Marek watched him, incredulity breaking through. “She agreed to marry you bynext month?”
Derek glanced up from the cards. “She pregnant?”
Rafael angled toward him, knee turning out just enough that Dean suddenly had less room than before. “Careful.”
The man lifted both hands immediately. “No disrespect.”
“There’s no pressure to decide today,” Andrew said smoothly. “We won’t be printing for several weeks. Also, as Ms. Cruz was part of the Graduate Enrichment Cohort, she’ll receive an additional certificate.” He paused. Cleared his throat. “Presented by King Global Capital.”
Rafael’s gaze sharpened. “King Global?”
Andrew nodded. “They’ve taken an interest in the program.”
The circle went quiet, every man calculating. Watching Rafael, as he was watching the implications line up.
For a moment, he let himself picture it. Bea on that stage. His wife. His name. Gage King forced to witness the final line drawn in public. Maybe it was petty and beneath him, but the pull was acute.
It would be after the wedding, simple enough to explain as automated. All it took was one instruction. One signature. The institution would comply. The room already agreed with him.
And more than that, he wanted to.
Rafael locked his knees against the temptation. “Leave it as it is.”
Andrew’s brows lifted, just slightly.
“That’s generous,” Derek said slowly, studying Rafael now.
“On King’s stage,” Finn added.
Marek exhaled smoke through his nose. “If she walks up there as Cruz after your wedding, people might talk.”
“I can call again before the deadline, in case you change your mind,” Andrew offered.
“Leave it as Cruz.” Rafael lifted his cognac and took a long sip. “There won’t be confusion.”
Chapter Five
“Ten minutes or twenty?” Channing asked, sounding resigned.
“Depends how weird it is,” Bea said as they crossed the street. They didn’t have time to linger long; her lunch hour was almost up.
He stopped three paces behind her once they were inside, posture loose, attention everywhere without advertising it. After a few months, she barely clocked the bodyguard choreography anymore.
Bea scanned the board, though she already knew what she was ordering. The unofficial national beverage of the UR. The one she’d been avoiding since she arrived.
“I’ll try the speculaas cold brew, please. To-go.”
The barista nodded with visible approval, like Bea had just passed a quiet citizenship test.
When the drink arrived at her little table, it promised something indulgent. Rich brown, ice cubes clinking, foam dusted with spice under the domed plastic lid. It was cool in her hand, yet smelled like winter holidays and roaring fires.
She sipped. And promptly gagged.
Aromatic, pungent, but without a hint of sweetness. All promise, no payoff.
She drank oat lattes with two sugars. And Papa’s castilian, which was basically pure melted chocolate in a cup. This was like bubble tea without the bubble, the tea, or any of the joy.
“Weird?” Channing asked, approaching, but not sitting.
