Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Damian
When I slipped in, the offices at Vérité were quiet, the kind of stillness that only existed in the early morning before the calls started, before the donors circled, before the weight of my life settled across my shoulders like a custom-cut noose.
I set my coffee on the long conference table, tapping through the RSVP list on my tablet. Every empty line next to a name felt like a slap: donors hesitating, sponsors wavering, and the gala— my gala—just weeks away.
I scrubbed a hand over my face and leaned back in the chair, letting my gaze drift across the familiar art lining the walls. Somewhere between bankruptcy papers and board ultimatums, I’d stopped seeing the beauty here. All I saw now was risk.
The door opened with a whish .
Juliette swept in like a breeze off the coast—hair pinned up, sleek black slacks, a pale blue blouse that did nothing to hide the sharp mind and sharper tongue underneath. She dropped a leather-bound notebook on the table with a soft thud, grinning as she pulled out her tablet.
“Well, aren’t you a vision of doom this morning, Sinclair?”
I huffed out a laugh despite myself. “You’re in rare form this morning, Vanderburg.”
She shrugged out of her jacket, sliding into the seat beside me, close enough that I caught a faint trace of her perfume—citrus and something warmer, something that still clung to my skin if I let myself remember.
“I’m ready to deal with a crisis,” she teased.
“And lucky you-you’re a walking, talking one. ”
I watched her tap her stylus against the screen, eyes darting between numbers and notes. For someone who wasn’t on the payroll, Juliette worked like the damn CEO.
“Here’s the pitch,” she said briskly. “You need auction items with emotional punch. Experiences, not just art. Private tours, artist dinners, VIP gallery events—things they can’t just buy off a wall.
And last but not least, your PR guy needs to leak that you have a professional art appraiser volunteering on weekends. ”
I raised an eyebrow. “What, no weekend in the Bahamas with me thrown in?”
Her lips curved, dry and amused. “Please. You’d bankrupt the foundation just covering the bar tab.”
I snorted, shaking my head as I leaned back. God, she was good. Not just at the logistics—the art, the donors, the money—but at this . At reminding me that the walls weren’t closing in, that the fight was still worth it.
For a second, I just watched her. The way her brow furrowed when she concentrated, the flash of satisfaction when she solved a problem no one else in the room even saw. I hadn’t wanted anyone near this mess. But somehow, she made herself essential without asking permission.
Yeah, maybe that terrified me.
“Hey,” she said, glancing up. “You spacing out on me?”
I cleared my throat, smirking. “Just marveling at how bossy you are before ten A.M.”
“Get used to it, Sinclair.” She winked; eyes bright. “You brought me into this circus, remember?”
I leaned forward, elbows on the table, watching her tap through her notes. For the first time in weeks, I felt something like hope stir in my chest—light, fragile, but there.
Suddenly, the door swung open with the casual confidence of someone who didn’t need to knock.
Anthony strolled in first, crisp gray jacket over dark jeans, his expression half amusement, half assessment. Right behind him came Gabrielle, arms full of takeaway coffee and pastries, her hair pulled into a glossy knot, gold hoops catching the morning light.
“Well,” Anthony drawled, “looks like the grown-ups are already saving the foundation.”
Juliette didn’t even look up. “Don’t interrupt, you two, I’m busy fixing Sinclair’s mess.”
Anthony chuckled, dropping into a chair and crossing one ankle over his knee. Gabrielle handed me a coffee—extra shot, just how I liked it—before sliding into the seat next to her sister.
“I needed this,” I murmured, raising the cup in a lazy salute. “Smart play, Gabrielle.”
She grinned. “You’re welcome. Enjoy.”
Anthony leaned forward, clasping his hands. “So. How’s the damage report?”
I took a breath, pulled out my phone, and swiped to the real estate listing I’d been sitting on for three days.
“I’ve put one of my Malibu condos on the market,” I said, flipping the phone around for him to see.
“That should cover The Cut of Her Jib debt. At least, it’ll keep the creditors at bay until after the gala. ”
Anthony’s brow lifted, just a flicker, but his eyes softened. “That’s a hell of a move, Damian.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrugged, trying to make it look easier than it was. “Turns out inherited wealth only gets you so far. You have to bleed a little, too.”
