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I set my coffee on the long conference table, tapping through the RSVP list on my tablet. Every empty line next to a name felt like a slap: donors hesitating, sponsors wavering, and the gala—mygala—just weeks away.
I scrubbed a hand over my face and leaned back in the chair, letting my gaze drift across the familiar art lining the walls. Somewhere between bankruptcy papers and board ultimatums, I’d stopped seeing the beauty here. All I saw now was risk.
The door opened with awhish.
Juliette swept in like a breeze off the coast—hair pinned up, sleek black slacks, a pale blue blouse that did nothing to hide the sharp mind and sharper tongue underneath. She dropped aleather-bound notebook on the table with a soft thud, grinning as she pulled out her tablet.
“Well, aren’t you a vision of doom this morning, Sinclair?”
I huffed out a laugh despite myself. “You’re in rare form this morning, Vanderburg.”
She shrugged out of her jacket, sliding into the seat beside me, close enough that I caught a faint trace of her perfume—citrus and something warmer, something that still clung to my skin if I let myself remember. “I’m ready to deal with a crisis,” she teased. “And lucky you-you’re a walking, talking one.”
I watched her tap her stylus against the screen, eyes darting between numbers and notes. For someone who wasn’t on the payroll, Juliette worked like the damn CEO.
“Here’s the pitch,” she said briskly. “You need auction items with emotional punch. Experiences, not just art. Private tours, artist dinners, VIP gallery events—things they can’t just buy off a wall. And last but not least, your PR guy needs to leak that you have a professional art appraiser volunteering on weekends.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What, no weekend in the Bahamas with me thrown in?”
Her lips curved, dry and amused. “Please. You’d bankrupt the foundation just covering the bar tab.”
I snorted, shaking my head as I leaned back.God, she was good.Not just at the logistics—the art, the donors, the money—but atthis. At reminding me that the walls weren’t closing in, that the fight was still worth it.
For a second, I just watched her. The way her brow furrowed when she concentrated, the flash of satisfaction when she solveda problem no one else in the room even saw. I hadn’t wanted anyone near this mess. But somehow, she made herself essential without asking permission.
Yeah, maybe that terrified me.
“Hey,” she said, glancing up. “You spacing out on me?”
I cleared my throat, smirking. “Just marveling at how bossy you are before ten A.M.”
“Get used to it, Sinclair.” She winked; eyes bright. “You brought me into this circus, remember?”
I leaned forward, elbows on the table, watching her tap through her notes. For the first time in weeks, I felt something like hope stir in my chest—light, fragile, but there.
Suddenly, the door swung open with the casual confidence of someone who didn’t need to knock.
Anthony strolled in first, crisp gray jacket over dark jeans, his expression half amusement, half assessment. Right behind him came Gabrielle, arms full of takeaway coffee and pastries, her hair pulled into a glossy knot, gold hoops catching the morning light.
“Well,” Anthony drawled, “looks like the grown-ups are already saving the foundation.”
Juliette didn’t even look up. “Don’t interrupt, you two, I’m busy fixing Sinclair’s mess.”
Anthony chuckled, dropping into a chair and crossing one ankle over his knee. Gabrielle handed me a coffee—extra shot, just how I liked it—before sliding into the seat next to her sister.
“I needed this,” I murmured, raising the cup in a lazy salute. “Smart play, Gabrielle.”
She grinned. “You’re welcome. Enjoy.”
Anthony leaned forward, clasping his hands. “So. How’s the damage report?”
I took a breath, pulled out my phone, and swiped to the real estate listing I’d been sitting on for three days. “I’ve put one of my Malibu condos on the market,” I said, flipping the phone around for him to see. “That should coverThe Cut of Her Jibdebt. At least, it’ll keep the creditors at bay until after the gala.”
Anthony’s brow lifted, just a flicker, but his eyes softened. “That’s a hell of a move, Damian.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrugged, trying to make it look easier than it was. “Turns out inherited wealth only gets you so far. You have to bleed a little, too.”
Juliette’s gaze flicked to mine, a quiet determination there—not smug, not cocky, but something deeper. Pride mixed with a thread of hesitation, like she knew she was stepping into new territory, and she wasn’t entirely sure if she belonged.