Page 25 of The Art of Loving You

I stood there, frozen, as the weight of his words pressed down on me. He thought he’d won and that he’d stripped me of everything I needed to survive. But he didn’t understand me—not really.

He hadn’t won. Not yet.

The silence in the penthouse wrapped around me, heavy and suffocating. I stood motionless, staring at the elevator doors as they slid shut behind my father. His words hung in the air, sharp and final, carving through the quiet like a blade.

“You’ve made your bed, Lucas. Now you’ll lie in it.”

His ultimatum swirled in my mind, but I didn’t implode. Not yet.

I turned, the emptiness of the penthouse stretching out before me. Every corner of this place screamed of my father—his control, his wealth, his rules. Except for my unique artcollection, the sleek furniture, and even the pristine ocean view—it was all his. And now, it was all slipping away.

My thoughts drifted back to earlier in the day, to Ella’s office at the museum. On her desk had been a small framed photograph of the three of us—Ella, Bess, and me—taken during our trip to the Met. Bess’s wide grin had been contagious, her hand clutching mine like it was the most natural thing in the world. And Ella… she’d stood just behind her, her smile softer, more reserved, but unmistakably genuine.

That image had stayed with me all day, a quiet reminder of what I wanted—what I needed. For the first time in years, I’d felt like the man I wanted to be. Someone who could protect. Someone who could love. Someone who could build something meaningful.

The thought of losing that—of losingthem—made my chest tighten. The hollow ache my father had left in his wake began to shift, replaced by something else.

Resolve.

I walked to the windows, pressing my palms against the cool glass. The ocean stretched out before me, its waves rolling in steady rhythms under the darkening sky. It was an indifferent constant, unfazed by the chaos of my life.

For years, I’d been silent. I’d accepted my father’s control, his lies, and his greed because it was easier than standing up to him. But Ella and Bess had changed that. They’d shown me what it was to care about something real, something worth fighting for.

Mom was right. Returning the stolen art wasn’t just the right thing to do—it was necessary. It was the only way to reclaim my life, to prove that I could break free from my father’s shadow.

But my father wouldn’t let go without a fight. He’d called my relationship with Ella a distraction, a weakness. But what he didn’t understand was that Ella and Bess weren’t my weakness—they were my strength.

I had a choice to make: keep living under his thumb or carve out my own path. The answer had never been clearer.

The darkness outside reflected back at me in the glass, a stark reminder of the man I didn’t want to become.

“My father thought he could control me, that I’d crumble without him,” I murmured. “But he was wrong. This was the end of one life—and the beginning of something better. I’d make sure of it.”

Turning away from the window, I reached for my phone. Tomorrow, I’d call my mother. Together, we’d start to dismantle the empire my father had built on lies.

And I’d prove to Ella that I wasn’t just someone passing through her life—I was someone she could trust. Someone she could count on.

This wasn’t just about reclaiming my legacy. It was about building a future.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Ella

Marie approached as I adjusted the final placement of a banner in the museum lobby. Her quick footfalls echoed throughout the hall, and when I turned, her tense expression caught me off guard. Marie was usually warm, but her lips were pressed together today as if she were bracing for bad news.

“Ella,” she said, her tone subdued, “can we have lunch today? Somewhere private?”

I paused, narrowing my eyes. “Private? What’s going on?”

She glanced over her shoulder, scanning the empty lobby. “Marshall needs to talk to you,” she said quietly.

My breath caught. Marshall, Marie’s husband, was a measured, no-nonsense man who didn’t make casual requests. “What about?”

Marie shifted her weight. “He didn’t say. Just that it’s important, and we shouldn’t be overheard.”

A heavy unease settled in my chest. “Marie, you’re worrying me. What’s going on?”

She held up a hand. “I swear, I don’t know. I’m just the messenger. But trust me, it’s something you need to hear.”

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