Page 73 of His Secret Merger

He handed me my glass, his fingers brushing mine—a small touch, but it felt like the sealing of something bigger.

We clinked glasses gently, sipping, standing side by side at the window while the lights of Vegas blinked beneath us.

Damian’s arm slid around my waist, pulling me close. “Thank you for saying yes,” he said softly, his lips brushing the edge of my temple. “I don’t think I ever really believed I’d deserve this. Deserve you.”

I turned in his arms, tipping my chin up until our eyes met. “Well, tough luck,” I teased lightly, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re stuck with me now.”

We stood like that for a long moment, wrapped in quiet, the hum of the city pulsing below, the weight of the day settling soft and sure around us.

As I looked out at the glittering lights, I felt his heart steady against mine, and one simple truth rose to the surface, clear as the stars blinking high above the Strip: I’d never needed a wedding. I’d needed a man who made me feel like I didn’t have to stand alone anymore.

Damian’s voice broke gently into the silence, his fingers curling tighter around my waist. “Think you’ll be ready to leave for Malibu tomorrow to meet Mateo?”

I leaned into him, smiling against his chest. “Absolutely.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Damian

We pulled off the winding coastal road and turned through the stone gates of Hopewell Boarding School. The sign was modest, but the campus stretched wide beyond it, framed by the rolling Malibu hills and the hazy blue line of the Pacific in the distance.

I eased the SUV into a visitor parking space near the administration building, cutting the engine. Beside me, Juliette pressed her hand to the window, her gaze drinking in the sun-dappled quad where a few students passed a soccer ball back and forth. In the distance, the faint toll of a chapel bell drifted on the breeze, mingling with the scent of eucalyptus and salt air.

We’d just left the real estate broker’s office in Santa Monica—final signatures, wire transfers, a handshake too cheerful for what it meant. Like the board had recommended, one of my California properties was officially sold. The proceeds would go toward salvagingThe Cut of Her Jibfrom bankruptcy. A lifeboat for the brand. And a step toward restoring the confidence I’d lost—both from the board and from myself.

Now, as we sat in the stillness, about to see Mateo for the first time in months, that other weight pressed in—less financial, more personal, I wasn’t sure which one was heavier.

“Wow,” she murmured, her lips curving faintly. “It’s beautiful here. He’s lucky.”

I followed her gaze, my stomach tightening in that familiar knot. “Yeah,” I said quietly. “He is.”

Juliette turned toward me, her eyes warm but searching. “Are you nervous?”

A small, rueful smile tugged at my mouth. “A little. Haven’t seen him since winter break. He’s growing so fast—every time it’s like meeting a new version of him.”

She leaned back in her seat, thoughtful. “Me too. Nervous, I mean.” Her hand brushed lightly through her hair. “This feels… big.”

“It is,” I said, reaching across the console to squeeze her knee. “But you’ll be great with him.”

She covered my hand with hers, squeezing it back before letting go, her gaze drifting again toward the quad. “I hope he likes me.”

“He will,” I promised, though deep down I knew it wasn’t really aboutliking. It was aboutfitting. About bridging two halves of a life I’d been too afraid to merge before now.

I climbed out, circled around to open her door, watching as she slid out, her hair catching the sunlight in soft waves. She tipped her head back, closing her eyes for a second as the breeze kissed her face.

God, she looked like she belonged here already—like she belonged everywhere I wanted to go.

The sound of kids laughing filtered across the lawn, and I watched a group of boys dart across the grass, a soccer ball arcing between them, Mateo not among them but easy to imagine somewhere in the mix.

Juliette touched my elbow, her voice gentle. “Ready?”

I swallowed hard. “Yeah. Let’s check in.”

We walked toward the admin building, the sun warm on our backs, footsteps muffled by the neatly manicured paths. Inside, the office was cool and tidy, wood-paneled walls lined with framed photos of graduating classes and plaques of academic honors. Behind the front desk, a cheerful receptionist smiled over half-moon glasses.

“Mr. Sinclair,” she greeted warmly. “Welcome back.”

I nodded, returning the smile. “Good to be here.”

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