Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Juliette
The private terminal wasn’t busy, but the energy still buzzed the way it always did before an international flight—subdued voices, expensive watches flashing under designer cuffs, luggage gliding smoothly across marble floors.
I tightened my grip on my carry-on and followed the sleek attendant who greeted me at the check-in desk.
“Ms. Vanderburg, welcome aboard,” she said with a practiced smile. “You’re first to arrive.”
Naturally.
We crossed the tarmac to the jet—sleek, polished, and just obnoxious enough to say yes, we run with billionaires, but we’re discreet about it. The first thing I saw when I stepped inside wasn’t the butter-soft leather seats or the silver service cart lined with glassware. It was the crate.
The Kandinsky.
I paused. It sat secured along the interior wall, strapped in a custom carrier, the wood reinforced, and the seals already checked twice by the foundation's logistics guy this morning.
But still.
I walked over, lightly ran my hand across the crate’s side, feeling the faint ridges of the serial stamps. I double-checked the fastenings because no matter how careful they’d been, it was my name now, too—on the chain of custody.
Behind me, I heard footfalls.
I turned just as Damian boarded—casual in jeans and a sport coat, looking infuriatingly awake for someone about to spend nine hours in the air.
His duffel was slung over one shoulder, sunglasses pushed into his hair, and he was already flashing that Sinclair smirk that made rational women misplace their IQ points.
“Are the goods secure?” he asked, nodding at the crate.
I rolled my eyes. “Unless you plan on somersaulting this plane onto the tarmac, it’s not going anywhere.”
He dropped his bag into the seat opposite mine. “Good. I’d hate to have to break into a German prison to explain a missing Kandinsky.”
“Don’t joke,” I muttered, double-checking the tie-downs one more time. “Customs paperwork only buys us so much forgiveness.”
He watched me work for a moment, leaning one shoulder against the nearest seat, and I could feel his gaze like a low whisper across my skin.
Finally satisfied, I tugged my blazer straight and turned to face him.
“Ready?” I asked.
He grinned. “Born ready.”
The flight attendant reappeared with a tray of champagne flutes, but I waved her off. Damian accepted one because, of course, he did.
We settled into our seats—mine facing slightly away from his because, frankly, I needed the distance tonight.
As the jet taxied, I let my fingers skim over the corners of my notes folder, the Coral Gables estate records tucked neatly inside. Work. Focus. Professionalism. I was here for a job.
Not for him.
Not for the way his hand flexed around the stem of the glass or the way he loosened his collar when he thought I wasn’t looking.
The jet began its climb, engines vibrating beneath the carpeted cabin floor.
I stole one last glance at the crate secured near the wall.
Then another glance at the man stretched casually in his seat across from me.
Neither one of them belonged to me, but tonight, for a little while, maybe I could pretend they did.
The first hour passed in that dreamy, pressurized haze that only comes from cruising thirty-five thousand feet above a world that keeps turning without you.
Damian had his laptop open, skimming emails he clearly wasn’t reading. I had my appraisal notes out, the familiar rhythm of work steadying me more than the champagne I hadn’t touched.
Across the aisle, the flight attendant approached again, polite but curious, her gaze flickering toward the large secured crate bolted near the galley.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” she said, keeping her voice low and professional, “what’s in the crate?”
I smiled, setting my pen down. “A painting. Vasily Kandinsky.”
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “An original?”
“Original, yes. Stolen during the Nazi regime,” I explained. “It’s being returned to a museum in Baden-Baden. Near where the family who originally owned it lived before the war.”
She glanced at the crate again, her expression softening. “That’s… incredible.”
“It is,” I said quietly. “A lot of pieces from that era never make it home.”
Damian closed his laptop and leaned back in his seat, watching me now instead of his inbox.
The flight attendant thanked me, adjusted the strap on the crate for good measure, and left us alone again.
The whir of the engines filled the space between us, steady and private.
I looked down at my papers, tried to focus on the handwritten provenance notes, but I could feel him watching me.
Always watching.
Finally, I set the folder aside. I cleared my throat, casually—too casually. “So,” I said, stretching my legs out in front of me. “I should probably tell you... I’m off the pill.”
I didn’t look at him at first. I just let the words hang there, light and heavy all at once.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him choke slightly on his champagne.
Good.
When I finally turned to face him, he was sitting up straighter, glass forgotten on the tray beside him, his brows drawn together like he wasn’t sure he’d heard me correctly.
“You’re... what?”
I shrugged one shoulder, pretending it was no big deal. “I went to the fertility specialist. Figured it was time to get a baseline. You know. Options.”
Damian stared at me, the air between us thinning into something sharp.
“No big reveal planned,” I added, flipping the top page of my notes idly. “Just needed to get the hormones cleared before they can run proper tests.”
His jaw flexed once, tight. “You’re serious about this,” he said quietly.
“Serious enough to show up at a clinic before ten in the morning without caffeine or hope.” I smiled when I said it. Joking. Easy. But underneath, my heart knocked against my ribs a little harder.
The jet hummed forward, a beautiful sunset unfurling beyond the windows.
Damian leaned his head back against the seat, watching me through half-lidded eyes.
“So what’s the plan?” he asked eventually. “Pick a donor? Roll some dice?”
I pulled in a deep breath. Then, because we were here—adrift between time zones, between choices—I said it: “I haven’t picked anyone yet.” I paused, tasting the question before asking it. “Would you ever consider it?”
His gaze sharpened instantly.
“Consider what?”
I smiled, but it wasn’t playful. Not this time.
“Donating. Being... involved.” I looked down at my notes, then back up. “Helping someone you trust. No strings. No expectations.”
