looked at him. A nod. Toward Laurent. One for Bea.
Permission.
Then he turned and walked away.
He never would have let Rafael cut in—not with the weekend’s subtext still hanging in the air. But Laurent? Laurent was just left of the hazard. Not a direct rival. Technically polite. Safe. In the same way arsenic used to be prescribed for headaches.
Laurent offered his hand with mock solemnity. “Do you trust me?”
“Not even slightly,” Bea said, placing her hand in his.
He smirked. “Perfect. That’s exactly my type.”
His hand settled at her back—low enough to make a point, high enough not to get slapped. “You don’t look nearly as scared as you should.”
“Of you?”
“Of the room.”
