Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Gabrielle
Balancing a coffee cup in one hand and a paper bag with a still-warm croissant in the other, I nudged open the heavy glass door of the Devereux Gallery with my hip. The scent of roasted espresso and buttery pastry wrapped around me, a small comfort before the long day ahead.
As I moved through the gallery’s main hall, the serene quiet of early morning gave it an almost sacred stillness. I walked past the large worktable where the latest batch of artwork awaited scanning, the overhead lights still dim. The equipment—high-resolution scanners, UV lights, and infrared imaging tools—stood ready, silent, and imposing.
I’ll get back to you soon enough.
I pushed open the office door with my elbow, set my coffee and croissant on my desk, and powered up my laptop. Today had to be the day I found something—anything—that would prove our connection to the painting.
I flipped open the thick binder labeled A Lady and Gentleman in Black – Provenance Research and smoothed my hand over the pages, my pulse kicking up the way it always did when I worked on this case.
Unlike other stolen works I had researched, A Lady and Gentleman in Black wasn’t a painting lost to time. It was real, documented, and known. Frans Hals had painted it in the early 1600s, using his signature bold brushstrokes to capture a wealthy Dutch couple posed in their finest black attire. The painting has been exhibited in museums, sold at private auctions, and written about in scholarly journals.
But somewhere along the way, a critical piece of its history had been erased.
I had grown up hearing whispers about the painting, passed-down stories from my grandmother and father—accounts that had always seemed more like family lore than fact. But when my sister and I started our own research, I realized there was something to them.
The records were inconsistent, and transactions that should have been accounted for were missing. I was certain that that private collection belonged to my great-grandfather, Bram Van Den Berg.
But certainty wasn’t enough. I needed proof.
I took a sip of coffee, scrolling through auction logs on my screen. If I could find the missing link—a sale, a post-war recovery transfer, a record of the painting changing hands illegally—I could finally lay claim to it, not just as a researcher but as a descendant of its rightful owner.
I glanced at the stack of documents I had compiled yesterday, flipping through them and double-checking my notes.
And then I frowned.
Something was missing.
The post-war estate transfer records detailing how looted artwork had been redistributed after the war were gone. I shuffled through the files again, my stomach tightening.
I had left them right there last night.
A flicker of unease crept up my spine. Those documents were the closest thing I had to a trail leading back to my father’s family. Had I misplaced them, or had someone taken them?
After setting down my coffee, I pushed back from my desk and grabbed my phone. I had a contact in Switzerland who might be able to get me replacements, but if those files were gone for good, I needed a backup plan.
Because I wasn’t about to let this slip through my fingers while the MM&W Foundation searched endlessly. Not now. Not when I was this close.
I scrolled through my contact list, balancing my phone against my shoulder as I picked apart my croissant, flaky crumbs scattering over my open research files. The missing documents still gnawed at me, but before I let myself spiral, I needed a sanity check. Someone to remind me why I was doing this in the first place.
Juliette picked up on the second ring.
“Tell me you found it,” she answered, skipping the hello entirely.
I huffed a laugh, tearing off another piece of pastry. “Good morning to you, too.”
“I don’t have time for pleasantries, Gabs. Did you find it?”
I sighed. “Not yet. But I’m close. I know it.”
Juliette groaned, and I could practically hear her pacing on the other end of the line. “Close doesn’t count. We need that paperwork, Gabrielle. This is our shot, our chance to take back what should have been ours finally.” She signed, “Knowing you, you may have accidentally thrown it all away.”
She wasn’t just talking about the painting.
For as long as I can remember, Juliette had carried the same dream—to reclaim what our family lost and to break free from the cycle of waiting for life to offer us something better. It was our future.
A future that, if she had her way, included a home in Coconut Grove with a sun-drenched terrace and a private dock.
“I already found a place,” she added before I could respond. “Three bedrooms, waterfront, ridiculous natural light. It’s perfect.”
I nearly choked on my coffee. “You’re already house-hunting?”
“Manifesting,” she corrected. “We get this painting back, we take the settlement money, and boom. New life, new home, maybe even new men.”
I shook my head, unable to stop a small smile. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“I prefer to think of it as optimism. Which, by the way, you could use a little more of.” She paused. “Speaking of which, has Anthony come to his senses yet?”
I stiffened, knowing exactly where she was going with this. “Juliette?—”
“Oh, come on. You’re practically living at that gallery, and after what happened between you two, you’re telling me he’s not helping dig up anything on our painting?”
I rubbed my forehead. “No. He’s not. And we agreed not to talk about… that.”
Juliette snorted. “ You agreed. I never did.”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s been acting weird ever since. Distant. More than usual.”
“Maybe because he’s not as detached as he pretends to be,” she mused. “You know, just because a guy is emotionally unavailable doesn’t mean he’s immune.”
I didn’t answer right away. Because honestly? That possibility had been circling in the back of my mind all morning.
