Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Damian
A Few Weeks Later
The logistics binder lay open in front of me—passport copies, customs declarations, chain of custody documentation for the Kandinsky. Clean. Complete. Ready for handoff.
I ran my thumb along the edge of the folder and flipped to the final page again. Everything checked out. The curator in Baden-Baden had confirmed receipt of our itinerary, and the museum’s attorney had pre-signed the export clearance. The chain was tight. Airtight.
It had to be.
I sat back, let out a slow breath, and reached for my coffee—lukewarm now, but still drinkable. The office around me was quiet in that mid-afternoon way that suggested the workday wasn’t over, but no one wanted to admit it.
My laptop dinged.
Subject: EARLY MENTION — Cut of Her Jib
Thatcher. My PR guy. I clicked.
“A boutique fashion blog ran a vague but pointed line about the company’s recent ‘radio silence.’ No names, no bankruptcy keywords—yet. But the editor tagged an industry investor on Twitter about ‘when things unravel quietly.’ We’re not viral. But someone’s sniffing. It’s moving.”
I read it twice.
This wasn’t the fire. This was the smoke.
I clenched my jaw and clicked reply.
Prepare a neutral response. Timeline only. No speculation. No names. Do not release anything unless I call it .
I stared at the screen, cursor blinking like it knew something I didn’t. My reflection hovered faintly in the black border of the screen—shirt slightly wrinkled, collar undone, shadows under my eyes that hadn’t been there a few weeks ago.
I opened a second tab. Typed slowly.
To: Thatcher
Subject: Vérité
If the leak spreads—containment only. No interviews. No spin. Keep the foundation clean. And keep Juliette’s name out of it. Entirely. She’s not involved. Don’t let them make her collateral damage. This one’s not just optics. It matters.
Then I hit send.
The screen confirmed it—message delivered—but the tension didn’t leave. Not even close.
I looked down at the binder again, at the perfectly organized itinerary. My finger tapped the edge of the page in time with the muted throb at my temple. Everything about Germany was ready. Every form, every checkpoint, every transfer of responsibility.
Except the part that couldn’t be documented—except the fallout if the leak spread fast and dragged Vérité down with it.
I wasn’t sure what that would do to the board. Or to her. But I knew one thing. It wouldn’t spell disaster.
I started walking, clearing my head after the email, the spinning headlines I could feel building just beyond the reach of a Google alert.
I didn’t want to sit around my office like some restless case study in poor decision-making, so I moved.
I went past the admin wing, past the empty exhibition space, until I ended up near the back, where we kept the crates, gloves, archival wrapping, and rolled canvas tubes labeled in thick black marker.
And there she was.
Juliette.
In a white blouse rolled to her elbows, fitted jeans dusted with foam residue, and hair twisted into one of those no-nonsense buns that still made me want to undo it with my teeth.
She was standing beside the Kandinsky—resting carefully on the cushioned easel. A pair of white cotton gloves stretched over her hands as she examined the lower corner for micro-cracking.
She didn’t notice me at first.
I watched the way she leaned in—careful, reverent, like the painting was breathing. And then she smiled, just slightly.
Not for me. For the art.
“Do you always flirt with the modernists?” I asked finally.
She turned, grinning over her shoulder. “Only the dead ones. Less trouble.”
I stepped inside, grabbed a pair of gloves from the shelf, and joined her.
“This one’s ready,” she said. “But the crate needs double foam. Whoever packed the Prague handoff used single-layer corrugate. I don’t want any vibration damage.”
“You just want an excuse to manhandle custom shipping foam.”
She shrugged. “Guilty.”
We lifted the piece together—slow, even, the kind of movement that only happens when both people are in sync. I felt the slight tremble of her grip and matched it. She didn't flinch. Neither did I.
Juliette reached for the second sheet of foam, and I held it in place while she anchored the corners with tape. We worked in near silence—glove-smooth rustle, soft creak of wood under pressure, the scent of fresh pine and archival adhesive lingering in the air.
We didn’t need to talk. We were already saying it. About trust. About rhythm. About the kind of shared respect you couldn’t fake—not for the work, and not for each other.
“You know,” she said as we secured the final side panel, “I used to think provenance was the least sexy part of a painting.”
“And now?”
She looked up. Smirked. “Now it’s tied with shipping logistics.”
