Chapter Text
James
Age 27. City of London posh boy boredom. Begins just before the meeting with a Ruby Bell.
If one more person tries to pitch me their “revolutionary” educational programme, I swear I’ll walk straight into traffic—preferably slow-moving, chauffeur-driven traffic with excellent insurance coverage. But alas, I’m the junior CEO now, which means I get to smile politely while being sold dreams that require seven-figure funding and come with a side order of moral pressure.
Today’s offering: Access Horizons. I’m told it’s noble. Grassroots. Oxford people. Apparently very impactful, and “aligned with our legacy values.” Which is just PR for: Let’s throw money at poor but promising children so we can sleep better at night. My father loves this kind of thing. Because he loves the headlines. The plaques. And because it’s what was important to my mother.
The woman meant to pitch it—some high-flying fundraising director—is out with a stomach bug, so they’ve sent the program manager in her place. Ruby Bell. No profile photo. No flattering bio with LinkedIn fluff. Just: “Oxford, postgrad, ground programme lead.”
My PA says she’s already in the boardroom. Five minutes early. Christ. One of those.
I check the mirror. Straighten my cufflinks. Fix the collar of the shirt I didn’t button all the way up because I don’t need to. My hair’s still damp from the gym, and I can’t be arsed to do anything about it. She’ll live.
I push the door open.
And stop.
Because she’s not what I expected.
No pencil skirt. No too-eager smile. No nervous flick of the hair. She’s seated. Laptop open, notes beside it. Dark hair pulled back, not a single flyaway out of place. No makeup, or none I can detect. Black jumper, tailored trousers. Looks like she could slice me in half with a sentence and go back to answering emails before I even bleed out.
She glances up. One look. Not impressed. Not curious. Not even mildly flustered.
And I feel—
Something shift.
She says, “Mr Beaufort,” like it’s a diagnosis.
I smile. That smile. The one that gets me into parties, out of mistakes, and occasionally into bed.
“Miss Bell. You’re early.”
“You’re late,” she replies. Not snide. Just true.
And for the first time in weeks—maybe months—
I’m awake.
Game on.
Ruby
Age 27. No patience for posh nonsense. Mid-presentation. London, Beaufort Industries HQ.
I’ve delivered this presentation seventeen times this year alone. I know every slide. Every transition. Every anecdote that’s supposed to land just right. Usually, the people across the table nod in all the right places, ask the usual questions, and pretend they’re genuinely considering it instead of waiting to see what their PR advisor tells them to do.
James Beaufort is not pretending.
Well—he is, but not in the usual way.
He leans back in his chair, legs stretched, one arm draped casually along the side, his face arranged in what must be his version of neutral. I’ve seen that look before. The I’m-here-because-I-have-to-be look. Every inch of him says bored, polished disinterest. Lacrosse player’s build. Expensive watch. That deliberately undone top button, like he’s above the meeting dress code because he is the dress code.
He looks like a man who’s used to being the most interesting person in the room.
And he’s definitely not listening.
Until he is.
“Do the students sign NDAs?” he asks, about three slides in.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“For the impact stories. Testimonials. I assume you’re collecting them for your next pitch deck?”
I pause. “We get consent. Voluntary. No coercion. No NDAs.”
He hums. Then, “So what you’re saying is, it’s all genuine but not…usefully extractable.”
“What I’m saying,” I reply, carefully, “is that these are human beings, not marketing assets.”
His mouth twitches. Not a smile—just interest.
I carry on, but it’s not worth it. His gaze slides off the next few slides like they’re raindrops on a Bentley windshield. He asks another question—this time about long-term retention rates—before I’ve even reached the ‘projected outcomes’ page.
And that’s when I realise: he’s not not listening. He’s just not listening my way.
Fine.
I click out of the presentation.
He raises an eyebrow. “Done already? That was… brisk.”
“I doubt PowerPoint is your preferred format for engagement, Mr Beaufort.”
