Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Damian
The polished glass doors of the Vérité Foundation boardroom reflected my face as I reached for the handle—a face that looked a hell of a lot calmer than I felt.
Inside, the tension was thick enough to bottle and sell. Judge Valencia sat at the head of the table, flanked by Anthony on one side and a semicircle of donors and trustees on the other. The usual coffee carafes and silver water pitchers gleamed on the sideboard, untouched.
“Damian,” Valencia said smoothly, gesturing to the seat at the far end. “Glad you could join us.”
As if I had a choice.
I slid into the chair, back straight, hands folded on the table, and met their gazes one-by-one. The small talk was over before it began.
Anthony cleared his throat. “You’re aware of the headlines?”
“ The Cut of Her Jib bankruptcy?” I said dryly. “Hard to miss.”
A flicker of irritation crossed Valencia’s face. “Not just that. We’ve had calls. Louisa’s sudden departure has spooked donors. Without a replacement in place, the gala’s attendance is down by nearly twenty percent—and that was just this morning.”
I inhaled slowly. “I’m working on the Louisa situation.”
“Are you?” One of the older trustees leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Because from where we’re sitting, Damian, it looks like you’ve got one hand on a sinking ship and the other tangled in your personal life.”
Anthony shot the man a quick warning glance, but Valencia waved it off.
“Let’s speak plainly,” Valencia said, folding his hands on the polished table. “Your real estate portfolio is impressive, Damian. California, Miami, Europe. But inherited wealth isn’t the same as earned trust. You know that.”
The room went still. Not a cough. Not a shuffle of paper.
I forced a measured smile. “I’ve been a patron of the arts since long before Vérité came calling. I’ve funded exhibitions, supported young artists, and chaired restitution committees. My personal commitment to this foundation hasn’t wavered.”
The judge lifted an eyebrow. “But the public’s perception of you has.”
A beat of silence. The old-school boardroom kind—the one designed to sweat you out.
Valencia leaned back slightly. “We’re suggesting something simple. A gesture. Sell one of your Miami condo properties. Cover The Cut of Her Jib debt yourself. Show donors that you’re invested—not just in returning stolen art, but in the survival of this institution.”
Anthony’s eyes flicked to mine — sympathetic but cautious. This wasn’t his fight to win for me.
I exhaled slowly, fingertips tapping once against the table.
“I’ve spent months building this foundation’s reputation.
I won’t deny the optics are bad right now.
But I’m not walking away because we hit rough water.
I’ll take care of the debt. I’ll secure the lineup for the Vérité Annual Gala.
And I’ll have a candidate shortlist for Louisa’s replacement before the board reconvenes. ”
The room stirred — a soft rustle of approval, doubt, or both.
“And if you don’t?” Valencia asked quietly.
I looked him dead in the eye. “Then I’ll step down.”
It hung there, sharp as a blade.
Judge Valencia’s expression softened—just a fraction. “You have until the gala.”
Anthony gave a small nod. “We all want to see you succeed, Damian.”
The meeting adjourned with a scrape of chairs and the low murmur of parting words. Papers shuffled, tablets closed, polite smiles deployed as the board members filed out one-by-one.
I stayed seated.
For a long moment, I watched the streetlights flicker to life outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, their glow catching on the polished floors as headlights traced soft ribbons of light across the glass.
The weight of it all—the money, the expectations, the brittle edge of trust—settled across my shoulders like a coat I’d been wearing too long to notice.
The office was quiet once they were gone.
I sank into the leather chair behind my desk, the cushions sighing under my weight as I yanked loose the knot of my tie and let it hang limp around my collar.
The Miami skyline glimmered beyond the window—streetlights, car beams, the distant neon haze buzzing to life as the city shifted into night.
For a while, I just sat there. Breathing.
The boardroom echoes still rang in my head—Valencia’s sharp-edged words, Anthony’s measured disappointment, the donors’ carefully veiled doubts. It all blurred together into one heavy refrain: Are you the man for this, Damian?
My gaze drifted over the rows of buildings, the crowded avenues, the faint shimmer of the bay beyond.
I wondered—not for the first time—if all I’d done was polish the edges of my father’s empire. If anything I’d touched was truly mine. Real estate portfolios, corporations, and development deals. Legacy wrapped in a suit.
And love?
That was the part I couldn’t seem to hold on to.
I pulled my phone from my pocket, thumb hovering over Juliette’s name. For a second—just one stupid, hungry second—I almost typed I miss you. Almost.
