Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lucas
The air in my car felt heavy as I left the museum, and Ella’s polite smile burned into my memory. She hadn’t needed to say it outright—her walls were as solid as ever. I could see it in her eyes, hear it in the carefully measured tone of her voice. She didn’t trust me, at least not fully, and it was killing me.
Anger didn’t fill me as I drove; it was something far worse. A hollow ache pressed against my ribs, a quiet frustration I couldn’t shake. I wanted her to trust me, to believe that I could be someone she and Bess could count on, but how could I expect that when I hadn’t even begun to face my own truths?
Instead of heading to the gallery, where my father’s presence would undoubtedly add fuel to the fire burning in my mind, I turned toward home. The thought of sitting through another one of his lectures about loyalty or responsibility was unbearable. Tonight, I needed quiet.
The elevator doors opened to my penthouse, and I stepped into the familiar luxury that no longer felt like mine. The floor-to- ceiling windows framed the expanse of the ocean just beyond the beach, the waves rolling in steady rhythms under the fading light. Normally, this view was my escape, my sanctuary. But tonight, it felt hollow—a gilded cage that reflected everything wrong with my life.
I tossed my keys onto the entryway table and headed straight to my bedroom. Stripping out of my suit, I put on shorts and a plain T-shirt, grabbed my earbuds, and headed back downstairs. The walls of the penthouse felt like they were closing in, and I needed air.
The beach stretched out before me as I stepped onto the sand, the breeze carrying the tang of salt and seaweed. The air was cooler and cleaner here, as if the ocean could somehow wash away the weight of my situation. I slipped in my earbuds, queuing up a playlist that had seen me through late nights and restless mornings.
Music flooded my ears, drowning out the sound of the waves. But I could still feel the sand shifting beneath my feet, a constant reminder of how unsteady everything in my life felt. The rhythmic crashing of the tide was distant but insistent, like a clock ticking down to something inevitable.
Ella’s face flashed in my mind, unbidden but insistent. Her smile was polite, professional—carefully controlled, as if letting me any closer would unravel something in her. I understood the hesitation. Hell, I respected it. She had Bess to think about, a child who depended on her for stability and safety.
But knowing that didn’t stop the pang in my chest when she pulled away. It didn’t stop me from wishing she’d let me in.
The memory of Bess holding my hand at the Met rose to the surface, softening the ache. She trusted me in a way her aunt didn’t yet, and that trust was something I would protect at all costs. Her laughter that day had been bright and uninhibited, the kind of sound that made everything else fade into the background.
But nothing faded for long. My father’s shadow loomed over everything, dark and suffocating. Even that perfect day at the Met was tinged with the knowledge of what lay beneath the surface—of what my family had built on the backs of stolen lives and shattered legacies. The art gallery, the penthouse, the family name—it all came at a price. And that price was my silence.
I paused at the water’s edge, the cool waves lapping at my feet. My mother’s voice echoed in my mind, as clear as if she were standing beside me.
“We could return it, Lucas. It’s not too late. There are organizations that would take the art—no questions asked.”
She mentioned the Holocaust Memorial Museum and the Monuments Men and Women Foundation. She had even offered to help. I had brushed it off, knowing my father would never allow it. To him, the gallery wasn’t just a business—it was a monument to his power.
But maybe we didn’t need his permission. Could my mother and I take that step alone? Could we finally sever ties with him?
The idea was both exhilarating and terrifying. Returning the stolen art wouldn’t just be about doing the right thing—it would be about freeing myself. And maybe it would prove to Ella that I was serious. About her. About Bess. About a life that wasn’t built on lies.
I broke into a jog, letting the exertion clear my head. By the time I circled back to the condo, sweat clung to my skin, but my resolve had never been stronger.
As I stepped into the lobby, the security guard’s expression made me pause. Following his gaze, I spotted my father seated in a leather armchair near the elevator.
“Lucas,” he said smoothly, rising to his feet. “We need to talk. Upstairs.”
My stomach tightened. This wasn’t going to be good.
We rode the elevator in silence, the tension thick. When the doors opened to the penthouse, I stepped out, but he didn’t follow. Instead, he flipped a switch, freezing the doors in place.
