“Good man, Stratton,” Papa said, gulping his coffee. He’d met Lucian twice, once before Bea and Rafael were even official, at an evening with Rafael’s father. Those men could carry a conversation about boats until the tides changed.
“We’re having dinner with him and his wife Natalie later,” Bea told them. She’d first heard whispers about Natalie as though the woman were the center of St. Ives folklore: gorgeous, rich, wild, and gone for good. Marrying one of the UR’s shippingmagnates had been an unexpected plot twist. “They’re expecting their first baby, though, so she naps in the afternoons.”
“The artist, yes?” Umma asked, sitting down with her bowl of gyeran bap, which was basically leftover rice and a fried egg topped with soy sauce and sesame seeds. Bea’s mouth watered. That was the breakfast of champions.
“Artist and art curator.” Bea noticed a sudden shadow pass behind the dining room curtain. “Is that one of your bodyguards outside?”
Umma sighed. “Yes.”
“Have any reporters bothered you?”
“Not really, and even if they tried, no one could get close enough to actually speak to us,” Umma reported wryly. “Rafael hired enough men that if anyone remotely unfamiliar starts down the street, they’re stopped. Our neighbor’s cousin from Quebec tried to stroll over yesterday and was questioned halfway up the block.”
Bea let out a quiet breath of gratitude for the boundaries the United Republic had enforced for decades. The foreign press learned long ago that probing too far into its citizens’ private lives came with consequences, and that radius of protection spilled over to immediate family who lived abroad.
“I hope it stays that way,” Bea said.
“Me too.” Umma caught some runny egg yolk with her spoon.
“I appreciate having security is the lesser evil,” Papa said, sipping his coffee. “But life’s strange when there are men following you to the grocery store.”
Her chest tugged at that. A little bit of guilt. “Sorry, Papa, Umma. Just bear with it a little longer.”
“Don’t apologize, mija.” Papa crunched the final bit of his toast. “It’s not all bad. I got a couple of them to help me move the shed. They lifted it like it was cardboard.”
“Your papa likes them more than he admits,” Umma said, touching his arm affectionately.
Papa huffed but didn’t deny it.
“You could always move to the UR,” Bea offered. “Paparazzi leave people alone there. The rules are much stricter.”
Both of her parents shook their heads.
“Maybe someday,” Umma said gently. “But not yet. We won’t be chased out of our home by a handful of curious strangers.”
Bea sighed, disappointed, even though she had known that would be the answer.
“Rafael must be waiting for you. We’ll let you go, my baby,” Umma said. “Enjoy the rest of your honeymoon.”
“Call again soon,” Papa added.
“I will. I love you.”
The line clicked off. Bea stared at the phone, picking at the stem of a cherry from the fruit tray, then tapped another name.
It rang.
And rang.
Still ringing.
“Pick up,” she muttered.
The sixth ring finally did it.
Claire appeared with a chaotic bun and the expression of someone who had slept badly but found it funny. “Beya Slaya,” she drawled. “How’s the honeymoon?”
Bea sat upright so fast the cushion slid. “Are you kidding? That’s how you greet me?”
