Page 24 of The Art of Loving You

The beach stretched out before me as I stepped onto the sand, the breeze carrying the tang of salt and seaweed. The air was cooler and cleaner here, as if the ocean could somehow wash away the weight of my situation. I slipped in my earbuds, queuing up a playlist that had seen me through late nights and restless mornings.

Music flooded my ears, drowning out the sound of the waves. But I could still feel the sand shifting beneath my feet, a constant reminder of how unsteady everything in my life felt. The rhythmic crashing of the tide was distant but insistent, like a clock ticking down to something inevitable.

Ella’s face flashed in my mind, unbidden but insistent. Her smile was polite, professional—carefully controlled, as if letting me any closer would unravel something in her. I understood the hesitation. Hell, I respected it. She had Bess to think about, a child who depended on her for stability and safety.

But knowing that didn’t stop the pang in my chest when she pulled away. It didn’t stop me from wishing she’d let me in.

The memory of Bess holding my hand at the Met rose to the surface, softening the ache. She trusted me in a way her aunt didn’t yet, and that trust was something I would protect at all costs. Her laughter that day had been bright and uninhibited, the kind of sound that made everything else fade into the background.

But nothing faded for long. My father’s shadow loomed over everything, dark and suffocating. Even that perfect day at the Met was tinged with the knowledge of what lay beneath the surface—of what my family had built on the backs of stolen lives and shattered legacies. The art gallery, the penthouse, the family name—it all came at a price. And that price was my silence.

I paused at the water’s edge, the cool waves lapping at my feet. My mother’s voice echoed in my mind, as clear as if she were standing beside me.

“We could return it, Lucas. It’s not too late. There are organizations that would take the art—no questions asked.”

She mentioned the Holocaust Memorial Museum and the Monuments Men and Women Foundation. She had even offered to help. I had brushed it off, knowing my father would never allow it. To him, the gallery wasn’t just a business—it was a monument to his power.

But maybe we didn’t need his permission. Could my mother and I take that step alone? Could we finally sever ties with him?

The idea was both exhilarating and terrifying. Returning the stolen art wouldn’t just be about doing the right thing—it would be about freeing myself. And maybe it would prove to Ella that I was serious. About her. About Bess. About a life that wasn’t built on lies.

I broke into a jog, letting the exertion clear my head. By the time I circled back to the condo, sweat clung to my skin, but my resolve had never been stronger.

As I stepped into the lobby, the security guard’s expression made me pause. Following his gaze, I spotted my father seated in a leather armchair near the elevator.

“Lucas,” he said smoothly, rising to his feet. “We need to talk. Upstairs.”

My stomach tightened. This wasn’t going to be good.

We rode the elevator in silence, the tension thick. When the doors opened to the penthouse, I stepped out, but he didn’t follow. Instead, he flipped a switch, freezing the doors in place.

“We won’t be interrupted,” he said, his voice calm, almost conversational.

A sinking feeling settled in my gut.

“Lucas,” he began, stepping forward, “I’ve made a decision. You’ve chosen your life with Ella Blake despite my warnings. That’s fine. But it’s no longer a life I’ll subsidize.”

I blinked. “What?”

“I’ve instructed my attorney to remove you from the family trust,” he said matter-of-factly. “The locks on the gallery have been changed. And as for this penthouse? You have until the end of the month to vacate.”

My pulse pounded. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious.”

“You’re cutting me off—because of Ella?”

“This isn’t just about Ella, Lucas. You’ve allowed yourself to be distracted, to act against the best interests of this family. That has consequences.”

I clenched my fists. “You think this will make me fall in line? You think you can control me like this?”

He smirked. “Control you? No, Lucas. I’m letting you go. You’ve made your bed. Now lie in it.”

He turned and stepped back into the elevator, flipping the switch to release the doors. Before they closed, he glanced at me one last time.

“Oh, and Lucas—do you think Ella would still want you if she knew the truth? If she knew about the gallery’s real inventory?”

The doors slid shut, cutting him from view.

---