That gets a real smile. Brief. Sharp.
“Correct.”
“Then let’s not waste each other’s time,” I say, folding my hands. “Why don’t you ask the questions you actually care about? I’ll answer them. No slides. No spin.”
He sits up slightly. Not much. But enough.
“Interesting strategy.”
“Adaptability is a skill,” I say. “Especially when funding is on the line.”
There’s a beat of silence. A flicker of something in his eyes. He likes a challenge. Of course he does. Boys like him are raised on it.
“Alright, Miss Bell,” he says, steepling his fingers like we’re in a game of chess. “Let’s play.”
And just like that—
He’s interested.
James
Still seated across from Ruby Bell, who just dared to tell me how to run my own meeting.
I can’t decide if I want to fund her programme or take her to bed. Possibly both. Probably in reverse order.
She’s clever. Sharp in that unbothered way I haven’t seen since… actually, I’m not sure I have seen it. Usually, when people sit across from me in this room, they want something. They lean in. They flatter. They ask about my mother like it’s sincere and quote our corporate values like it’s gospel. Ruby Bell hasn’t done any of that.
She clicked out of the presentation like it bored her more than it did me. Told me to ask my questions. Now she sits there like she’s got nothing to prove.
Christ. That’s new.
So I ask, “Your success metrics from last year—how are you quantifying impact? And don’t say engagement, please. I’ll throw myself out the window.”
She doesn’t blink. “Acceptance offers to Russell Group universities. Scholarship placements. Degree completion. We track longitudinally and we don’t count any of it unless it’s independently verified.”
I nod. Alright. Next.
“Your biggest threat to scale?”
“Staffing. We train internally, and it’s resource-heavy. We could double reach with the right hires, but we’d need funding security first. Hence—” she gestures, “—you.”
Fair. Very fair.
“What’s the dropout rate once you onboard a student?”
“Five percent first-year attrition. Down from twelve the year before. Most due to family crises, not academic performance.”
And just like that, she’s handing me data that actually matters. No fluff. No over-polished pitch voice. It’s unnerving how refreshing it is.
I lean back, letting a beat pass.
“You’re not the usual front-of-house for these meetings, are you?”
“No.”
“Shame. You’re better at it.”
“Doubt it. I’m just blunt.”
God, I like her. I really, really shouldn’t—but I do.
I glance at the clock. “Have you eaten?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Lunch. There’s a restaurant in the building. Good food. And I ask better questions over a plate of something.”
A pause. Long enough for me to wonder if I misread this.
Then: “Okay. I have a meeting at three. I’ll eat if we talk programme logistics and nothing else.”
“Deal.”
We stand. She gathers her laptop and papers with military precision. No hesitation, no lingering.
As we walk toward the private lift, I glance sideways. She’s got that walk—purposeful. No sway, no performative elegance. Just intent.
And because I’m both curious and an arse, I ask, “Is this work personal for you?”
I expect a sigh, or maybe a sharp retort. What I get is worse.
She stops.
Turns to me, polite but firm. “Not something I’ll be discussing with you, Mr Beaufort. Not now, and possibly not ever.”
My jaw tics. Right. Too far.
I give her a tight smile. “Fair enough.”
And when we step into the lift, I slide back into neutral. That charming, half-interested version of me I know so well.
Because she’s made it clear—this isn’t about me.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to know what it is about.
And her.
Ruby
Over lunch. City of London. Beaufort Industries HQ.
He figured it out fast. I’ll give him that.
Dropped the lazy charm routine the moment I called him out, and underneath all that effortless arrogance and those Daily Mail bachelor spreads, there was something sharper. Something calculating. Present.
Not what I expected.
I did my research. Of course I did. James Beaufort—junior CEO of one of the largest privately held companies in the country. Doesn’t have a degree. Never went to uni. Just… appeared at Beaufort Industries after a summer course at Yale and a few photoshoots with a stick in his hand, captain of the national lacrosse team. Nepo baby 101.
