Page 53 of His Untouchable Heart

The first alert blinked red.

Then another.

I squinted at the results, reading the spectral data against known standards. The pigment composition didn’t match mid-1940s European stock. The layering was too uniform. Even the binder medium had an inconsistency—something modern, synthetic.

“It’s not real,” I said, the words heavier than I expected. “That’s not his brushwork. The pigment’s wrong.”

Gabrielle exhaled slowly. “So, it’s a fake.”

“A damn good one,” I admitted. “But it won’t fool the right buyer.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Just watched the data scroll across the screen with a stillness I knew wasn’t peace. Eventually, she rubbed the back of her neck and turned toward the storage cabinet.

“We’ll wrap it back up and put it in the vault,” she said. “Now, I have to find a way to tell Curtain he was duped.”

“You don’t have to do that right now,” I said, squeezing her hand as I helped her reseal the canvas, both of us more careful this time, not out of reverence—but out of the understanding that this wasn’t over.

Gabrielle’s steps were slower as we made our way down the corridor toward the vault.

“You okay?” I asked, watching her closely.

She nodded once and grinned. “Let’s go celebrate.”

We picked a quiet little spot just off Biscayne Blvd.—a rooftop bistro strung with white lights with a Cuban jazz vibe. The kind of place that didn’t feel like hiding. It felt like living.

Gabrielle had pulled her hair back—eyes clear again. She looked like herself. No—she looked more than that. She looked settled, like someone who’d finally let herself believe good things could actually stay.

We ordered light—grilled fish, tostones, and fresh fruit. Nothing fancy. No need. Just being here, together, in the open air with the smell of the sea and the warmth of her hand in mine under the table… that was more than enough.

Halfway through the meal, Juliette arrived—windblown and late, as always. She dropped into the seat across from us, eyes already sparkling with mischief.

“Okay, don’t keep me in suspense. Can I plan a gender reveal? Will it involve fireworks, or is that too on-brand?”

Gabrielle groaned and laughed at the same time. “Jules, I don’t have a due date yet.”

“Minor detail,” Juliette said, waving her hand. “I’m already on Etsy. Wait—do we like woodland animals, or are we going with a minimalist desert theme? Cacti are very in right now.”

Gabrielle leaned back in her chair, the laughter still tugging at her lips, and let her sister ramble. I could see it—the relief, the surrender to joy—rolling off her in waves. She wasn’t used to being taken care of. But right now, she was letting it happen.

And I was grateful for that.

Watching the two of them trade stories, argue over whether the baby would need more swaddles or sleep sacks, I felt something shift again inside me—something deeper, quieter.

I wanted this. All of it.

Not just the child. Not just Gabrielle. But this life. The chaos, the closeness. The family.

Juliette was mid-rant about stroller colors when I leaned in with a smirk. “You’re both overthinking it. It’s going to be a boy.”

Gabrielle blinked. “Oh? Confident, are we?”

Juliette grinned. “Let me guess—‘intuition’ again?”

“Exactly.” I gave them both a look. “I knew she was pregnant before she said a word, didn’t I?”

Gabrielle laughed, shaking her head. “Okay, fine. But if you’re so sure, you better start thinking up names.”

“Already working on it,” I said, clinking my glass of sparkling cider against hers.

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