Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Damian
I woke up in her bed.
And for the first time in… maybe ever—I hadn’t already planned my exit.
The sunlight slanted in through linen curtains, soft and golden, brushing across the exposed curve of her back. Her hair was a mess, half fanned over her pillow, half stuck to her shoulder. One leg stretched out from under the sheet, all smooth skin and quiet chaos.
Juliette Vanderburg was sleeping like I hadn’t ruined her rhythm last night and was still here. I should’ve left hours ago, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to.
Was that the part that scared me?
I lay there for a while, listening to her breathe, feeling the unfamiliar weight of something that wasn’t lust. Not anymore. This felt... settled. Warm in a way that didn’t burn. Like it belonged here, in this bed, with her.
That was the first sign of trouble.
The second came when my brain kicked in and reminded me that this—waking up beside a woman like her, in a house that wasn’t mine—was dangerous. It blurred things. It made me start imagining that mornings like this could become a habit.
I needed to reset. Reclaim control.
“Let me take you to breakfast,” I said quietly, shifting just enough to press a kiss to her shoulder.
She stirred with a sleepy murmur, then smiled.
“Only if I get to pick the place.”
I grinned. There she was. “Deal. Just so you know, I don’t like to wait for pancakes.”
She rolled over, stretching like a cat, completely unapologetic about being naked and entirely in charge of the space between us.
It was infuriating how good she looked like this—hair wild, face flushed, absolutely at ease.
We dressed in the easy silence of people who’d slept together often but never stayed. I found my watch on her nightstand, next to a book of essays on modern surrealism and a bottle of perfume.
As she slipped on a pair of cutoff shorts and a cropped tank, I pulled my shirt over my head and offered—too casually— “You know… we’ve got a small office open at Vérité. Could be a good temp setup for your new business. Private. Quiet. Yours, if you want it.”
She paused, one foot halfway into a sandal, and glanced over at me. “You offering me a job?”
“Just space,” I said. “A door and a desk. You’re too dangerous to manage.”
She laughed and finished dressing without saying yes or no.
I grabbed my keys, trying not to think about the fact that I still didn’t want to leave.
We drove separately to the café.
I told myself it made sense—she had errands to run afterward, and I needed to head into Vérité. But the truth?
I wasn’t sure what we were yet.
Whatever last night was, it still hadn’t settled into a category I knew how to navigate.
The café she chose sat at the corner of a shady block just off Ocean Blvd., all terra cotta pots and climbing ivy, the kind of place with fresh pastries and servers who didn’t write anything down. The breeze off the bay cut through the morning heat, and the awning cast the table in soft shadow.
She was already there when I arrived—sunglasses perched on her head, hair twisted up like she hadn’t tried too hard. And then there was the top—cropped, ribbed, and so fitted it made my brain forget the point of conversation.
I sat down across from her and let the server pour water before breaking the silence.
“You slept?” I asked.
“Like a woman who made excellent choices,” she said, sipping her water.
I smiled, even as I tried to pull myself back into something that resembled control. “You give my ego too much credit.”
“Your ego doesn’t need help.”
There it was again. Not flirtation, not exactly. Just clarity. Confidence. A woman who knew her worth and didn’t care if I saw it.
We ordered breakfast—hers: the fruit plate and black coffee; mine: scrambled eggs and something carby I wouldn’t finish.
When the waiter left, I cleared my throat. “That office I mentioned—at Vérité. Still available. If you want it.”
Juliette took a sip of her coffee, cool as ever. “I do. For now. But I’ve already contacted a realtor in Coconut Grove about renting something permanent nearby. I’d rather build my own space than borrow someone else’s long-term.”
The smile I gave her was automatic. Too smooth to be sincere. “Of course. Makes sense.”
Inside, though? It landed like a gut punch. Not because she didn’t appreciate the offer, but because she didn’t need it. Or me.
It wasn’t rejection. But it wasn’t the playful tug-of-war I was used to either. This was Juliette, the expert. Juliette the partner. And apparently, I didn’t know what the hell to do with that.
