Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Damian
“Willkommen to Baden-Baden,” the flight attendant said over the cabin speakers, her voice smooth and accented. “The city of baths, gardens, and rest. Local time is just past four in the afternoon. Thank you for flying with us.”
The jet wheels touched down with a muted thud, rattling all the way through my chest.
Germany.
Baden-Baden. A town so proud of its hot springs, they named it twice.
Somehow, despite the leaks, the half-truths, and the thousand things I hadn’t said, I still had Juliette sitting beside me. She smoothed her jacket, her hair a little messy from the long flight, but made it look deliberate, professional, effortless, and untouchable.
The Kandinsky sat secured at the front, cradled like a crown jewel awaiting coronation. The museum had insisted on a personal handoff—no third-party couriers, no freight handlers. Just trust, reputation, and a pair of passports with clean histories.
The ramp lowered with a low mechanical hum. A rush of crisp air flooded the cabin, carrying the faint scent of wet stone and spring grass.
Juliette unbuckled her seatbelt, already reaching for the provenance packet and double-checking the seals on the crate. No hesitation. No nerves. Just muscle memory and focus.
I wanted to kiss her for it.
Instead, I grabbed my jacket and followed her into the cool German afternoon.
Waiting at the edge of the tarmac was a black Sprinter van marked with the discreet insignia of the Baden-Baden Regional Museum. Two curators and a registrar stood beside it, their smiles warm but cautious.
Juliette moved first, offering her hand with easy confidence. She slipped into fluent German like it was her first language. She didn’t need prompting—she never did.
I followed her lead, my own German polished enough to keep pace as we moved through the protocols: seal inspection, identity confirmation, chain of custody signatures.
Everything clocked along with mechanical precision, and I felt something close to steady for the first time in days.
Juliette crouched to double-check the crate’s base fastenings before the museum staff lifted it into the van. She jotted a few notes onto the transfer form, then handed it to me with a raised eyebrow like, Sign, Sinclair. Stop gawking.
I smirked and signed.
We watched the van pull away, taillights blinking once before disappearing around the curve of the museum’s private drive. A weight should have lifted from my chest. Instead, tension tightened deeper beneath my ribs, coiling slowly and with certainty.
I shoved my hands into my pockets and turned to her.
"That," I said, "was a damn fine delivery."
Juliette gave me a proud, almost mischievous smile. "We make a good team."
The words hit harder than they should have. I wanted to believe it was just about the art. Just a job well done. But standing there with her, laughing under the gray German sky, the crate safely handed off, I realized it wasn’t pride filling my chest. It was something bigger. Heavier.
Something dangerously close to hope.
We made our way toward the museum’s administrative wing for a short debrief before heading to the hotel. Somewhere deep down, I knew the easy part was over. Now came the fall.
The courtyard outside the museum was too quiet.
I should’ve noticed it sooner—the slight tension in the staff’s shoulders, the way our private chauffeur subtly straightened at the curb.
I adjusted the strap of my bag and motioned for Juliette to stay close.
We were halfway to the car when I spotted him. Plain blazer. Crooked press badge. Trying way too hard to look casual.
“Mr. Sinclair!” he called out, jogging a few steps forward. His German was polished but carried a faint American slant. “A quick question, sir—can you comment on the rumors about The Cut of Her Jib’s bankruptcy proceedings?”
Juliette stiffened beside me.
I didn’t break stride. “No comment,” I said smoothly, not even glancing his way.
We reached the car, and I opened Juliette’s door.
She didn’t get in. Instead, she leaned casually against the frame, her eyebrow lifting high.
“What’s this about The Cut of Her Jib ?” she asked, voice light but far too sharp to miss.
I gave her the same shrug I’d mastered at every board meeting where someone asked too many questions. “Just a side business,” I said. “Fashion stuff. Scarves. Fragrance. Minimalist junk. It’s not important.”
Juliette blinked once.
Then, deliberately, she tugged at the silk scarf knotted at her throat. The label fluttered out: Cut of Her Jib , stitched in crisp black script. She smiled sweetly, holding the tag between two fingers like evidence.
“Side business?” she said, all razor-edged amusement.
“Micro-enterprise,” I deadpanned, allowing the grin to rest lazily on my face even as my chest tightened.
She studied me for a long second. I couldn’t tell if she was buying it or storing it for later. Probably both. Then, without a word, she slid into the car, tucking the scarf neatly into her jacket.
I exhaled through my nose and climbed in after her.
The engine started, and Baden-Baden’s cobblestone streets blurred past in a watercolor of old stone and copper roofs.
Handled . I told myself. Contained.
But I knew better. The crack was already running, and it was headed straight for us.
The ride to the hotel was quieter than I liked. Juliette wasn’t angry. Not openly. She was something worse: thoughtful. Detached. As if she were building a case in her head.
I leaned forward and spoke to the driver in German, keeping my tone easy. “Could you stop at the next Apotheke?”
The driver nodded, turning down a narrow street lined with flower boxes and shuttered shops.
Juliette gave me a sideways glance. “Headache?”
“Long day,” I said, flashing a grin I didn’t feel.
She narrowed her eyes but didn’t press. She went back to scrolling her phone, one heel kicked lazily against the edge of the seat.
We slowed in front of a small pharmacy, its whitewashed walls and a green cross blinking faintly overhead. I slipped out quickly, pulling my jacket tightly against the early evening chill. Inside, the place smelled like antiseptic and mint. I grabbed the Advil easily enough.
The condoms were less graceful.
They were crammed between baby wipes and toothbrushes, like the universe was playing a joke. I snagged a box without overthinking it, tossing it onto the counter without ceremony.
The cashier didn’t blink. At least someone was having a normal day.
Bag tucked discreetly into my jacket pocket, I returned to the car. Juliette raised a brow. “Painkiller secured?”
I held up the Advil bottle like a trophy. “Wouldn’t want you thinking I’m grumpy without cause.”
She smirked. “You’re grumpy with cause.”
I shrugged, stretching one arm along the seat behind her, not quite touching but close enough to feel the static tension crackling between us.
“Don’t worry,” I said low. “I came prepared.”
Her eyes flared for half a heartbeat before she looked back out the window.
Small wins.
I’d take every one I could get.
The hotel was a grand stone structure perched just beyond the old town. Elegant without being gaudy. Timeless. Baden-Baden shimmered behind it: rolling vineyards, terra-cotta roofs, river mist hanging low over the hills.
I barely noticed.
I was too busy watching Juliette slide out of the car, adjust her carry-on, and flash the porter a polite, confident smile.
She was independent. Dangerous. Lethal to every last thread of restraint I had left.
The marble lobby was silent except for the soft murmur of water over a fountain.
The concierge smiled tightly as he tapped at his screen.
“There appears to be a mix-up,” he said in English. “You were both upgraded to our executive suite. Two bedrooms. Shared living space.”
I opened my mouth—to say what, I wasn’t even sure—but Juliette beat me to it.
“That’s fine,” she said easily. “We’re traveling together.”
I signed the slip with a flick of my wrist, without giving her a chance to change her mind. I stood there a moment too long, watching her, knowing exactly what I was walking into, and knowing I’d follow her anyway.
Every damn time.