Page 5 of The Art of Loving You

A pause. Then a small, reluctant smirk from Paul.

Victory.

Later, as the meeting wrapped, I lingered in the empty conference room.

The projector still glowed, displaying a Chagall piece, its dreamlike colors swirling in a way that felt almost prophetic.

This exhibit had to succeed.

Not just for my career, but because I felt it in my bones—this was the most important work I had ever done.

But it wasn’t just about the art. It was about the stories behind them.

And the more I thought about that, the more one name came to mind.

Lucas.

By mid-afternoon, my desk was buried in paperwork. Loan agreements, shipping logistics, and marketing outlines—each document reminded me of the mountain I had to climb.

I reached for my phone to set a reminder for tomorrow’s meetings.

And that’s when I saw it—a message.

Lucas: Ella, it’s Lucas Devereux. Congratulations on the Chagall exhibit. Let me know if there’s anything you need.

My breath caught.

Lucas.

Had he read my mind?

Memories surfaced—Lucas at the New York art show, effortlessly poised in his tailored suit, that ever-present smirk playing at his lips. He had a way of drawing people in whilekeeping just enough distance, always just out of reach. We had walked the same circles, shared conversations that lingered longer than they should have, but that was where it had always stayed—on the edge of something unspoken.

And those blue eyes. Damn them.

Why now? Why this exhibit? His timing felt too coincidental.

I hesitated, then typed:

Ella: Hi, Lucas. Thanks for the kind words. Let’s meet for coffee. I’d love to catch up and talk about the exhibit. Let me know when you’re free.

I hit send before I could overthink it, and the message was delivered. As I leaned back in my chair, curiosity hummed through me.

For better or worse—Lucas was back.

CHAPTER THREE

Lucas

The chime of the gallery door closing signaled another successful sale. Ms. Ortiz, a frequent buyer, left with a satisfied smile, her assistant carrying the delicate box that held her latest acquisition. A rare moment of pride sparked within me—this was the side of the gallery I cherished. There were no hidden agendas or whispered rumors, just a genuine appreciation for art. The colors, the textures, and the stories behind each piece resonated deeply with me, reminding me of the reasons I had ventured into this world.

Gabrielle approached, packing tape in hand, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “That was smooth. She didn’t even hesitate at the price.” Her eyes twinkled with admiration, a shared understanding between us of the art world’s intricate dance.

“She knew it was worth it,” I replied, watching Ms. Ortiz’s black sedan pull away. “Art sells itself when it’s genuine.” The satisfaction in my voice was evident; there was no greater joythan witnessing someone connect with a piece as profoundly as Ms. Ortiz had.

Gabrielle chuckled. “And yet you’re the one who makes it look easy. Not every collector leaves here with a smile.” Her compliment slid off me like water, but I gave her a brief nod. “It’s just a sculpture,” I insisted, though we both knew it was more than that.

She didn’t push further, returning to her desk, but the contrast between this sale and the shadows below the gallery gnawed at me. Up here, everything gleamed—light pouring in, pieces displayed with mathematical precision. But downstairs? That was where the Devereux family’s real legacy lay, shrouded in mystery and secrets that few dared to explore.

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