Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Juliette
As I signed the last dotted line, the pen felt heavier than it should have.
The leasing agent—an overly cheerful man with loafers too shiny to trust—beamed at me as he slid the paperwork into a sleek leather folder. “Congratulations, Ms. Vanderburg,” he said, pushing the keys across the narrow desk. “You officially have a storefront now for Reliable Art Services.”
I mustered a smile, the polite kind you give when you're supposed to feel victorious, but all you feel is hollow. “Thanks,” I said, my voice breezy enough to mask the slow, careful panic uncurling in my chest.
The truth was, I’d thought about backing out.
I had even rehearsed what I’d say to him, something light and regretful.
I’d planned to blame it on a delayed loan, on needing to rework the numbers, on anything but the real reason: that I was tangled up in something with Damian Sinclair, and for a minute there, I thought perhaps plans would change.
But they hadn’t. At least, not the way I hoped.
And if I’d learned anything lately, it was that waiting on someone else to decide your future was a dangerous kind of limbo. So I’d signed. And now the keys were warm in my palm.
He gave a few more instructions about parking passes and mail delivery that I barely heard before finally standing to shake my hand. The door swung closed behind him with a cheerful chime. The office— my office—fell into a deep, expectant silence.
I stood in the middle of the empty room, the echoes of his departure still fading. The space was beautiful, objectively speaking. High ceilings. Crisp white walls begging for art. Warm oak floors that glowed under the afternoon light spilling through the tall windows.
It should have felt like a beginning. Instead, it felt suspiciously like building a fortress. I wasn’t just building a business. I was building walls.
I turned the key in the lock, hearing the soft metallic click, and leaned back against the door, letting my head fall back with a soft thud. One shaky breath. Then another.
I wasn’t going to fall apart.
Not now.
Not over this.
This was the career I wanted, wasn’t it? Independence. Purpose. A way to shape something of my own without waiting for someone else to offer it—or ruin it.
My phone buzzed against my hip.
Gabrielle: Furniture shopping? You’re not doing this alone. I’m on my way. Anthony’s on Julian duty. Save me a parking spot.
A surprised laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it. God, I loved her. Even when she didn’t know how much I needed saving, she showed up anyway.
I glanced out the tall front window. The street beyond was bustling with late afternoon Miami traffic, flashes of green palms and pastel shops blurring into the sun-soaked backdrop of Coconut Grove.
Out there, the world kept spinning. Inside here, my new life was quietly waiting for me to be brave enough to claim it.
I texted back quickly:
Juliette: Hurry. I’m about to buy a neon pink velvet couch out of pure panic.
Her reply came a second later:
Gabrielle: Wouldn’t even stop you. It would match your chaos aesthetic perfectly.
I smiled as I slipped my phone back into my bag. Maybe the timing wasn’t perfect. Maybe my heart was still a mess. Maybe Damian Sinclair was still tangled somewhere in the threads of my future I hadn’t figured out how to cut.
But for today—for this small, flickering moment, I could believe that starting over didn’t have to mean starting alone.
I pushed off the door, squared my shoulders, and waited for my sister. The hardest parts were still ahead, but so were the best ones.
The upscale furniture emporium smelled like sandalwood candles and optimism.
Gabrielle and I wandered through rows of glossy desks and cushioned armchairs, arguing about practicality versus style in low, half-laughing voices.
She kept steering me toward heavy, serious pieces—the kind of furniture that screamed I have an assistant who screens my calls.
I, naturally, kept drifting toward things that didn’t match at all: velvet chairs, a gold-trimmed glass desk, a ridiculous art deco lamp shaped like a flamingo.
“You’re going to blind your clients with that thing,” Gabrielle muttered as I admired the flamingo lamp.
“They’ll be so dazzled by my taste, they won’t even care about their appraisal fees,” I quipped, twirling the lamp’s shade like a prize wheel.
She rolled her eyes, but I caught the flicker of real affection behind them. It felt good. Normal. Like the world hadn’t tilted sideways somewhere between Baden-Baden and Miami.
We paused in front of a sleek walnut desk with clean lines, just enough presence without being intimidating. I ran my fingers along the edge, feeling the weight of the decision settle in my chest.
Gabrielle leaned a hip against the nearest chair, arms crossed loosely.
“So…” she said, voice casual but a little too light. “Are we going to talk about it?”
I didn’t pretend not to know what she meant. Instead, I sighed and let my forehead fall briefly onto the cool surface of the desk. “You mean the part where I basically asked Damian to help me start a family and he treated it like I’d offered him a timeshare in hell?”
Gabrielle snorted softly. “Maybe not in those exact words.”
I straightened, brushing imaginary dust from my blouse. “It’s not just that,” I muttered. “It’s everything. He couldn’t even admit it when I practically handed him the chance to be honest.”
“About being a sperm donor?” she asked gently.
I nodded, throat tightening.
“I get it,” Gabrielle said after a beat. “You wanted him to meet you halfway. To trust you enough to tell you the truth.”
I picked at a loose thread on my cuff. “He wouldn’t even consider it. Helping me. No strings attached.”
Gabrielle’s gaze softened in that twin-sister way that always made me feel simultaneously understood and called out.
