Page 48 of The Art of Loving You

“They look like ghosts,” she murmured, her voice filled with pure wonder.

I smiled, stepping beside her. “They do, don’t they? But they’re very much alive.”

Lucas stood behind us, his presence steady and warm, though I sensed his usual confidence was weighed down by somethingheavier. He hadn’t said much since we arrived, other than engaging with Bess when she pulled him from one exhibit to the next. But now, as Bess remained entranced by the jellyfish, he shifted slightly closer to me.

“This morning’s meeting was... complicated,” he said quietly, his voice low enough that only I could hear.

I turned to face him fully, instantly aware of the change in tone. “With Curtain?”

Lucas nodded. “My father is pleading guilty.”

I inhaled sharply, my gaze flickering over his face. Despite everything—despite knowing this moment was coming—I could see the weight of it settling on his shoulders. His father, Alistair Deveraux, had been an unshakable force in the art world, both legitimate and otherwise. Seeing him fall in such a public, irreversible way had to be surreal for Lucas.

“Curtain’s working on a deal,” he continued, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “It won’t erase what he’s done, but if it goes through, it could significantly shorten his sentence.”

I studied him, waiting for more.

Lucas exhaled, his gaze dropping momentarily before meeting mine again. “My mother was at the meeting, too. She’s... offering to help.”

I blinked in surprise.“How?” I asked cautiously.

“She suggested a program,” Lucas said, his voice carrying both disbelief and resignation. “One that would focus on returning the stolen artwork we still have.”

The words sank in slowly.We still have.A chill passed through me as I processed their meaning.

“At some point,” Lucas went on, “it’ll be on me to open the vault. To hand over what’s left.” He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. “They don’t even know what all is in there. It’ll take time, sorting through everything and figuring out how to return what we can.”

I absorbed his words, the sheer magnitude of responsibility settling like a weight between us. This wasn’t just about clearing his family’s name—this was aboutundoingdecades of secrecy, deceit, and stolen history.

Before I could respond, Bess spun around, beaming.

“Can we go see the stingrays now?” she asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Lucas offered her a small smile, though I saw the tension still lingering behind his eyes. “Of course, kiddo.”

As we followed her toward the next exhibit, I slipped my hand into Lucas’s, squeezing gently. “You’re not in this alone. I love you and have faith in you,” I murmured.

He glanced down at me, a sense of serenity passing through his expression before he gave my fingers a soft squeeze in return.

“I know, and I love you too,” he said.

And somehow, I believed him.

Bess practically dragged Lucas toward the stingray touch pool, her small hands gripping his as she bounced with excitement. The air smelled faintly of salt water, and soft ripples spread across the surface of the shallow pool as stingrays glidedjust beneath it. Their smooth bodies cut through the water effortlessly.

“Come on! Hurry!” Bess squealed, tugging Lucas along as if he needed convincing.

Lucas chuckled but didn’t resist. “Alright, alright, I’m coming.”

She rushed to the edge, leaning over eagerly while an aquarium guide reminded the kids to keep their hands flat if they wanted to touch one. Lucas rolled up his sleeves and knelt beside her, the same easy confidence he carried in every situation radiating off him.

I, however, stayed back a few steps and lifted my phone to capture the moment with a video.

Bess reached out, her small fingers hovering just below the surface. A stingray swam closer, its sleek, gray body rippling through the water, and she let out a delighted gasp as it brushed her fingertips.

“It’s so soft!” she giggled, turning to Lucas. “You try!”

Lucas didn’t hesitate. He dipped his fingers into the water, running them lightly over the stingray’s back. “Huh,” he mused. “Not bad. Feels kind of like?—”

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