Page 52 of His Secret Merger

“You just saved my ass,” he murmured, thumb brushing the back of my knuckles. “You do know that, right?”

I swallowed around the knot rising in my throat. “I’m not trying to save you, Damian. I’m trying to stand next to you.”

For a second, neither of us moved. Just the soft clink of glasses, the low sound of music, the quiet admission of two people finally—maybe—stopping the pretense.

In his eyes, I saw it: the same thing I was finally ready to admit.

We were never just friends with benefits. We were never casual. We were always inevitably something more.

“Dance with me,” he murmured, voice rough at the edges, yet carrying a softness that tugged at something deep within me. God, I should have hesitated. Should have held back just a little. But the truth was, when Damian touched me, hesitation melted like sugar on my tongue.

I let him pull me up. His arms slid around me like they had so many times before, one at the small of my back, the other curling around my waist, fingertips pressing just enough to remind me he was there. Like I could forget. The world outside ceased to exist as we became our own universe, swaying gently to therhythm that seemed to pulse in time with our heartbeats. “You know… I can actually picture this working.”

I smiled, chest warming. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? Reliable Art Services and Vérité Foundation, two completely different worlds—but the more we talked tonight, the more I could see it. We could help families who don’t know what to do with inherited art, connect them to the right buyers, bring those donors into the foundation’s circle?—”

“—and finally have an in-house expert who knows what the hell they’re doing when an appraisal crisis lands on my desk,” Damian finished, a grin tugging at his mouth. His eyes softened when they met mine. “It’s been a long time since I was this excited about something that wasn’t… restoration work.”

I rested my head lightly against his shoulder. “Feels good, doesn’t it? To build instead of just patch holes.”

His hands flexed on my waist, pulling me a little closer. “Feels a lot like you.”

The music faded, leaving a hush between us that felt heavier than the quiet ambience of the bar around us. We lingered there, fingers lightly intertwined on the table, eyes tracing each other’s faces as if neither of us was ready to let the night go.

“Do you mind driving me home? I can get my car later,” I murmured, brushing my thumb across the back of his hand.

Damian gave a small nod, his mouth curving just slightly. “Sure thing.”

The drive was quiet, but it wasn’t empty. Our hands brushed on the console now and then, and every stoplight seemed to stretchjust a little longer, filling the car with a soft, charged stillness. Halfway there, his voice broke the quiet.

“Have you made that doctor’s appointment yet?” he asked carefully, eyes flicking to mine before returning to the road.

I looked out the window, the city lights blurring past in smudged streaks of gold and red. “No, but I don’t want to discuss my health issues tonight.”

He didn’t push. He just exhaled softly, his fingers flexing briefly on the steering wheel, a silent patience that tightened my throat.

I stayed quiet, but inside, the words churned. I wasn’t ready. Not tonight. Not with the ache between us still so fresh and raw. The truth was, I hadn’t decided what I wanted to do next—hadn’t decided if I was strong enough to chase the dream of becoming a mother alone, or brave enough to ask him again. It was an open wound between us, and if I touched it now, I wasn’t sure if I’d bleed or break.

When we pulled up outside the guest house, I hesitated with my hand on the door handle. The landscape lights were on, casting a magical glow across the drive. My chest tightened—not with nerves, but with something closer to longing, a quiet ache that had been building all night, threaded through every glance, every brush of his fingers, every word left unsaid.

“Stay,” I said, softly but certain.

Damian’s head turned; his profile caught in the dim light. His eyes softened, but there was a flicker of hesitation there, the kind born from months of blurred lines. For a heartbeat, he just looked at me, something flickering across his face that I couldn’t quite name—but felt anyway.

Then, without a word, he turned off the engine and stepped out, circling the car as I opened the door. His arm slid easily around my waist, and I leaned into him as we walked up the path. The night air was cool against my cheeks, his body warm and solid beside me.

Inside, the door clicked shut with a quiet finality, the hush of the house wrapping around us. We stood there for a moment, just breathing, his arm still looped around my shoulders, my hand resting lightly at his waist.

No rush. No heat of the moment. Just the soft thrum of something we’d both been circling around for too long.

And as we stood there, the simplest truth settled in my chest with a quiet kind of clarity.

I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Damian

When I slipped in, the offices at Vérité were quiet, the kind of stillness that only existed in the early morning before the calls started, before the donors circled, before the weight of my life settled across my shoulders like a custom-cut noose.

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