Anthony wasn’t the type to let his guard down. And yet, for that one moment in the gallery, he had. And now, instead of ignoring me outright, he was keeping just enough distance to make me notice.
Juliette sighed dramatically. “Look, I get it. Some guys are weird. But what if he actually cares, and he just has no idea how to handle it?”
I didn’t want to think about that.
“I should go,” I said, glancing at the files spread across my desk. “I have a lead to chase down.”
Juliette made a sound of disapproval. “Fine. But don’t let him push you away too easily, Gabs. You’re way too good at pretending you don’t care.”
I ended the call, setting my phone down beside my laptop.
Juliette had meant it as a warning. But all it did was leave me feeling even more aware of Anthony than I wanted to be.
As I made my way through the gallery, a murmur of conversation caught my ear. Two delivery men stood just inside the entrance, one scanning a clipboard while the other adjusted the garment bag slung over his shoulder.
“That’s the one,” the taller of the two said, nodding toward the shipping label. “Custom order. Guy’s got expensive taste.”
I slowed my steps just enough to catch a glimpse as the garment bag was unzipped slightly—a sleek black suit, crisp and pristine, with Brioni stitched into the lining.
My brows lifted.
Brioni? That wasn’t just an expensive suit. That was one of the most exclusive designers in Miami, the kind of brand that catered to billionaires, CEOs, and men who didn’t blink at five-figure price tags for something they’d wear twice.
I kept walking, my mind already turning over this new piece of information.
Anthony had never been flashy. In fact, he had always carried himself like a man who didn’t care about wealth, like money was something he had but rarely acknowledged. But now? It seemed like something had shifted between the custom suit and the murmurs I’d overheard from staff.
When I reached his office, my suspicions deepened.
Sitting on a table by his office door, still in its gift box, was a bottle of Chateau Margaux 2005—one of the most expensive wines in the world. Not the kind of wine you drank but one you collected. A single bottle could cost more than ten thousand dollars.
I stared at it, then glanced at the closed door to his office. What the hell was he doing? Was this how he coped? Was he throwing money at things that didn’t matter to distract himself from something that did? Or was this the real Anthony—not just a man with money, but someone who knew exactly how to use it?
I thought about the missing paperwork from my desk.
Had he taken it? Was he arranging for something behind the scenes?
The art world was a dangerous business, and Anthony had been in it long enough to know that. The question was: Was he playing by the rules?
I found him with his arms crossed in one of the smaller gallery wings, studying a newly arrived painting that didn’t belong to the gallery with his arms crossed. The perfect opportunity.
“Brioni suits, thousand-dollar wine, and now, possibly a private art collection?” I mused, stepping beside him. “I have to say, Anthony, you’re embracing a different lifestyle.”
He didn’t take the bait. “That’s none of your concern.” His voice was flat, clipped. He didn’t even look at me.
The coldness stung, but I wasn’t the type to retreat. “So that’s the rule? I can help track down stolen masterpieces, but I’m not allowed to ask why you suddenly care about luxury.”
He turned and leveled his gaze at me, and something flickered in his eyes—something he wasn’t saying.
For a second, I thought he might actually answer. But instead, he simply said, “Please, drop it, Gabrielle.”
And then he walked away, leaving me feeling like I’d just lost a game I didn’t even know I was playing.
I stood there a moment longer, trying to shake the sting of his parting words. But there was no time to dwell. I had work to do.
***********
After the gallery closed, the staff cleared out, leaving only Anthony and me. The glow of my laptop screen lit the space over my desk as I scrolled through old auction records. It was long past closing, but I wasn’t ready to leave—not without finding something that could take the place of the missing documents.
I took a sip of my now-cold coffee, willing my eyes to focus. The trail leading back to A Lady and Gentleman in Black was there—I could feel it. I just needed one solid link to prove it had once belonged to my family.
Soft footfalls approaching snapped me from my thoughts.
I looked up, my pulse hitching, as Anthony leaned against the doorway, a glass of bourbon in his hand. His tie was loosened, and the top button of his dress shirt was undone, giving him an almost disheveled elegance that was impossible to ignore.
“You’re still here?” His voice was lower than usual, rougher.
“So are you.”
He took a slow sip, then stepped inside, his gaze drifting over the files scattered across my desk. He was close now, close enough that I could catch the faint scent of bourbon and something darker beneath it—something undeniably him.
For a moment, he didn’t speak. Neither did I.
But the air between us shifted, charged with something unspoken. Finally, I broke the silence. “Why are you avoiding me?”
His jaw tightened. A long pause stretched between us before he exhaled sharply, setting his glass down on the desk. “Because if I don’t,” he said, his voice barely above a murmur, “I’ll do something I can’t take back.”
The words settled in my chest like a live wire.
Anthony met my gaze then, and his mask slipped for the first time in days. The tension was suffocating, a breath away from something neither of us was ready for.
Then, just as quickly, he stepped back, gripping the edge of the desk like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
“Goodnight, Gabrielle.”
And with that, he walked away, leaving me staring after him, my heart pounding.