Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Gabrielle
“That’s better.”
The first few sips of sparkling water had done their job, at least enough to stop the awful rolling in my stomach. I leaned back against the padded headboard, propped up by pillows that probably cost more than my first car, and took another cautious sip. My mouth still tasted like regret and saltwater, but the nausea had faded to a distant echo.
Juliette flopped onto the bed beside me with all the drama of someone trying to get comfortable in a nest of silk and secrets. She propped her head on her hand and gave me a look.
“You scared a year off my life,” she said. “Like, minimum.”
I managed a weak smile. “Sorry.”
She waved that off like I’d apologized for stepping on her toe. “Please. It’s not the first time one of us has face-planted into a crisis. Remember junior year finals? You puked all over your chemistry notebook—on the bus.”
I let out a low laugh. “Oh God. That smelled like burnt coffee and panic for a week.”
“Exactly. This?” She gestured toward the empty glass in my hand. “Classic twin meltdown symptoms. You always crash after holding too much in.”
I wanted to agree. I really did. But the weight in my stomach wasn’t just from shrimp or stress or the residual anxiety of being chased out of our apartment by a glorified art collector-attorney.
Something about tonight lingered differently. Like my body was trying to tell me something I didn’t want to hear.
I shifted under the covers and glanced up at the ceiling, my gaze meeting the mirror positioned above the bed. In its reflection, I observed the gentle play of light from the recessed lights, creating a mesmerizing dance on the white paneled walls. The moment with Anthony, that first time—it had been reckless. Passionate. Unprotected.
But since then, we’d been careful. Consistently careful.
Still…
I rubbed my palm across my forehead and swallowed against a wave of uncertainty.
This wasn’t morning. And I’ve never heard of morning sickness at night.
I wasn’t pregnant. I couldn’t be. That would be ridiculous.
This was just exhaustion. And the pressure. And maybe too much sun and not enough food.
I told myself that again, more firmly this time. Just stress. That’s all.
And if my hands trembled a little when I passed the empty glass to the nightstand, I chose not to acknowledge it.
Juliette curled onto her side beside me, already ready to dig into everything I’d missed while I was gone.
And I wasn’t ready, but I was grateful.
Because if anyone could help me make sense of the mess I was in, it was my sister.
Above us, the steady rhythm of footsteps drifted down from the deck—Anthony’s gait, even and unhurried, the way he walked when he was thinking. Or worrying.
Juliette’s head turned toward the ceiling, then back to me. “He’s pacing,” she said, deadpan. “Should we be flattered or concerned?”
Before I could answer, soft music came to life through the yacht’s built-in speaker system. Something low and smooth—piano, upright bass, the kind of subtle jazz that felt like a lullaby wrapped in velvet. Not sad. Just quiet. Meant to calm a restless mind.
Juliette smirked and pulled the blanket up under her chin. “Well, at least he’s not hovering outside the door like a nervous dad at his daughter’s slumber party.”
I gave a tired little laugh and closed my eyes. “He’s worried.”
She didn’t argue. Just nodded once. “You could do worse.”
“I know.”
The answer came easily, more truthful than reflex. And it surprised me a little how certain I was of it.
Anthony wasn’t perfect. He carried too much in silence and didn’t always know what to say when things got personal. But he showed up. He stayed. He took care without being asked.
The music played, soft and steady, filling the silence we didn’t need to break.
And for the first time all day, I felt myself beginning to exhale.
Juliette fluffed the pillow behind her and turned to face me, all elbows and curiosity. Her face had softened now that I wasn’t actively throwing up, but the glint in her eyes was pure trouble.
“Alright,” she said, tucking the throw around her shoulders. “Catch me up. And don’t leave out the billionaire parts.”
I gave her a look. “Can you not call him that?”
“What? He is one. And you’re living in a rom-com thriller on a yacht.”
I shook my head, but my lips twitched. “It’s not as glamorous as it sounds.”
She propped her chin on her fist, eyebrows lifted. “Convince me.”
I stared out the window, trying to make sense of the timeline in my head. So much had happened in so little time. But once I started talking, the pieces clicked together more easily than I expected.
“Anthony got a call the morning we left—something about a last-minute meeting with the judge. He didn’t explain much, just that it was important and had to do with the gallery’s restitution oversight.”
Juliette nodded, taking it in.
“He flew to Dallas that afternoon and sent a private jet for me, and that’s when everything sort of… collapsed on him. I mean, I already knew about his wife, Charlotte, but I didn’t know the full story. She never told him she had money. Like, serious money. A billion-dollar trust fund she inherited when her grandparents passed.”
