Page 45 of The Art of Loving You

Maria placed a hand on my arm. “You have to be strong, Ella. For him. For Bess.”

I nodded numbly, my mind already racing. Lucas needed help. And I had an idea of who might hold the key to this mess.

Later that night, as Bess and I lay curled up on her bed, the soft glow of the television illuminating the room, the last scenes of her movie played out in a hushed, almost sacred silence. The room smelled like lavender and crayons, a comforting blend that usually eased my mind. But tonight, my thoughts were anything but calm. A single name surfaced again and again amidst the tangled chaos in my mind, like a lighthouse in a storm—Elizabeth.

The name reverberated through my thoughts, demanding attention. She knew more about everything. Maybe noteverything, but enough to make a case for her son’s innocence. My stomach twisted with the weight of uncertainty. I swallowed hard, eyes glued to the ceiling as the credits rolled, each name blurring into the next.

Did I dare involve her? Could I risk all I’d worked for, all I’d built, for this? The exhibit was set to open at the beginning of next week, a culmination of years of effort and ambition. My career, my reputation—they were on the precipice, teetering dangerously.

But then there was Lucas. His face flashed before me, a mosaic of memories and emotions. The way he laughed, warm and genuine, the way his eyes softened when he looked at me. Lucas was worth it. Worth the risk, worth the uncertainty. The real question wasn’t if I’d contact Elizabeth; it was when.

I sat up abruptly, my heart drumming in my chest, an insistent beat echoing my resolve. Yet, as I reached for my phone, my hand trembled, hovering above her contact. A swell of doubt washed over me. What if reaching out to her plunged me into alabyrinth of secrets I couldn’t escape? What if it pulled me into a vortex where the truth was just as elusive as it was dangerous? Yet, I trusted Elizabeth. She had always been good to me and, most recently, Bess.

I glanced at my niece, her face serene in sleep, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. Her peaceful form reminded me of what I stood to lose and what I needed to protect. A fresh wave of determination surged through me, a current too strong to ignore. Answers were necessary—not just for Lucas but for us—for a future unshadowed by secrets.

With renewed resolve, I pressed the call button, the phone cold and solid in my grip. It rang once, twice. Each ring was an eternity, a moment suspended in time. Finally, her voice came through, calm but edged with an unspoken anticipation.

“Ella. I heard the news.” Elizabeth’s voice carried a weight of its own, as if she had been waiting for my call.

I inhaled deeply, reinforcing myself for what might come. “Elizabeth, I need to know. Can you help Lucas prove his innocence?” My voice was steady, though my insides quaked with the enormity of what I was asking.

There was a pause, a silence pregnant with possibilities. Then, at last, she exhaled, a sound that felt like the calm before the storm.

“I’m flying to Miami in the morning. I will let you know when I arrive.” Her words hung in the air, heavy and foreboding. “I’m prepared to try.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Lucas

I stretched out on my cold metal cot, staring at the ceiling where a flickering light cast a dim, almost sorrowful glow across the cracked concrete walls. Sleep was a distant memory. Instead, I listened to the unsettling symphony of the holding cells—the low murmurs of restless men, the sporadic bark of a guard, the distant clang of metal against concrete.

Every inch of my body ached. My muscles screamed from the rigidity of the bunk, and my jaw was tight from grinding my teeth in frustration. The stale air clung to my skin, thick with the weight of unspoken accusations. I had never felt so unclean—a bitter irony for someone who once prided himself on immaculate appearances and a refined existence.

And yet, here I was.

Not because I had committed a crime, but because of the sins of my name—the Devereux legacy.

I should have seen it coming. My mother had warned me.Be careful, Lucas. Don’t let yourself get caught in your father’s sins.She had noticed the fractures in our legacy long before I did.

A sharp exhale escaped me as I shifted, glancing toward the thick steel door separating me from the outside world. How long had it been? A full day since my arrest? Maybe longer. Time blurred in confinement, the hours bleeding together in endless waiting.

I ran a hand over my stubbled jaw, a stark reminder of how far I had fallen from the polished world I once occupied. Gone were the tailored suits, the crisp button-downs. I still wore the same damned wrinkled clothes from the moment the FBI stormed in, my sleeves rolled up from the work I had been doing when my life imploded.

The jingle of keys snapped me from my thoughts. A guard stopped at the bars, with a practiced demeanor.

"Your lawyer’s here."

I stood immediately, rolling the stiffness from my shoulders as the door groaned open. Without a word, I followed him out of the cell, past rows of men whose lives were written in their weary eyes.

The legal meeting room was no better. Small. Windowless. Lit by harsh, buzzing fluorescent lights. A metal table sat in the center, flanked by two chairs. The air was thick with the stench of stale coffee and sweat. Lopez was already there, seated with his usual professional expression. I didn’t sit. Instead, I leaned against the wall, arms crossed over my chest.

“Tell me you have something,” I said, my voice low and steady, despite my anger.

Lopez exhaled slowly, tilting his head as if measuring his words. “I do,” he finally said, “and you’re about to owe your mother a hell of a lot.”

I breathed a sigh of relief when Lopez slid a folder across the table. With measured reluctance, I moved to the chair and flipped it open. My heartbeat picked up, each word in my mother’s handwriting landing like a punch to the ribs.

She had kept a journal, recording years of whispers and fragments of conversations between my father and grandfather, a silent witness to their empire of stolen art. She had never meant to document the truth, but she had. And now, it was saving me.

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