I expected an overgrown schoolboy with a tailored suit and a private driver. I expected polite disinterest and a quick signature for PR’s sake, if we were lucky.
I didn’t expect him to actually ask good questions.
Not just good—insightful. Strategic. The kind you only ask if you’ve been paying attention.
It’s annoying. And not because I dislike intelligence—I love intelligence. But because it’s him. Because the moment I allow myself to admit he’s not entirely vapid, I have to contend with the fact that he’s also attractive in a problematic way.
And worse—he knows it.
We’re at lunch now. Rooftop restaurant, full view of London’s grey majesty. The table’s far too large for two people, but he’s sitting close enough that I can feel his attention even when he’s quiet.
He doesn’t flirt. Not exactly. He probes. Edges his questions in just far enough to make me wonder what the next one will be.
And then he asks that one.
“Is this work personal for you?”
I stop. My fork halfway to my mouth. I don’t even look at him at first. I just breathe. Once. In. Out.
He’s watching me. Not smugly. Not carelessly. But there’s a weight behind the question, and that’s what makes it worse. He thinks he’s being thoughtful. Maybe even kind.
I put my fork down. Turn my head just enough to meet his gaze.
“Not something I’ll be discussing with you, Mr Beaufort. Not now, and possibly not ever.”
There’s a beat of silence. Just one. But it’s enough.
To his credit, he nods. Doesn’t push. Just shifts his weight back in his chair and changes the subject.
Good. Smart move.
Because that part of me? The part that is personal, the part that drags me out of bed at six in the morning and into classrooms full of kids who don’t believe Oxford would ever want them—that part is mine. Not his. Not for leverage. Not for lunch conversation with a man who signs cheques for a living.
He may be sharper than I thought. May even be useful.
But he doesn’t get to know me.
Not like that.
James
Lunch nearly over. London skyline in the background. Ruby Bell opposite me, still refusing to laugh at any of my better lines.
I want to see her again.
That’s the problem.
Because there are two obvious options in front of me and neither feels right.
Option one: I sign the damn funding agreement, hand it to her on a silver platter, and offer dinner as a celebration. Except she’ll see right through that. She’ll thank me, take the cheque, and leave without ever touching the wine list.
Option two: I stall. Ask for more detail. More projections. An extended conversation. Something that makes her come back. Give me a second shot at making her look at me like I’m not a bullet point on her list.
Only issue—she’ll see through that too. She sees through everything.
She’s finishing her tea now, straight-backed and focused like she’s still in the boardroom. No small talk. No asking if I’ve been here before. No mention of the view. It’s refreshing. And maddening. And—I don’t even know what this is.
I lean forward, just enough to disrupt her composure.
“Call me James.”
Her eyes flick to mine. Unimpressed.
“Mr Beaufort is fine.”
“No, it’s not.” I smile, slowly. “It’s far too formal, and frankly, makes me feel like my father. Which is a fate I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”
“James,” she says, flatly, “I don’t mix business with first names unless we’re equals in the room.”
That lands sharper than I expect. I grin, but it’s tighter now.
“And you don’t think we are?”
“I think you have the power to decide if we get funded. I think I have to pretend that doesn’t bother me.”
I sit back. That was… blunt. And deserved.
“Alright,” I say. “Mr Beaufort it is, then. For now.”
She nods once. Goes back to her tea.
God, she’s impossible.
God, I want to chase that.
So I say, casually, “I haven’t made a decision yet.”
“Understood.”
“But I’m leaning somewhere.” I let the words hang, baited.
She doesn’t bite. Just lifts one brow.
“Let me know when you land.”
Cool. Dismissive. Brilliant.
I watch her for a moment longer, then reach for the folder beside me. No signature. Not yet. Not today. Not because I don’t want to fund the damn thing—I do. She’s good. The programme’s better.
But I want her to walk out of here knowing this isn’t finished.
That I’m not finished.
