Epilogue
EPILOGUE
Damian
Miami looked almost gentle in the evening light. The skyline softened at the edges like it had nothing to prove. Below, the water tapped against the hull in slow, steady slaps—calm, predictable. Everything people weren’t.
I stood at the bow of The Oracle , one hand wrapped around a crystal tumbler, the other tucked into the pocket of my tailored slacks. The scotch was a fifteen-year Japanese blend—subtle, complicated, and a little arrogant. I liked it.
Everyone assumed yachts were for showing off. Floating palaces. Flexes on the water. For me, this wasn’t a trophy. This was a mobile boardroom. Fewer spreadsheets, better cocktails, and no shareholders breathing down my neck while I closed a deal in bare feet.
Across the deck behind me, champagne corks popped, someone laughed too loudly, and the newly minted Mrs. Moreau glowed like she'd swallowed the sunset whole. Anthony, on the other hand, looked like a man who couldn’t believe his luck and was terrified someone would try to repossess it.
I respected that. The man had risked everything—reputation, business, probably a chunk of his bank account—to make it right. Not many would.
But love? That wasn’t my currency.
Mine was leverage. Timing. Acquisition.
And I was good at it.
My mind drifted to the rest of my portfolio—skin in skincare, bricks in international real estate, a few discreet digital ventures that didn’t appear in glossy magazines or gala brochures. I liked to diversify. To stay liquid. No sentiment, no strings.
My phone buzzed in my jacket pocket. I didn’t need to pull it out to know who it was.
I tapped the screen to silence it, the way you might swat at a fly you couldn’t see yet but knew would bite when it landed.
Everything’s for sale eventually. Even peace. Especially peace.
The wind shifted, bringing the scent of salt and something sweeter—maybe it was the catered hors d’oeuvres, maybe it was the faint hum of violin music drifting up from below deck, or maybe it was the knowledge that something was shifting, just outside my line of sight.
And when it did, I’d be ready.
I always was.
Louisa found me on the lower deck just as I was pretending to care about the canapés.
She moved like a woman who owned her silhouette—elegant, exact, all sharp lines softened by custom tailoring and decades of knowing more than everyone else in the room. She held a champagne flute in one hand and a slim folder in the other, the paper crisp and slightly too official for a wedding cruise.
“Am I interrupting a moment of quiet introspection,” she asked, “or just your performance of one?”
I smiled and gestured to the seat beside me. “Depends. Are you here to ruin my mood or rescue it?”
She dropped into the chair with a soft rustle of silk and laid the folder on the table between us. “You said you wanted tax relief. I had this in my car.”
“I was hoping for something with fewer numbers and more pictures,” I said, sipping my drink.
She arched a brow. “Then maybe stay out of the art recovery business.”
I shrugged. “It’s not the art I’m interested in. It’s the write-offs.”
She snorted delicately. “Of course it is. A billionaire’s love language.”
The folder contained an overview of the Devereux Gallery’s remaining assets: what had been sold, what was still in negotiations, what might be eligible for donation if I felt like playing the generous benefactor.
“The Monuments Men & Women Foundation doesn’t cover everything,” she continued, tapping a list. “Private efforts are still needed. Especially in Europe. And especially by people who can afford to lose a little liquidity.”
“Lose is a strong word.”
Louisa gave me a sidelong look. “You’re not doing this out of patriotism, Damian. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”
“I don’t pretend,” I said smoothly. “I just edit.”
She laughed. “You edit until reality fits your brand.”
Fair.
Louisa had a mind like a vault and the wardrobe of a Vogue editor. She could talk Byzantine tax law while choosing the perfect wine pairing and never break a sweat. Brilliant, composed, terrifying.
But even as she spoke, my gaze kept sliding elsewhere.
Juliette.
She was barefoot now—her shoes discarded near a potted palm—laughing too loud, dipping strawberries in the chocolate fountain with zero coordination, and eating off a plate she’d probably stolen from the bar setup.
Someone had definitely tried to tell her where to sit. She’d definitely ignored them.
She tossed her hair over one shoulder and said something animated to a group of guests who looked half confused, half enchanted. She was electric and entirely unscripted.
And it made it impossible for me to look away.
Louisa was clarity. Juliette was chaos. One sharpened you. The other set you on fire.
And God help me, I was already too warm.
“Are you still listening?” Louisa asked, not even looking up from the folder.
“Every word,” I said. I didn’t even try to sound convincing.
I was halfway through pretending to read Louisa’s report when I heard the low, measured tread of someone approaching with purpose.
Judge Valencia.
He moved like a man used to people standing when he entered a room. Even now, in a linen jacket and soft leather loafers, he carried himself like a verdict waiting to be delivered.
