Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Damian
The smell of eggs and fresh herbs filled the kitchen, a sharp contrast to the usual quiet whir of the espresso machine I relied on most mornings.
I’d never made a veggie omelet in my life—probably hadn’t even cracked an egg in months—but somehow, this morning, it felt like the only thing I could do with my restless hands.
The whisk scraped softly against the side of the bowl as I muttered under my breath, “Thank goodness it’s Saturday.”
It was the kind of morning I never gave myself: unhurried, no conference calls or back-to-back meetings, only a meeting with board members this afternoon to wrap up planning for the gala.
For now, it was just me, the sizzle of a pan, and the sounds from the gulls flying over the water outside the kitchen window.
The green tea steeped quietly on the counter, sending thin trails of steam into the air. My mind was clearer than it had been in weeks—sharp enough to know there were no more excuses or side-steps.
I glanced toward the bedroom. The door was still half-closed, and behind it, the faint sound of water running in the shower had gone quiet.
My chest tightened just a little, the way it always did when I let myself think too long about her—about the way she’d curled into me last night, about the way her walls had finally, finally lowered just enough to let me in.
And about the thing I should’ve said months ago.
I turned back to the stove, flipping the omelet carefully, the edges crisping just enough to make me nod in approval. I wasn’t a cook, but something was satisfying in the act of creating something with my hands that wasn’t a contract, deal, or win.
A sound behind me—the faint pad of bare feet, the soft rustle of fabric—pulled me from my thoughts.
I didn’t turn around right away. Instead, I reached for the plates, letting the moment stretch out, letting my pulse remind me of the weight of what was coming.
“Morning,” I murmured as I slid the omelet onto the plate. “Hope you’re hungry.”
When I finally turned, she was there in the doorway—towel wrapped around her damp hair, loose sundress brushing the tops of her thighs, skin still warm and flushed from the shower.
For half a second, I just looked at her. Not as the woman I’d shared a bed with or bantered with at late-night fundraisers, but as the woman I loved. The woman I wanted more from, and the woman who held my future in her hands.
She offered a crooked, sleepy smile. “You’re full of surprises, Sinclair.”
I smirked, sliding the plate onto the table. “Don’t get used to it. This is probably the pinnacle of my domestic abilities.”
She laughed softly, tucking the towel tighter around her hair as she moved into the room. “I was just going to ask if you wanted coffee, but I remembered you’ve gone full health kick on me.”
I lifted the tea mug and gave it a slight tilt. “Figured we needed to continue the cleanse.” My voice softened as our eyes met. “A total reset.”
Her smile faded, but not in a bad way—more like she was letting herself feel the weight of the morning. The air shifted between us, that gentle pull I’d been circling for months, maybe longer.
As I set the second mug down and pulled out the chair for her, my chest tightened again — not with nerves this time, but with something quieter. Resolve.
Today was the day. No more running. No more half-truths.
I just had to make sure I didn’t screw it up.
She hesitated at the edge of the table, eyes flicking over the mugs, the plates, and then to me.
“You really went for it,” she murmured, something soft curling at the edge of her mouth.
“Figured I’d better feed you before I corner you with all the big, messy conversations we’ve been avoiding,” I said lightly, gesturing for her to sit. “Eat first. Then scare you off.”
She let out a breath of laughter, the kind that cracked something tight in my chest. But when she sat, when I slid into the chair across from her, the air between us shifted.
For a few minutes, we ate in an almost-normal rhythm—the quiet scrape of forks on plates, the faint clink of mugs. But her glances kept drifting up to me, and I knew she felt it too. The push of something unspoken pressing up between us, no longer willing to be ignored.
I set my fork down carefully. “Jules.”
Her head snapped up, eyes wide, like she’d been trying to hold the world still a little longer.
I took a breath. “How are you leaning?”
Her fingers tightened on the mug, a flicker of nerves across her face.
“Toward motherhood,” she said softly. “After Gabrielle and Anthony got married and Julian was born, I realized I wanted a child someday. I wanted the life I’ve been too scared to start.
” She swallowed hard. “But I was involved with you… I’ve always told myself you were off-limits.
Fun. Safe. Not… permanent. So I put my plans for motherhood on hold.
Until Gabrielle’s bad news about a health complication that she and, probably, I had inherited. ”
I felt the corner of my mouth tug up—not in amusement, but in quiet understanding.
