Page 5 of His Secret Merger

My eyes drifted toward the canvas propped against the wall near the kitchen—the one I’d dragged in from the guesthouse porch two days ago: thick brushstrokes, bold color, absolutely zero explanation. I wasn’t painting for a gallery or a degree. I paintedbecause sometimes the thoughts in my head needed somewhere else to go.

It was the one thing in my life that didn’t require a committee or a footnote.

Julian snored softly against my shoulder, a warm little weight that had completely given up on the world. I carried him across the lawn, the grass cool under my bare feet as I made my way back to the guesthouse where I lived.

The space smelled faintly like oil paint and lemon wood polish, and a breeze slipped through the half-open window, fluttering the edge of a drying canvas. I nudged the door closed with my hip and crossed to the corner where I kept a portable crib set up for nights like this.

Gabrielle didn’t even have to ask anymore.

I’d set it up after the first time Julian fell asleep on my chest and Gabrielle didn’t have the heart to wake him. Since then, it just stayed. Kind of like me. I wasn’t maternal—not in the baby-food and stroller sense—but I loved that kid more than I thought I would.

I laid him down gently, one hand still resting on his chest as I waited for that soft little exhale of surrender. There it was. A sigh, a stretch, and he was out.

I stood there for a second, looking at him. Perfect, small, and completely untouched by the world’s nonsense. He had no idea what provenance meant or how much wine a donor expected at a gala. He didn’t know what it meant to want someone and pretend it wasn’t real.

Must be nice.

I poured myself a generous glass of rosé and walked out onto the spacious porch, the wooden planks still warm under my feet. The sky was deepening—somewhere between coral and lavender—and the breeze carried just enough salt to remind me why I stayed in Miami, even when it drove me insane.

Inside, the guesthouse was exactly what I needed it to be: lived-in, sun-drenched, and unapologetically mine—thanks to my sister and brother-in-law, Anthony. A stack of art journals sat on the edge of the coffee table, half-topped by old provenance folders. A lacy black bra was draped over the back of a chair from this morning’s rush to get dressed. My newest painting leaned against the wall, still wet in one corner—bold reds bleeding into blue like it was trying to decide who it wanted to be.

It was messy and raw—color layered over instinct, not theory. I’d used the wrong brush for the outline, bled through the canvas in one corner, and ruined my favorite shirt in the process. And I loved it. It wasn’t publishable. It wasn’t grant-worthy. It was mine.

Just like me.

I wasn’t interested in perfect. I was interested in real. In color. In heat. In the kind of life that didn’t need permission or structure.

Before settling in, I padded inside and over to the corner where Julian slept, the portable crib tucked into a quiet spot. He was still on his back, tiny fists curled, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. I reached down, brushing my fingertips along his hand until he shifted slightly in his sleep, then stilled again.

For a second—just a breath—I wondered what having one of my own would be like.

Not borrowed. Not part-time. Mine.

But the thought flickered and faded just as fast. I wasn’t built for diapers and preschools and PTA meetings. If I ever needed a baby fix, Julian was always here. I got to keep the wine, the sleep, and the silence.

Still… I lingered for a moment longer, watching him breathe.

Then I turned, reached for my glass of rosé, and let the silence settle around me like silk.

My phone buzzed from where I’d tossed it on the bed. I reached for it without thinking.

Damian: Want to crash an auction this weekend? I’ll buy you something pretty. If you behave.

I grinned.

If there was one thing I wasn’t built for—it was behaving.

I dialed him. He answered on the second ring, his voice smooth and low like he’d been expecting me.

“Sinclair,” I said lazily, curling up on the bed with my wine. “Already bored with your foundation spreadsheets?”

“Painfully. I need a favor from you.”

“Oh, really?” I chuckled.

“I need something beautiful on my arm Saturday night.”

I snorted. “You mean someone who knows how to pronounce Modigliani and won’t fall asleep during the second paddle raise.”

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