Chapter 3
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 joy than 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.
I checked my watch—just past ten. In less than an hour, I’d be sitting across from Ella. A flicker of something unfamiliar ran through me—excitement, maybe. It had been years, but her message felt damned promising. Memories of our past conversations and the warmth of her presence flooded my mind.
I leaned against the counter, forcing myself not to overanalyze her text. Ella had always been warm and easy to talk to, but this? Did she want something from me, or was this personal? The possibilities intrigued me, adding a layer of anticipation to my day that I hadn’t felt in a long time. A small smile tugged at my lips. Either way, I wasn’t about to pass up the chance to see her.
The gallery was quiet, with staff preparing for an emerging artist’s showcase. I stepped into my office to grab my jacket and caught my reflection in a framed print. Adjusting my tie, I straightened my collar.
“Ella,” I murmured, rolling her name over my tongue.
Then, the door creaked open. I didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The air thickened, charged with the weight of his presence.
“Good morning, Dad,” I said, keeping my voice neutral.
“Lucas.” My father’s tone was deceptively calm. His words always carried an undertone of control.
I leaned back in my chair, meeting his sharp gaze. “What brings you here? I figured you’d be enjoying breakfast at the club.”
He ignored my jab, his gaze drifting to the ledger on my desk. “I heard you’re leaving the gallery this morning.”
I kept my expression even. “Meeting a friend for coffee. I’ll be back for the afternoon crowd.”
A slow arch of his brow. “Ella Blake.”
Tension settled in my spine. “That’s right.”
“She’s curating the Chagall exhibit, isn’t she?” He clasped his hands behind his back, scanning the paintings on the wall like they mattered more than this conversation. “A curious woman. Ambitious. Dangerous, even.”
I fought the urge to bristle. “Ella’s doing her job, Dad. That’s it.”
His gaze sharpened. “That depends. You know as well as I do that curiosity has consequences.”
“She doesn’t know anything about us,” I said carefully. “And even if she did, she’s not the kind of person who’d dig for the sake of causing trouble.”
“That’s precisely the problem,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Idealists don’t dig for trouble. They uncover it by accident.”
I clenched my jaw. Ella wasn’t a liability.
He studied me, the silence stretching. Then, his voice dipped into something almost fatherly. “You’ve always had a soft spot for her. That’s a weakness, Lucas. One you’d do well to correct before it becomes a problem.”
My father believed love—attachment—was a liability. But he was wrong.
He softened his tone. “Gabrielle, on the other hand, is loyal. Dependable. She understands discretion—qualities we value.”
I pushed down the flicker of anger. “Gabrielle is a good employee. That’s all.”
“And Ella?” he pressed.
I hesitated. That was all the answer he needed.
“Be careful, son.” His voice was almost gentle. “You’ve worked too hard to risk everything for a fleeting infatuation. Remember where your priorities lie.”
I swallowed back my frustration. “Yes, sir.”
Satisfied, he turned to leave. The door clicked shut behind him, but his warnings clung to me like a shadow.
I exhaled slowly, checking the time. Almost time to go. Whatever my father thought, seeing Ella again felt worth the risk.
Soon, the growl of the Jaguar’s engine soothed me as I navigated Miami’s streets. My father’s words lingered: Ella’s a liability.
He couldn’t see her as anything but a risk. I couldn’t see her as anything but Ella.
Maybe he wasn’t wrong. If she dug too deep, she could unravel everything. But the thought of walking away from her? That felt like the real mistake.
At a red light, my thoughts drifted to my parents. Their divorce had blindsided me. They had always seemed like a unit, but looking back, I wondered—had our family’s secrets broken them? Had my mother reached her limit?
I turned onto the road leading to Coconut Grove Café, pushing the thought away. As I parked, the nerves I hadn’t realized had faded into anticipation.
Whatever complications existed, seeing Ella was worth it.
The café was warm and inviting, and the scent of roasted coffee drifted through the open windows. As I stepped inside, my gaze landed on her instantly.
Ella sat by the window, her dark waves catching sunlight. She held a cup of coffee in her hands. She looked up, met my eyes, and smiled. She was bright, genuine, and dangerous.
“Lucas,” she said, her voice like a song I hadn’t realized I’d missed.
I made my way over, slipping into the seat across from her. “Ella Blake. Still turning heads, I see.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, please. You walked in like you own the place.”
“Force of habit,” I admitted with a smirk. “You look great, by the way.”
A slight flush crept up her neck. “So do you. But you know that.”
I leaned back, letting her words settle. “I missed this. Talking to you.”
Ella tilted her head. “Me too.”
Conversation flowed like no time had passed. She spoke about the Chagall exhibit, her voice lighting up when she described the lesser-known pieces she was showcasing. Her passion was contagious, and I found myself getting lost in her enthusiasm, nodding along as she painted vivid pictures with her words. Through her eyes, I could see the vibrant blues and reds of Chagall’s work, a world where colors danced and dreams took flight.
Then, something shifted in her tone. “I wanted to feature one of the Chagalls from the Devereux collection, but the loan request was declined.”
I tensed. Of course. My father.
“I saw that,” I said evenly. “Dad is very strict about loaning out our art, but maybe I can help in another way. The Met in New York has a stunning collection—I know the curator. I could make a call.”
Ella blinked, surprised. “Lucas, that would be… amazing. Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?”
“For you?” I smirked. “Never.”
The conversation lightened after that—old memories, inside jokes, stolen glances. We discussed the various art shows and auctions we had attended together over a few years. As the minutes ticked by, a thought gnawed at me. When she left, when this moment ended—would I let her walk away again?
I leaned forward. “What are you doing Friday night?”
Ella arched a brow, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Why? Are you finally going to take me on a proper date?”
I laughed, caught off guard. “Maybe. If you’re lucky.”
She grinned. “Fine. I’ll pencil you in.”
“Pencil?” I scoffed, feigning offense. “I was hoping for ink.”
Ella chuckled, shaking her head. “Friday sounds perfect.”
We lingered for a moment, the air between us charged with something unspoken but undeniable. Then, she reached for her bag, and reality nudged its way back in.
I stood, pulling out her chair before following her toward the door. As I pushed it open, the golden sunshine of late afternoon spilled into the café, wrapping around her like a spotlight.
She turned back, her smile lingering. “See you Friday, Lucas.”
I watched as she walked away, her silhouette framed by the sun. For the first time in a long while, I felt something unfamiliar.
Hope.