Page 37 of His Secret Merger

I shifted in my seat, tugging the thin blanket up over my legs, trying not to think about what came next—Germany, the handoff, the future I hadn’t mapped yet.

Beside me, Damian stretched his legs out, his hand brushing lightly against mine as he adjusted his seat.

He didn’t move it. Didn’t pull away.

Neither did I.

The warmth of his fingers against my skin was small. Barely a touch. But it buzzed louder than any turbulence, louder than the questions we weren’t asking.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, the rhythm of it slow and steady. Sleep found him easily, the way it always seemed to.

I stayed awake longer, staring at the jet’s ceiling, feeling his hand’s steady pulse against mine. Wondering if some part of me already knew—when we landed, it wouldn’t just be Germany waiting. It would be everything we weren’t ready to say yet. And maybe... it always had been.

I closed my eyes, willing my mind to still.

Just as I started to drift, I heard it—faint, barely more than a breath—“Jules…”

My heart skidded against my ribs. I stayed still, frozen in the dark, pretending not to hear him. Pretending it didn’t matter. But it did. It mattered more than I wanted to admit.

I tightened my fingers slightly against his, anchoring myself to the moment.

To him.

The jet sailed steadily through the night sky, chasing a sunrise neither of us was ready for.

And somewhere between dreams and denial, Damian Sinclair said my name like it was the only thing he trusted.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Damian

“Willkommen to Baden-Baden,” the flight attendant said over the cabin speakers, her voice smooth and accented. “The city of baths, gardens, and rest. Local time is just past four in the afternoon. Thank you for flying with us.”

The jet wheels touched down with a muted thud, rattling all the way through my chest.

Germany.

Baden-Baden. A town so proud of its hot springs, they named it twice.

Somehow, despite the leaks, the half-truths, and the thousand things I hadn’t said, I still had Juliette sitting beside me. She smoothed her jacket, her hair a little messy from the long flight, but made it look deliberate, professional, effortless, and untouchable.

The Kandinsky sat secured at the front, cradled like a crown jewel awaiting coronation. The museum had insisted on apersonal handoff—no third-party couriers, no freight handlers. Just trust, reputation, and a pair of passports with clean histories.

The ramp lowered with a low mechanical hum. A rush of crisp air flooded the cabin, carrying the faint scent of wet stone and spring grass.

Juliette unbuckled her seatbelt, already reaching for the provenance packet and double-checking the seals on the crate. No hesitation. No nerves. Just muscle memory and focus.

I wanted to kiss her for it.

Instead, I grabbed my jacket and followed her into the cool German afternoon.

Waiting at the edge of the tarmac was a black Sprinter van marked with the discreet insignia of the Baden-Baden Regional Museum. Two curators and a registrar stood beside it, their smiles warm but cautious.

Juliette moved first, offering her hand with easy confidence. She slipped into fluent German like it was her first language. She didn’t need prompting—she never did.

I followed her lead, my own German polished enough to keep pace as we moved through the protocols: seal inspection, identity confirmation, chain of custody signatures.

Everything clocked along with mechanical precision, and I felt something close to steady for the first time in days.

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