Page 24 of His Untouchable Heart

Gabrielle: I don’t know what it means either. But I wanted to see you too. Text me when you get to Dallas.

My chest tightened.

I moved to the closet and slipped my phone into the inside pocket of my blazer.

Suitcase zipped. Keys in hand.

I glanced once more out the window.

What the hell is going on in this city?

CHAPTERTEN

Gabrielle

After work, I stepped inside our apartment and closed the door behind me with a little more force than necessary, the click of the deadbolt sounding final. The scent of citrus cleaner still lingered faintly, mixing with the salty breeze that drifted in through the balcony doors Juliette had probably left cracked open again.

First thing I did—checked my phone.

Still no response from my sister.

“Come on,” I muttered.

I’d texted her three times in the last hour. Not exactly Defcon-level spamming, but enough to warrantsomekind of reply. Especially given the tight knot in my stomach that had only grown since my encounter with Frank Curtain.

My fingers twitched, resisting the urge to type something passive-aggressive. Instead, I dropped my bag by the door and kicked off my heels, trying not to focus on the echo of Curtain’s voice in my head.

"I’m sure you’ll find a buyer. I’ll be in touch in a few days."

Translation: Dance, puppet. And maybe I’ll let you keep your career.

I rubbed my temples as I moved toward the kitchen. The apartment felt quiet. Too quiet. The kind that presses in around the edges and makes you second-guess every shadow.

“Juliette?” I called out.

Nothing.

I leaned on the kitchen island and checked my phone again—still nothing.

I was about to call out again when I heard the soft pad of bare feet on the tile. A second later, Juliette appeared, fresh from the shower, with a towel wrapped around her head and her robe knotted lazily at her waist. She frowned at me with one brow lifted in that way only sisters can do without even trying.

“You’ve been blowing up my phone while I was in the shower,” she said, voice half-dry, half-curious. “What’s going on? Did someone die or just text you with bad outfit advice?”

I didn’t answer her right away. Just gave her a look and headed for the wine rack.

Juliette’s frown deepened. “Okay, now you’re scaring me.”

I crouched, pulled out the bottle of Malbec we’d both agreed was too good for casual drinking, and set it on the counter like it was some kind of peace offering. My hands weren’t exactly shaking, but they weren’t steady either.

“You might want to sit,” I said, reaching for the corkscrew.

She didn’t sit—just crossed her arms and leaned against the kitchen island. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I wish I were.” The cork popped free with a soft sigh. “I’m being blackmailed.”

That got her. She blinked once, then twice, before slowly pulling out a stool and lowering herself onto it like her knees needed a second to catch up.

“You’re… what now?”

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