Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Juliette
The bar was tucked into the corner of the Ocean Breeze Hotel, all low lighting and deep velvet booths, the kind of place where voices softened, and time stretched.
I spotted him before he saw me—Damian, sitting at the far end, one elbow draped over the back of the booth, a glass of red wine in hand, his jacket carelessly tossed beside him.
His shirt was open at the collar, his tie gone, his hair a little mussed from the day.
He looked… tired. And beautiful. And like the man I had been trying and failing to forget.
When his gaze lifted and found mine, something in his face changed. Not the public mask he wore at galas and boardrooms. Not the polished charm I’d seen him use a hundred times before. Something real.
He stood as I approached—old-fashioned, unnecessary, but it made something warm flicker low in my chest.
“I missed you, Jules,” he said quietly as he reached out to caress my cheek. “I’m sorry about the way things turned out in Germany.”
In the past, I would have laughed it off, tossed him some light comment, and kept it breezy and safe. But instead, I just stood there, feeling my heart tip forward in my chest.
“I missed you, too,” I admitted, the words tasting strange and sweet on my tongue.
We settled into the booth, the candles on the table flickering between us.
The first sips of wine loosened my shoulders, the softness in Damian’s voice unspooled some knot I hadn’t even known I’d been carrying.
We talked about everything and nothing. The new office.
The weather. A ridiculous art world scandal had popped up in the news that morning.
But beneath it all, the current pulled at us—the one we kept trying to ignore but never could.
When the second glass arrived, Damian leaned back, eyes half-lidded, thumb brushing the rim of his glass. “You ever think,” he murmured, “we were just pretending to keep it casual?”
My laugh was soft. “If we were, we were terrible at it.”
He smiled—faint, almost private—and for a moment, the whole world narrowed to the space between us.
That was when I felt it—the weight of my own armor.
The independence I wore like a shield. The need to stand on my own, do it all myself, prove I didn’t need anyone.
I saw it in Gabrielle’s eyes earlier, the way she watched me fuss over every detail of the new office, the way she gently offered help, and I gently brushed her off.
The truth hit me with the kind of quiet clarity that only comes with candlelight and confession:
Perhaps my fierce independence wasn’t just a strength. Perhaps it was a cage.
The secret that kept me from emotionally growing.
I excused myself, murmuring something about the restroom. I needed a breath, a moment to gather my thoughts.
Inside, I stood at the sink, hands braced on the marble, staring at a version of myself I wasn’t sure I fully recognized. My lipstick was smudged—eyes too bright. A woman on the edge of something she wasn’t sure she was brave enough to name.
I smoothed my hair and took a steadying breath. And quietly, just for me, I whispered, “I can’t stay away from him.”
It wasn’t a confession to the mirror. It was the truth to myself, and if I was going to figure out how to make this last—whatever this was—I had to be willing to put down the armor.
I straightened, pressed my palms against the cool marble, and gave the woman in the mirror the smallest, bravest smile I could manage. Then I turned, ready to go back to the table.
Ready to go back to Damian.
By the time I slid back into the booth, Damian was idly tracing a fingertip around the rim of his wineglass, gaze distant, jaw tight.
Whatever relaxed warmth we’d carved out over the past hour had slipped, leaving behind the man I recognized all too well—the one carrying a weight on his shoulders and pretending it didn’t hurt.
“Hey,” I said softly, nudging his knee under the table. “Where’d you go just now?”
He blinked, then offered a half-smile. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous pastime,” I teased gently.
He huffed a quiet laugh. “The board meeting today… It was rougher than I let on.”
I leaned in, elbows on the table. “Tell me.”
For a moment, he hesitated—then something in his posture softened.
He tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling like the words were tucked somewhere up there.
“They think I’m coasting on inheritance.
Riding on my father’s name, my family’s money.
They’re… not wrong.” His jaw clenched. “They want proof I’m invested.
That I’m not just some billionaire with a nice portfolio. ”
I watched him carefully, my heart tugging. “And are you?”
His gaze dropped to mine, raw and exposed. “I want to be more.”
It was such a quiet admission, so unlike the suave, deflecting man I usually sat across from, that it punched the air right out of my chest.
“Then let me help,” I murmured before I could overthink it.
His brow furrowed. “Help how?”
I took a slow breath, the idea forming even as I spoke.
“What if Reliable Art Services partnered with Vérité? I mean, think about it—I can help appraise, advise, maybe even handle legacy pieces or estates. You can connect my clients with placement options or high-profile buyers. And if donors know I’m volunteering with the foundation and not on the payroll… it’s good for both of us.”
For the first time all night, something sparked in his eyes—not just interest, but something hungry, almost boyish. “Juliette, that’s… brilliant.”
I felt myself flush, warmth blooming low in my belly. “You think?”
“I know.” His laugh was soft, almost disbelieving.
“You know, when I was a kid… my father thought the best way to show love was to ship me off to boarding school. And my mother—” he hesitated, just briefly, “she left while we were living in Paris. I guess I’ve been carrying around this idea that you can’t really count on anyone.
But here you are.” He shook his head, a little dazed. “Showing up.”
I squeezed his hand, feeling something crack open between us. “Maybe we can both rewrite a few stories.”
