Page 15 of His Secret Merger

“No. But youcouldpick his DNA.”

I tossed a cloth napkin at her. She laughed, but something in me twisted—because now I couldn’t unhear it.

“I’ll think about it,” I said. “Eventually.”

She nodded. “That’s all I wanted.”

We didn’t say much after that. But the silence didn’t feel awkward. It felt earned.

And when she reached over to refill my glass, I let her—even though mine wasn’t empty yet.

By the time we split the bill and hugged goodbye in the breezeway, the sun was thick in the sky, mid-afternoon andunapologetic, casting everything in a slow, honeyed heat that clung to my skin and made Coconut Grove shimmer like a movie set right before the kiss.

Gabrielle pulled out first, waving from her BMW convertible with her oversized sunglasses and a to-go cup of sparkling water tucked between her thighs like a woman who’d done this a hundred times.

I watched her go.

It wasn’t jealousy I felt. Not exactly. Gabrielle had a life. A beautiful, complex, exhausting, fulfilling life—and for the most part, I loved being part of it. But there were moments like now, when the silence returned, where I realized I was the only one still orbiting.

Still floating.

I slid into my car and shut the door, letting the quiet wrap around me like a seatbelt. The leather was warm, sun-soaked. Familiar. I pulled my sunglasses back on even though I didn’t need them and stared straight ahead at the parking lot for a full thirty seconds without starting the engine.

She told me first.

That part stuck more than I thought it would. Gabrielle had Anthony. She had friends. She had a whole curated gallery of people who’d show up if she asked—but she picked me.

Because I was her twin.

Because we shared the same blood, the same bones, and apparently, possibly, the same expiration date on our fertility.

I didn’t want to think about that. About appointments, doctors, or what might be hiding under the surface of my own medical chart. I wasn’t even sure I wanted kids. I’d spent most of my adult life convincing myself I didn’t—and most of my twenties convincing men that it didn’t make me broken.

But now? That unspokenmaybewas louder than I expected.

What if Gabrielle was right? What if I didn’t have all the time I thought I did?

What if someday I wanted a version of the chaos she lived with—and it was too late?

The thought made my throat tighten—sharp and unwelcome, like someone had reached in and flicked a switch I didn’t know was wired to anything.

I unlocked my phone and opened the browser with mechanical precision, fingers moving faster than my thoughts.Fertility clinic Miami. That was all I typed. Just three words. No punctuation. No specifics. And then I just sat there, staring at the blinking cursor like it might answer the question for me.

It didn’t. It just blinked. Steady. Waiting. Like it had all the time in the world.

Perhaps, I didn’t. That was the part that scared me.

I locked the screen and tossed the phone into the passenger seat with more force than necessary. It landed with a dull thud, sliding against the leather like even it was tired of me pretending I wasn’t panicking.

“Not today,” I muttered.

Maybe not tomorrow either.

Maybe not until I could admit I wanted to know the answer.

And maybe I wasn’t there yet.

But the question was already planted—deep and uncomfortable like a seed in dry soil.

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