Page 62 of His Untouchable Heart

“It’s more than possible. It’s conclusive.”

Anthony turned the tablet around so Curtain could see it better, not that he made any effort to examine the evidence. He stood frozen, glaring at the screen like he could will it into saying something different.

I stepped forward, folding my arms. “You asked Gabrielle to sell a forgery, Frank. And you didn’t even warn her.”

His head whipped toward me. “I didn’t know it was a fake.”

“Didn’t you?” I asked softly. “Or did you just hope no one would check too closely before the wire transfer cleared?”

“You watch your tone?—”

“No,” I said. “Not this time.” Anthony’s eyes flicked to me with something close to pride.

Curtain straightened, trying to salvage what little authority he had left. “You have no idea who I represent. That painting came to me through?—”

“A client who fed you a forgery,” Anthony said coolly. “And if you try to pass it off as legitimate—now that we’ve documented the evidence—I’m sure Judge Valencia, not to mention the media, will be very interested.”

Curtain sneered, but I saw it—the crack. The unraveling.

Anthony didn’t hesitate. He reached into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “While we’re clearing the air, here’s a letter addressed to Judge Valencia. It details your attempt to coerce Gabrielle into arranging the sale of a fraudulent piece. I’ll file it—unless you hand over the photo you used to rattle her.”

Curtain’s eyes flattened. Slowly, he reached into his own jacket pocket and withdrew a small, glossy print—the photo. “This is the only one,” he said, voice clipped, controlled, bitter.

Anthony took it without looking down. “It better be.”

Curtain’s jaw flexed like he was chewing on words he didn’t dare speak. But then, unable to help himself, he muttered, “I’ll get my fee one way or another.”

Anthony’s expression remained unchanged, but the air between them shifted—heavier, sharper. “That sounded a lot like a threat, Frank.”

“No,” Curtain said, backing toward the door. “It’s a promise.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. “That jerk isn’t going to get away with this,” he muttered, then yanked the door open and stormed out.

Silence settled over the room.

I let out a long breath, the pressure in my chest finally easing. The confrontation was over. The painting was exposed. The lies dragged into the light.

Anthony turned to me, his hand brushing gently down my back. “You okay?”

I nodded. “More than okay.”

And I meant it.

The sun slanted low across the dashboard as Anthony merged onto Ocean Blvd. The adrenaline from earlier had finally worn off, leaving behind a strange mix of calm and awe—like I’d come out the other side of a storm and was still half-expecting thunder.

I leaned my head back against the seat and exhaled, my palm resting gently over the curve of my belly. It wasn’t much yet, barely noticeable, but I felt it. The weight. The promise.

Anthony reached over, his hand warm and solid as it came to rest over mine. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The silence between us was thick with understanding. With something more than words.

“I think I felt him kick earlier,” I murmured.

He looked at me sideways, a slow smile spreading across his face. “And I missed it?”

“You were too busy threatening to ruin Frank Curtain’s life.”

He chuckled. “He shouldn’t have tried to blackmail you, plain and simple.”

We fell into a companionable quiet that only existed with someone who made you feel entirely safe.

Then, as the road straightened out and the ocean came into view beyond the trees, Anthony said, “We’re not naming him Frank. That’s non-negotiable.”

---