Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Damian
The sun hit the bay like it knew it was being watched, reflecting just enough shimmer off the water to remind you how expensive this view was.
The Coconut Grove Yacht Club was exactly what it had always been: curated elegance with a side of smug tradition with polished teak decking.
The staff wore white polos and navy hats, and the glass doors were so clean you could mistake them for open air.
The kind of place where men my age shook hands like they were still auditioning for a board seat, and their wives wore heels too high for grass.
I checked my watch. One-oh-five . Technically late, but fashionably so.
Anthony was already at a corner table on the upper terrace, shaded beneath a broad umbrella and wearing the relaxed confidence of a man who never had to ask for his preferred table twice.
One arm was hooked over the back of the chair, and the other curled around a lowball glass, condensation just beginning to slide down the sides.
He looked up and smirked. “You’re lucky. Gabrielle said if I interrupted her lunch with Juliette, I’d be eating blended food for a week. So I gave you a call so we could catch up.”
I slid into the seat across from him, loosening the top button of my shirt. “Twin-sister confidentiality?”
He raised his glass. “Sealed tighter than an NDA.”
“Juliette left me with a few bruises,” I said smoothly. “But not the kind that needed stitches.”
He laughed and flagged down the waiter. “Two of the same,” he told the guy, nodding at his drink. “You need it more than I do.”
He wasn’t wrong.
The heat pressed down heavy this afternoon—sticky, shimmering, the kind that made your collar feel too tight no matter how perfectly pressed your shirt had started out.
The club was busy, but not loud. Just the usual collection of quiet power brokers and bored wives, gossiping behind their sunglasses while pretending not to notice who was walking by.
I gave a few nods. Made eye contact with a woman I didn’t recognize, but who clearly recognized me. A smile. Just enough charm to keep the performance going.
Because that’s what this was now—a performance.
I’d learned early on that if you wore confidence like a suit, people rarely asked what you had underneath.
So I gave them the version they wanted: tailored, tanned, just the right shade of amused.
Not a man who’d just watched one company sink while trying to steer another into uncharted waters.
Not the guy who'd woken up this morning with a pit in his stomach and a calendar full of meetings he couldn’t afford to cancel.
The drink came. I sipped slowly, like I had all the time in the world.
“How’s Vérité?” Anthony asked, easily, but pointed.
I leaned back. “Holding. The board’s quiet. Valencia sent a bottle of wine after the press release about the Diaz acquisition. I think that was his way of saying ‘well done’ without having to type it.”
Anthony raised an eyebrow. “So you’re still on his good side.”
“For now.”
He nodded, like he knew exactly how temporary for now could be.
I kept my posture relaxed. My tone was casual. But the truth was, I hadn’t felt this tightly wound since… well, since the last time I’d watched one of my property deals slide sideways and realized there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop it.
Only this time, the stakes were higher. Vérité wasn’t just my reputation—it was my last shot at something that looked like legacy. Not a flashy exit or another quarterly win. Something that mattered . Something I hadn’t inherited. Something I believed in.
And I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep the cracks from showing. I waited until the second drink arrived before I said anything.
Not because I needed liquid courage—I wasn’t that far gone yet—but because the silence between us had started to stretch.
Anthony was too sharp not to notice the cracks forming beneath the surface.
And I knew if I didn’t say it now, I’d spin another performance, deflect again, and walk out of here pretending I still had the upper hand.
I leaned back in my chair, angled just enough so I didn’t have to look directly at him.
“It’s done,” I said quietly.
Anthony glanced up from his drink. “What is?”
“ The Cut of Her Jib . It’s bankrupt. The filings are already in motion.”
He stilled—not visibly, not dramatically—but the kind of pause that told me he understood exactly what I wasn’t saying.
“The investors are out,” I went on. “Margins collapsed six months ago. I tried to pivot—added a new production line, went heavier on direct-to-consumer—but it didn’t move the needle. Inventory choked the warehouse. The fragrance line flatlined. Nobody wants silk scarves right now, apparently.”
Anthony didn’t speak. Just let the silence do the cutting.
“I’m trying to keep it quiet,” I said. “The press hasn’t picked up on it yet. But it’s coming. And when it does…”
“It’ll bleed,” he finished for me. “Into Vérité.”
I nodded once. “I’m doing everything I can to firewall the foundation, but optics don’t care about intention. One bad headline, and donors start backing away like they smell smoke.”
Anthony turned his glass in slow circles on the table. “It’s not just your reputation anymore,” he said. “It’s tied to other people’s work. To history.”
The weight of that hit harder than I expected.
He wasn’t lecturing. He wasn’t even wrong.
He was just reminding me of the one thing I’d tried not to think about: Vérité wasn’t just my clean slate anymore. It was bigger than that now. Bigger than me.
“I know,” I said. “I’ve been watching the board tiptoe around Louisa’s exit like it’s a funeral. They want a replacement yesterday. And I don’t have one.”
“You haven’t even started looking?” he asked, brows drawing together.
“I’ve floated names. But no one feels like the right fit. Not for what we’re doing. Not for restitution. For legacy.”
