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The parking spot where Juliette’s car had been yesterday? Vacant now. Gone. No note. No second chance.
Funny. I’d survived hostile takeovers. Messy lawsuits. Bitter boardroom betrayals. But one woman, in one black dress, withone too-knowing smile, had undone me without even trying, and this time… there was no strategy. No PR spin. No undo button.
Only the wreckage I’d made—and the woman who had finally, finally, stopped giving me the chance to fix it.
Now, I wasn’t sure if I’d just lost her trust or lost her for good.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Juliette
As I signed the last dotted line, the pen felt heavier than it should have.
The leasing agent—an overly cheerful man with loafers too shiny to trust—beamed at me as he slid the paperwork into a sleek leather folder. “Congratulations, Ms. Vanderburg,” he said, pushing the keys across the narrow desk. “You officially have a storefront now for Reliable Art Services.”
I mustered a smile, the polite kind you give when you're supposed to feel victorious, but all you feel is hollow. “Thanks,” I said, my voice breezy enough to mask the slow, careful panic uncurling in my chest.
The truth was, I’d thought about backing out. I had even rehearsed what I’d say to him, something light and regretful. I’d planned to blame it on a delayed loan, on needing to rework the numbers, on anything but the real reason: that I was tangled up in something with Damian Sinclair, and for a minute there, I thought perhaps plans would change.
But they hadn’t. At least, not the way I hoped.
And if I’d learned anything lately, it was that waiting on someone else to decide your future was a dangerous kind of limbo. So I’d signed. And now the keys were warm in my palm.
He gave a few more instructions about parking passes and mail delivery that I barely heard before finally standing to shake my hand. The door swung closed behind him with a cheerful chime. The office—myoffice—fell into a deep, expectant silence.
I stood in the middle of the empty room, the echoes of his departure still fading. The space was beautiful, objectively speaking. High ceilings. Crisp white walls begging for art. Warm oak floors that glowed under the afternoon light spilling through the tall windows.
It should have felt like a beginning. Instead, it felt suspiciously like building a fortress. I wasn’t just building a business. I was building walls.
I turned the key in the lock, hearing the soft metallic click, and leaned back against the door, letting my head fall back with a soft thud. One shaky breath. Then another.
I wasn’t going to fall apart.
Not now.
Not over this.
This was the career I wanted, wasn’t it? Independence. Purpose. A way to shape something of my own without waiting for someone else to offer it—or ruin it.
My phone buzzed against my hip.
Gabrielle: Furniture shopping? You’re not doing this alone. I’m on my way. Anthony’s on Julian duty. Save me a parking spot.
A surprised laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it. God, I loved her. Even when she didn’t know how much I needed saving, she showed up anyway.
I glanced out the tall front window. The street beyond was bustling with late afternoon Miami traffic, flashes of green palms and pastel shops blurring into the sun-soaked backdrop of Coconut Grove. Out there, the world kept spinning. Inside here, my new life was quietly waiting for me to be brave enough to claim it.
I texted back quickly:
Juliette: Hurry. I’m about to buy a neon pink velvet couch out of pure panic.
Her reply came a second later:
Gabrielle: Wouldn’t even stop you. It would match your chaos aesthetic perfectly.
I smiled as I slipped my phone back into my bag. Maybe the timing wasn’t perfect. Maybe my heart was still a mess. Maybe Damian Sinclair was still tangled somewhere in the threads of my future I hadn’t figured out how to cut.
But for today—for this small, flickering moment, I could believe that starting over didn’t have to mean starting alone.