“I agree—the idea of anything permanent is terrifying. And the complications with your health only make it harder,” I murmured.
I let the words settle before adding softly, “I’ve been in love with you longer than I’ve been willing to admit, Jules.
But the truth is… I never knew what the hell to do with it. ”
Her lips parted slightly, the tip of her tongue darting out to wet them, but she didn’t interrupt. She just… listened.
“My parents—” I stopped, ran a hand through my hair. “My father barely looked at my mother. My mother knew how to smile in public but never in private. I thought love was just… performance. Or something people outgrew.”
Juliette’s gaze softened, a sheen of something glassy slipping into her eyes.
“With you,” I went on, voice lower now, “I learned it can be messy. Loud. Quiet. Frustrating. Addictive. Real. But I stayed in the easy places with you because I didn’t trust myself to handle the hard ones.”
She let out a shaky laugh, pressing her fingertips to her lips. “I let you stay there. I let us stay there.”
“I know.”
Her eyes met mine then, and for a moment, neither of us breathed.
She set her mug down, exhaling slowly. “I want to move forward with IVF, but… I need time. It’s not just the physical part—it’s the whole damn leap. And I need to know…” She hesitated, voice softening. “I always suspected. About the donor catalog. About you.”
I blew out a breath, a sharp huff of a laugh. “Figures you’d see right through me.”
A pause stretched between us, and I pushed back slightly in my chair, bracing my forearms on the table.
“Jules… I would love to be the father of your—our—child.” Her eyes widened, her breath catching, but I kept my voice steady.
“But there’s something you need to understand.
If you want me to be the father… it has to be as your partner. As your husband.”
Her lips parted, but I lifted a hand gently.
“I don’t need your answer today. Take all the time you need. But if you choose to go the single mom route…” I let the words settle before finishing, “… you’ll have to pick someone else.”
For a moment, I wondered if I’d shattered whatever fragile thing we were building. But then Juliette’s shoulders sagged, a slow, almost relieved smile curving her mouth.
“I love you, Sinclair,” she murmured, shaking her head. “God help me, I do. And I want to meet Mateo. But first—” she let out a huff of laughter, “—we’ve got a gala to finish planning.”
I grinned, reaching across the table, letting my fingers brush hers.
“We’ll plan it,” I murmured. “Together.”
We moved around the kitchen, the clink of dishes and rush of running water filling the space where words had finally settled.
Juliette stood at the sink, her towel now draped over a chair, damp hair curling softly around her face.
I dried the plates she handed me, watching the way her fingers moved, the small crease between her brows when she focused — the kind of details I never let myself linger on before, and now couldn’t seem to stop noticing.
“So,” she said, glancing at me from under her lashes, “are you always this handy with a dish towel, or should I be impressed?”
I smirked, bumping her lightly with my shoulder. “Don’t push it, Jules. You’re on borrowed domestic charm.”
She laughed, a low, warm sound that tugged at something deep in my chest.
When the last plate was stacked and the tea mugs were resting on the counter, she turned to face me, hands braced on her hips.
“I meant it, you know,” she said softly. “About loving you.”
I reached out, fingers brushing a damp curl from her cheek, tucking it gently behind her ear.
“I know,” I murmured. “And I meant it, too—all of it. But we’ll take it slow. You’ve got things to figure out. We both do.”
Her lips curved, eyes glinting. “So you’re saying you’re not going anywhere?”
I leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead, lingering there just long enough to feel her exhale.
“Nope,” I whispered against her skin. “Except for Mateo’s elementary school graduation a few months from now. And maybe—” I pulled back slightly, smirking, “—the occasional emergency board meeting when someone screws up the gala seating chart.”
She laughed again, shaking her head as she looped her arms loosely around my waist.
“For the record,” she murmured against my chest, “I can’t wait to meet Mateo. But for now…” She tilted her face up, eyes shining with something both fragile and fierce, “We’ve got a gala to pull off.”
I tightened my arms around her, resting my chin briefly on the top of her head.
“Then let’s pull it off, Jules,” I murmured, smiling into her hair. “And after that… we’ll figure out the rest.”
As we moved to the living room, mugs in hand, I caught the way her fingers brushed mine, the lightness in her laugh, the quiet steel in her gaze.
No promises today. No rings. No headlines.
But we were finally standing at the edge of something real. And this time, I wasn’t going to let us fall apart.