Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Juliette
By the time I made it across the yard and up the wraparound porch of the main house, I was already peeling off my blazer. Coconut Grove was sticky in the spring—lush, beautiful, and smug. The kind of heat that turned your hair wild and your patience thin.
I’d spent the day juggling back-to-back lectures on pigment stability and provenance ethics, followed by two hours deep in Anthony’s gallery records helping verify the paper trail on a bronze bust with suspicious French origins.
Rewarding work, but exhausting. Especially when I knew my twin sister, Gabrielle, would be waiting with a bottle of sparkling water, a baby on her hip, and that look that said: You’re saving my life.
She met me at the door, barefoot and glowing.
“You’re a saint,” she said, holding out Julian like an offering from the heavens. “He’s had two bottles, one meltdown, and no nap.”
I took him easily. “My specialty.”
“Still waiting for your billionaire?” she teased, grabbing her keys from the console table.
“Yours is exhausting enough to count for two,” I shot back.
Gabrielle rolled her eyes and kissed Julian on the head. “We won’t be late.”
“You always say that.”
She smirked, halfway out the door already. “Try not to start a revolution while we’re gone.”
“No promises.”
Julian settled faster than expected, drooling on my shoulder and sighing dramatically as if he’d just wrapped up his own lecture tour. I carried him into the living room, careful not to trip over the army of plush toys scattered across the floor.
The space was gorgeous—warm woods, curated chaos, and the priceless painting Gabrille and I inherited from our grandfather hung above the mantel, with a few family photos here and there, and half-folded laundry.
It was the kind of home that proclaimed, “We have money,” but whispered, “and a life, too.”
I rocked Julian gently while scrolling through my phone with one hand. A few emails from students awaited me. A reminder about faculty meeting minutes. A flagged message from the dean asking me to recheck my schedule for next semester. I’d get to it. Maybe.
My eyes drifted toward the canvas propped against the wall near the kitchen—the one I’d dragged in from the guesthouse porch two days ago: thick brushstrokes, bold color, absolutely zero explanation.
I wasn’t painting for a gallery or a degree.
I painted because sometimes the thoughts in my head needed somewhere else to go.
It was the one thing in my life that didn’t require a committee or a footnote.
Julian snored softly against my shoulder, a warm little weight that had completely given up on the world. I carried him across the lawn, the grass cool under my bare feet as I made my way back to the guesthouse where I lived.
The space smelled faintly like oil paint and lemon wood polish, and a breeze slipped through the half-open window, fluttering the edge of a drying canvas. I nudged the door closed with my hip and crossed to the corner where I kept a portable crib set up for nights like this.
Gabrielle didn’t even have to ask anymore.
I’d set it up after the first time Julian fell asleep on my chest and Gabrielle didn’t have the heart to wake him. Since then, it just stayed. Kind of like me. I wasn’t maternal—not in the baby-food and stroller sense—but I loved that kid more than I thought I would.
I laid him down gently, one hand still resting on his chest as I waited for that soft little exhale of surrender. There it was. A sigh, a stretch, and he was out.
I stood there for a second, looking at him. Perfect, small, and completely untouched by the world’s nonsense. He had no idea what provenance meant or how much wine a donor expected at a gala. He didn’t know what it meant to want someone and pretend it wasn’t real.
Must be nice.
I poured myself a generous glass of rosé and walked out onto the spacious porch, the wooden planks still warm under my feet. The sky was deepening—somewhere between coral and lavender—and the breeze carried just enough salt to remind me why I stayed in Miami, even when it drove me insane.
Inside, the guesthouse was exactly what I needed it to be: lived-in, sun-drenched, and unapologetically mine—thanks to my sister and brother-in-law, Anthony.
A stack of art journals sat on the edge of the coffee table, half-topped by old provenance folders.
A lacy black bra was draped over the back of a chair from this morning’s rush to get dressed.
My newest painting leaned against the wall, still wet in one corner—bold reds bleeding into blue like it was trying to decide who it wanted to be.
It was messy and raw—color layered over instinct, not theory. I’d used the wrong brush for the outline, bled through the canvas in one corner, and ruined my favorite shirt in the process. And I loved it. It wasn’t publishable. It wasn’t grant-worthy. It was mine.
Just like me.
I wasn’t interested in perfect. I was interested in real. In color. In heat. In the kind of life that didn’t need permission or structure.
Before settling in, I padded inside and over to the corner where Julian slept, the portable crib tucked into a quiet spot.
He was still on his back, tiny fists curled, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
I reached down, brushing my fingertips along his hand until he shifted slightly in his sleep, then stilled again.
For a second—just a breath—I wondered what having one of my own would be like.
Not borrowed. Not part-time. Mine.
But the thought flickered and faded just as fast. I wasn’t built for diapers and preschools and PTA meetings. If I ever needed a baby fix, Julian was always here. I got to keep the wine, the sleep, and the silence.
Still… I lingered for a moment longer, watching him breathe.
Then I turned, reached for my glass of rosé, and let the silence settle around me like silk.
My phone buzzed from where I’d tossed it on the bed. I reached for it without thinking.
Damian: Want to crash an auction this weekend? I’ll buy you something pretty. If you behave.
I grinned.
If there was one thing I wasn’t built for—it was behaving.
I dialed him. He answered on the second ring, his voice smooth and low like he’d been expecting me.
“Sinclair,” I said lazily, curling up on the bed with my wine. “Already bored with your foundation spreadsheets?”
“Painfully. I need a favor from you.”
“Oh, really?” I chuckled.
“I need something beautiful on my arm Saturday night.”
I snorted. “You mean someone who knows how to pronounce Modigliani and won’t fall asleep during the second paddle raise.”
“Exactly.”
“You know you’re supposed to keep your sugar baby pool separate from your donor list, right?”
“That’s rich coming from someone who once bid on her own painting just to drive up the price.”
“Strategic marketing,” I said, setting my glass down and stretching out across the bed. “Admit it—you just want someone to stroke your ego while ignoring that half your board wants to take me upstairs to their hotel room.”
“If you wore less lipstick, they might survive the encounter.”
“If I wore less lipstick, you wouldn’t last five minutes—and I’d make sure you said thank you when I left… spent and satisfied.”
I felt the heat rise in my belly, slow and familiar. I tugged the strap of my sundress off one shoulder, then the other, lowering the neckline just enough to frame what I knew he liked best. I snapped a photo—angled, suggestive, not subtle—and hit send.
He didn’t reply immediately.
Then a photo buzzed through.
Boxer briefs. Bare stomach. And, clearly, he was very interested in seeing more.
I laughed out loud. “Five seconds, Sinclair? I thought billionaires were supposed to have stamina.”
“I don’t waste time pretending when it comes to you.”
That shut me up for a half second. Then I rolled onto my back and grinned up at the ceiling.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll come. But I’m picking the wine.”
“No meetings. No calls,” he said. “Just you, me, and whatever trouble we get into.”
“I’ll bring heels,” I said. “And maybe something I’ll regret wearing by midnight.”
I hung up before he could get the last word in. He liked that. Not that I cared if he did.
I took another sip of wine and prepared to lay out what I wanted to pack. A black dress, sharp heels, and lingerie that didn’t say love, but said very clearly: You’re not sleeping tonight.
No blazer. No lecture notes. No oversized sweater that made me look too serious. This weekend wasn’t about thinking. It was about letting go, getting loud, getting tangled, and maybe—if he behaved—letting him buy me something lacy I’d never wear again.
Because that was the thing about Damian.
He wasn’t someone I was building a life with. He was someone I escaped life with; for now, that was exactly what I wanted.