Page 2 of The Art of Loving You

I stiffened. “I thought it was lost.”

“Officially, yes.” His fingers barely brushed the glass, reverent. “Uncertainty is a collector’s best ally. But our family’s reach exceeds public knowledge. This piece is one of my more recent acquisitions.”

I took a step back, the air feeling heavier. “This belongs in a museum.”

His gaze shifted, unreadable. “And you think museums don’t have their own share of stolen treasures? At least we’re honest about our methods.”

I let out a dry laugh. “Honest? We hide this in a basement and call it honesty?”

His expression hardened. “This painting survived a war, Lucas. It was rescued.”

“At the expense of its rightful owners.”

The silence between us was thick, charged with decades of justifications and quiet rebellion.

“This gallery, this vault, everything you see—it’s your inheritance,” he said finally, his voice low. “You don’t have to like it, but you will protect it.”

I didn’t respond. Words felt pointless against the weight of generations of conviction.

Instead, I turned my attention toThe Village, its swirling blues and greens mocking me with their beauty.

If this was my inheritance, I wanted no part of it.

Upstairs, the Devereux Gallery gleamed with manufactured legitimacy. Sunlight streamed through the massive windows, highlighting priceless sculptures and paintings, each one perfectly curated for admiration and envy. The atmosphere was one of serene elegance, where art and artifice danced together. Here, we were untouchable, enveloped in an aura of sophistication. Downstairs? It was a different story entirely, a tomb of deception and lies.

“Mr. Devereux.” Gabrielle, the gallery sales manager, approached, adjusting a spotlight over a bronze statue. “Did you see the request from Ocean View Museum?” Her voice was calm but carried a hint of urgency.

I barely registered her words until she added, “It’s for the Chagall exhibit.”

I froze, my heart skipping a beat.

“They’re borrowing works from private collections.” She handed me a copy of the request, a slight tremor in her hand betraying her curiosity about my reaction.

My eyes scanned it quickly, stopping at the name that sent a punch to my chest. Curated by Ella Blake. Memories cascaded through my mind, unbidden and relentless.

Ella.

The name resonated through my mind like a bell tolling an unwelcome hour, heavier than it had any right to be. Years had slipped by, yet the memory of her was vivid and immediate—a cascade of dark hair framing a face that brimmed with sharp wit, and green eyes that burned with a fire intense enough to kindle belief in even the most forlorn causes.

I knew the kind of truths she pursued, relentless and consuming. If she was delving into Chagall’s lost works, it was only a matter of time before she found her way to my doorstep, drawn by the invisible threads that tethered us to the art world’s secrets.

Gabrielle studied me with a discerning gaze. “Should I respond?” Her voice was a soft query, laden with unspoken implications.

“No.” I slipped my phone into my pocket, my voice firm with resolve. “We’re not participating.” She hesitated, a flicker of doubt crossing her features. “But wouldn’t it boost our reputation?” A naïve hope lingered in her words.

It was the last thing we needed. If Ella dug too deep, she could unearth things that would unravel everything we’d carefully constructed—our reputation, our legacy. It could destroy her, too.

I sat in my office, and the dim glow of my screen cast shadows over the room as I scrolled through the details of the exhibit. A request forThe White Angel—one of our few legitimate Chagalls—was marked DECLINED in bold, unforgiving red text. My father’s decision was unsurprising; even a clean loan might attract unwanted scrutiny.

But I figured Ella wouldn’t accept no as an answer. I set my phone down and began to pace, the soft rustle of carpet underfoot a companion to my restless thoughts.The Villagewas bound to be on her list—one of Chagall’s most elusive works, precisely the kind of piece she’d try to track down and borrow for her exhibit. She’d reach out to collectors, dig through records, and follow every lead until she either secured it or confirmed its absence. And if she discovered it was missing—suspected it had been deliberately hidden from the public eye—she wouldn’t stop there.

The thought of it devastated me. Or worse—it could put her in danger.

Grabbing my phone once more, I stared at her name in my contacts, a ghost from the past. Years had stretched between us since our last conversation, yet I could still summon her image with ease—sharp wit, that irresistible spark that had always drawn me in.

I typed out a message with a swiftness that left no room for hesitation.

Lucas: Ella, it’s Lucas Devereux. Congratulations on the Chagall exhibit. Let me know if there’s anything you need.

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