Instead, I locked the screen and set the phone facedown on the desk.
Mateo’s text flashed through my mind—his easy ask, his quiet trust.
A faint sound stirred at the edge of the silence—soft footsteps, the whisper of a door easing open.
I turned, heart thudding once in a way I didn’t expect.
Juliette stood in the doorway, the dim light catching the curve of her smile. Her arms were casually wrapped around her purse.
“I hoped you might still be here,” she said quietly.
The weight slipped from my shoulders for a heartbeat, and neither of us moved.
Juliette stood just inside the doorway, the glow from the hallway casting a soft outline around her. She wore dark jeans and a simple blouse, her hair loose around her shoulders, like she hadn’t planned to be here, like she’d almost talked herself out of it—and then came anyway.
I let out a slow breath and pushed back from the desk, running a hand through my hair. “You’re a surprise,” I said.
Her mouth curved in the faintest smile. “That makes two of us.”
I gestured to the chair across from me, but she shook her head and stepped closer instead, arms still loosely folded.
She glanced around the office—the sleek furniture, the framed Kandinsky poster on the wall, the crystal decanter on the side table like some relic from a more polished version of myself.
“I came to grab a few things I left before I moved them to the new office,” she said, voice light, easy. “But… I figured I’d check on you first.”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, watching her. “Checking on me?” I echoed, half a smile tugging at my mouth. “That’s dangerously close to caring, Vanderburg.”
Her laugh was soft but real. “Don’t get used to it.”
The air stretched between us, delicate and charged. I scrubbed a hand over my face, exhaling hard. “Board meeting ended a little while ago. It was… about as fun as you’d expect.”
Her brow creased slightly, the teasing edge slipping from her expression. “Rough?”
“Of course, they saw the news about the bankruptcy of The Cut of Her Jib . Now that we are bleeding donors, they are looking for answers... They want results,” I admitted, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice.
“They want stability, fresh blood, a new face to reassure the donors. And they want it all by our annual gala.”
Juliette lowered herself onto the arm of the chair across from me, one foot braced lightly on the floor. “Sounds like you’re carrying the world, Damian.”
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Sometimes it feels like it’s carrying me.”
We sat like that for a few quiet seconds, the tension softening just enough for me to breathe without feeling like my chest might crack.
“Look,” she said gently, “I don’t know if this is the best timing, or even if it’s my place, but…” She hesitated, biting her lip briefly, then met my gaze. “Do you want to grab a drink? Just a bar down the street. No business talk. No headlines. Just… people.”
My throat tightened, something sharp and hopeful cutting through the exhaustion.
For a beat, I almost did—almost gave in to the instinct to retreat, save face, and keep pretending I didn’t want more.
That old, familiar armor had kept me upright through boardrooms and breakups, through headlines and losses.
It was easier, safer, to stay behind it.
To let her walk out of this office like she had walked out of that hotel suite, leaving me with nothing but the echo of what we could’ve been.
But the thing was, I did want more.
More than the casual texts and late-night calls. More than the passion we fell into when neither of us wanted to think too hard. More than the version of me that only showed up when it was convenient.
I wanted her laughter across the table, her voice cutting through the quiet when the nights got too heavy. I wanted the person who called me on my bullshit, who saw through the polished image and didn’t flinch.
So, yeah—I wanted more.
And for the first time in longer than I cared to admit, I was done pretending I didn’t.
I let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of the boardroom, the legacy, the endless expectations slide off my shoulders, just a little.
“I could use a drink,” I murmured.
Juliette’s smile softened, a little warmer this time, as if she could hear everything I hadn’t managed to say.
“There’s a place around the corner,” she offered, stepping in just far enough to bridge the space between us. “Good wine. Terrible music. Low expectations.”
A dry laugh worked its way up my throat—unexpected, unpolished, and somehow more honest than anything I’d said in days.
“Sounds perfect,” I said.
For the first time all week, the tight band across my chest loosened. Just a little. Just enough.
I reached for my jacket, glancing at her as she leaned casually against the doorframe.
“Juliette,” I said quietly, and when she looked up, it hit me harder than I expected. “Thanks… for showing up.”
She shrugged, the corner of her mouth tipping up. “Not sure if I’m doing it for you… or for me.”
“Or for both of us,” I muttered. And just like that, the night felt less heavy. The future… maybe not easier, but not quite so impossible.
We left the office together, side by side—not as business associates, not as lovers, but as something in between.
“I’ll meet you there, Jules.”