Page 134 of Angel Eyes

“Sure.” I gave him a rigid smile. “Why don’t you head home? We can debrief in the morning.” He nodded, blinking one eye closed, and I snorted. “Or perhaps in the afternoon.”

He grinned. “Bonne idée. Good night, my dear Gabriel.”

I escorted him to the door, making sure he was safely deposited in a taxi before locking up. Facing the empty gallery again, I drew up short when I spotted a lone figure standing at the far end of the room, his hands tucked neatly behind his back as he stared up at my statement piece.

I straightened, striding toward him. “I’m sorry, sir, but the gallery is closed.”

Slowly, he turned to me, the sharp lines of his profile coming into view, the accent lights catching on his salt-and-pepper hair. His lips curved, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling, and I stopped abruptly, the entire world coming to a standstill as I locked eyes with my father.

“Bonsoir, mon fils.”

“Papa,” I said in a cracked whisper. “What are you doing here?”

His eyes drifted back to the painting. “I came to see your gallery, of course. It’s impressive, though I can’t say I’m surprised. You always had your mother’s talent.” He took a tentative step toward me, his hands disappearing into his pockets. “It’s good to see you, son.”

My gaze lingered on him, my throat suddenly too thick to even swallow.

“I had hoped to speak with you at the restaurant the other night,” he continued, watching me carefully, “but I understood from Lucien there was a bit of an incident.”

“Yeah, you could say that,” I said, unable to keep the bitterness out of my tone. I had only ruined the best thing that had ever happened to me, but sure, let’s call it an incident.

“Well, I was sorry to hear it. If there’s anything I can do—”

“There isn’t.”

There was nothing anyone could do now.

He gave me a lingering look. “Jumping to conclusions, letting our emotions get the better of us—it seems to be something we Beaumont men have in common.” My eyes darted upward, landing on his sad smile. “Like father, like son.”

“I’m … I’m not sure I follow.”

“I’ve never been one to mince words, so I’ll just come out and say it—I made a terrible mistake when I wrongly accused you. I allowed my emotions to override my judgment, and I have paid for it dearly.” He drew in a breath before letting it go. “The things I said, I said in anger, but I didn’t mean a word of it. You are my son, and everything I have is and always has been yours.”

He took a step closer, his eyes softening around the edges. “Perhaps this may be too little, too late, but I owe you an apology, Gabriel. You cannot imagine how sorry I have been all these years, how much I have regretted letting my insecurities drive you away.”

“Insecurities?”

He nodded, his eyes drifting over my shoulder. “Since you were born, I always felt you belonged more to your mother than to me. I never begrudged the bond you shared, but I always hoped you and I would have something similar one day. After she died, I confess I hoped you would take a greater interest in the restaurant, that you might learn to love it as much as I did. But your heart always belonged to your art, and I should have never tried to change you.”

His eyes returned to mine. “When that money went missing, I knew you weren’t telling the whole truth, and in a moment of weakness, I wondered if you might have taken it to open a gallery.”

“I never—”

“I know,” he said, raising a hand. “I know it wasn’t you. But you see, it was my own fear that led me to that conclusion. I tried so hard to hold on to you, Gabriel, and the idea of losing you for good—it was more than I was prepared to handle at the time. If I could go back, I would have just given you the money myself. I would have given you whatever you needed to further your ambitions. You are my son, but your life is your own.”

My throat bobbed as he placed a hand on my shoulder.

“I know everything won’t be fixed between us overnight, but I hope in time you will forgive me. I am sorry for doubting you, mon fils, and I love you. So very much.” He clutched my arm tightly, his eyes damp, and the sight of it loosened something in my chest.

For years, I’d imagined how it would be coming face-to-face with my father again, about how angry I would be, how hard it would be for me to forgive him. And yet, now that the moment had arrived, I found I wasn’t reaching for a list of past wrongs or shoring up reasons not to give him a second chance. He was right—things wouldn’t be fixed overnight, but the fact that he was here, acknowledging his mistakes, meant everything to me. And that was enough for now.

I wrapped an arm around him, warmth stinging my own eyes, and he hugged me back before clearing his throat and searching his jacket for a handkerchief.

“Listen,” I said, “there’s something I need to tell you about that money.”

“If you’re referring to the fact that Elise manipulated Lucien into stealing it to cover her disgraceful gambling debts, then I know all about it. Lucien had a great deal to say on the matter, and my lawyers are no doubt still sorting through all the evidence he’s collected. If there’s any justice in the world, Elise will be behind bars before the year is out.”

“And what about Luc—Cristian?”

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