Jaxon’s expression became wary in the way of a man who had just realized he was unwittingly an accomplice to a conjugal dispute.
“You hate cameras. You hate public exposure. And you hate strangers asking intimate questions like they’re owed pieces of you,” Rafael listed. He remembered every single thing she had ever complained or worried about. “I promised you you’d never have to do something like this.”
“I know.” Her tone softened. “And you’ve kept that promise.”
“Then why are we discussing it?”
“Because this matters more than what I want right now.”
“Nothingmatters more than what you want.”
Bea pressed her lips together. It was infuriating how attractive he was even when he was being unreasonable. She pushed back her chair and stood. “Rafael.”
He rose as well, and suddenly she had to look up at him. “Bea.” That single breath was pregnant with warning.
There was a particular silence that only happened when two married people started arguing in front of witnesses. This was unmistakably that silence. Max kept his attention fixed very carefully on the water carafe. Neither he nor Jaxon seemed inclined to volunteer commentary.
Tension radiated from Rafael, palpable. Part of her wanted to press her forehead against his chest and wait until it burned itself out. The other part knew that would be surrender.
“If I do this right,” she said quietly, “he loses everything that actually matters to him.”
Rafael searched her face. “You don’t even want to do it.”
“No,” she admitted. “I really, really don’t.”
“Then why? The UR is probably the only place in the world where the system protects you from this.”
You would let me hide forever if I asked.I love you obscenely for that.
But part of her knew this was the moment she either became the woman in the headlines forever…or the woman who burned the headline down.
“That’s why I have to do it,” she said, hands fisting at her sides. “For the women who didn’t have what I do.”
Rafael stepped forward until he held her face in both his hands. For a second Bea lost the thread of the argument. The heat of his hands, the closeness of him, the warning look that sent her pulse stumbling somewhere far less useful than her brain.
“This discussion,” he said, tone low, “is happening again somewhere with fewer witnesses.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Umma’s face filled the left side of the video frame. “Oliver Fox? FromFox Hunt?”
“I know,” Bea said, tucking one leg beneath her in the oversized armchair. Her library bookshelves rose behind her, particularly fetching in the early morning light. “Please don’t tell Papa yet. I’m serious. Not until we’ve decided how to handle it.”
“That manipulative bastard,” Claire muttered, prying open her lunch container. She was definitely hiding in a meeting room. “I can’t believe I ever liked his YouTube videos.”
“I used to be impressed that he could get the guests no one else could.” Bea picked up a slice of apple, more for something to do with her hands than hunger.
“And the photos?” Claire asked, digging into her rice. “No one else got them?”
“I don’t really know.” Bea nibbled her fruit. “I’m hoping he wanted to be the only one holding the knife.”
Umma shook her head in disgust, holding her chopsticks aloft. “The lengths men go for money and fame. Very sad.”
In the room next door, Bea could hear the whir of a vacuum. “He probably expected me to freak out and try to handle it myself. Like, hesitate to show Rafael.”
“And you didn’t?” Claire asked.
Bea shook her head. “I didn’t even rehearse it. I walked in and put them in his hands.”