Page 42 of His Untouchable Heart

“I’ll get her some sparkling water,” Juliette said over her shoulder. “She needs to sip slowly. Small sips, Gab, okay?”

Gabrielle nodded weakly, clutching the towel I’d left behind.

I followed them both to the bed, hovering at the edge like I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I didn’t.

I’d just had her in my arms, warm and laughing and kissing me like the world outside this yacht didn’t exist. Now, she looked fragile in a way I’d never seen before. Her energy was hollowed out by something she couldn’t name yet.

Juliette returned with a glass and helped Gabrielle lean against the headboard, steadying her hand as she took her first tentative sip.

Then Juliette turned to me.

“Give us a few minutes?” she asked gently.

I looked at Gabrielle. Her eyes found mine, soft and apologetic but not afraid.

“Okay,” I said quietly.

I brushed her hair back from her face and kissed her temple.

“I’ll be right outside.”

She nodded.

I stepped out of the room and closed the door softly behind me, the latch clicking into place like punctuation at the end of a sentence neither of us had meant to write.

Maybe it was something she ate.

But as I stood in the hallway staring at the closed door, the unease crawling under my skin told me this was something else entirely.

CHAPTERSIXTEEN

Gabrielle

“That’s better.”

The first few sips of sparkling water had done their job, at least enough to stop the awful rolling in my stomach. I leaned back against the padded headboard, propped up by pillows that probably cost more than my first car, and took another cautious sip. My mouth still tasted like regret and saltwater, but the nausea had faded to a distant echo.

Juliette flopped onto the bed beside me with all the drama of someone trying to get comfortable in a nest of silk and secrets. She propped her head on her hand and gave me a look.

“You scared a year off my life,” she said. “Like, minimum.”

I managed a weak smile. “Sorry.”

She waved that off like I’d apologized for stepping on her toe. “Please. It’s not the first time one of us has face-planted into a crisis. Remember junior year finals? You puked all over your chemistry notebook—on the bus.”

I let out a low laugh. “Oh God. That smelled like burnt coffee and panic for a week.”

“Exactly. This?” She gestured toward the empty glass in my hand. “Classic twin meltdown symptoms. You always crash after holding too much in.”

I wanted to agree. I really did. But the weight in my stomach wasn’t just from shrimp or stress or the residual anxiety of being chased out of our apartment by a glorified art collector-attorney.

Something about tonight lingered differently. Like my body was trying to tell me something I didn’t want to hear.

I shifted under the covers and glanced up at the ceiling, my gaze meeting the mirror positioned above the bed. In its reflection, I observed the gentle play of light from the recessed lights, creating a mesmerizing dance on the white paneled walls. The moment with Anthony, that first time—it had been reckless. Passionate. Unprotected.

But since then, we’d been careful. Consistently careful.

Still…

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