Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Gabrielle
After work, I stepped inside our apartment and closed the door behind me with a little more force than necessary, the click of the deadbolt sounding final. The scent of citrus cleaner still lingered faintly, mixing with the salty breeze that drifted in through the balcony doors Juliette had probably left cracked open again.
First thing I did—checked my phone.
Still no response from my sister.
“Come on,” I muttered.
I’d texted her three times in the last hour. Not exactly Defcon-level spamming, but enough to warrant some kind of reply. Especially given the tight knot in my stomach that had only grown since my encounter with Frank Curtain.
My fingers twitched, resisting the urge to type something passive-aggressive. Instead, I dropped my bag by the door and kicked off my heels, trying not to focus on the echo of Curtain’s voice in my head.
"I’m sure you’ll find a buyer. I’ll be in touch in a few days."
Translation: Dance, puppet. And maybe I’ll let you keep your career.
I rubbed my temples as I moved toward the kitchen. The apartment felt quiet. Too quiet. The kind that presses in around the edges and makes you second-guess every shadow.
“Juliette?” I called out.
Nothing.
I leaned on the kitchen island and checked my phone again—still nothing.
I was about to call out again when I heard the soft pad of bare feet on the tile. A second later, Juliette appeared, fresh from the shower, with a towel wrapped around her head and her robe knotted lazily at her waist. She frowned at me with one brow lifted in that way only sisters can do without even trying.
“You’ve been blowing up my phone while I was in the shower,” she said, voice half-dry, half-curious. “What’s going on? Did someone die or just text you with bad outfit advice?”
I didn’t answer her right away. Just gave her a look and headed for the wine rack.
Juliette’s frown deepened. “Okay, now you’re scaring me.”
I crouched, pulled out the bottle of Malbec we’d both agreed was too good for casual drinking, and set it on the counter like it was some kind of peace offering. My hands weren’t exactly shaking, but they weren’t steady either.
“You might want to sit,” I said, reaching for the corkscrew.
She didn’t sit—just crossed her arms and leaned against the kitchen island. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I wish I were.” The cork popped free with a soft sigh. “I’m being blackmailed.”
That got her. She blinked once, then twice, before slowly pulling out a stool and lowering herself onto it like her knees needed a second to catch up.
“You’re… what now?”
I grabbed two glasses from the cabinet, poured generously into both, and slid one across to her.
“It’s Frank Curtain.”
“Of course it is.” She took the glass but didn’t drink. “What did he do? What does he have on you?”
“As you know, he showed up outside the gallery when Anthony and I were… well, I’ve already told you the details.” I waved a hand in the air, too exhausted for euphemisms. “Turns out he saw us. Actually saw us. He made a point to mention it today—showed up again like he had all the time in the world while Anthony was not there, meeting with the judge unexpectedly.”
Juliette’s lips parted slightly and her glass still frozen halfway to her mouth.
“The good news is the gallery tape has been erased,” I said. “Completely wiped. No trace. But now I have to wonder if Curtain took his own photo—something from outside, through the window. He was smug. Too smug. It wasn’t just a bluff. He saw everything.”
Juliette winced and finally took a long sip of her wine. “Okay. That’s disgusting. And creepy. And also very on-brand for him.”
I nodded. “He says he has a client—someone who gave him a painting as payment for legal services. He wants me to find a buyer for it. Quietly. No questions asked.”
“Wait,” she said, setting her glass down hard enough to thump. “He’s blackmailing you into moving art for him?”
“Pretty much. Said he’d get back to me with the details in a few days. Until then, I’m supposed to sit tight and think about all the ways my professional reputation could go up in flames.”
And not just mine.
I leaned my weight on the counter, trying to keep my voice steady. “If this gets out… it’s not just me who takes the hit. Anthony could lose everything. His position with the foundation, his career, and his credibility. All of it.”
Juliette’s expression sobered even more, her playfulness dropping away completely. “He’s that exposed?”
“He’s the one they trusted to clean up the Devereux mess,” I said. “One whiff of scandal, and the vultures will eat him alive.”
Juliette leaned back with a low groan. “You always know how to make my night more interesting.”
“Glad I could help.” I pulled out my phone and opened the taco place’s app. “Should I order our usual?”
She gave a weak nod, then gestured toward the wine cooler. “Grab a bottle of the cheap Sauv Blanc, too. I don’t want to waste the good stuff if we’re about to become accessories to art crime.”
I snorted despite myself and got moving.
“Extra guac?” I called over my shoulder.
“Obviously,” she said. “If we’re going down, we’re going down full of tacos and cheese.”
By the time the tacos arrived, we’d both changed into loose sun dresses and stepped out onto the terrace, where the breeze off the bay softened the Miami heat just enough to be tolerable. The city lights flickered in the distance, and the hum of traffic below was a kind of white noise—familiar, almost comforting. But nothing about tonight felt familiar.
Juliette passed me a taco, then settled into the chair across from mine, legs tucked beneath her like she didn’t have a care in the world. I envied that.
“I hate that he has this power over Anthony and me,” I said, unwrapping the foil. “I’m a professional, and so is Anthony. We’ve both built our reputations carefully. If this gets out… people won’t ask questions. They’ll assume we’re scandalous and untouchable professionally.”
I picked at the tortilla instead of taking a bite. “And Anthony… gets a whiff about his assistant helping Curtain?—”
“Game over,” Juliette said, finishing for me.
“Exactly. His name, his position, everything he’s built for himself professionally… it’ll all be tainted. He deserves better than that.”
She didn’t say anything right away. Just sipped her wine and stared out over the terrace railing like she was assembling puzzle pieces in her head.
