Page 39 of The Art of Loving You

I frowned. “I thought Alistair already cut you off?”

Lucas let out a dry laugh. “So did I. But I talked to Gabrielle this morning, and she told me she overheard Dad talking to Frank a few days ago at the gallery. Frank told him to hold off on removing me from the trust—said it would raise too many questions if he did it too suddenly.” He leaned back in his chair. “So, I guess I’m in limbo until we get confirmation.”

I pulled out my phone and tapped open my news app. Sure enough, Alistair’s arrest was front-page news. I turned the screen toward Lucas.

“You saw this?” I asked.

His jaw tightened as he read the headline:

ALISTAIR DEVEREUX CHARGED IN STOLEN ART INVESTIGATION – ARRAIGNMENT SET FOR FRIDAY

“I figured it was coming,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

I hesitated, then asked, “Are you going to post bail for him?”

Lucas’s expression darkened. He stared down at his coffee, his fingers tapping lightly against the ceramic. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “A part of me thinks he deserves to sit in jail for once. But…” He sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t hate him, Ella. I just—I wish he’d tell the truth. Admit what he did. Or, at least, what he let happen.”

I studied him, choosing my words carefully. “Harboring stolen art is the same as stealing it.”

Lucas’s lips pressed together, and after a long beat, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

I reached across the table, resting my hand lightly over his. “Whatever you decide, I’ll be here.”

Lucas turned his hand palm up, threading his fingers through mine. His thumb brushed absently over my skin, and it was just the two of us for a moment. No gallery. No stolen art. No media storm. Just Lucas and me, trying to navigate this impossible reality together.

A throat cleared behind us. The museum security guard stood by our table, his expression tight.

“Mr. Devereux,” he said in a low, cautious tone, “I thought you should know—the media has spotted your Jaguar outside.Reporters are waiting by the front entrance. One of them specifically asked for you by name.”

Lucas stiffened, his grip on my hand tightening. “They know I’m here.”

I shot him a concerned look. “You can sneak out the back,” I suggested.

But Lucas exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Running only makes it worse. If I don’t give a statement, they’ll write their own version of the story.”

I swallowed, not liking this one bit. “What are you going to say?”

Lucas glanced toward the café entrance, then back at me. His jaw set in quiet determination. “Just four words.”

I arched a brow. “And those are?”

“I have no comment.” Lucas’s tension was visible even as he reached for his sandwich. “Let’s just enjoy lunch before I deal with that mess,” he muttered, nodding toward the café doors.

I pushed his bowl of soup toward him. “You might as well eat. You’ll need your energy if you’re facing reporters.”

He gave me a wry smile before picking up his spoon. “You always know how to keep me grounded.”

We ate in comfortable silence for a while, the rich aroma of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies lingering between us. I broke off a piece of mine, the chocolate still warm and gooey, and nudged Lucas’s plate. “You have to try one. They’re still warm.”

Lucas took the cookie, biting into it with a soft hum of appreciation. “Okay, I admit—this makes everything a little better.”

I smiled, relieved to see the brief flicker of ease in his expression. “Chocolate fixes a lot of things.”

The moment of levity was fleeting, though, as Lucas set his spoon down and exhaled. “Lopez told me something else,” he said, voice low. “If my father really didn’t remove me from the trust, then I’m still in charge of the gallery.”

My eyes widened slightly. “So… you could run it?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Lopez says I should act like I own the place until we get confirmation.” He rubbed his temple. “It’s weird. One second, I thought I had nothing, and now? Now, I might actually be the one keeping that place afloat.”

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