Damian was already reaching for his phone, thumb flicking over the screen. “I have an idea—let’s call Gabrielle and loop Anthony in. I want to hear what they think about this.”
I pulled out my phone and dialed Gabrielle. She picked up on the second ring, laughter in her tone, with Anthony’s voice in the background, cheering loudly at whatever game he was watching.
“Hey,” I said, smiling at the sound of home. “Can I put you on speaker?”
“Of course. What’s up?”
Damian leaned in, voice low and eager. “Anthony, it’s Damian. Juliette has this idea—partnering Reliable with Vérité. Appraisals, donor relations, estate consulting… It’s a natural fit. What do you think?”
There was a beat of silence, then Anthony’s voice, bright and sure. “That’s exactly the kind of innovation the board’s been craving. And frankly, Damian, it’s the first time in weeks you’ve sounded excited about something. Do it.”
Gabrielle chimed in, teasing, “Told you she was the sharp one.”
Damian laughed—a real, chest-deep laugh that lit his face from the inside out. When he ended the call, he reached across the table, catching my hand.
“You just saved my ass,” he murmured, thumb brushing the back of my knuckles. “You do know that, right?”
I swallowed around the knot rising in my throat. “I’m not trying to save you, Damian. I’m trying to stand next to you.”
For a second, neither of us moved. Just the soft clink of glasses, the low sound of music, the quiet admission of two people finally—maybe—stopping the pretense.
In his eyes, I saw it: the same thing I was finally ready to admit.
We were never just friends with benefits. We were never casual. We were always inevitably something more.
“Dance with me,” he murmured, voice rough at the edges, yet carrying a softness that tugged at something deep within me. God, I should have hesitated. Should have held back just a little. But the truth was, when Damian touched me, hesitation melted like sugar on my tongue.
I let him pull me up. His arms slid around me like they had so many times before, one at the small of my back, the other curling around my waist, fingertips pressing just enough to remind me he was there.
Like I could forget. The world outside ceased to exist as we became our own universe, swaying gently to the rhythm that seemed to pulse in time with our heartbeats.
“You know… I can actually picture this working.”
I smiled, chest warming. “It’s crazy, isn’t it?
Reliable Art Services and Vérité Foundation, two completely different worlds—but the more we talked tonight, the more I could see it.
We could help families who don’t know what to do with inherited art, connect them to the right buyers, bring those donors into the foundation’s circle?—”
“—and finally have an in-house expert who knows what the hell they’re doing when an appraisal crisis lands on my desk,” Damian finished, a grin tugging at his mouth. His eyes softened when they met mine. “It’s been a long time since I was this excited about something that wasn’t… restoration work.”
I rested my head lightly against his shoulder. “Feels good, doesn’t it? To build instead of just patch holes.”
His hands flexed on my waist, pulling me a little closer. “Feels a lot like you.”
The music faded, leaving a hush between us that felt heavier than the quiet ambience of the bar around us. We lingered there, fingers lightly intertwined on the table, eyes tracing each other’s faces as if neither of us was ready to let the night go.
“Do you mind driving me home? I can get my car later,” I murmured, brushing my thumb across the back of his hand.
Damian gave a small nod, his mouth curving just slightly. “Sure thing.”
The drive was quiet, but it wasn’t empty. Our hands brushed on the console now and then, and every stoplight seemed to stretch just a little longer, filling the car with a soft, charged stillness. Halfway there, his voice broke the quiet.
“Have you made that doctor’s appointment yet?” he asked carefully, eyes flicking to mine before returning to the road.
I looked out the window, the city lights blurring past in smudged streaks of gold and red. “No, but I don’t want to discuss my health issues tonight.”
He didn’t push. He just exhaled softly, his fingers flexing briefly on the steering wheel, a silent patience that tightened my throat.
I stayed quiet, but inside, the words churned.
I wasn’t ready. Not tonight. Not with the ache between us still so fresh and raw.
The truth was, I hadn’t decided what I wanted to do next—hadn’t decided if I was strong enough to chase the dream of becoming a mother alone, or brave enough to ask him again.
It was an open wound between us, and if I touched it now, I wasn’t sure if I’d bleed or break.
When we pulled up outside the guest house, I hesitated with my hand on the door handle.
The landscape lights were on, casting a magical glow across the drive.
My chest tightened—not with nerves, but with something closer to longing, a quiet ache that had been building all night, threaded through every glance, every brush of his fingers, every word left unsaid.
“Stay,” I said, softly but certain.
Damian’s head turned; his profile caught in the dim light. His eyes softened, but there was a flicker of hesitation there, the kind born from months of blurred lines. For a heartbeat, he just looked at me, something flickering across his face that I couldn’t quite name—but felt anyway.
Then, without a word, he turned off the engine and stepped out, circling the car as I opened the door. His arm slid easily around my waist, and I leaned into him as we walked up the path. The night air was cool against my cheeks, his body warm and solid beside me.
Inside, the door clicked shut with a quiet finality, the hush of the house wrapping around us. We stood there for a moment, just breathing, his arm still looped around my shoulders, my hand resting lightly at his waist.
No rush. No heat of the moment. Just the soft thrum of something we’d both been circling around for too long.
And as we stood there, the simplest truth settled in my chest with a quiet kind of clarity.
I didn’t want to be anywhere else.