Juliette’s eyes widened. “She married him and didn’t tell him she was a billionaire?”
“Didn’t leave so much as a note about it. He found out after she died on their honeymoon. One minute he was grieving her, and the next, he was signing paperwork he didn’t even understand—lawyers, trustees, financial advisors. All of it dumped on him with no warning.”
“Oof,” she said, wincing. “Talk about emotional whiplash.”
I nodded. “He’s been trying to untangle that ever since. And then… Curtain sent an email.”
Juliette sat up a little straighter. “What kind of email?”
“There was a photo,” I said, my voice lowering. “Of me and Anthony. In that intimate moment at the gallery. We assume it’s from a phone camera. Anthony had already erased the security feed, but somehow, Curtain still had something. He used it to threaten Anthony.”
“Jesus,” Juliette muttered. “Threaten how?”
“Said Anthony needed to back off. That I had a job to do—find a buyer for his precious painting—and Anthony was getting in the way. He made it clear he’s watching us.”
Her mouth opened, then shut. She blinked slowly. “That’s not just creepy, that’s dangerous. I bet that painting he wants you to sell is a fake.”
“Exactly. Now we are here.”
Juliette was quiet for a beat, digesting everything. Then she gave a long, slow whistle. “You’ve had quite a month , sis.”
I let out a breath. “You could say that.”
“And you’re still standing,” she said. “Just maybe not upright.”
I laughed softly. “Yeah. That part’s debatable.”
She nudged me under the blanket with her foot. “Well, you’ve got me. And, let’s be honest, one hell of a view.”
I followed her gaze toward the window, where the marina lights shimmered on the water like fireflies caught in glass.
I didn’t say it out loud, but I was grateful she was here. I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed her until now. But the truth was, I wasn’t just leaning on her anymore.
I had Anthony too. For all his walls and shadows, he was here. He stayed. And even when I couldn’t see him, I felt the calm he brought with him.
Maybe—I wasn’t as alone in this as I thought.
Juliette shifted beside me, tucking one arm under her head and letting out a long sigh. The quiet in the room felt different now—no longer tense or heavy. Just late. Just still.
“So,” she whispered, “how long do you really think we’ll have to stay on this yacht?”
I turned my head toward her, the blankets tucked up to my chest. “Until we hear from Curtain… or figure out what he’s really planning, remember?”
She nodded slowly, unsurprised. “Right.”
Neither of us said anything for a moment. The soft music filled the silence—water lapping gently outside the hull, the quiet buzz of the air system overhead, jazz still drifting faintly from the speakers. I could feel sleep pulling at the edges of me, slow and persistent.
Juliette stretched and let out a tiny groan. “Well… when this is over, I really want to meet this Damian guy.”
I blinked at her. “You’re not serious.”
She smirked. “Oh, I’m dead serious. Guy owns a yacht, throws around spare keys like party favors, and doesn’t blink when someone needs to disappear for a while? He’s either completely unhinged or incredibly useful. Either way, I want in.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “That makes two of us, but not for the same reasons. I haven’t met him either.”
Juliette raised a brow. “Even better. Maybe we can do a joint interrogation.”
“You’ll scare him off.”
“That’s the dream.”
I nudged her with my elbow. “Go get Anthony. We all need sleep if we’re going to survive whatever fresh hell tomorrow has planned.”
She grinned and tossed off the blanket, her bare feet padding softly across the floor.
And as she disappeared down the hall, I let my eyes fall shut, wondering how long this strange, borrowed calm would last—and trying not to think too hard about everything still waiting for us on the other side of it.
My eyes were already fluttering shut when I heard the door ease open. The light creak of hinges. The soft scuff of bare feet on polished wood.
Anthony didn’t say a word. He moved with quiet purpose as if the room itself was sacred somehow—like he didn’t want to disturb whatever peace had finally settled over it.
I heard the soft rustle of fabric as he peeled off his shirt. Then the subtle shift of the mattress beneath me as he slid under the covers. His body was warm and familiar as he tucked himself in beside me.
He didn’t ask if I was okay. Didn’t press for conversation.
He just wrapped his arm around me and pulled me close, gently, like I might still break.
I sighed into him, letting the weight of his body and the scent of his skin—linen, salt, and something unmistakably his—anchor me to the present.
His hand found its way to my stomach and settled there, absentminded, maybe, or instinctive. But it stayed.
And something about the quiet weight of it made my breath catch.
I didn't move. I didn’t want to.
Instead, I let my fingers slip over his, linking with him lightly, like a promise neither of us needed to speak aloud.