Then: “If Curtain really had a bomb to drop, he’d have dropped it by now. You don’t sit on nuclear evidence unless you’re trying to rattle someone.”
I glanced over at her. “You think he’s stalling?”
She nodded. “Classic predator move. Make you sweat. Make you feel like he’s got all the cards. But the way you described Curtain? That smugness? That was a bluff.”
I sighed, letting my head rest against the back of the chair. “He did see us. There’s no doubt about that. And he also said he’d get back to me about the painting. That he’d be in touch in a few days.”
“Right,” she said. “Which means he doesn’t actually have a buyer yet. Or he’s still figuring out what angle to play.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I keep going back to the footage. The tape was erased. Not edited—erased. Someone went in and wiped it clean like it never happened.”
Juliette’s brows pulled together. “You don’t think that was Curtain?”
“I don’t know. That’s what scares me. If it wasn’t him, who else knew? And why protect me?”
She leaned forward on her elbows, expression sharp. “You’re saying someone might be playing the other side of this. Like there’s more going on than just Curtain being his usual sleazy self.”
I gave a slow nod. “Maybe he does have his own evidence. But the fact that someone deleted the gallery footage means we’re not the only ones watching this unfold.”
Juliette was quiet for a beat, then reached for another taco. “Okay. Hypothetical. Let’s say he does have a piece he wants to move, and you’re expected to find a buyer. You’d need a discreet channel. Someone off the books.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Do you know someone off the books?”
She licked salsa off her thumb and nodded. “Louisa Ortega. University acquisitions committee. She helps place obscure pieces for donors—nothing illegal, but she’s dealt with gray areas before. And she’s not a fan of bullies.”
“Would she help us?”
“She’d help me,” Juliette said. “But we’re not going to her until we know what painting we’re dealing with. No names, no moves, until we know how risky this is.”
I nodded, grateful she wasn’t telling me to back out completely—because I couldn’t.
“And there’s one more thing,” I added, pulling out my phone and scrolling to Anthony’s last text. “I got a message from him this afternoon. That’s why he didn’t come in today. Judge Valencia called him in for a private meeting—said it was urgent. Right after, the judge sent him straight to Dallas.”
Juliette sat straighter. “Just like that?”
“Just like that. No warning. No explanation.”
“And you think the judge knows?”
I nodded, a tight twist forming in my gut again. “What if he saw the tape before it was erased? Or heard about it from someone else? If he suspects something inappropriate happened between Anthony and me?—”
“But he didn’t fire him,” Juliette said, cutting in. “He sent him to Dallas to keep working. If Valencia knew for sure, wouldn’t he have shut it all down?”
“That’s what I don’t get.” I stared at the skyline, trying to make sense of it. “Either he knows and doesn’t care—or he suspects something and is giving Anthony a chance to prove himself. Either way, it’s not exactly comforting.”
“No,” Juliette said, quieter now. “It’s not.”
We sat there for a moment, the tacos growing cold between us.
Suddenly, a gust of wind rattled the palm trees lining the edge of the building, sending loose fronds scraping across the terrace floor. I flinched and turned toward the railing, scanning the shadows like something—or someone—might be standing just beyond the glow of the city lights.
“I feel like we’re being watched,” I murmured, mostly to myself.
Juliette didn’t say a word. We stood up, wine glasses and tacos in hand, and disappeared inside. I heard the soft click of the terrace door locking a moment later. Then the rustle of blinds being pulled down, the dull thud of the front door being tested. Lock. Chain. Deadbolt. My sister was thorough, precise—quiet in a way that made my skin itch.
When she returned, she slid back into the armchair and picked up her glass like nothing had happened.
“Never hurts to be careful,” she said and took a sip.
I gave a nervous laugh. “God, we sound like paranoid art-world spies.”
Neither of us laughed.
I leaned forward on the couch to gather up the last taco, needing something to do with my hands, when my phone buzzed against the table.
I froze. Juliette’s gaze flicked to me, but she didn’t ask. I turned the phone over, expecting a text.
It wasn’t a message. It was a call.
Anthony.
I answered quickly. “Hello?”
“Gabrielle.” His voice was low, tight. The urgency in it sent a jolt through me. “You need to come to Dallas. Tonight.”
“What? Why? What happened?”
“I can’t explain over the phone. I’ve arranged a private jet—it’s leaving at midnight. I’ll text you the terminal. Don’t use anything through the foundation. No hotels, no car service, nothing they booked.”
“Anthony, what’s going on?” I stood, pressing a hand to my chest as if that might slow my heartbeat. “ You’re sending a jet?”
Across from me, Juliette straightened in her seat, eyes wide with concern. I couldn’t tell if she was more surprised by the jet or the way my voice cracked.
“Who’s paying for this?” I asked.
“I’ll explain everything when you get here,” he said. “Just get on that plane.”
The line went dead.
I lowered the phone slowly, like it might burn me.
Juliette set her wine down. “Well?”
“He’s sending a private jet,” I said. “I’m supposed to leave tonight.”
“Why?”
“He wouldn’t say just that I need to avoid foundation channels. Hotels. Travel. Everything.”
My sister didn’t speak right away. Then she gave a slow, careful nod, her expression tightening as if she was piecing together a puzzle neither of us had all the corners for.
I picked up my glass and drifted toward the window, the cool pane meeting my fingertips as I stared down at the street. My reflection hovered in the glass—tense posture, pale face, tired eyes—and something softer beneath all of it I hadn’t fully acknowledged until now.
“I hope Anthony is safe,” I whispered. “And maybe while I’m in Dallas… he’ll finally let me in. Not just about this mess—but about everything.”