“We won’t be interrupted,” he said, his voice calm, almost conversational.
A sinking feeling settled in my gut.
“Lucas,” he began, stepping forward, “I’ve made a decision. You’ve chosen your life with Ella Blake despite my warnings. That’s fine. But it’s no longer a life I’ll subsidize.”
I blinked. “What?”
“I’ve instructed my attorney to remove you from the family trust,” he said matter-of-factly. “The locks on the gallery have been changed. And as for this penthouse? You have until the end of the month to vacate.”
My pulse pounded. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious.”
“You’re cutting me off—because of Ella?”
“This isn’t just about Ella, Lucas. You’ve allowed yourself to be distracted, to act against the best interests of this family. That has consequences.”
I clenched my fists. “You think this will make me fall in line? You think you can control me like this?”
He smirked. “Control you? No, Lucas. I’m letting you go. You’ve made your bed. Now lie in it.”
He turned and stepped back into the elevator, flipping the switch to release the doors. Before they closed, he glanced at me one last time.
“Oh, and Lucas—do you think Ella would still want you if she knew the truth? If she knew about the gallery’s real inventory?”
The doors slid shut, cutting him from view.
I stood there, frozen, as the weight of his words pressed down on me. He thought he’d won and that he’d stripped me of everything I needed to survive. But he didn’t understand me—not really.
He hadn’t won. Not yet.
The silence in the penthouse wrapped around me, heavy and suffocating. I stood motionless, staring at the elevator doors as they slid shut behind my father. His words hung in the air, sharp and final, carving through the quiet like a blade.
“You’ve made your bed, Lucas. Now you’ll lie in it.”
His ultimatum swirled in my mind, but I didn’t implode. Not yet.
I turned, the emptiness of the penthouse stretching out before me. Every corner of this place screamed of my father—his control, his wealth, his rules. Except for my unique art collection, the sleek furniture, and even the pristine ocean view—it was all his. And now, it was all slipping away.
My thoughts drifted back to earlier in the day, to Ella’s office at the museum. On her desk had been a small framed photograph of the three of us—Ella, Bess, and me—taken during our trip to the Met. Bess’s wide grin had been contagious, her hand clutching mine like it was the most natural thing in the world. And Ella… she’d stood just behind her, her smile softer, more reserved, but unmistakably genuine.
That image had stayed with me all day, a quiet reminder of what I wanted—what I needed. For the first time in years, I’d felt like the man I wanted to be. Someone who could protect. Someone who could love. Someone who could build something meaningful.
The thought of losing that—of losing them —made my chest tighten. The hollow ache my father had left in his wake began to shift, replaced by something else.
Resolve.
I walked to the windows, pressing my palms against the cool glass. The ocean stretched out before me, its waves rolling in steady rhythms under the darkening sky. It was an indifferent constant, unfazed by the chaos of my life.
For years, I’d been silent. I’d accepted my father’s control, his lies, and his greed because it was easier than standing up to him. But Ella and Bess had changed that. They’d shown me what it was to care about something real, something worth fighting for.
Mom was right. Returning the stolen art wasn’t just the right thing to do—it was necessary. It was the only way to reclaim my life, to prove that I could break free from my father’s shadow.
But my father wouldn’t let go without a fight. He’d called my relationship with Ella a distraction, a weakness. But what he didn’t understand was that Ella and Bess weren’t my weakness—they were my strength.
I had a choice to make: keep living under his thumb or carve out my own path. The answer had never been clearer.
The darkness outside reflected back at me in the glass, a stark reminder of the man I didn’t want to become.
“My father thought he could control me, that I’d crumble without him,” I murmured. “But he was wrong. This was the end of one life—and the beginning of something better. I’d make sure of it.”
Turning away from the window, I reached for my phone. Tomorrow, I’d call my mother. Together, we’d start to dismantle the empire my father had built on lies.
And I’d prove to Ella that I wasn’t just someone passing through her life—I was someone she could trust. Someone she could count on.
This wasn’t just about reclaiming my legacy. It was about building a future.