I adjusted my watch, trying not to stare at her breasts shifting slightly in that infernal top as she leaned forward. Less than twelve hours ago, I had touched every inch of her, and now I was sitting here like an intern, trying not to get caught ogling the boss.
“About Germany,” I said, steering the conversation back into waters I understood.
“The handoff is in three weeks. Baden-Baden. The Kandinsky piece has a full provenance trail. But I still need help with the export documentation and verifying the chain of custody, especially if we will include any press coverage. There will be no language barrier. I’m fluent in French and German. ”
Juliette reached for her phone and started typing without a word.
“You’re in?” I asked, watching the curve of her mouth as she read over something in her notes.
“Of course I’m in,” she said, touching my hand. “Just give me access to the files. I’ll build out the checklist. I’ll make a note to try to cancel my lease.”
I nodded, “Let me know if he holds you to it. I will be glad to pay all fees.”
“Thank you, I appreciate that.”
I resisted the very real urge to lean across the table and kiss her just for being competent. There was something deeply unfair about a woman who could turn you inside out one night and then meet you for coffee the next morning like she hadn’t just made you question every boundary you ever built.
She looked up and smiled, casual. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said.
It wasn’t a lie.
Not really.
It was everything.
In the late afternoon, after moving some of Juliette’s files into the Vérité office building, I looked up from reviewing the reservations for the Germany trip. The office was too quiet—the kind of quiet that told you someone was working.
Not killing time. Not scrolling. Working.
I stood, rolled my shoulders once, and wandered toward the back hallway. Passed the empty conference room, double-checked the Lufthansa confirmation on my phone, and instinctively thumbed over to my inbox.
A new message blinked from Hopewell Schoo l—subject line: Update on Mateo + Tuition.
I paused.
The thread was long, tucked beneath quarterly reports and receipts. But the message at the top was short.
Mateo passed his mid-term finals. The spring term starts soon.
I stared at it for a beat longer than I meant to. Then tapped out a response:
Tell him the world needs smart kids who’ve seen real things. And to email me if he needs more for books or special events.
I hit send, pocketed the phone, and kept moving.
Past the conference room. Down the back wing. Toward the office we’d cleared for Juliette.
Because no matter how much noise I carried in my head… Her quiet was the kind I didn’t mind walking into.
But the second I turned the corner and saw her there—hair twisted up, glasses perched low on her nose, one knee drawn up in her chair like she owned the space—I felt something settle in my chest. Then shift.
She didn’t see me.
Her attention was locked on the stack of images in front of her—prints from the Coral Gables estate, judging by the notations in the margins. She’d circled certain corners, scribbled arrows between notes, and cross-referenced museum tags in a new little notebook she kept by her elbow.
The office printer whirred softly behind her, spitting out the next set of scans.
She glanced over her shoulder once, mentally tracking the pages, then returned to what was in front of her without missing a beat.
Efficient. Focused. Like she had an internal clock running and didn’t plan to waste a second.
She was all in. No makeup. No posing. Just focus.
She bit her bottom lip when she leaned in to look at one of the oil portraits—an instinctive thing, totally unaware. She tapped the side of her pen against her chin and made another note. She didn’t glance up once the whole time, and I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, watching her.
Because it hit me—hard and fast—that she wasn’t just doing this to keep busy.
She wasn’t doing it for me.
Jules was building something. Claiming space. Proving she didn’t need anyone to open a door for her—she’d find the damn blueprints and build her own entrance.
Hell, she was more knowledgeable than I was.
My phone buzzed with a reminder, but I didn’t move.
Then her laptop chimed—a new message. She clicked it open and tilted the screen toward herself, so I didn’t catch the whole thing. Just the sender: Brickell Collector.
And the first line of the email: Can’t wait to show you the full collection :-)
The wink wasn’t necessary.
The little knot in my jaw? Also unnecessary—but very, very real.
