Page 67 of His Secret Merger

“So, are you saying I need to put my penthouse on the market, along with the property in Malibu?” he teased, his voice warm against my ear.

“Suit yourself, Sinclair,” I murmured, nestling closer, “but just remember—I don’t come with a tentative contract.”

He let out a soft huff of laughter, pressing a kiss to my temple.

“Good,” he whispered, his breath brushing my skin, “because I don’t plan on cancelling it.”

And with that, the weight of decisions, deadlines, and ‘maybes’ melted away, leaving just the quiet sound of his heartbeat under my cheek and the feeling of home, wherever we were.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Damian

One Week Later

The first thing that hit me was the noise—not the loud, clattering kind, but the hum of wealth, elegance, and expectation all tangled together. Glasses clinked softly, laughter floated through the air, and somewhere near the stage, a string quartet played a low, refined arrangement that made the whole place feel like it belonged on the cover ofArchitectural Digest.

I stepped into the ballroom, smoothing one hand down the front of my jacket. Black tie, polished cufflinks, shoes that gleamed under the chandeliers. Outwardly, I probably looked like every other man in this room—cool, collected, at home in all this shine.

Inside? I was anything but.

My gaze swept the space, taking in the opulent floral arrangements, the gilded details on the ceiling, the crush of bodies in designer gowns and custom tuxedos. The media clustered near the entrance, cameras poised, eyes sharp for astory. Waitstaff floated by with champagne flutes balanced on silver trays.

And somewhere in this glittering crowd was Juliette.

I caught sight of Gabrielle and Anthony near the bar, chatting with Lucas and Ella Devereux. Anthony’s arm was slung casually around Gabrielle’s waist; Lucas, ever the polished gallery prince, was deep in conversation with Ella, who gave a soft laugh that carried over the music. I nodded slightly, Anthony catching my eye for half a second, just long enough to flash me a knowing grin.

Be ready,he’d said earlier this afternoon.

My fingers brushed the ring box in my pocket, the cool edges grounding me for a moment. I hadn’t let myself think about this part too much. Hell, I’d spent years carefully keeping people at arm’s length—turning relationships into distractions, not commitments. But with Juliette? It had never been just a distraction. It had been everything, long before I’d had the guts to admit it.

I moved toward the edge of the room, slipping out of the direct line of cameras, needing a moment to breathe. From here, I could see the stage—the massive Klimt painting flanked by soft golden lights, the shimmering drape of the curtains, the subtle hum of anticipation rippling through the crowd.

Is this really happening?

The thought slid through me like a pulse of heat and cold all at once. I’d spent my life calculating risk, reading the odds, keeping the upper hand. But with Juliette? I was gambling with something real, something I couldn’t control.

I slipped my hand back into my pocket, fingers closing around the small velvet box like it was a lifeline. Maybe this was the moment I got everything I never thought I’d deserve. Maybe, for once, the risk was worth the reward.

And God help me, I’d never wanted to win something more.

The murmur of voices faded as the lights dimmed, and a hush swept through the ballroom—the kind that raises goosebumps, even in a room full of people used to pretending they’ve seen it all.

Onstage, Lucas and Ella Devereux stepped into the glow of the spotlight, poised and polished, the perfect picture of old money charm and quiet authority. Ella’s gown shimmered in the light as she moved to the microphone, her expression gracious, her voice carrying easily over the hush.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, smiling, “on behalf of the Devereux Gallery, it’s my great honor to present to you tonight one of the most extraordinary recoveries of our lifetime—Gustav Klimt’sPortrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I.”

A ripple moved through the crowd—a soft intake of breath, the shifting of bodies, the tilt of heads toward the massive painting displayed behind the stage. The gilded surface caught the light like fire, the delicate, almost haunting face of Adele shimmering in the frame. Even from across the room, I felt the pull of it—the way true art had a way of pinning you to the spot, making the world narrow to a single, breathless moment.

Ella continued, her voice smooth and steady. “This piece is not only a masterpiece of the early twentieth century—it’s a symbol of survival, restitution, and righting history’s wrongs. As many of you know, this is the final piece recovered from AlistairDevereux’s secret collection, thanks to the combined efforts of the Monuments Men and Women Foundation, the Devereux team, and our partners at Vérité.”

I felt something catch in my chest—a rare, hard-earned flicker of pride. We’d built Vérité from the ground up, Juliette and I. What had started as an ambitious gamble had become something real, something that mattered. And standing here now, watching this moment unfold, I couldn’t help but think:We did this. She did this.

Ella gestured toward the front row, where a thin, silver-haired man stood. “Please join me in welcoming Mr. Franz Switzer, heir to the Bloch-Bauer family estate.”

Polite applause rippled through the crowd as Franz rose, giving a modest nod. When the mic was passed to him, he spoke only briefly, his voice quiet but firm. “It has been a long road to bring Adele home. And while parting with this piece is bittersweet, I believe in the mission of restitution. All proceeds from the sale will go toward recovering other stolen works around the world.”

The crowd responded with warm applause—a rare, genuine moment among the usual polished smiles and air kisses.

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