Page 61 of His Untouchable Heart

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—ourson. 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.”

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