“Ay, hindi pwede,” Tita Tess said at once, cheerful and unmoved. “Ma’am Bea is correct. Proper way.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Channing, registered him as furniture, then returned to Bea. “Come. The light is good now.”
The light was always good when billionaires built mansions along half a mile of untouched coastline.
Bea pressed her thumb to the biometric scanner and the front door unlocked with a soft click. She slipped her white sneakers off without thinking and padded a few steps inside.
High ceilings opened above her, the light wooden floors beneath her feet catching the sun without glare. It smelled new and yet somehow lived-in, impressive without ever feeling untouchable. Bea shifted her weight, aware of how comfortable she felt here.
There are worse problems than being the future wife of Rafael Griffin, her mind supplied dryly, staring out at the endless blue beyond the glass.
It doesn’t mean it’s not a problem, she argued with herself.
Tess cleared the entry foyer and stopped short. “Angganda,” she murmured.
Bea glanced at her, waiting.
“It’s beautiful,” Tess translated, smiling. “Sir Rafael is like his father. They live in houses built for memories, not showrooms.”
Bea thought of his Dutch-storybook house in St. Ives and the absurd little bell by the door, and warmth spread behind her ribcage.
“First question, Ma’am,” Tess said briskly. “Where do you drop your bag when you come home?”
The question caught Bea off guard. It was personal, not aesthetic. She crossed three steps to the left and mimed setting her bag down near the wall. “Here. Keys here, too. I don’t like clutter where I can see it first thing. It makes my brain scratchy.”
“Good to know. We design for how you live.” She tapped on her tablet, then looked up. “Second question. Where will you put yourtsinelas?”
Bea’s eyebrow ticked upward.
“Your home slippers, Ma’am Bea.”
Oh.
Bea smiled despite herself. This woman had clocked her entire upbringing in two minutes. Umma would love her. “By the door, too.”
“Perfect,” Tess said. “I will find something deep. Sir Rafael has very large shoes.” Her eyes dropped somewhat dubiously to Bea’s much smaller feet.
They moved deeper into the house. Somewhere between the library and the living room, Bea realized she hadn’t crossed her arms once since they started. She’d braced herself for questions she couldn’t answer, fabrics with names that sounded like rare diseases. Art references that required a degree.
What she got instead were simple questions about her and Rafael’s daily routine. She was almost…enjoying herself. That felt dangerous. Enjoyment was how things slid past her defenses.
She pictured the house immaculate for about seventy-two hours. After that her books would begin appearing in small, hopeful stacks on every flat surface despite the existence of an entire library, while Rafael’s basketball would turn up in rooms that had absolutely no relationship to sport, followed closely by Muay Thai wraps draped over chairs to dry.
They entered the main living.
“Do you sit or sprawl?”
“Plants you can kill, or plants that forgive you?”
“Leather or fabric?”
“Rafael would like leather,” Bea answered automatically.
Tess didn’t note it down straight away. “And what does Ma’am Bea like?”
Bea almost said she didn’t mind either way, then caught herself. Was she compromising, before she was asked to? Was this her problem?
“I like to curl up on fabric,” Bea shared. “Leather makes funny noises when you change position.”
“Your sofa must never shame you,” Tess said gravely. “Fabric.”
