Page 19 of His Secret Merger

And Juliette...

She shouldn’t be the thing circling in my thoughts. Not when I was trying to hold together a reputation, a foundation, a future. But she was there anyway—barefoot in my hotel room, laughing in that untamed way that made my blood rush through my veins. Uncomplicated. But nothing that got under your skin ever stayed uncomplicated.

I stared out at the open water.

Everything looked calm. Perfect. Like nothing was about to break. Yet even the calmest surface couldn’t hide a leak forever—sooner or later, I would run out of ways to plug the holes.

CHAPTER SIX

Juliette

I stared at the screen, cursor blinking like it was daring me to take it back.

But I didn’t. I hit send.

My resignation from the University of Miami will be effective two weeks from today. No dramatic declarations, no soapbox statements—just a clean, professional goodbye wrapped in three polite paragraphs and a signature that, for once, felt like my own.

The moment it was gone, I leaned back in my chair and exhaled. Not a sigh. Not regret. Just… release. A pressure I hadn’t even realized was pressing on my chest slipped off like an old coat.

I was done playing professor. No more pretending to be fulfilled while grading recycled thoughts about Baroque lighting and Van Gogh’s brushstroke angst.

I wanted real things. Real rooms. Real art.

And maybe… a real life.

I picked up my phone and tapped out a message before I could overthink it.

Juliette: Dinner at nine tonight. Bring wine. I’ll bring the charm. And if Gabrielle and Anthony go to bed early enough, I might even go for a midnight swim. No suit required.

The three dots appeared almost instantly.

Damian: Be there. I’ll behave. Until the pool.

I smirked.Someone was waiting for an excuse.

I stood, padded barefoot into the kitchen, and started putting together a grocery order—salmon, lemons, arborio rice, chocolate, and a few other things that felt indulgent but low-effort. Cooking relaxed me. And if I was feeding Damian Sinclair, I wasn’t phoning it in.

Once the order was submitted, I pulled my laptop back out—this time to open a different tab.

Miami Fertility Clinic.I clicked through the options, filled in the form, and pressed call before I could lose my nerve.

After two rings, a cheerful voice picked up, and I asked for a consultation. She walked me through the intake and asked a few clinical questions. Then, “If you’re currently on birth control, you’ll need to stop before we can run a full panel of diagnostics. You’ll want to do that at least a few days ahead of your appointment.”

I made an appointment, thanked her, and hung up, then wandered back into my bedroom.

The drawer slid open easily. My pill pack sat right on top—almost empty—only one left. I picked it up and turned it over in my hand, the plastic cool against my fingertips. No symbolism. No dramatics. Just one tiny, familiar decision waiting for me to make the next.

Not yet.

Damian showed up like he always did, looking like a magazine ad for a sexy off-limits billionaire. Faded jeans that probably cost more than my car’s insurance, a crisp white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and the kind of cologne that made me want to lean in for reasons that had nothing to do with politeness.

He held up a bottle of red like a peace offering. “Cabernet. From Napa. Nothing too flashy.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” I said, taking it from him and handing him the corkscrew. “You brought it, you open it. House rules.”

He smirked, already working the foil. “Noted.”

The salmon was already in the oven, and the risotto just needed tending. He followed me into the kitchen with two glasses and leaned against the counter while I stirred. It wasn’t domestic—not really—but it felt warm. Easy. Like we’d done this before.

---