The Art of Loving You (Off-Limits Billionaires #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Lucas

The ledger lay open before me, its cracked leather binding splitting under the strain of age like a forgotten relic unearthed from an ancient tomb. A faint scent of musk and decay clung to the pages, mingling with a hint of dust, the ink faded but damning as if time itself was trying to erase the sins recorded within.

Chagall. Vermeer. Rembrandt.

Works of art that belonged in grand museums, not locked in a vault beneath our family’s opulent gallery, hidden from the world.

I ran my fingers over the aged, brittle paper, the weight of history pressing against my chest like an invisible hand. This wasn’t just a record—it was a confession, an intricate map of deception. A map of how the Devereux family had meticulously built its empire, one stolen masterpiece at a time, with each acquisition shrouded in shadow.

It had been a long time since I stepped foot in this vault. Too long. And now, I was here not just to confirm what I already knew but to see with my own eyes if anything was missing—if my father had been desperate enough to sell off more pieces in the past several months.

A sharp knock broke the silence, echoing off the walls of the dimly lit room. The heavy wooden door swung open with a soft creak. My father, Alistair Devereux, stepped inside, his presence as suffocating as the secrets that hung in the air.

“Getting an early start?” His voice was smooth and calculated, his gaze settling on the ledger with something close to amusement, as if the incriminating words were nothing more than a trivial joke to him. I didn’t look up, my eyes fixed on the damning evidence.

“Something like that.” He stepped closer, the scent of expensive cologne trailing behind him like an invisible signature of his wealth. “You look troubled, Lucas. That’s not like you.”

I turned a page. The rustle of paper was louder than it should have been in the tense silence. “Hard not to be when you’re staring at this.” I gestured at the names, at the ledger full of lies and stolen legacies, the legacy of our family’s dark dealings laid bare.

He pulled out the chair across from me, settling in with the ease of a man who had never once questioned his right to ownership. “Ah, yes. The family history. These pieces have survived wars, revolutions, natural disasters—and now, thanks to us, they are safe.”

A hollow laugh escaped me. “Safe? Locked in a vault under this gallery? That’s what you call preserving art?”

His smirk faded. “Do you think the people we acquired these from cared about their ‘preservation’? Our family rescued these works, Lucas. We gave them value where there was none.”

I leaned back, arms crossed. “You mean a price tag.”

He sighed, the shift in his expression almost imperceptible. “Post-war Europe was chaos. Families were desperate. They sold what they had to survive. We didn’t steal. We traded. And yes, we profited. That’s business.”

I tapped the ledger. “And these? The ones acquired through less transactional methods?”

For a moment, silence. Then, a sigh. “History is written by the survivors, Lucas. Our family survived by making choices others were too weak to make.”

“Choices like hoarding masterpieces while the world believes they’re lost?” My voice rose despite myself.

He straightened, his cool mask slipping just enough to reveal irritation. “We are not common thieves. We are curators of culture. Guardians of history. You’ll understand that one day when you’re sitting in my chair.”

The thought sent a chill through me. I didn’t want his chair. Didn’t want his legacy.

My father stood, brushing imaginary dust from his jacket. “Close the ledger and put it back inside the wall safe. We have a gallery to run.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, I exhaled. The words we are curators of culture echoed in my head, twisting into something false and heavy.

The problem was that he actually believed it. Or at least, he had convinced himself it was true.

His footsteps faded down the hallway—not toward the main gallery. Toward the vault. I shut the door on the safe and followed.

Downstairs in the vault, the air was colder than the rest of the building—a sterile tomb of stolen history. The hum of climate-controlled cases filled the silence, each one housing a masterpiece the world believed lost.

My father stood in front of a particular glass case, his fingers trailing along its surface.

Chagall.

My pulse kicked up. “This shouldn’t be here,” I said, voice low.

His lips barely moved. “ The Village .”

I stiffened. “I thought it was lost.”

“Officially, yes.” His fingers barely brushed the glass, reverent. “Uncertainty is a collector’s best ally. But our family’s reach exceeds public knowledge. This piece is one of my more recent acquisitions.”