And if that means keeping the deal on the table just a little longer?
So be it.
Ruby
Post-lunch. Rooftop restaurant. He thinks he’s being mysterious. Charming. Strategic. It’s cute, really.
Seven-figure funding never gets signed at the first meeting.
I know that. He knows that. Everyone working in this space knows that.
But still—when James Beaufort slips the unsigned agreement back into the folder like it’s some masterstroke of suspense, he does it with just enough flair to suggest he thinks he’s the exception.
Like he’s the first man to ever hold a pen just out of reach.
Like I’m sitting here devastated he didn’t sign it today.
I lean back in my chair, sip the last of my tea, and meet his eyes. They’re warm now. Relaxed in a way they weren’t at the start of lunch. He thinks he’s won something. Or that I’ve lost.
So I say it—pleasantly, evenly, with just enough edge to land.
“You do realise seven-figure fundings never get signed in the first meeting, right?”
He raises an eyebrow. Just a little. Doesn’t speak.
“You’re not being clever. Or strategic. Or unique,” I continue, folding my napkin calmly. “And no, I’m not crushed that you didn’t sign today. That was never the expectation.”
Pause. Let it land.
“I just figured I’d say it out loud before you get too swept away by your own brilliance.”
There’s half a second—no more—where I can’t tell how he’s going to take it.
Then he laughs.
Properly.
Not a smirk. Not that smug chuckle I’ve seen in clips of him online. A real laugh—head tilting back slightly, mouth open, amused and alive.
It’s… irritating.
And worse—it’s kind of nice.
“Noted,” he says, still smiling. “Thanks for the grounding.”
“You’re welcome.”
He straightens, watches me gather my things like he might say something else. But he doesn’t. Not yet.
Let him think. Let him stew. Let him realise that I’m not waiting on him.
And if he laughs like that again—well.
We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.
James
Back in the lobby. Trying to look unaffected. Definitely not unaffected.
I walk her to the elevator.
Because I’m polite, obviously.
Not because I want more time. Not because her mouth curves in this barely-there smirk every time I say something that’s supposed to impress and doesn’t. Not because I’m still thinking about the line she delivered upstairs—before I get too swept away by my own brilliance—with the same tone most people reserve for flat coffee.
No. Of course not.
We ride down in silence. I don’t fill it. For once, I don’t need to.
She’s calm. Still. She’s not fiddling with her bag or scrolling her phone or making empty small talk. She’s just there. Present. Like this is just another day. Another meeting. Another arrogant man in a suit who didn’t say yes and thinks that means something.
I walk her through the lobby. The receptionists glance over—curious. They always are when a woman leaves beside me, especially one who looks like her and isn’t wearing a tight dress or laughing too loudly at my jokes.
She pauses at the glass door. No smile. No hopeful expression. No, “So when do I hear back?”
She just nods. “Thank you for the meeting, Mr Beaufort.”
Formal to the end.
Not even James, despite the lunch, the questions, the laugh I didn’t mean to let slip.
I nod back. Say, “Safe trip.”
Because what else is there to say?
Please come back sounds like begging.
I haven’t stopped thinking about you since you shut down my charm with one well-placed sentence is… worse.
She walks out into the grey London afternoon, coat buttoned up, bag slung over her shoulder like she’s off to conquer the next thing. Doesn’t look back.
Doesn’t ask for a follow-up.
Just—
Gone.
And I stand there like an idiot.
Hand in my pocket.
Watching the glass door swing slowly shut.
Ruby
Home. Cheap flat just outside London. Post-Beaufort, post-bullshit.
The train ride is quiet. Rain against the window, inbox full of things I won’t touch until morning. I get home just before six, the key sticking slightly in the lock like always. Flat smells like burnt toast and peppermint tea—Lin’s been home.
“Survived the billionaires?” she calls from the sofa, not looking up from her laptop.
