They entered the master suite with its curved white walls and the terrace that led out to the sea.
Tess gave Bea a once-over, thoughtful. “Sir Rafael is a very tall man.”
“He is.”
“And you are small,” she added. “You will need furniture that does not bruise.”
“I—what?”
Tess waved a hand. “For knees. Hips.” Her expression never changed. “We do not want accidents.”
Heat swept straight up her neck, down her spine, everywhere at once. She covered it with a laugh that came out half a beat too late. “Yes,” she said weakly. “Safety first.”
“Rounded edges,” Tess mumbled, tapping. A pause. More tapping. “Soft headboard.”
Bea was dying in real time, without the courtesy of speed.
Tess, apparently done tormenting her, moved on to logistics. The reality of shipping times. Bea was astounded to hear that Italian lounges took twelve weeks minimum, like there was some sort of gestation period.
“Usually,” Tess said, “I recommend we complete three rooms before you move in. Bedroom, dining, one living space. The rest we do while you’re here.”
Bea nodded, then paused. The image in her mind was Rafael at his desk, shoulders tight, working late. “Actually…could we do Rafael’s study first?”
“We can, if you’re okay with watching Netflix on your bed.”
“We don’t watch TV much anyway. I’m happy to read in bed.” Bea drifted toward the terrace doors, drawn to the open stretch of ocean outside. It was a noticeable upgrade from the view at her current place, which consisted mostly of the neighboringapartment building and a man who watered his plants in plaid boxer shorts every morning. “I’d prefer him to have somewhere comfortable to work from home.”
Tess regarded her for a long moment. Then gave her a smile that hinted at approval. “Sige. Okay.”
They looped back toward the foyer.
“One last question, Ma’am Bea. Do you want these decisions approved by Sir Rafael?”
“No. I’m enough.”
Tess nodded, and didn’t say more.
Rafael’s assistant, Mark, had built the plan with military detail.
Wedding Logistics Proposal: Beatriz Cruz’s Family Travel Plan.
It wasn’t like she hadn’t been told this was being developed, but no one had asked her to approve it. Which felt like a metaphor.
Bea sat cross-legged in the middle of her bed, fabric samples scattered around her while the laptop fan whirred like it had opinions about this situation. Tita Tess had given her a very simple task:tell me only what you love and what you hate. Go by your gut, don’t think too much.Since she happened toexcelat thinking too much, she’d decided to evaluate upholstery while simultaneously reviewing her wedding logistics.
Claire appeared first, hair piled messily on her head, already laughing. “Beya Slaya, I can’t. It has embedded hyperlinks.”
Bea smiled, the pull a little too snug at the corners. “And a flowchart.” Her voice sounded steady enough to pass. Gold star for emotional masking.
Umma appeared to the right of Claire, glasses perched low on her nose.
“Hi, Umma,” Bea said as she picked up a fabric swatch labeled OYSTER and held it up to the light. It passed convincingly as beige. Rich-people beige with a seafood rebrand. “It says you and Papa are flying first class.Do you think he’ll be okay with that?”
“He’ll say waste of money,” Umma said fondly, Toronto winter light barely rising behind her. “But Rafael is due to call us tomorrow. I think he’ll convince Papa.”
They were still doing that? She thought those post-Christmas calls had been a temporary PR campaign, something to smooth over how fast things were moving, not a long-term arrangement.
“They bonded over fishing,” Claire snickered. “You’re doomed, Bey. Tio’s on Rafael’s team for life.”
