Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Gabrielle
“Yoo-hoo! I'm home!”
“Grab a bottle of wine out of the cooler, will ya?” Juliette, called back to me.
The air in our small apartment was filled with the aroma of tacos and paint. Juliette’s latest project, still drying on a makeshift easel by the window, displayed vibrant colors that caught the evening’s light. She referred to it as a “teaching tool” for her students at the University of Miami, but I understood its true purpose.
The canvas was her escape, a way to lose herself in the kaleidoscope of colors when the pressures of academia weighed heavily on her shoulders. Each brushstroke was a meditation, a rebellion against the suffocating expectations of her doctoral studies.
I curled deeper into the worn armchair, comforted by its familiar embrace. My half-full glass of red wine tilted precariously in one hand and a taco in another. Across from me, my twin sister lounged on the couch, her bare feet resting on the cushions, one leg casually tucked under her. She was absorbed in her laptop, scrolling through an endless array of reference images, the blue light reflecting in her eyes like a digital sea.
“Are we actually talking about anything,” she mused, lifting her glass to her lips, “or are we just pretending to be intellectuals while getting drunk after work?”
I smirked, savoring the playful banter. “Both,” I replied, with a knowing glance.
She snorted, a sound of amusement mixed with exasperation, but didn’t argue. Her frustrations were palpable; she had spent the past few minutes venting about a particular PhD committee member who was impossibly convinced that she didn’t grasp Renaissance symbolism. This was despite the fact that Juliette Vanderburg could probably teach an entire seminar on the subject with her eyes closed.
I had nodded at all the right moments, offered the appropriate amount of outrage on her behalf, and diligently refilled our glasses like a good sister should. In this cozy sanctuary, surrounded by the creativity and chaos that defined us, there was a comforting sense of camaraderie, a shared understanding that transcended words.
But I hadn’t really been listening. Because there was something I needed to say. I exhaled, swirling the wine in my glass, then finally admitted, “I think I’m attracted to Anthony.”
Juliette’s fingers froze mid-scroll. Her gaze snapped up. “Anthony?”
I held her stare. “Anthony Moreau.”
For a long second, she didn’t speak. Then, slowly, she set her laptop aside, stretched out her legs, and gave me a look that was equal parts amusement, concern, and pure, unfiltered disbelief.
“You mean your boss, Anthony? The one who’s in charge of overseeing our family’s stolen painting?”
I winced. “Yes.”
“Oh, wow.” She exhaled a slow breath, processing. “This is unexpected. And potentially disastrous.”
“Thanks.”
The room fell silent, the weight of my confession hanging between us like a thick fog. I could feel my cheeks growing warm under Juliette’s scrutinizing gaze. I wondered if I had made a mistake in confiding in my twin sister.
Juliette finally leaned forward, her voice softening. “Have you told him how you feel?”
I shook my head, feeling the nerves tighten my stomach. “No, of course not. I don’t think it’s a good idea. It could ruin everything we both have been waiting for since we were teenagers.”
She nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Well, you’re playing with fire, sister. But sometimes, that’s exactly what you need to light up your life.”
Her words lingered, a mix of caution and encouragement. I took another sip of wine, hoping it would steady the rush of emotions swirling inside me.
“Wait.” She sat up straighter, her mind clearly catching up with her wine intake. Juliette always had this uncanny ability to switch from tipsy to sharp instantly. “How attracted are we talking? Like, he’s objectively handsome? Or you’re actually thinking about him when you should be working—because he is so sexy, you can’t keep it together?” Her eyes sparkled with curiosity, a trait of hers that was both endearing and exasperating.
I took a long sip of wine instead of answering. The truth was, I didn’t want to admit how much space he occupied in my thoughts, and I was having trouble keeping it together when I was near Anthony.
Juliette groaned a sound that was half-annoyance, half-amusement. “Gabrielle.”
“I know,” I said quickly, feeling a wave of embarrassment. “It’s stupid. I shouldn’t feel this way.” My voice wavered slightly, betraying my inner turmoil. I had always prided myself on being rational and composed. But lately, my emotions were like a rogue wave, crashing unpredictably.
“You’re right.” She pointed her glass at me, her expression a mix of concern and teasing. “You shouldn’t.”
I pressed my fingers against my temple, willing the warmth in my face to disappear. “Look, it’s not like anything’s happening. It’s just… there.” My voice was softer now, almost pleading for understanding.
Juliette narrowed her eyes, a mischievous glint appearing. “But you want something to happen.”
“No.” Too fast. Too defensive. I sounded as if I was trying to convince myself more than her.