I didn’t say what I was thinking—that one of the only people who might be the right fit was sipping wine with his wife and probably wearing something short enough to ruin my concentration for the rest of the day.
Juliette.
She had the credentials, the eye, the passion, and the right mix of skepticism and instinct that made her dangerous in the best way.
But the idea of putting her in that role?
I could already see the disaster unfolding—locked office doors, missed meetings, long hours turning into longer nights until we weren’t talking about Kandinsky anymore, we were testing the desk’s structural integrity.
Hell, I’d already wasted half the morning coming up with reasons to text her. A shipping update from the gallery. A foundation email she didn’t even need to see. A joke she probably wouldn’t laugh at—so I didn’t send it.
What kind of man got distracted by a woman he wasn’t even trying to impress?
What kind of man couldn’t stop thinking about her, even in a busy place like this?
A stupid one. A teenager in a tailored shirt.
I shifted in my seat and forced the thought out of my head.
“And I’ve got the Germany trip coming up in three weeks,” I added. “A restitution handoff. A Kandinsky, stolen in 1941. The family wants it returned directly. No headlines. No gala. Just me, the art, and a curator at the regional museum in Baden-Baden.”
Anthony blinked. “And you’re flying it in yourself?”
“I’m taking a private jet the agency keeps on retainer. Security’s already coordinated. But it has to be personal. Symbolic. We’re trying to build trust.”
Then I shook my head and smiled, humorless. “A job for someone with credibility. And right now, all I have is polish over a crack I hadn’t figured out how to seal.”
He sat back slowly. “That’s a high-profile move for someone trying to dodge bad press.”
“Tell me about it.”
I took another sip of my drink, letting the bitterness settle on my tongue before swallowing it down. The collar of my shirt suddenly felt tighter, though I wasn’t even wearing a tie.
“I can keep the foundation standing,” I said. “But I don’t know how many more leaks I can plug before someone notices I’m using duct tape.”
Anthony didn’t say anything for a long moment.
Then he nodded once. “Then you’d better figure out who’s got steady hands. Because the next drop’s not going to be private.”
Anthony sipped his drink, slow and thoughtful. Then, without looking up, he asked, “So what’s the plan?”
I exhaled, rolling my shoulders like the question’s weight didn’t land the way it did.
“Ride it out,” I said. “Keep things polished. Name a new advisor with museum-world clout. Let the Diaz acquisition carry the headlines for another week or two. Schedule a donation drive, leak a photo of me shaking hands with someone respectable, and pray the bankruptcy filing gets buried under someone else’s scandal. ”
Anthony made a noncommittal noise, but I saw the flicker of skepticism in his eyes.
“And Juliette?”
It came out too casually. Like he was just curious. But Anthony didn’t ask casual questions. Ever.
I gave him a grin, the practiced kind that didn’t touch the parts of me that mattered. “She’s a hell of a time. Smart, hot, wild. I can’t even find my little black book anymore.”
It was a joke. Mostly. But I heard the hollowness in my voice the second it left my mouth.
Anthony didn’t laugh. He just raised a brow and waited, like he was giving me space to backpedal—or dig deeper.
I tapped the edge of my glass. “She’s fun. And she doesn’t want anything complicated. That’s the best part.”
Anthony didn’t speak, so I filled the silence. “She’s not looking for rings or titles. She’s not asking questions. She’s untamed. The kind of woman who shows up, looks incredible, blows your mind, and then goes home to paint like nothing happened.”
My voice had gotten quieter. Tighter. Because even as I said it, I couldn’t stop the thought from sliding in sideways?—
What would happen if she asked for more?
And why the hell was I afraid I’d say yes?
Anthony’s phone buzzed with a soft chime, and he gave me a nod before answering it. Something work-related, probably. Something solvable.
I stood, straightened my cuffs, and went down to the dock without waiting to say goodbye.
The sun was at its peak now, throwing gold across the water like someone had cracked a bottle of vintage champagne and poured it over the bay.
The boats rocked gently in their slips, expensive and still, ropes tight, paint glinting.
Everything looked calculated, serene—like the entire marina had been arranged for a photo shoot I hadn’t agreed to be in.
I walked to the end of the dock and rested both hands on the railing, watching the water ripple between the hulls. The surface shimmered, perfect and controlled, but I knew better. Underneath, everything was shifting—pushing, tugging.
The calmest days could still hide the strongest undertow. It looked like nothing was about to break. But then again, so did I.
The wind lifted slightly, just enough to rustle my shirt and cool the sweat gathering at the base of my spine. I should’ve felt relieved. Unburdened. I’d finally said it out loud—admitted the bankruptcy, acknowledged the cracks. But the weight hadn’t left.
It had just settled differently. Lower. Heavier.
And Juliette...
She shouldn’t be the thing circling in my thoughts.
Not when I was trying to hold together a reputation, a foundation, a future.
But she was there anyway—barefoot in my hotel room, laughing in that untamed way that made my blood rush through my veins.
Uncomplicated. But nothing that got under your skin ever stayed uncomplicated.
I stared out at the open water.
Everything looked calm. Perfect. Like nothing was about to break. Yet even the calmest surface couldn’t hide a leak forever—sooner or later, I would run out of ways to plug the holes.