I had no right to be annoyed. None.
But I was.
Not because I thought she owed me exclusivity. Not even because I thought the guy had a chance. But because, for the first time, I wasn’t sure if I was central to her world anymore, or just orbiting somewhere on the edge, hoping gravity would pull me back in.
She smiled at the screen. Small. Brief.
Then she went back to her notes.
Yet, I just stood there in the hallway like a man trying to figure out when the hell everything changed.
I shut the door to my office with more force than necessary. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just final. A quiet little slam that said: no interruptions.
The click echoed in the space, which was filled with glass, stone, and polished steel. Everything inside Vérité was designed to look modern, minimal, and under control—just like me.
Or so I’d always pretended.
I paced once, twice, then stopped in front of the window that overlooked the courtyard. My reflection stared back at me in the glass—tie loosened, shirt collar askew, eyes too tired for mid-afternoon.
I pulled up my inbox. Nothing yet.
But I could feel it.
The silence wasn’t safety—it was a warning. A lull. Like the half-second before the wave breaks, when all the tension pulls back, dragging everything with it.
The bankruptcy was now a public record. The business trades hadn’t picked it up yet, but they would soon. When it did, the headline wouldn’t read: Designer Accessory Line Quietly Dissolves Amid Changing Trends.
It would read: Vérité Foundation Co-Founder Linked to Financial Collapse.
I didn’t have the luxury of waiting. I grabbed my phone and hit the contact I’d flagged months before: Thatcher – PR.
He picked up on the third ring. Always professional. Always calm.
“Damian. How bad?”
I walked behind my desk and sat, the leather chair too stiff, like even the furniture didn’t want to offer comfort today.
“It’s not live yet,” I said. “But it’s coming. I want a statement drafted.”
“Standard positioning?”
“No.” I exhaled. “If something about The Cut of Her Jib hits the trades , I want to be first in the inbox. Not last on the apology tour.”
There was a pause. A few keystrokes. Then: “Understood. What about Vérité?”
“That’s the whole point—no connections with my real estate portfolio. Keep the foundation clean. No mention of the board, no tie-in to the Germany trip. I want a wall between them.”
“And Vanderburg?”
My jaw tightened.
Of course, he’d seen the pictures. It was a high-profile auction. Press had been everywhere. Juliette in that black dress. My hand on her back. Her smile angled toward me like we were the only two people in the damn room.
They didn’t need confirmation. Just a name to start spinning their own version of events.
“She’s a contract consultant,” I said evenly. “An art historian. Her name is Juliette Vanderburg. She’s working out of the back office while she launches her own business. No formal affiliation with Vérité.”
A pause.
Then: “She was photographed with you.”
“I know.”
“And if the story breaks?—”
“You leave her out of it,” I snapped. “No name in the press release. No photos. No suggestion that she’s tied to the foundation. She’s not the story.”
Another pause, longer this time. “Noted. Want me to brief the media response team?”
“Only if something leaks. And if it does, you know what to do.”
“Reinforce the wall between your past and the foundation. No romantic conjecture. No crossing lines.”
“Exactly. Keep it dry. Keep it clean.” I hesitated, then added, quieter, “She’s not leverage. She’s not collateral. I want her name clear.”
But this wasn’t just about Juliette, and it sure as hell wasn’t just about me.
It was about the foundation—Vérité—the one thing I’d built that felt like more than branding or spin. A mission that mattered. One that now teetered on the edge of becoming collateral damage if the narrative shifted even a degree off course.
If word got out about the bankruptcy, I could lose donor confidence.
They’d start pulling out if they thought I was reckless with money—or worse, with my personal life. Quietly at first, then all at once.
And then there was Judge Valencia—the man who’d helped me set Vérité up from the ground floor, who’d vouched for me, put his reputation behind mine when I didn’t deserve it yet. I couldn’t stomach the idea of disappointing him or making him regret his support.
I couldn’t afford a scandal. Not when so many names—not just mine—were stamped on the work we were doing.