Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Gabrielle
The waiting room smelled faintly of disinfectant. A framed print of sunflowers hung crookedly above the receptionist’s desk, cheerful in a way that felt vaguely ironic given the sea of nervous couples around me. I crossed and uncrossed my legs, smoothing my skirt despite no wrinkles. My hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting.
I tried to steady my breathing, but it was harder than I expected, maybe because this was real now.
I was about to see our baby.
Anthony sat beside me, calm and collected as always, one ankle resting casually over his knee. He wore a button-down shirt and navy slacks—classic Anthony Moreau—but his free hand reached for mine, and he squeezed gently. “Whatever happens, I love you and our baby.”
I looked at him, caught by the quiet certainty in his voice. So much had changed between us in just a few months. He wasn’t the distant, closed-off man I’d met when he arrived at the gallery the first time. Not anymore.
I nodded and placed my hand on my belly. “We love you too.”
When the nurse finally called our names, I stood too quickly and nearly knocked over my purse. Anthony caught it before it could hit the floor, then placed his palm lightly against the small of my back as we walked to the exam room.
The lights were low inside, soft, and comforting. A machine beeped faintly in the corner. The technician smiled warmly and asked me to lie back on the exam table. I felt the cold gel on my stomach and sucked in a breath, but then?—
There it was. The screen lit up with shifting shadows and curves I couldn’t make sense of until the tech pointed. “There’s your baby,” she said gently, angling the monitor toward us. “Everything’s looking good so far—nice strong heartbeat.”
Then she glanced at us, her hand still moving the wand gently over my stomach. “Do you want to know the gender?”
I glanced at Anthony, who was already looking at me. His eyes searched mine for half a second before he nodded once, barely perceptible. I smiled.
“Yes,” I said. “We want to know.”
The tech grinned. “Then congratulations. You’re having a boy.”
A boy.
I didn’t process it all at once. My gaze didn’t even go to the screen. It went to Anthony.
He blinked once, like he hadn’t expected to feel anything, then again—his jaw tightening. His eyes softened in a way I’d never seen. A breath left his lips, and his hand, already resting on the table, slid toward mine.
He didn’t speak. He just laced his fingers with mine and held on.
I’d watched powerful men command rooms, buyers with million-dollar wallets point at art with bored entitlement. But none of them ever looked the way Anthony did at that moment—awed, undone, reverent.
I turned my head and looked at the screen, finally letting myself see him— our son. A little curve of a spine. The flutter of movement. It was abstract, perfect, and completely real.
Then the heartbeat came.
That rapid rhythm, pulsing through the room like a secret between the three of us. I felt my breath catch in my chest.
That sound tethered me to something I hadn’t let myself believe in. Not just the idea of a baby but a family. A future. The kind you build, slowly, through fractured beginnings and unexpected turns.
“Already protective, huh?” I murmured to Anthony, glancing over.
He gave me a half-smile, the kind that crept into his eyes. “Always.”
And somehow, I believed him.
The late morning sun warmed the pavement as we stepped out of the clinic, a gentle breeze stirring the hem of my dress. The world looked the same, but I didn’t feel the same. I felt lighter somehow—like everything in me had shifted an inch to the right and now fit a little better.
I pulled out my phone and typed the text with shaking fingers.
Gabrielle: It’s a boy. Healthy. He’s perfect.
Before I could hit send, I added a heart emoji, then another. I knew Juliette would scream, possibly drop her phone, and definitely launch into a full-fledged plan for a nursery theme.
By the time we walked into the gallery, the mood had shifted. The receptionist shot us a nervous look as if we were walking into a war zone. I didn’t blame her. Frank Curtain had a way of filling a space with barely-contained menace, like smoke curling under a door.
“He’s waiting in the conference room,” she said, voice low. “Hasn’t stopped pacing.”
Anthony nodded. “Thank you. And maybe keep the door cracked in case he tries to set the place on fire.”
She half-laughed, half-winced, and I followed Anthony down the hall, my heart steady. I’d braced for this moment. I just hadn’t expected to feel so… calm.
When we walked in, Curtain was already on his feet, pacing as promised, his jaw tight, his hands clenching and unclenching like fists that hadn’t quite found their target.
He turned the second we entered. “Finally,” he snapped. “I don’t know what game the two of you think you’re playing, but I’m not leaving until you give me an update on the sale of the painting Gabrielle was supposed to arrange.”
Anthony didn’t flinch. He walked to the head of the table, pulled out his tablet, and set it down with a quiet tap that felt louder than it was. His voice was crisp, businesslike. “You wanted an update on the sale, Frank? Here it is.”
He tapped the screen. “This is a high-resolution scan of your so-called painting.”
Curtain stiffened. “It’s not a ‘so-called’ anything. That piece was authenticated by?—”
“By someone who didn’t bother to check the underlayers.” Anthony’s voice was smooth, cutting. “We ran it through the multi-spectrum scanner a few days after you brought it in. I had the files saved.”
