Page 33 of His Secret Merger

Juliette glanced back just once before leaving. “I’ll see you at the hangar. Eight sharp.”

I nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

She didn’t smile this time. She just walked back to her office.

The email loaded. And the silence she left behind took up far more space than it should’ve.

The sky had dropped low when I stepped to the tall office windows. From there, I had a clear view of the sidewalk, which curved out toward the parking lot. The glass caught the last smear of sunset as it fell across the bay like someone had brushed orange and rosewater onto a steel-blue canvas.

Juliette stepped out of the building with her tote over one shoulder and her phone in hand, the corner of a document peeking from her folder like it was too important to stay tucked away. She moved with the kind of quiet purpose that didn’t need an audience.

She didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to. She’d already said yes—to the trip, to me... or at least the version of me I’d let her see.

And I wasn’t sure how long that would last.

I leaned a hand against the window frame, fingers splayed. From this angle, I could still see the subtle slope of her shoulders, the confident sway of her hips. She’d become so much a part of my day-to-day that I hadn’t noticed when she started threading herself into the parts of me I didn’t usually share. The pieces I couldn’t explain away with charm or credentials.

She was part of this trip. Part of this story. But I hadn’t let her be part of the truth, and the truth was coming. With headlines. With judgment. With the kind of fallout I didn’t know how to control anymore.

If it burned Vérité to the ground, I’d survive. Rebuild.

But if it burned her faith in me—if it made her see me as just another entitled billionaire playing at legacy while hiding the smoke from my last disaster? I wasn’t sure how I’d get through that.

My chest tightened. I pressed my palm flat against the glass, as if I could hold her there for just one more second.

But Juliette kept walking. Hair catching the breeze. Keys swinging casually in her hand. She climbed into her car, started the engine, and drove away—tail lights blinking once, then disappearing into the dusk.

I stayed at the window long after she was gone. Waiting for something I couldn’t name, knowing, deep down, that I might not be able to keep her.

Not if she learned everything.

Not if she finally saw what was already cracking beneath the surface.

CHAPTER TEN

Juliette

The private terminal wasn’t busy, but the energy still buzzed the way it always did before an international flight—subdued voices, expensive watches flashing under designer cuffs, luggage gliding smoothly across marble floors.

I tightened my grip on my carry-on and followed the sleek attendant who greeted me at the check-in desk.

“Ms. Vanderburg, welcome aboard,” she said with a practiced smile. “You’re first to arrive.”

Naturally.

We crossed the tarmac to the jet—sleek, polished, and just obnoxious enough to say yes, we run with billionaires, but we’re discreet about it. The first thing I saw when I stepped inside wasn’t the butter-soft leather seats or the silver service cart lined with glassware. It was the crate.

The Kandinsky.

I paused. It sat secured along the interior wall, strapped in a custom carrier, the wood reinforced, and the seals already checked twice by the foundation's logistics guy this morning.

But still.

I walked over, lightly ran my hand across the crate’s side, feeling the faint ridges of the serial stamps. I double-checked the fastenings because no matter how careful they’d been, it wasmy namenow, too—on the chain of custody.

Behind me, I heard footfalls.

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