“Mr. Sinclair,” he said, stopping beside me with his hands clasped behind his back. “I thought I might find you somewhere quiet. You don’t strike me as the dance-floor type.”
I rose and extended a hand. “Only when the deal closes with a spin.”
He smiled, dry and approving, as if he appreciated the joke but liked the instinct behind it even more.
“I’ve been hearing your name more often these days,” he said. “Particularly in connection with art.”
“News travels fast when people think you’ve got deep pockets and shallow patience,” I said, motioning for him to sit. “Fortunately, they’re only half right.”
He didn’t sit. Just kept his gaze steady, the Biscayne Bay wind tugging at the edges of his jacket.
“With most of the Devereux Gallery’s legitimate works now sold,” he said, “Anthony’s going to be focused on building something new. Clean, credible. It’ll take time.”
I nodded. “Reputation takes longer than profit. But both can be engineered.”
Valencia inclined his head as if I’d passed some kind of unspoken test. “Still, there’s more work to be done. Especially in Europe. Heirs whose families were stripped of everything. Families who’ve never seen justice. There’s a market for that kind of effort. A moral one—and a financial one.”
“And let me guess,” I said, watching him closely. “You’re not suggesting the foundation do it.”
“The MM&W Foundation has its reach. But bureaucracy moves slowly,” he said. “And this… this could move faster in private hands. With the right vision. And capital.”
Ah.
There it was.
An opportunity with just enough risk to make it interesting.
“You want me to build something outside the system,” I said.
“I want someone who can move in and out of it,” he replied. “Someone with access. Discretion. The right people on speed dial.”
I tilted my glass toward him. “And the appetite for bending rules without snapping them.”
He smiled at that. “Exactly.”
“I assume you also want someone who knows the difference between a Modigliani and a forgery done in a garage in Jersey.”
“You’ll need help,” he agreed. “Someone fluent in art. History. International law.”
My eyes drifted toward Louisa—still in conversation with one of Anthony’s interns. She’d be perfect. Efficient. Sharp. Meticulous.
But then, as if magnetized, my gaze shifted one more time.
Juliette.
Barefoot again. Holding two glasses of wine like she wasn’t sure which was hers. She laughed at something a server said and completely missed the napkin she dropped in the process. She turned to look for the bathroom, spinning in a slow circle like a compass that didn’t care which way was north.
I could fake expertise. But art needed heart.
And unfortunately, mine had a weakness for chaos in heels.
“I’m interested,” I said finally, keeping my voice even.
The judge nodded once, firmly. “Then I’ll be in touch.”
As he walked away, I reached for my drink again—only to realize I was holding it like I’d forgotten what to do with it.
I caught sight of her just as I rounded the corner near the galley.
Juliette Vanderburg, barefoot and beautiful chaos, blinking up at a brass sign like it had personally offended her. A napkin was balled in one hand, a Champagne flute teetering in the other, her hair barely pinned up anymore—like the whole idea of being polished had given up and decided to surrender.
“Oh good,” she said when she saw me. “Since you own this boat you’ll know where the hell the bathroom is.”
I leaned a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, trying not to smirk. “Can’t decide if that’s a compliment or just desperation.”
She frowned, then grinned. “Both. Also, I’m working with a rapidly declining wine-to-bladder ratio, so unless you want a scene on this very expensive teak wood…”
“Say no more.”
I motioned for her to follow me, guiding us down the curved hallway with practiced ease. But just as we reached the door, the yacht gave a lazy roll beneath our feet—barely a shift, but Juliette, barefoot and off-balance, stumbled forward with a laugh.
I caught her elbow, but too late.
She collided with me and we both tumbled inside the bathroom, the door swinging shut behind us with more force than I intended.
Click.
I froze.
Juliette blinked up at me. “Did your yacht just lock us in the bathroom?”
I turned the knob. Nothing.
“No,” I said, frowning. “It’s not supposed to do that.”
“Well,” she said, planting her hands on her hips, “either we just discovered a design flaw or your yacht is into matchmaking.”
I turned toward her to explain I’d get someone to unlock it.
Her mouth was already on mine.
There was no restraint. No shame. No asking. Just bold, tipsy certainty and soft lips that crashed into mine like she’d been thinking about it all night and didn’t have the patience to wait one second longer.
My back hit the door. Hard.
She tasted like mischief and momentum—like trouble I should’ve walked away from five champagne toasts ago. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. Not with her pressed against me, not with the door locked behind us, and definitely not with the way she smiled against my mouth—like she knew she’d just rewritten the rules of the game.
And I was already a willing player.