Page 55 of The Art of Loving You

The city lights blurred as we drove toward the next chapter of our lives, and for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t thinking about what came next.

I was just here. With my husband. Where I belonged.

EPILOGUE

Anthony

Miami’s heat pressed down like a living thing, thick and relentless despite the early morning. Even the palm trees, their fronds heavy and still, seemed subdued by the oppressive weight of the air. The city was already awake, pulsing with the distant sounds of honking horns and the rhythmic hum of waves against the seawall. The scent of brine mixed with the sharper tang of asphalt baking in the sun, a reminder that Miami was a city balanced on the edge of civilization and something far more primal.

As I stepped from the town car, the glare of the sun transformed the Devereux Gallery’s glass façade into a blinding monolith, its bold black lettering proclaiming prestige—and buried secrets. I paused at the curb, taking in the building before me. It was striking, an architectural masterpiece that exuded wealth and refinement, but for those who knew its history, it was something else entirely. A fortress of deception. A monument to theft disguised as curation.

I adjusted my cufflinks, the movement measured, deliberate, a small ritual that steadied me. Not nerves, exactly. Anticipation, perhaps. There was always a moment before stepping into history, before facing the ghosts that lingered in stolen brushstrokes and lost provenance, when even the most seasoned of men felt the weight of the past pressing against them. I had handled the world’s rarest artifacts, negotiated with diplomats and aristocrats, and walked the marble halls of institutions that had outlived dynasties. And yet, this moment carried a weight I hadn’t anticipated.

At the top of the stone steps, Frank Curtain stood waiting, his posture a study in restraint. The humidity did nothing to disturb his graying hair or the crisp, unforgiving lines of his tailored suit. As my father’s attorney, he had spent years protecting this family, ensuring their dealings remained wrapped in discretion and legal ambiguity. Now, he was watching it all unravel, piece by piece.

“Mr. Moreau,” he greeted, his voice even, measured. He extended a firm hand, his palm dry despite the heat, the grip practiced from decades of closing deals and navigating crises.

“Mr. Curtain,” I returned, matching his grip.

His eyes, sharp beneath the guise of polite conversation, flicked over me, assessing. “Quite the responsibility you’re inheriting.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t prepared.”

A faint, rare smile ghosted across his lips—an acknowledgment, if not approval. “The court didn’t make this decision lightly. The Monuments Men and Women Foundation is our best hope of untangling this mess, and you—” he paused, measuring me likean investor scrutinizing a high-risk venture, “—have a reputation for results.”

I let my gaze drift over his shoulder to the gallery, its pristine exterior a well-crafted illusion. I had been here before, years ago, when the Devereux name still commanded admiration rather than hushed whispers of scandal. Then, it had been an institution—one that I, like many in my profession, had respected. Now, I saw it for what it truly was.

Curtain’s voice remained even, practiced. “Alistair has agreed to full cooperation. House arrest, ankle monitor—the works. He will live out his days in his mansion while his empire unravels.”

I said nothing. There was nothing to say. The dynasty built on deception, on transactions made in dimly lit rooms and forged documents, was now mine to dismantle. The thought should have brought satisfaction. Instead, it brought something heavier, a sense of responsibility that went beyond legal oversight.

Shifting my stance, I asked, “How much access will he retain to the gallery?”

“None. He’s relinquished all rights. From this moment forward, what happens here is in your hands.”

The weight of it settled over me—not just the authority, but the reckoning. I exhaled slowly, then took a step toward the doors, adjusting to the inevitability of what lay ahead.

“Shall we?”

The moment stretched between us, then Curtain nodded and reached for the door.

Behind me, the rhythmic click of heels against stone sliced through the air. The sound was sharp, purposeful. I didn’t need to turn around to know that it wasn’t another lawyer or bureaucrat sent to drown me in contracts and conditions. There was something different in the cadence of the steps, something unhurried but deliberate.

I turned.

She moved with the assurance of someone who understood power—not through inheritance, but through sharp instincts and careful precision. There was no hesitation in her stride, no uncertainty in the way she carried herself. A leather-bound folder rested against her hip, a keyring dangling from her fingers. Sunlight caught the dark strands of her hair, illuminating hints of bronze as she adjusted her grip.

But it was her eyes that held my attention.

Sharp. Knowing. Green, like the depths of an oil painting no one dared touch.

She stopped before me, extending her hand with the ease of someone accustomed to introductions that mattered. “I’m Gabrielle. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Moreau.” Her voice carried a quiet strength, the kind earned from dealing with men who underestimated her.

I clasped her hand, a brief but firm shake. I had meant to release it as easily as any other introduction, but for a fraction of a second, something electric passed between us. I let go a moment too quickly.

“Just Anthony,” I corrected, my voice smooth but measured. “Mr. Moreau makes me sound like I still work at the Met.”

A flicker of amusement crossed her face. “I’ll try to remember that.”

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