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Juliette crouched to double-check the crate’s base fastenings before the museum staff lifted it into the van. She jotted a few notes onto the transfer form, then handed it to me with a raised eyebrow like,Sign, Sinclair. Stop gawking.
I smirked and signed.
We watched the van pull away, taillights blinking once before disappearing around the curve of the museum’s private drive. A weight should have lifted from my chest. Instead, tension tightened deeper beneath my ribs, coiling slowly and with certainty.
I shoved my hands into my pockets and turned to her.
"That," I said, "was a damn fine delivery."
Juliette gave me a proud, almost mischievous smile. "We make a good team."
The words hit harder than they should have. I wanted to believe it was just about the art. Just a job well done. But standing there with her, laughing under the gray German sky, the crate safely handed off, I realized it wasn’t pride filling my chest. It was something bigger. Heavier.
Something dangerously close to hope.
We made our way toward the museum’s administrative wing for a short debrief before heading to the hotel. Somewhere deep down, I knew the easy part was over. Now came the fall.
The courtyard outside the museum was too quiet.
I should’ve noticed it sooner—the slight tension in the staff’s shoulders, the way our private chauffeur subtly straightened at the curb.
I adjusted the strap of my bag and motioned for Juliette to stay close.
We were halfway to the car when I spotted him. Plain blazer. Crooked press badge. Trying way too hard to look casual.
“Mr. Sinclair!” he called out, jogging a few steps forward. His German was polished but carried a faint American slant. “A quick question, sir—can you comment on the rumors aboutThe Cut of Her Jib’sbankruptcy proceedings?”
Juliette stiffened beside me.
I didn’t break stride. “No comment,” I said smoothly, not even glancing his way. We reached the car, and I opened Juliette’s door. She didn’t get in. Instead, she leaned casually against the frame, her eyebrow lifting high. “What’s this aboutThe Cut of Her Jib?” she asked, voice light but far too sharp to miss.
I gave her the same shrug I’d mastered at every board meeting where someone asked too many questions. “Just a side business,” I said. “Fashion stuff. Scarves. Fragrance. Minimalist junk. It’s not important.”
Juliette blinked once.
Then, deliberately, she tugged at the silk scarf knotted at her throat. The label fluttered out:Cut of Her Jib, stitched in crisp black script. She smiled sweetly, holding the tag between two fingers like evidence.
“Side business?” she said, all razor-edged amusement.
“Micro-enterprise,” I deadpanned, allowing the grin to rest lazily on my face even as my chest tightened.
She studied me for a long second. I couldn’t tell if she was buying it or storing it for later. Probably both. Then, without a word, she slid into the car, tucking the scarf neatly into her jacket.
I exhaled through my nose and climbed in after her.
The engine started, and Baden-Baden’s cobblestone streets blurred past in a watercolor of old stone and copper roofs.
Handled. I told myself.Contained.
But I knew better. The crack was already running, and it was headed straight for us.
The ride to the hotel was quieter than I liked. Juliette wasn’t angry. Not openly. She was something worse: thoughtful. Detached. As if she were building a case in her head.
I leaned forward and spoke to the driver in German, keeping my tone easy. “Could you stop at the next Apotheke?”
The driver nodded, turning down a narrow street lined with flower boxes and shuttered shops.
Juliette gave me a sideways glance. “Headache?”