“About what?” she asks, turning back to me.
“About what King Developers can be. About what we should be doing with our power and resources.” I run my hand through my hair, suddenly feeling self-conscious of oversharing. “Ezra and I are trying to change things. To make it more like the vision our grandfather used to have for the city.”
She studies me silently, and her gaze seems more curious than combative for once. “So that’s why you’re obsessing over every detail. Why you’ve been driving everyone insane with your demands.”
“I’ve been driving everyone insane because nobody does their job right,” I correct her with a smile. “But yeah. This one matters.”
“So all of the little things you made me do are really important and not just you throwing tantrums?”
“Partly tantrums,” I chuckle. “But most of them are critical for the success of this project.” I nod, letting my eyes drift overher face. “Without them, we’d lose our timeline, and the whole project would be delayed. One more excuse for the board to try to take control. They don’t want this project happening because it’s not profitable.”
I’ve never talked about the board’s power plays with an assistant before. I’ve never trusted one enough.
“Is that why you’ve been—” she trails off, gesturing vaguely in my direction.
“Been what?” I ask, even though I know exactly what she means.
“A complete nightmare to work with?” she finishes with that direct honesty I’ve come to expect from her. “Terrorizing assistants? Making impossible demands?”
I let out a laugh that sounds hollow even to my own ears. “That’s just my winning personality, princess.”
“Bull,” she says simply, crossing her arms. “You weren’t like this on the island. Not all the time, anyway.”
The mention of Maupiti Island drops between us like a giant stone that has been hanging over our heads. We’ve been dancing around it since she walked into my office, pretending that night on the balcony never happened. That the whole week didn’t happen.
“The island was different.” My voice drops because this is not the topic I’m willing to discuss so early in the morning. “Things were simpler there.”
“Simpler?” She raises an eyebrow. “I was going to marry your brother who was missing, presumed dead. My sister too. There was nothing simple about it.”
I stop at the central stairwell with my hand on the railing. The cold metal under my palm grounds me to the present as the memories of the island flood back—the heat, the confusion, the way she looked in that white dress soaked in pool water. I recall very vividly that I imagined her in another white dress, walkingdown the aisle, hand in hand with my brother. I also recall the rage I felt at that thought.
“On the island, it was you and me. Before everyone else showed up.” I glance at her over my shoulder. “Before you had to marry my brother. I met youbefore.” I accentuate the word for her to catch the true meaning of my words. “When you were just Bea. Not my brother’s fiancé. Just a fiery woman who stomped over my bag.”
She’s quiet for a moment, standing a few steps below me with her face tilted up and staring at the half-covered window at the far wall. In the hard hat, with those serious eyes and her lips pressed together, she looks both vulnerable and strong—the way Mom used to look before our father bullied her to the point of a mental health breakdown that resulted in her needing frequent care.
“I’m still just Bea,” she says finally, turning to me. “But the Wrong part doesn’t really apply anymore.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“I left,” she admits simply with a tiny shrug. “After the island. I walked away from all of it—the family name, the money, the expectations.” She gestures to herself with a small, self-deprecating smile. “This is what ‘just Bea’ looks like. Secondhand clothes, tiny apartment, temp jobs to make rent and buy ramen.”
The revelation hits me like a sucker punch I missed right in front of my eyes. I’ve been assuming she’s still living off the Wrong fortune, still connected to that world of privilege and power. The thought of Beatrice struggling to make rent (a problem I myself have never faced), working temp jobs—it doesn’t compute with the sharp-tongued, confident woman who’s been matching me blow for blow.
“You really left everything that night, didn’t you?” I ask, unable to mask my surprise. That night when I saw her dragginga giant suitcase behind her, lurking in the shadow of night. “I didn’t think you’d go through with it.”
Her eyes harden slightly, that defensive wall sliding back into place. “I had to! After that disaster on the island, after watching my parents try to pawn me off because I was too difficult, I was done.” She crosses her arms, looking away. “I wanted to live by my own rules. Not theirs or anyone else’s.”
Something clicks into place—her desperation for this job, the way she’s endured my worst behavior without quitting, the cheap clothes I mistook for a deliberate choice rather than necessity. Guilt twists in my gut that is sharp and unfamiliar.
“So that’s why you’re putting up with my bullshit,” I say slowly. “You need the money.”
Her chin lifts, pride flashing in her eyes. “I need the job. There’s a difference. If I just wanted money, I could ask Maeve for a loan. But I need the job so I can earn money on my own.”
“And I’ve been making it hell for you,” I murmur, more to myself than to her.
“You’ve certainly tried,” she agrees, but there’s a hint of amusement in her voice now. “I’m tougher than I look.”
I study her face, seeing her differently now. The soft curve of her jaw, the determined set of her shoulders, the proud lift of her chin—they all tell a story I’ve been too blind to read. She’s not just another Wrong, not just Maeve’s sister, not just my temporary assistant. She’s fought her way here, clawed out an independence that cost her everything she knew.