“Barely.” I kick off my shoes, drop my bag, shrug out of my coat. “The junior CEO is everything the tabloids promised. Too good-looking, too amused by himself. Thinks not signing the agreement immediately was some kind of dramatic move.”
Lin snorts. “What, no funding and no marriage proposal? Tragic.”
I smile. Brief. She knows the drill. Big meetings. Big egos. Big men in expensive suits who assume charm is currency.
I make tea. Sit at the kitchen table with my laptop, open the notes file I keep for every pitch meeting, and start typing. Beaufort Industries. Meeting 1. Key metrics discussed. Questions raised. Tone: engaged but performative. Decision: pending.
I log the time, the people in the room, the fact that he didn’t bring an advisor. I write down his questions—not because I liked them, but because they were smart. Disarmingly so. I don’t edit the part about him laughing. I just… don’t mention it.
Lin’s clacking away in the living room—probably another brutal takedown of a cabinet minister. I glance over at her, then back at my screen.
And then I open the other document.
Manuscript draft: Chapter 7.
The one I’ve been writing for weeks—case studies, commentary, real-world barriers that don’t fit neatly into grant reports or boardroom decks. My former supervisor asked me to contribute. Said it was time more women working in field education actually wrote about it.
So I write. Every night. After the data and the reports and the meetings with men like James Beaufort.
I put my hands back on the keys. And begin again.
Because the real work doesn’t happen in boardrooms.
It happens here.
James
Late night. Kitchen table. Alistair’s flat—currently also my flat. Post-Ruby. Post-incidentally-incinerated bedding.
The flat smells like takeout and whatever godforsaken air freshener Alistair keeps in the hallway. Something citrus-adjacent. I’m halfway through a beer, sitting at the kitchen table in joggers, scrolling through the day’s media mentions like a masochist, when Alistair walks in with that look he gets when he knows something I don’t.
Which, unfortunately, is often.
He throws his coat on the back of a chair. “So. How was your day?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Fine, until your ex-colleague nearly sent me into an existential tailspin during a pitch meeting.”
Alistair grins. “Which one?”
“Ruby Bell.”
That makes him pause. Just slightly. Enough.
“Oh,” he says, and then again, slower: “Oh.”
“What?”
He pulls open the fridge, takes a beer for himself, leans against the counter like he’s about to deliver a sermon. “You met Ruby Bell and you lived to tell the tale. Congratulations. And condolences.”
I squint at him. “You know her?”
“No. Not really. She was two years below me at Oxford when I took the barrister’s exam. PPE. Double-distinction, naturally. Youngest major elected to anything in decades. Ran three societies, wrote half a book before she was twenty-three, somehow still managed to graduate top of her year. Everyone hated her. Or wanted to sleep with her. Or both.”
Of course they did.
“She’s a legend,” Alistair continues. “In the academic sense. Brilliant. Scary. Completely uninterested in everyone’s nonsense.” He lifts his bottle in mock toast. “You’ve picked an excellent hill to die on, my friend.”
“I didn’t pick anything,” I say. “It was a meeting. Lunch. She called me out for being too pleased with myself, and then left without asking for a follow-up. Like I was the one pitching her.”
Alistair smirks. “Did you deserve it?”
“…That’s not the point.”
He laughs, walks off with his beer like he’s made his contribution to the evening and now it’s up to me to process whatever this is.
Which is—fine.
Because I’m not interested.
Not really.
It’s just—she’s the first person in months who didn’t try to charm me, outwit me, or undress me with her eyes.
She just looked at me. Flat. Disappointed. Like I could do better and she wasn’t sure I would.
And that, somehow, is worse.
Also: Alistair’s right. Of course she’s a legend. Of course she’s done everything early and perfectly. Of course she’s better than me on paper.
That just makes it more interesting.
Doesn’t mean I’m chasing her.
Just means I’m… aware.
And yes, I’m still sleeping on a pullout because my ex lit my sheets on fire.
Literally, not figuratively.
But that’s a different story.
Sort of.