Page 20 of The Art of Loving You

The morning air was humid as I pulled into the gallery’s parking lot. My dad’s Bentley gleamed in the sunlight, a stark reminder of everything I was trying to avoid. I sighed, grabbing the matcha latte I’d picked up for Gabrielle—an attempt to show her my appreciation for all her hard work.

I lingered in the driver’s seat, staring at the gallery’s polished facade. Since returning from New York with Ella and Bess, I hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that something had changed. Ella had been distant, brushing off my dinner invitations with vague excuses about museum work. She’d promised to update me whenThe Circus Riderarrived, but her tone had felt like a polite dismissal rather than genuine excitement.

Did she suspect something? The thought made my stomach twist. If she ever discovered the darker side of the Devereux Gallery, I wasn’t sure she’d look at me the same way. The ironywasn’t lost on me—I wanted to be part of her world, but my family’s legacy kept me tethered to the shadows.

Stepping out of the car, I braced against the morning chill. My mother’s warning echoed in my mind.

“Be careful, Lucas. If your dad thinks Ella’s getting too close, he won’t hesitate to do something about it.”

I clenched my jaw. She wasn’t wrong. My father was calculated and ruthless. He wouldn’t hesitate to act if he saw Ella as a threat. The idea of him dragging her into his mess was terrifying.

I stopped in front of the gallery door, eyeing theClosed for the Daysign. Translation: another one of Dad’s secret transactions. I considered leaving, but curiosity won out. Tossing the coffee, I circled to the maintenance entrance and punched in my code.

The lock clicked, and the familiar scent of varnish and old wood greeted me. The gallery was eerily silent. I moved toward my father’s office, each step echoing against the marble floors. Ella’s laughter from a few days ago felt like a distant memory, replaced by the weight of the reality I couldn’t escape.

She deserved better than the secrets and lies my family had built its fortune on. I just wasn’t sure if I could give it to her—not while I was still caught in the middle of it all.

I reached my dad’s office and knocked lightly before stepping inside. He sat at his desk, a cigar resting between his fingers. Across from him sat a woman I didn’t recognize. She turned as I entered, her gaze sharp and assessing.

“Ah, Lucas,” Dad said, his tone curt but measured. “This is Svetlana, a trusted client.”

Svetlana stood gracefully, extending a hand. “Lucas,” she said, her Russian accent thick. “A pleasure.”

Her grip was cool and firm, and her appearance impeccable—a tailored black dress, pearl earrings, and polished details —yet something about her unsettled me. Her charm felt calculated, and her presence was too smooth.

“Likewise,” I replied, releasing her hand. Her gaze lingered, an unreadable expression flickering across her face.

“Svetlana is here for a special piece,” Dad said, gesturing to a folder. “Lucas, help prepare it for transport.”

I nodded, unease gnawing at me. This wasn’t just any transaction. Svetlana’s knowing smile only deepened my discomfort.

“The piece will be handled with the utmost care,” she said, her tone light yet deliberate. “I trust you.”

Her confidence in me felt misplaced. I glanced at Dad, who gave me a look that allowed no argument. Forcing a polite smile, I said, “Of course. I’ll take care of it.”

“Good,” Dad said, extinguishing his cigar. “We don’t keep clients like Svetlana waiting.”

She sat back down, crossing her legs with practiced grace.

I left the office with the folder gripped tightly in my hand as I walked the quiet hallway toward the crating room. My fingers pressed into the leather cover, unease mounting with each step. I already knew what lay inside.

Once in the prep room, I set the folder down and flipped it open. My breath caught. The high-resolution photograph clipped to the top sheet was unmistakable—Chagall’sThe White Angel.

I stared, the weight of realization settling in. This wasn’t just any painting. It was legendary, whispered about in art circles for decades. A piece Ella was searching for.

And now, it was being sold to Svetlana for an obscene sum. My father’s idea of restitution—or just another act of greed. Whatever Svetlana’s plans were, I doubted they involved returning it to its rightful owners.

The irony was bitter. Only days ago, I had watched Ella marvel at Chagall’s work at the Met, her excitement infectious. She had spoken ofThe Circus Riderwith such reverence. And now, I was handling another of his masterpieces—one acquired through means she would find abhorrent.

I exhaled slowly, my guilt mounting. The weight of my actions drowned out by the weight of what I was doing. My hands moved mechanically as I read the documents, each line confirming what I already knew: this was stolen art, exchanged for profit rather than preservation.

Dad’s words echoed: “We don’t keep clients like Svetlana waiting.”

I clenched my jaw and snapped the folder shut. No matter how I tried to justify my role here, I was sinking deeper into my family’s world. And handlingThe White Angelon the same day Ella expectedThe Circus Riderfelt like a cruel joke.

I slipped on gloves, the essence ofThe White Angelsurrounding me as I worked. Each motion felt like complicity, my hands tyingme deeper to my father’s crimes. Just following orders—wasn’t that the excuse everyone used?

As I secured the painting, my mother’s warning echoed in my head.You’ll be dragged down with him.Each nail I drove into the crate was proof I was part of this, whether I liked it or not. When I finished, I stepped back, staring at the sealed crate. The painting would leave, but my involvement wouldn’t disappear so easily.

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