The silence that followed was so thick, so absolute, I thought for a second maybe the engines had gone silent too.
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
If he said no, if he laughed, if he made some flippant joke, I would survive it.
I wasn’t asking for love. I wasn’t even asking for permanence. Just... something honest. Something real.
Damian rubbed the back of his neck like the words itched under his skin. For a moment, I swore I saw something flicker in his eyes. Something that wasn’t fear. Something that wasn’t casual. But whatever it was, he buried it before it could surface.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking over at me like I was a puzzle he hadn’t decided if he wanted to solve or break apart. “That’s a hell of a thing to ask on a private flight,” he muttered.
I grinned, even though my chest was tight. “Hey, if the conversation gets too heavy, at least we’re flying with a full bar and no exits.”
Damian exhaled, low and ragged.
I didn’t push.
I just picked up my notes again, giving him the out he needed, and started underlining a few lines I’d already memorized. Beyond my glasses, I could still feel his gaze on me.
Watching.
Damian stretched his legs out under the table, his bare ankle brushing mine by accident—or maybe not. The cabin lights had been dimmed to a soft, amber glow, and the low hum of the engines made everything feel a little detached from reality. Cozy. Suspended. Dangerous.
He toyed with his wine glass for a second, staring into it like he thought it might give him better words.
Then he cleared his throat. “Why IVF?”
The question was soft. Not judgmental. But careful.
I blinked, caught off guard. “Why not?” I tossed back casually, but even I could hear the thinness in my voice.
Damian didn’t look away. “You just always seemed…” He trailed off, searching. “You know. Life of the party. Zero plans beyond the next art gala or tequila shot until recently, with your own art appraisal business.”
I leaned back in my seat, stretching slightly, letting the movement give me time to think.
He wasn’t wrong. Not completely.
“I can be both,” I said lightly. “The girl who wants to dance on a yacht at midnight... and the woman who maybe, someday, wants a kid to share her life with.”
He frowned a little. Not disapproving—just confused. “So... why now?”
I tapped my finger against the rim of my glass. “Gabrielle. She’s been trying for another baby. It's… complicated… the possible medical issues. Made me realize perhaps I’m not invincible either, especially since we are twins.”
He nodded slowly, absorbing that. His thumb traced the stem of his glass, restless.
“And you don’t want to do it the… conventional way?” His mouth quirked, like he hated how prudish he sounded.
I gave a short, dry laugh. “What? Let some guy knock me up and disappear after brunch?”
His mouth kicked into a reluctant smile, but there was tension in his shoulders now. As if he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure he had the right.
“I’m not opposed to love or marriage if it ever happens,” I said. “But I’m not betting my biology on a maybe.” I didn’t add, especially now, after seeing the clinic’s donor catalogue.
He shifted, drumming his fingers lightly against the leather tabletop. “And you haven’t picked a donor yet?”
I shook my head. “Still looking.” Still wondering if it would be wrong or right to pick the one whose childhood photo made my heart catch.
Still wondering if it was him.
Damian exhaled slowly, and the sound made my skin prickle. He wasn’t upset. Not exactly. But he was unsettled. I could feel it vibrating between us, low and warm.
“I don’t have to decide tonight, do I?” he asked, and the way he said it—half teasing, half serious—made my throat tighten.
I smiled and tipped my glass toward him. “Good news. I haven’t even had the tests yet. Technically, I don’t even know if I need a donor.”
His shoulders loosened just a fraction, but that small, unreadable smile stayed.
“Besides,” I added, swirling the wine in my glass. “If I had to decide tonight, I’d have to consult my magic eight ball. And I left it in my other purse.”
He huffed out a short laugh, shaking his head like he wasn’t sure if he was amused or exasperated.
The moment lightened—but not completely. Not where it counted.
Because the whole time he was sitting there, trying to play it cool, part of me was thinking— You could just ask him if it was indeed him in the donor catalogue. Right here. Right now.
But part of me was screaming— No. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The plane banked slightly, the stars outside shifting across the windows in a slow, dizzy sprawl toward some invisible horizon.
I looked at him—beautiful, complicated, maddening Damian—and wondered if either of us would be the same when we landed.
The engines’ whir deepened, and somewhere over the Atlantic, the cabin lights dimmed to a low, soft gold.
I shifted in my seat, tugging the thin blanket up over my legs, trying not to think about what came next—Germany, the handoff, the future I hadn’t mapped yet.
Beside me, Damian stretched his legs out, his hand brushing lightly against mine as he adjusted his seat.
He didn’t move it. Didn’t pull away.
Neither did I.
The warmth of his fingers against my skin was small. Barely a touch. But it buzzed louder than any turbulence, louder than the questions we weren’t asking.
Eventually, his breathing evened out, the rhythm of it slow and steady. Sleep found him easily, the way it always seemed to.
I stayed awake longer, staring at the jet’s ceiling, feeling his hand’s steady pulse against mine. Wondering if some part of me already knew—when we landed, it wouldn’t just be Germany waiting. It would be everything we weren’t ready to say yet. And maybe... it always had been.
I closed my eyes, willing my mind to still.
Just as I started to drift, I heard it—faint, barely more than a breath—“Jules…”
My heart skidded against my ribs. I stayed still, frozen in the dark, pretending not to hear him. Pretending it didn’t matter. But it did. It mattered more than I wanted to admit.
I tightened my fingers slightly against his, anchoring myself to the moment.
To him.
The jet sailed steadily through the night sky, chasing a sunrise neither of us was ready for.
And somewhere between dreams and denial, Damian Sinclair said my name like it was the only thing he trusted.