Juliette’s gaze flicked to mine, a quiet determination there—not smug, not cocky, but something deeper. Pride mixed with a thread of hesitation, like she knew she was stepping into new territory, and she wasn’t entirely sure if she belonged.
Anthony stretched out in his chair, arms folded loosely. “Tell me more about your merger plan. And what about Louisa’s shoes? You still looking for someone to fill them?”
I exhaled, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck. “It’s… in motion.”
Juliette shifted in her seat, sliding her tablet forward. “We’ve been talking,” she said, her voice even but laced with purpose. “And I think there’s a way to steady the ship without forcing Damian to pull a miracle out of thin air.”
Gabrielle raised an eyebrow. “We?”
Juliette gave a small, self-deprecating smile.
“ Reliable Art Services . And before anyone panics—no, I’m not gunning for Louisa’s job.
” She glanced at me, then back to them. “I’m not an executive.
I’m not here for a paycheck. But I do have clients, connections, and a pretty good reputation in the art world—and I’m willing to volunteer some of that weight on weekends to help right this ship. ”
She tapped the tablet. “Estate consultations. Appraisals. Helping families who don’t know what to do with inherited art.
And on the flip side—helping Vérité’s donors feel like they’re part of something meaningful again.
Not just a black-tie event, but a movement that actually connects art with community. ”
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Anthony sat forward slowly, steepling his fingers. “You’d do that as a volunteer.”
Juliette’s smile softened. “I care about this place. And Damian. And you know what? If it helps keep this foundation alive, I’m in.”
My chest tightened, something raw and unexpected pressing behind my ribs.
Anthony’s mouth twitched, like he was holding back a grin. “Well, damn. That’s… exactly what the board’s been starving for.”
I caught Juliette’s eye, something unspoken hanging between us, sharp as a live wire. She was offering herself, not as a lifeboat, but as an anchor. And maybe for the first time, I realized I wanted to be anchored.
Anthony turned to me, mock-serious. “And you, Sinclair? Are you prepared to be outshone by your volunteer staff?”
I grinned. “Oh, I’m all in.”
Gabrielle clapped her hands once, bright and satisfied. “Well, dear, perhaps we should get back home. Aria can only stay a few hours.”
Anthony nodded in agreement. They grabbed a few leftover pastries and were gone.
Juliette commandeered the whiteboard back at the office like she’d been born for it. Markers in hand, hair tied up in a messy knot, she sketched circles and arrows, names of donors, potential auction items, and possible themes spilling across the board in loops of bold handwriting.
I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her work. For a moment, I wasn’t thinking about the board, the gala, or the fallout from the last few weeks. I was just watching Juliette—sharp, focused, flushed with purpose.
She glanced over her shoulder, catching me mid-smirk. “Are you going to help, or just stand there looking smug?”
I raised my hands in mock surrender. “I’m taking notes. You’re a force of nature.”
Juliette rolled her eyes, though a smirk played on her lips.
“We need items that spark real interest—big-ticket, one-of-a-kind experiences, not just another silent auction basket stuffed with wine and cheese. Think private tours, dinner with collectors, and exclusive gallery previews. And we need donors with serious reach. Anthony mentioned he’s working on recovering a piece from the Devereux’s stolen collection.
Maybe we can feature it. The Monuments Men and Women Foundation is about to wrap up their search for the original owner, but so far, they’ve come up empty. ”
She tapped the marker against her lip, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You’ve got the Rolodex, Sinclair. Don’t make me charm it out of you.”
I leaned back in my chair, grinning slowly. “Oh, I’m counting on you to try.”
I pushed off the doorframe, crossing to where she stood. “I’ll make some calls. Anthony can help, too—he’s got a couple of collectors in his pocket who owe him favors.” I reached past her to pick up a pen, close enough to catch the faint scent of her shampoo. “You’re good at this.”
Juliette let out a soft laugh, not looking at me. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
I ducked my head, brushing a kiss against her temple before I could second-guess myself. “Not surprised. Impressed.”
Her breath hitched, just for a second, before she shook it off and tapped another note onto the board.
We worked for another hour, the energy between us humming like a live current.
She called Gabrielle twice to bounce ideas.
I texted Anthony, looping him in on some of the higher-profile donors.