“Maybe it’s not that simple, Jules,” she said, her voice softer now. “Friends-with-benefits sounds easy until real life shows up. One side always outweighs the other—either the friendship or the fun. And once you add a kid into the mix... It’s not just complicated. It’s chaos. For everyone.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but closed it just as fast. Because she was right, a child would change everything. Those lines blurred even if things started with good intentions and clear boundaries. Kids asked questions. Kids deserved answers.
“You’re asking for permanent ties,” Gabrielle added quietly. “Even if you don’t call it that.”
The lump in my throat grew heavier. Gabrielle nudged me gently with her shoulder. “And besides… maybe you’re wrong about him. Maybe it’s not even him in the donor catalogue.”
I tried to laugh, but it came out brittle. Gabrielle didn’t push. She just smiled and picked up a swatch book, flipping it open.
“Come on,” she said, tossing it at me. “Pick a chair before you drive me crazy. Something that says serious art professional, not reformed flamingo enthusiast. ”
I caught the swatch book against my chest and smiled—this time for real.
Maybe life didn’t come in perfect packages. Maybe family didn’t either. But sisters? Sisters stayed. And right now, that was enough.
We left the furniture store lighter in the wallet and heavier in the arms—two rolling carts stacked with catalogs, sample books, and a pair of ridiculous coffee mugs Gabrielle insisted we needed for the office.
One said 'CEO' and one said ‘Caffeinated and Dangerous.’ My sister thought I needed both, and I didn’t argue.
After we loaded everything into Gabrielle’s SUV, we stopped at a little Cuban café tucked into the edge of Coconut Grove. The place smelled like burnt sugar and cinnamon and had mismatched chairs that scraped too loudly against the tile. It wasn’t fancy. It was perfect.
I wrapped my hands around the warm ceramic of my cappuccino, the heat grounding me as the fatigue finally started to creep in—the slow crash after weeks of pushing forward, pushing past.
Across the table, Gabrielle studied me over the rim of her cold brew, swirling her spoon through the melting ice like she was trying to stir up a distraction.
“There’s more,” I said, licking the foam off my upper lip.
“You know what really pissed me off?” I leaned in slightly.
“I’d heard whispers about Damian’s financial mess, but he tried to hide the truth from me.
” I took another sip. “Vérité is bleeding donors, and he didn’t even give me a chance to stand by him. ”
Gabrielle set her spoon down and met my eyes. “You know today’s his board meeting, right?”
I blinked. “What?”
She shrugged, too casual to be casual. “Anthony told me. Damian’s got a full board review at Vérité this afternoon. Valencia called it. Pretty formal. Pretty serious.”
I stared at her, my stomach tilting sideways. “And you’re telling me now?”
“I didn’t want to dump it on you while you were signing leases and arguing over chair fabrics,” she said, nudging her coffee aside. “But yeah. It’s today. By tonight, he could be out. Everything he built could be gone.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Harder than I wanted them to. I looked down at the foam art in my cup, tracing the edges of the clumsy heart someone had swirled into the top. “He didn’t say anything.”
“Of course he didn’t,” Gabrielle said gently. “Because Damian Sinclair would rather walk through fire than ask someone to hold his hand.”
I huffed a breath that was half a laugh, half a cracked rib. “That sounds about right.”
She leaned in, elbows on the table. “You don’t have to fix it for him, Jules.
You don’t have to fix him. But...” She hesitated, searching my face.
“You always said you wanted something real. Not curated. Not premeditated. Real connection. And sometimes, that starts by showing up. Especially when it’s the hardest thing to do. ”
The words sat heavy between us, heavier than the lease I’d just signed or the office I’d just filled. Just show up not as a lover. Not as a liability. Not even as the woman he might’ve broken.
Just... a friend.
I stared out the window at the street, the late afternoon sun throwing long shadows over the sidewalk, and wondered when exactly the ground under my feet had started to shift without warning me first.
Gabrielle didn’t push. She just sipped her coffee, waiting. Maybe she already knew. Maybe deep down, I did too.
I wrapped my hands tighter around the cup, feeling the warmth seep into my fingers even as the doubt stayed cold inside me.
Gabrielle was right. Connections didn’t come with guarantees.
They came with risk. Like showing up, even when you didn’t know if the door would swing open—or slam in your face.
I set the cup down carefully, the slight clink loud in the quiet space between us. “I’m not promising anything,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “I’m just... not ready to disappear.”
Gabrielle smiled—small, proud. “Good.”
She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t need to.
As we gathered our things and headed back into Miami’s late afternoon sun, one thought kept pressing against my ribs, stubborn and impossible to ignore. Maybe love didn’t start with fireworks. Maybe it started by walking back into the fire... and choosing to stay.
We parted ways outside the coffee shop—Gabrielle waving as she headed toward her car. I stood there for a moment, keys in hand, the sound of the city rising around me.
I could go home. Lose myself in client calls and color swatches and new beginnings, and pretend tonight didn’t matter.
Or... I could drive toward the one place where it did.
I slid into the driver’s seat, the engine springing to life beneath me, without thinking too hard about it.
I pointed my car toward Vérité.