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“A boutique fashion blog ran a vague but pointed line about the company’s recent ‘radio silence.’ No names, no bankruptcy keywords—yet. But the editor tagged an industry investor on Twitter about ‘when things unravel quietly.’ We’re not viral. But someone’s sniffing. It’s moving.”
I read it twice.
This wasn’t the fire. This was the smoke.
I clenched my jaw and clicked reply.
Prepare a neutral response. Timeline only. No speculation. No names. Do not release anything unless I call it.
I stared at the screen, cursor blinking like it knew something I didn’t. My reflection hovered faintly in the black border of the screen—shirt slightly wrinkled, collar undone, shadows under my eyes that hadn’t been there a few weeks ago.
I opened a second tab. Typed slowly.
To:Thatcher
Subject:Vérité
If the leak spreads—containment only. No interviews. No spin. Keep the foundation clean. And keep Juliette’s name out of it. Entirely. She’s not involved. Don’t let them make her collateral damage. This one’s not just optics. It matters.
Then I hit send.
The screen confirmed it—message delivered—but the tension didn’t leave. Not even close.
I looked down at the binder again, at the perfectly organized itinerary. My finger tapped the edge of the page in time with the muted throb at my temple. Everything about Germany was ready. Every form, every checkpoint, every transfer of responsibility.
Except the part that couldn’t be documented—except the fallout if the leak spread fast and dragged Vérité down with it.
I wasn’t sure what that would do to the board. Or to her. But I knew one thing. It wouldn’t spell disaster.
I started walking, clearing my head after the email, the spinning headlines I could feel building just beyond the reach of a Google alert. I didn’t want to sit around my office like some restless case study in poor decision-making, so I moved. I went past the admin wing, past the empty exhibition space, until I ended up near the back, where we kept the crates, gloves, archival wrapping, and rolled canvas tubes labeled in thick black marker.
And there she was.
Juliette.
In a white blouse rolled to her elbows, fitted jeans dusted with foam residue, and hair twisted into one of those no-nonsense buns that still made me want to undo it with my teeth.
She was standing beside the Kandinsky—resting carefully on the cushioned easel. A pair of white cotton gloves stretched over her hands as she examined the lower corner for micro-cracking.
She didn’t notice me at first.
I watched the way she leaned in—careful, reverent, like the painting was breathing. And then she smiled, just slightly.
Not for me. For the art.
“Do you always flirt with the modernists?” I asked finally.
She turned, grinning over her shoulder. “Only the dead ones. Less trouble.”
I stepped inside, grabbed a pair of gloves from the shelf, and joined her.
“This one’s ready,” she said. “But the crate needs double foam. Whoever packed the Prague handoff used single-layer corrugate. I don’t want any vibration damage.”
“You just want an excuse to manhandle custom shipping foam.”
She shrugged. “Guilty.”
We lifted the piece together—slow, even, the kind of movement that only happens when both people are in sync. I felt the slight tremble of her grip and matched it. She didn't flinch. Neither did I.