Every time, she was nervous. And each time, she was ready.
“Particularly one with your qualities,” he heard a man say at the table. “The cameras would agree.”
Rafael understood the rationale. Bea was young, beautiful, and married into the UR elite. The kind of symbol governments liked behind a podium. But the suggestion still rankled enough that he had to grind his molars together to keep from intervening. Public opinion moved faster than markets and was even less rational.
No one got to use his wife for their own ends.
Then he heard her: “I can offer analysis, not publicity.”
He nearly smiled. Bea was good at that. Setting boundaries. Staying true to herself, without coming off as moralizing. Standing in something where she was outmatched, outsized, or even unwelcome and still giving it her all, whether it was beach volleyball or a weekend at a vineyard full of rich people waiting for her to fail.
He had always admired that about her. More than admired: he’d been drawn to it. The way she hovered at the edge of things, curious as well as afraid. As if she wanted to know what lived just past the drop.
Watching her now in this room full of power, the pieces aligned.
For years he had believed her warmth absorbed what burned in him. That her softness was what allowed her to stand beside him without being consumed.
But that had never been the whole truth. It wasn’t just that she could hold his fire.
She had always been made of the same damn thing.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The pads of Rafael’s fingers moved on the bare skin of one shoulder, a private reminder in the middle of a public room. He wore a soft grey sweater, sleeves pushed up, the fabric clinging in a way that showcased everything she knew was underneath. Bea’s gaze kept catching on him, and each time it did, she felt a wicked satisfaction at her lot in life.
He whispered into her ear, “You’re begging me with your eyes again.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I like it,” he assured her. “Just like I like this dress.”
Bea had chosen a silk dress in warm cream and cinnamon stripes, gathered at the hip, the slit flashing a line of thigh when she moved. Add asymmetrical sleeve lengths and it was the type of outfit she’d chosen for herself as much as the man who looked at her like she was a gift he fully intended on unwrapping later.
“Birthday buddy!” Maya, her friend from U of T, was approaching, arms already open.
“Maya,” Bea said, returning the hug. “Sorry we’re late.”
“I’m just glad you’re here,” Maya declared. “Me, you, Kate—she found out, don’t make that face—Jenna and Priya. We’returning twenty-five, Bey. That’s aquarter century. It’s like a reunion and a checkpoint at the same time.”
Bea grinned. “I’m always up for milestones that involve fine dining.”
Maya kept going at full speed. “Claire just went to lecture the staff about refrigerating the cake properly. Hi, Rafael.”
“Nice to see you again, Maya.”
Maya peeked behind them and gave a little wave at their tag-along. “You must be Laurent.”
“You must be the lovely conspirator who added me to the guest list last minute,” Laurent said, charm arriving with that lazy French ease.
Maya responded with the exact giggle he was probably aiming for. “Of course. You’re Rafael’s friend, which makes you Bea’s friend, which makes you my friend.”
“The perfect logic chain.” Bea smiled.
Laurent’s attention shifted past her. Claire had reappeared, texting frantically into her phone. She looked up and found them standing at the entrance. For a beat, her expression blanked.
Then her gaze landed on Bea. “Beya Slaya! You made it.”
“Claire Bear.” Bea hugged her hard. “You think I’d miss my own five-way birthday party?”
