Page 1 of The Art of Loving You

CHAPTER ONE

Lucas

The ledger lay open before me, its cracked leather binding splitting under the strain of age like a forgotten relic unearthed from an ancient tomb. A faint scent of musk and decay clung to the pages, mingling with a hint of dust, the ink faded but damning as if time itself was trying to erase the sins recorded within.

Chagall. Vermeer. Rembrandt.

Works of art that belonged in grand museums, not locked in a vault beneath our family’s opulent gallery, hidden from the world.

I ran my fingers over the aged, brittle paper, the weight of history pressing against my chest like an invisible hand. This wasn’t just a record—it was a confession, an intricate map of deception. A map of how the Devereux family had meticulously built its empire, one stolen masterpiece at a time, with each acquisition shrouded in shadow.

It had been a long time since I stepped foot in this vault. Too long. And now, I was here not just to confirm what I already knew but to see with my own eyes if anything was missing—if my father had been desperate enough to sell off more pieces in the past several months.

A sharp knock broke the silence, echoing off the walls of the dimly lit room. The heavy wooden door swung open with a soft creak. My father, Alistair Devereux, stepped inside, his presence as suffocating as the secrets that hung in the air.

“Getting an early start?” His voice was smooth and calculated, his gaze settling on the ledger with something close to amusement, as if the incriminating words were nothing more than a trivial joke to him. I didn’t look up, my eyes fixed on the damning evidence.

“Something like that.” He stepped closer, the scent of expensive cologne trailing behind him like an invisible signature of his wealth. “You look troubled, Lucas. That’s not like you.”

I turned a page. The rustle of paper was louder than it should have been in the tense silence. “Hard not to be when you’re staring at this.” I gestured at the names, at the ledger full of lies and stolen legacies, the legacy of our family’s dark dealings laid bare.

He pulled out the chair across from me, settling in with the ease of a man who had never once questioned his right to ownership. “Ah, yes. The family history. These pieces have survived wars, revolutions, natural disasters—and now, thanks to us, they are safe.”

A hollow laugh escaped me. “Safe? Locked in a vault under this gallery? That’s what you call preserving art?”

His smirk faded. “Do you think the people we acquired these from cared about their ‘preservation’? Our family rescued these works, Lucas. We gave them value where there was none.”

I leaned back, arms crossed. “You mean a price tag.”

He sighed, the shift in his expression almost imperceptible. “Post-war Europe was chaos. Families were desperate. They sold what they had to survive. We didn’t steal. We traded. And yes, we profited. That’s business.”

I tapped the ledger. “And these? The ones acquired through less transactional methods?”

For a moment, silence. Then, a sigh. “History is written by the survivors, Lucas. Our family survived by making choices others were too weak to make.”

“Choices like hoarding masterpieces while the world believes they’re lost?” My voice rose despite myself.

He straightened, his cool mask slipping just enough to reveal irritation. “We are not common thieves. We are curators of culture. Guardians of history. You’ll understand that one day when you’re sitting in my chair.”

The thought sent a chill through me. I didn’t want his chair. Didn’t want his legacy.

My father stood, brushing imaginary dust from his jacket. “Close the ledger and put it back inside the wall safe. We have a gallery to run.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, I exhaled. The words we are curators of culture echoed in my head, twisting into something false and heavy.

The problem was that he actually believed it. Or at least, he had convinced himself it was true.

His footsteps faded down the hallway—not toward the main gallery. Toward the vault. I shut the door on the safe and followed.

Downstairs in the vault, the air was colder than the rest of the building—a sterile tomb of stolen history. The hum of climate-controlled cases filled the silence, each one housing a masterpiece the world believed lost.

My father stood in front of a particular glass case, his fingers trailing along its surface.

Chagall.

My pulse kicked up. “This shouldn’t be here,” I said, voice low.

His lips barely moved. “The Village.”

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