Page 8 of His Secret Merger

“Yes, yes I have,” I said quickly, trying not to let the tension crack my voice.

“She’ll be hard to replace,” he added.

Juliette glanced up at me, amused. “You accepting recommendations?”

I looked at her—really looked—and for a second, my brain did something it shouldn’t have.

Maybe Juliette.

Not just for this event. Not just for the dress or the sex or the way she laughed in the face of men like Valencia.

But for the real thing.

I tamped it down fast, nodding to the judge and his wife as they walked away.

“Why don’t we go find a place to sit?” I said, letting my eyes dip—just briefly—toward the neckline of her dress.

We made our way toward the seating area. Small tables, soft lights, discreet servers weaving through with champagne.

Juliette guided me to a two-top with a perfect view of the stage. Her hand on my arm, her body close enough to keep me half-distracted.

I sat down and exhaled, trying to collect my thoughts.

I needed to focus. I needed to buy something meaningful enough to justify the appearance, something critics would applaud but donors wouldn’t question, something expensive but not desperate.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, settling beside me.

“Doubtful.”

“You want something with gravitas and price tag flair. But not loud. Not political. Not weird.”

I tilted my head, impressed. “You’re not wrong.”

“I’m never wrong.”

She sipped her champagne and leaned back in her chair like she owned the room. Then, just like that, I forgot what the hell I was even here to buy.

The lights dimmed slightly as a man in a tuxedo stepped onto the small stage and tapped the microphone with two polite fingers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll begin shortly. Please take your seats. Paddles are in your programs. Champagne is being replenished as we speak.”

Juliette glanced at me sideways, sipping hers like she wasn’t already halfway through the evening’s entertainment.

“They’re opening with filler,” she said. “Don’t raise your hand unless you want to spend ten grand on regret.”

“Duly noted,” I muttered.

I tried to focus on the stage as the first piece came up—a glossy landscape meant for over a gas fireplace in a condo someone inherited from a rich aunt. It was the kind of painting that screamedsafe investmentbut whisperedzero soul.

Juliette wrinkled her nose. “That belongs in a hotel hallway.”

I leaned toward her. “You going to guide my taste all night?”

“If you’re lucky.”

Another piece. A moody nude in soft charcoal that made the room collectively shift. A few tentative bids went up.

Juliette barely looked. “Not the one. Wait for Diaz.”

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