Somewhere between organizing art lots and debating whether the dress code should be black tie or cocktail chic, Juliette turned, hands on her hips, eyes bright.
“This could actually work,” she murmured.
I reached for her hand, lacing my fingers through hers without thinking. “You’re the one making it work.”
She tilted her head, studying me. “You know… you have a reputation, Damian Sinclair. Cool. Unshakable. Charming, when you want to be.”
I raised a brow. “When I want to be?”
Juliette smiled softly. “But under all that, you care. I see it. And you can’t fake that, and that’s one thing I love about you.”
I squeezed her hand once. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” I murmured, half a laugh in my throat.
Her smile deepened. “You like it.”
I exhaled, gently kissing her forehead. “Yeah,” I whispered, the truth escaping my lips unintentionally, “I love… it.” But as soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted not being able to simply say:
“ Juliette, I love you, not just for your help or our friendship.”
By the time we wrapped up at Vérité, the city was slipping into night—headlights streaking down the boulevard, the air thick with that unmistakable Miami buzz of music, laughter, and distant waves.
Juliette brushed her hair back, tablet tucked under her arm as we headed for the door.
“So,” I said, falling into step beside her, “where do you want to eat?”
She glanced over, one brow lifting with a sly smile. “Are you asking me out, Sinclair?”
I smirked. “Maybe I’m asking us out. You’ve earned it.”
Her smile softened. “Somewhere with wine.”
“Done.” I pulled out my phone. “What if we loop in Gabrielle and Anthony?”
Her eyes flickered with surprise, pleased, maybe even a little touched. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I murmured, brushing a hand down her back, “why not? Let’s make it a night.”
Juliette texted Gabrielle, and within seconds, her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and laughed. “They’re in. Aria is saving up for her first car and practically ran over to their house.”
I chuckled. “Resourceful family.”
“Yeah, but Gabrielle won’t have her for long. The family is moving to Orlando and they’re selling their home.”
“Humm. I haven’t seen the listing yet,” I muttered, making a mental note to watch for it.
We headed to Cipriani’s, where the four of us slipped into a corner booth, the city glittering through the windows behind us.
The table hummed with easy conversation—Anthony ribbing me about selling off a California condo to save The Cut of Her Jib , Gabrielle teasing Juliette about how she was already turning the gala auction into her personal art crusade.
For once, I let myself lean back and just watch it all—their laughter, Juliette’s eyes lighting up as she talked about Reliable Art Services, Gabrielle resting her chin on Anthony’s shoulder.
Then, just as the waiter arrived to take our drink order, Gabrielle cleared her throat.
“Actually,” she said, her cheeks flushing pink, “I’ll skip the wine.”
Juliette blinked, lowering her menu. “What? Gabrielle, you never skip the wine.”
Anthony grinned, sliding an arm around his wife. “We, uh… we just got the call from the lab.”
Gabrielle’s fingers found Anthony’s and squeezed. “The IVF worked.” Her voice trembled on the last word, eyes shining. “I’m pregnant.”
For a heartbeat, everything froze.
Juliette’s lips parted and her eyes were wide. She reached across the table and grabbed Gabrielle’s hand, her fingers trembling slightly as she squeezed. “Gabby… oh my God.” Her voice cracked—half laughter, half something rawer, thinner.
“I wanted to tell you first,” Gabrielle said softly, glancing between us, “but we just found out an hour ago. It didn’t feel real until now.”
Juliette smiled, bright and wobbly all at once. “I’m so happy for you.” She laughed under her breath, brushing a quick finger under her eye. “I really am.”
Beside me, Anthony beamed, clinking his water glass against mine. “Guess it’s sparkling water all around for the mom-to-be.”
I leaned in, catching Juliette’s gaze. There was a flicker there—a shadow of something unspoken. She lifted her chin and gave me the smallest nod, as if to say, I’m okay.
But later, when our knees brushed under the table and I felt her fingers slip into mine, I knew better.
Somewhere between the congratulations and the clinking glasses, Juliette’s laughter softened, like a girl trying to remember how to carry joy in both hands without letting the sharp edges cut too deep.
God help me. All I wanted at that moment was to carry it for her, but I didn’t know where to start.