I took a step back, the air feeling heavier. “This belongs in a museum.”

His gaze shifted, unreadable. “And you think museums don’t have their own share of stolen treasures? At least we’re honest about our methods.”

I let out a dry laugh. “Honest? We hide this in a basement and call it honesty?”

His expression hardened. “This painting survived a war, Lucas. It was rescued.”

“At the expense of its rightful owners.”

The silence between us was thick, charged with decades of justifications and quiet rebellion.

“This gallery, this vault, everything you see—it’s your inheritance,” he said finally, his voice low. “You don’t have to like it, but you will protect it.”

I didn’t respond. Words felt pointless against the weight of generations of conviction.

Instead, I turned my attention to The Village , its swirling blues and greens mocking me with their beauty.

If this was my inheritance, I wanted no part of it.

Upstairs, the Devereux Gallery gleamed with manufactured legitimacy. Sunlight streamed through the massive windows, highlighting priceless sculptures and paintings, each one perfectly curated for admiration and envy. The atmosphere was one of serene elegance, where art and artifice danced together. Here, we were untouchable, enveloped in an aura of sophistication. Downstairs? It was a different story entirely, a tomb of deception and lies.

“Mr. Devereux.” Gabrielle, the gallery sales manager, approached, adjusting a spotlight over a bronze statue. “Did you see the request from Ocean View Museum?” Her voice was calm but carried a hint of urgency.

I barely registered her words until she added, “It’s for the Chagall exhibit.”

I froze, my heart skipping a beat.

“They’re borrowing works from private collections.” She handed me a copy of the request, a slight tremor in her hand betraying her curiosity about my reaction.

My eyes scanned it quickly, stopping at the name that sent a punch to my chest. Curated by Ella Blake. Memories cascaded through my mind, unbidden and relentless.

Ella.

The name resonated through my mind like a bell tolling an unwelcome hour, heavier than it had any right to be. Years had slipped by, yet the memory of her was vivid and immediate—a cascade of dark hair framing a face that brimmed with sharp wit, and green eyes that burned with a fire intense enough to kindle belief in even the most forlorn causes.

I knew the kind of truths she pursued, relentless and consuming. If she was delving into Chagall’s lost works, it was only a matter of time before she found her way to my doorstep, drawn by the invisible threads that tethered us to the art world’s secrets.

Gabrielle studied me with a discerning gaze. “Should I respond?” Her voice was a soft query, laden with unspoken implications.

“No.” I slipped my phone into my pocket, my voice firm with resolve. “We’re not participating.” She hesitated, a flicker of doubt crossing her features. “But wouldn’t it boost our reputation?” A na?ve hope lingered in her words.

It was the last thing we needed. If Ella dug too deep, she could unearth things that would unravel everything we’d carefully constructed—our reputation, our legacy. It could destroy her, too.

I sat in my office, and the dim glow of my screen cast shadows over the room as I scrolled through the details of the exhibit. A request for The White Angel —one of our few legitimate Chagalls—was marked DECLINED in bold, unforgiving red text. My father’s decision was unsurprising; even a clean loan might attract unwanted scrutiny.

But I figured Ella wouldn’t accept no as an answer. I set my phone down and began to pace, the soft rustle of carpet underfoot a companion to my restless thoughts. The Village was bound to be on her list—one of Chagall’s most elusive works, precisely the kind of piece she’d try to track down and borrow for her exhibit. She’d reach out to collectors, dig through records, and follow every lead until she either secured it or confirmed its absence. And if she discovered it was missing—suspected it had been deliberately hidden from the public eye—she wouldn’t stop there.

The thought of it devastated me. Or worse—it could put her in danger.

Grabbing my phone once more, I stared at her name in my contacts, a ghost from the past. Years had stretched between us since our last conversation, yet I could still summon her image with ease—sharp wit, that irresistible spark that had always drawn me in.

I typed out a message with a swiftness that left no room for hesitation.

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

My finger hovered for a split second before I pressed send. The message delivered with a quiet ping that echoed in the silence.

No going back now.