Page 23 of His Untouchable Heart

I gave a measured nod. “Noted.”

But inside, something twisted. Not just at the possible corruption—but at how easily it was dressed up as something noble. And how far from noble this whole damn thing really was.

I started to rise, ready to put this entire meeting behind me—file it underThings I’ll Pretend Didn’t Happen—when Valencia spoke again, almost as an afterthought.

“Oh, one more thing,” he said. “You’ll be flying to Dallas today.”

I froze halfway out of my chair. “Today? No, I have a commercial flight booked for tomorrow morning?—”

“That’s been canceled,” he said, already stacking the folders on his desk as if we were done. “A private donor affiliated with the foundation has offered transport. You’ll leave from Opa-Locka Executive at noon.”

My brows pulled together. “Who arranged this?”

The judge didn’t look up. “Let’s just say someone with deep pockets and influence. The kind of donor we don’t tell no. His interests are honorable.”

I stood, trying to determine if this was a favor or a threat. “Do I at least get to know what I’m walking into?”

Valencia offered a faint smile, the kind that told me nothing and revealed even less. “Working with the foundation to move the restitution process along.”

My patience thinned. “And that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

He gave me a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth twitching with faint amusement. “People like this rarely extend invitations—they tend to issue them. Be at the private terminal by 11:45. You’re wheels up at noon. Just bring the essentials.”

That was all he offered—no names, no itinerary, and certainly no opportunity to suggest otherwise.

“Right,” I murmured, already running through the possibilities in my head.

From what little I knew, I figured the donor wasn’t impatient as much as he was pragmatic—and if no rightful heir to the artwork surfaced. Perhaps he had several private collectors quietly expressing interest.

As I turned away, I found myself oddly relieved. Valencia hadn’t mentioned Gabrielle. Not the gallery. Not the night. Not yet, anyway.

“Right,” I muttered.

“Safe travels, Mr. Moreau,” he said without looking back up.

I stepped out of the chamber, the door shutting behind me with a soft, decisive click. The hallway felt longer this time. Too quiet.

I should’ve been thinking about the donor, Dallas, and what kind of strings were being pulled behind the foundation’s closed doors.

But I wasn’t.

All I could think about was Gabrielle.

I didn’t know if I’d see her before I left. If I evenshould. But I knew one thing for certain—whatever was unraveling here, she was already caught in the middle of it.

And I wasn’t sure if I could protect her.

I sighed and muttered, “I should’ve texted Gabrielle days ago. Should’ve found the words, no matter how messy they came out.”

But now, with this trip forced on me, it felt like the door had closed, and I hadn’t even touched the handle.

Still, I reached for my phone and texted:

Anthony: Didn’t plan to leave today, but I’ve been summoned to Dallas. I wanted to see you. I’m not sure what that means anymore, but I still do.

I stared at it for a second. Then hit send.

A few minutes passed. Then the screen lit up.

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