Page 13 of His Secret Merger

And I did. But I wasn’t sharing the part where I’d spent the better part of Saturday pinned to a hotel mattress whisperingDamian Sinclair’s name in a tone that definitely wasn’t academic.

“So,” she said after a beat, tilting her head. “Still teaching about dead painters and throwing elbows in the faculty parking lot?”

I exhaled. “Sort of. But honestly? I’m bored.”

She blinked. “You?”

“Yeah. I thought finishing the PhD would feel like the top of a mountain, but it just feels... flat. Like I climbed a ladder only to find out it leaned against the wrong wall.”

Gabrielle gave me a knowing look, the kind only a twin could deliver without a word.

“I’m proud of it,” I added quickly. “I worked my ass off. But I don’t want to talk about art anymore. I want to do something with it. Maybe appraisals, private clients... something that lets me move in the world, not just talk about it in theory.”

“You always said you wanted something tactile.”

“I want to use my eyes. My instincts. Get my hands on real pieces. Not just pass out midterms and break up student arguments about brushstroke symbolism.”

Gabrielle nodded slowly. “So what’s stopping you?”

I paused. “Nothing. Except money. And inertia. And the terrifying reality that I might actually be good at it... or fail so hard I have to live forever in your guest house.”

She laughed, but not unkindly. “You know you’ll never be a burden, right?”

“I know.” I sipped again. “But it’d be nice to pay rent with more than sarcasm.”

“Anyway,” I said quickly, swirling the wine in my glass. “I’m fine. It’s just one of those next chapter things.”

Gabrielle was still watching me, but the edges of her gaze softened. Then she finally spoke, her voice was lower. Quieter.

“Funny you should say that,” she murmured. “Because I’ve been thinking about what comes next, too.”

Gabrielle’s wine glass hovered near her lips, untouched. Her gaze drifted to the horizon where the tree line met the sky like a watercolor someone had half-finished and never returned to.

“What do you mean?” I murmured.

“About next chapters.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Please don’t tell me you’re quitting the gallery to raise goats and make handmade soap in Asheville.”

She smirked, but it faded quickly. “I’ve been trying to get pregnant.”

That stopped me cold.

“You mean… you and Anthony?”

She nodded once. “Since just after the new year.”

I sat back in my chair. “You didn’t say anything.”

She gave a small shrug. “We thought it would just… happen. Like it did the first time.”

The way her voice dipped made something tighten in my chest.

Gabrielle was the calm one. The planner. She was the spreadsheet to my sketchbook. The last time she’d sounded like this—fragile, uncertain—was after our mom died. And even then, she held it together better than I did.

“What did your doctor say?” I asked gently.

“She ran a full panel. Hormones, ultrasounds, the works.” Her jaw tensed. “There might be a structural issue. Scar tissue. Or a hormonal imbalance. It’s not conclusive yet, but…”

---