Page 32 of His Secret Merger

Juliette reached for the second sheet of foam, and I held it in place while she anchored the corners with tape. We worked in near silence—glove-smooth rustle, soft creak of wood under pressure, the scent of fresh pine and archival adhesive lingering in the air.

We didn’t need to talk. We were already saying it. About trust. About rhythm. About the kind of shared respect you couldn’t fake—not for the work, and not for each other.

“You know,” she said as we secured the final side panel, “I used to think provenance was the least sexy part of a painting.”

“And now?”

She looked up. Smirked. “Now it’s tied with shipping logistics.”

I laughed—quiet but real. For a minute, I forgot the press. I forgot the leak. I forgot everything except the woman in front of me, the masterpiece between us, and the crate that would carry both history and meaning across the ocean.

We screwed down the lid, side by side. And I couldn’t help but wonder…

What else might we build if we kept working like this?

An hour later, she tapped lightly on the edge of my office door, knuckles brushing the frame like she was trying not to interrupt.

But she did. Completely.

Juliette stood there in a travel-black sleek blazer, a soft blouse the color of white wine, slim-fit pants, and ankle boots. Hair twisted up with just enough intention to make it look accidental. Professional, polished. Sharp as hell.

“I’ve got my passport, travel certs, customs docs, and insurance copies,” she said, grinning and holding up a slim leather folder. “Figured I’d drop them off before I head home to do some last-minute packing.”

I leaned back in my chair, giving her a smile I’d perfected in far less ethical boardrooms. “You always bring paperwork looking this sexy?”

She arched a brow but didn’t smile. “Only when international art crime is involved.”

Touché.

She crossed the room with the same grounded grace she carried everywhere now. Not just confidence—ownership. She handedme the folder, then lingered for a beat. Not long enough to be an invitation. Just long enough to say:this is business.

“Bringing anything else for the flight?” I asked, setting the folder down.

“My appraisal notes,” she said. “The Coral Gables estate sent over two more trunks of records. I figured I’d skim a few pages before we crash out mid-flight.”

I smirked. “Ambitious, considering we’re flying through the night and landing early afternoon their time.”

She shrugged, casual but sharp. “It helps me sleep. Reading provenance reports is like a lullaby if you do it long enough.”

Of course it was. While I’d be half-distracted by the way she curled into the seat or the way her lips pursed when she was focused, she’d be flipping through paperwork like it was the opening chapter of a mystery novel.

I tried to keep my tone easy. “Need a second pair of eyes?”

“I’m good.”

She wasn’t dismissive. Not cold.

Just... capable. Self-contained. The kind of woman who didn’t wait to be rescued or handed a plan.

Juliette turned toward the door, all polished efficiency.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard—Germany on my screen, something messier lingering in my mind.

And none of it had a clean paper trail.

Tell her. Say it now.The leak’s already started. She deserves to know what she’s flying into.

Instead, I opened my laptop and pulled up the email from Baden-Baden. The customs contact had replied with the import validation for the Kandinsky. The message was short, clipped, formal—very German.

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