He swiped again, and even from across the table, I could see the images clearly—one in full light, one infrared, one X-ray.
“See this?” Anthony pointed to the underlying brushwork. “Entirely inconsistent with the artist’s style. The pigment distribution is off, and the signature? Forged. Sloppy, too. Whoever did it didn’t even match the brush tension.”
Curtain’s face flushed dark red. “That’s not possible.”
“It’s more than possible. It’s conclusive.”
Anthony turned the tablet around so Curtain could see it better, not that he made any effort to examine the evidence. He stood frozen, glaring at the screen like he could will it into saying something different.
I stepped forward, folding my arms. “You asked Gabrielle to sell a forgery, Frank. And you didn’t even warn her.”
His head whipped toward me. “I didn’t know it was a fake.”
“Didn’t you?” I asked softly. “Or did you just hope no one would check too closely before the wire transfer cleared?”
“You watch your tone?—”
“No,” I said. “Not this time.” Anthony’s eyes flicked to me with something close to pride.
Curtain straightened, trying to salvage what little authority he had left. “You have no idea who I represent. That painting came to me through?—”
“A client who fed you a forgery,” Anthony said coolly. “And if you try to pass it off as legitimate—now that we’ve documented the evidence—I’m sure Judge Valencia, not to mention the media, will be very interested.”
Curtain sneered, but I saw it—the crack. The unraveling.
Anthony didn’t hesitate. He reached into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “While we’re clearing the air, here’s a letter addressed to Judge Valencia. It details your attempt to coerce Gabrielle into arranging the sale of a fraudulent piece. I’ll file it—unless you hand over the photo you used to rattle her.”
Curtain’s eyes flattened. Slowly, he reached into his own jacket pocket and withdrew a small, glossy print—the photo. “This is the only one,” he said, voice clipped, controlled, bitter.
Anthony took it without looking down. “It better be.”
Curtain’s jaw flexed like he was chewing on words he didn’t dare speak. But then, unable to help himself, he muttered, “I’ll get my fee one way or another.”
Anthony’s expression remained unchanged, but the air between them shifted—heavier, sharper. “That sounded a lot like a threat, Frank.”
“No,” Curtain said, backing toward the door. “It’s a promise.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. “That jerk isn’t going to get away with this,” he muttered, then yanked the door open and stormed out.
Silence settled over the room.
I let out a long breath, the pressure in my chest finally easing. The confrontation was over. The painting was exposed. The lies dragged into the light.
Anthony turned to me, his hand brushing gently down my back. “You okay?”
I nodded. “More than okay.”
And I meant it.
The sun slanted low across the dashboard as Anthony merged onto Ocean Blvd. The adrenaline from earlier had finally worn off, leaving behind a strange mix of calm and awe—like I’d come out the other side of a storm and was still half-expecting thunder.
I leaned my head back against the seat and exhaled, my palm resting gently over the curve of my belly. It wasn’t much yet, barely noticeable, but I felt it. The weight. The promise.
Anthony reached over, his hand warm and solid as it came to rest over mine. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The silence between us was thick with understanding. With something more than words.
“I think I felt him kick earlier,” I murmured.
He looked at me sideways, a slow smile spreading across his face. “And I missed it?”
“You were too busy threatening to ruin Frank Curtain’s life.”
He chuckled. “He shouldn’t have tried to blackmail you, plain and simple.”
We fell into a companionable quiet that only existed with someone who made you feel entirely safe.
Then, as the road straightened out and the ocean came into view beyond the trees, Anthony said, “We’re not naming him Frank. That’s non-negotiable.”
I snorted. “Agreed. I don’t need his bad energy lingering in our family tree.”
“Well, that narrows it down to about a million other names.” He glanced at me. “What do you like?”
I tilted my head, pretending to think seriously. “I’ve always liked strong names. Something classic but not overused.”
“Gabrielle Jr. it is,” he said.
“Bold of you to assume I’m not the dramatic one in this relationship.”
He grinned, and for a moment, the weight of the last few weeks seemed to slide off his shoulders. “What about Lucien?”
I wrinkled my nose. “Sounds like he was born wearing a smoking jacket and quoting French poetry.”
Anthony raised an eyebrow. “So… not a maybe.”
“More like a hard pass.”
His eyes softened as he turned onto my street. “And you’re okay with all of this? The chaos. The questions. Us.”
I looked at him, really looked at him. The man who once stood across from me like a locked door was now driving me home, holding my hand over the life we were making together.
“We didn’t just walk away from a scandal,” I said quietly. “We walked into something bigger. Something real. The kind of future I thought I’d never see come true.”
He stopped at a red light and turned to me. The light painted him in soft gold. His jawline, his eyes, the faint curve of something that looked like peace.
“No matter what we call him,” he remarked, “he has parents that love him.”
“And that is all he needs.”