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“That’s the whole point—no connections with my real estate portfolio. Keep the foundation clean. No mention of the board, no tie-in to the Germany trip. I want a wall between them.”
“And Vanderburg?”
My jaw tightened.
Of course, he’d seen the pictures. It was a high-profile auction. Press had been everywhere. Juliette in that black dress. My hand on her back. Her smile angled toward me like we were the only two people in the damn room.
They didn’t need confirmation. Just a name to start spinning their own version of events.
“She’s a contract consultant,” I said evenly. “An art historian. Her name is Juliette Vanderburg. She’s working out of the back office while she launches her own business. No formal affiliation with Vérité.”
A pause.
Then: “She was photographed with you.”
“I know.”
“And if the story breaks?—”
“You leave her out of it,” I snapped. “No name in the press release. No photos. No suggestion that she’s tied to the foundation. She’s not the story.”
Another pause, longer this time. “Noted. Want me to brief the media response team?”
“Only if something leaks. And if it does, you know what to do.”
“Reinforce the wall between your past and the foundation. No romantic conjecture. No crossing lines.”
“Exactly. Keep it dry. Keep it clean.” I hesitated, then added, quieter, “She’s not leverage. She’s not collateral. I want her name clear.”
But this wasn’t just about Juliette, and it sure as hell wasn’t just about me.
It was about the foundation—Vérité—the one thing I’d built that felt like more than branding or spin. A mission that mattered. One that now teetered on the edge of becoming collateral damage if the narrative shifted even a degree off course.
If word got out about the bankruptcy, I could lose donor confidence.
They’d start pulling out if they thought I was reckless with money—or worse, with my personal life. Quietly at first, then all at once.
And then there was Judge Valencia—the man who’d helped me set Vérité up from the ground floor, who’d vouched for me, put his reputation behind mine when I didn’t deserve it yet. I couldn’t stomach the idea of disappointing him or making him regret his support.
I couldn’t afford a scandal. Not when so many names—not just mine—were stamped on the work we were doing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Juliette
The fertility clinic didn’t smell like a clinic.
The aroma was a delightful blend of citrus water and lavender diffuser oil, creating an almost overwhelming sense of tranquility. However, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being slightly judged for my second-day blowout and half a tube of concealer.
The waiting room was absurdly nice—quiet, sun-drenched, all soft neutrals and curated art that made it feel more like a boutique spa than a place where people came to interrogate their ovaries.
I signed in at the front desk and slid the clipboard into my lap. Name. Date of birth. How long had I been off birth control? I hesitated. Then wrote:One Week.
A couple was sitting two chairs over, whisper-fighting like they thought the Ficus tree between us gave them privacy. I tried not to listen—but she kept hissing phrases like “we said we’d wait” and “your mother doesn’t get a vote.”
I shifted my weight and glanced around. I was the only one here alone, weirdly, which made me sit up straighter.
I hadn’t told Gabrielle I made the appointment. Hadn’t told Damian. And definitely hadn’t mentioned it to the Coral Gables estate manager, who assumed I lived and breathed 19th-century French bronzes. “Sorry, can’t evaluate your heirlooms today—I’m reevaluating my uterus,” didn’t seem to be the right tone.