Juliette smirked, leaning back with the confidence of someone who knew she’d hit the mark. “Oh, you so do. You’ve been suffering from a dry spell for far too long.”
I sighed, rubbing my thumb against the stem of my wine glass, my mind a tumult of conflict. “I don’t have time for this. We have bigger things to focus on.”
Juliette set her glass down and leaned forward, her expression shifting from teasing to serious. “You mean like A Lady and Gentleman in Black ?”
I met her gaze and nodded. “Yeah.”
She exhaled, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “I still can’t believe we’re this close.” Her voice was softer now, laced with something heavier than excitement—something closer to longing. “After everything, after all the years of knowing it was stolen from our family, of hearing our grandfather talk about it like a ghost he could never put to rest… we might actually bring it home.”
Home. That word hit me harder than I expected.
I swallowed against the lump in my throat. “If it really is ours—if we can prove it belongs to our family—we won’t just be reclaiming a painting, Juliette. We’ll be reclaiming a part of our history.”
She nodded, a faraway look in her eyes. “I wish Great Grandfather Bram were here to see this.”
A silence stretched between us, filled with the weight of everything that had been taken from our family. The painting was more than just a piece of art—it was proof of what had been lost. Proof that our ancestors had owned something valuable, something that had been ripped away from them during the war.
Juliette’s fingers tightened around her glass. “And if we do get it back… we don’t have to let it haunt us like it haunted him. We could finally do something with it. Sell it, use it. That money could change everything for us.”
My stomach flipped at the thought. “We could pay off our student loans.”
She nodded. “Buy a place of our own. Finally stop living like two overworked grad students scraping by on wine and takeout.”
I let out a slow breath, letting the reality of it sink in. “It would change everything.”
Juliette met my gaze, determination hardening her features. “That’s why we have to make sure it happens.”
I glanced down at my wine, feeling the weight of her words settle deep inside me. This wasn’t just about art. It wasn’t just about history.
It was about reclaiming what was rightfully ours.
Juliette’s lips quirked into a smirk. “So, about getting closer to Anthony…”
I groaned, throwing a napkin at her. “Don’t start. He’s off-limits.”
“Sure.” She raised her glass in a mock toast. “But if you happen to learn something useful while being professionally near him, I wouldn’t complain.”
She laughed when I clinked my glass against hers with a halfhearted glare.
Finally, we fell into a comfortable silence, the wine softening the edges of our stress.
Juliette yawned first, stretching her arms overhead. “We should probably sleep. If I oversleep again, my students are going to start thinking I died.”
I snorted. “Try explaining that to your PhD committee.”
She groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
I drained the last of my wine, stood, and followed her to our rooms. As I shut my door behind me, I exhaled slowly, resting my forehead against the wood for a beat longer than necessary.
I’d said it out loud. Now, it was real. And if I wasn’t careful, it was going to get messy.
I flicked on the light and surveyed my closet, my fingers trailing along the fabric of dresses and blouses. I needed something that would catch Anthony’s eye, something that would make him notice me in a way that was more than just professional. My heart fluttered at the thought, and a tingling sensation started to build inside me.
I pulled out a sleek, red dress, the kind that hugged every curve and whispered promises of allure. Holding it against my body, I imagined walking into the office, Anthony’s eyes lifting from his papers to rest on me. I imagined the way his gaze might linger, the slow smile that might spread across his face.
A shiver ran down my spine, and I bit my lip to suppress my growing desire. This wasn’t just about attraction; it was strategy. I needed to get closer to him to expedite the authentication process of the art pieces before others in the vault. Time was of the essence, “and being near Anthony was the key,” I muttered.
I turned back to my closet, searching for the perfect shoes. A pair of black stilettos with a delicate ankle strap caught my eye. They were daring, a little dangerous, exactly the kind of statement I needed to make. I slipped them on, strutting a few steps to test the effect. The mirror confirmed what I hoped; I looked confident, powerful, and yes—provocative.
As I undressed and hung the outfit carefully on the door for tomorrow, my mind lingered on Anthony. His charisma, intelligence, and the way his presence seemed to fill a room. I couldn’t deny the attraction, but I had to remember the goal. This was about the art, about moving forward. Yet, the thought of being close to him brought a thrill I couldn’t ignore.
Crawling into bed, I stared at the ceiling, my mind racing with possibilities. I knew I was walking a fine line, but the promise of success—and maybe something more—was too tempting. I closed my eyes, hoping sleep would come quickly, but the anticipation of tomorrow kept me awake, a steady pulse of excitement echoing in my veins.