Page 54 of The Art of Loving You

I barely had time to absorb the emotion in her words before she turned to her son. Elizabet cupped Lucas’s face in both hands, holding him like she had been waiting years for this opportunity. “You did well, my love.”

Lucas exhaled, the tension in his shoulders finally easing as he hugged her back. And at that moment, I felt it—the unspoken weight of the past finally lifting.

The study smelled the same as the first time I had stepped inside at an art auction years ago—aged leather, old books, and a faint trace of whiskey lingering in the air. But something was different. The once-imposing decanter that had always sat on the mahogany desk was untouched, its crystal surface gleaming under the dim lighting. Like so much else in this house, it felt like a relic of the past.

Alistair stood slowly as we entered, his ankle monitor barely visible beneath his tailored slacks. It was subtle, but I knew Lucas saw it when I did. His entire body stiffened beside me.

Briefly, there was silence.

Then Lucas crossed the room in two long strides and pulled his father into a firm embrace. The tension that had thickenedthe air cracked, and something else took its place—acceptance, maybe even forgiveness.

Alistair exhaled, his hands gripping Lucas’s back before he finally stepped away. He glanced at me, his sharp blue eyes softening. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be at the wedding,” he said, his voice quieter than I expected. “The judge made his decision.”

I gave him a small smile. “We understand.”

His gaze shifted to my wedding set, and for the first time since I had met him, there was no calculation, no quiet reserve—just pride. “It suits you,” he said simply. “And Lucas—my son couldn’t have chosen better.”

Lucas didn’t speak, but the slight squeeze of his fingers around mine told me everything.

Alistair sighed as he lowered himself back into his chair. “I deserve what I got,” he admitted, his expression resigned. “I won’t deny that I’m relieved the charade is over. But most of all, I’m glad Elizabeth has sold her gallery and returned home here with me where she belongs.”

His eyes flicked to Elizabeth, and something passed between them—a look that spoke of things neither of them would ever put into words. “And I’m grateful you found a way to keep Lucas from suffering the same fate.”

Lucas’s grip on my hand tightened slightly. He turned to his mother, the full weight of her sacrifices settling in.

Instead of bitterness, he simply said, “I know.”

The air in the study was heavy—not with tension, but with the weight of everything that had come before this time in theirlives. The past had unraveled, layer by layer, and it felt as if the shadows had finally lifted.

Elizabeth, ever graceful, shifted the mood with the simple pop of a champagne cork. The crisp, celebratory sound echoed through the room, cutting through the lingering solemnity. She poured glasses with practiced ease, moving between us with the quiet authority she always carried.

When she lifted her flute, her gaze settled on Lucas, then Alistair, and finally, on me. “No more looking back,” she declared, her voice smooth and certain. “Tonight, we celebrate love, redemption, and the future.”

Glasses clinked, and there was a quiet, settled peace between Lucas and his father.

It was an ending, but it was also something else.

A beginning.

The night air was warm as we stepped outside, the mansion behind us bathed in the soft glow of lanterns along the driveway. It felt different now—less like a fortress and more like a piece of the past Lucas was finally walking away from.

Elizabeth was the first to reach me. Her embrace was firm but filled with something deeper. Love. Affection. Acceptance. She gently kissed my cheek and whispered, “Take care of my son.”

I nodded, swallowing against the sudden tightness in my throat. “I will,” I promised.

Lucas turned to his father. The two men stood for a beat, neither rushing the moment. Finally, Alistair extended a hand, and Lucas took it without hesitation.

“Enjoy Paris, you two,” Alistair said, his voice lower, rougher. “But don’t be gone too long. Anthony arrives soon to reopen our gallery.”

Lucas smirked at the reminder, the weight of responsibility never far from his mind. “We’ll be back,” he said simply.

The moment stretched just long enough before we turned toward the sleek black limo waiting at the end of the driveway. The driver opened the door, and Lucas helped me inside, his hand warm in mine as we settled into the leather seats.

The car pulled away, the mansion shrinking into the darkness behind us.

Lucas turned to me, a slow, satisfied smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Ready for Paris, Mrs. Devereux?”

I laughed softly, tilting my head toward him, soaking in the reality of what we had just stepped into. “With you? Always.”

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