I laughed—quiet but real. For a minute, I forgot the press. I forgot the leak. I forgot everything except the woman in front of me, the masterpiece between us, and the crate that would carry both history and meaning across the ocean.
We screwed down the lid, side by side. And I couldn’t help but wonder…
What else might we build if we kept working like this?
An hour later, she tapped lightly on the edge of my office door, knuckles brushing the frame like she was trying not to interrupt.
But she did. Completely.
Juliette stood there in a travel-black sleek blazer, a soft blouse the color of white wine, slim-fit pants, and ankle boots. Hair twisted up with just enough intention to make it look accidental. Professional, polished. Sharp as hell.
“I’ve got my passport, travel certs, customs docs, and insurance copies,” she said, grinning and holding up a slim leather folder. “Figured I’d drop them off before I head home to do some last-minute packing.”
I leaned back in my chair, giving her a smile I’d perfected in far less ethical boardrooms. “You always bring paperwork looking this sexy?”
She arched a brow but didn’t smile. “Only when international art crime is involved.”
Touché.
She crossed the room with the same grounded grace she carried everywhere now. Not just confidence—ownership. She handed me the folder, then lingered for a beat. Not long enough to be an invitation. Just long enough to say: this is business.
“Bringing anything else for the flight?” I asked, setting the folder down.
“My appraisal notes,” she said. “The Coral Gables estate sent over two more trunks of records. I figured I’d skim a few pages before we crash out mid-flight.”
I smirked. “Ambitious, considering we’re flying through the night and landing early afternoon their time.”
She shrugged, casual but sharp. “It helps me sleep. Reading provenance reports is like a lullaby if you do it long enough.”
Of course it was. While I’d be half-distracted by the way she curled into the seat or the way her lips pursed when she was focused, she’d be flipping through paperwork like it was the opening chapter of a mystery novel.
I tried to keep my tone easy. “Need a second pair of eyes?”
“I’m good.”
She wasn’t dismissive. Not cold.
Just... capable. Self-contained. The kind of woman who didn’t wait to be rescued or handed a plan.
Juliette turned toward the door, all polished efficiency.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard—Germany on my screen, something messier lingering in my mind.
And none of it had a clean paper trail.
Tell her. Say it now. The leak’s already started. She deserves to know what she’s flying into .
Instead, I opened my laptop and pulled up the email from Baden-Baden. The customs contact had replied with the import validation for the Kandinsky. The message was short, clipped, formal—very German.
Juliette glanced back just once before leaving. “I’ll see you at the hangar. Eight sharp.”
I nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
She didn’t smile this time. She just walked back to her office.
The email loaded. And the silence she left behind took up far more space than it should’ve.
The sky had dropped low when I stepped to the tall office windows. From there, I had a clear view of the sidewalk, which curved out toward the parking lot. The glass caught the last smear of sunset as it fell across the bay like someone had brushed orange and rosewater onto a steel-blue canvas.
Juliette stepped out of the building with her tote over one shoulder and her phone in hand, the corner of a document peeking from her folder like it was too important to stay tucked away. She moved with the kind of quiet purpose that didn’t need an audience.
She didn’t look back.
Didn’t need to. She’d already said yes—to the trip, to me... or at least the version of me I’d let her see.
And I wasn’t sure how long that would last.
I leaned a hand against the window frame, fingers splayed.
From this angle, I could still see the subtle slope of her shoulders, the confident sway of her hips.
She’d become so much a part of my day-to-day that I hadn’t noticed when she started threading herself into the parts of me I didn’t usually share.
The pieces I couldn’t explain away with charm or credentials.
She was part of this trip. Part of this story. But I hadn’t let her be part of the truth, and the truth was coming. With headlines. With judgment. With the kind of fallout I didn’t know how to control anymore.
If it burned Vérité to the ground, I’d survive. Rebuild.
But if it burned her faith in me—if it made her see me as just another entitled billionaire playing at legacy while hiding the smoke from my last disaster? I wasn’t sure how I’d get through that.
My chest tightened. I pressed my palm flat against the glass, as if I could hold her there for just one more second.
But Juliette kept walking. Hair catching the breeze. Keys swinging casually in her hand. She climbed into her car, started the engine, and drove away—tail lights blinking once, then disappearing into the dusk.
I stayed at the window long after she was gone. Waiting for something I couldn’t name, knowing, deep down, that I might not be able to keep her.
Not if she learned everything.
Not if she finally saw what was already cracking beneath the surface.