Page 24 of His Secret Merger

“You’re in?” I asked, watching the curve of her mouth as she read over something in her notes.

“Of course I’m in,” she said, touching my hand. “Just give me access to the files. I’ll build out the checklist. I’ll make a note to try to cancel my lease.”

I nodded, “Let me know if he holds you to it. I will be glad to pay all fees.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that.”

I resisted the very real urge to lean across the table and kiss her just for being competent. There was something deeply unfair about a woman who could turn you inside out one night and then meet you for coffee the next morning like she hadn’t just made you question every boundary you ever built.

She looked up and smiled, casual. “What?”

“Nothing,” I said.

It wasn’t a lie.

Not really.

It was everything.

In the late afternoon, after moving some of Juliette’s files into the Vérité office building, I looked up from reviewing the reservations for the Germany trip. The office was too quiet—the kind of quiet that told you someone was working.

Not killing time. Not scrolling. Working.

I stood, rolled my shoulders once, and wandered toward the back hallway. Passed the empty conference room, double-checked the Lufthansa confirmation on my phone, and instinctively thumbed over to my inbox.

A new message blinked fromHopewell School—subject line:Update on Mateo + Tuition.

I paused.

The thread was long, tucked beneath quarterly reports and receipts. But the message at the top was short.

Mateo passed his mid-term finals. The spring term starts soon.

I stared at it for a beat longer than I meant to. Then tapped out a response:

Tell him the world needs smart kids who’ve seen real things. And to email me if he needs more for books or special events.

I hit send, pocketed the phone, and kept moving.

Past the conference room. Down the back wing. Toward the office we’d cleared for Juliette.

Because no matter how much noise I carried in my head… Her quiet was the kind I didn’t mind walking into.

But the second I turned the corner and saw her there—hair twisted up, glasses perched low on her nose, one knee drawn up in her chair like she owned the space—I felt something settle in my chest. Then shift.

She didn’t see me.

Her attention was locked on the stack of images in front of her—prints from the Coral Gables estate, judging by the notations in the margins. She’d circled certain corners, scribbled arrows between notes, and cross-referenced museum tags in a new little notebook she kept by her elbow.

The office printer whirred softly behind her, spitting out the next set of scans. She glanced over her shoulder once, mentally tracking the pages, then returned to what was in front of her without missing a beat. Efficient. Focused. Like she had an internal clock running and didn’t plan to waste a second.

She was all in. No makeup. No posing. Just focus.

She bit her bottom lip when she leaned in to look at one of the oil portraits—an instinctive thing, totally unaware. She tapped the side of her pen against her chin and made another note. She didn’t glance up once the whole time, and I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, watching her.

Because it hit me—hard and fast—that she wasn’t just doing this to keep busy.

She wasn’t doing it for me.

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