Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
I glance around at the collection, at the Vermeers, the Rembrandts, the Murillos, and the Titians, and a thrill pulses through me. I may have been betrayed by my own mother, yes, but now I have access to a dream that I never thought possible. To touch history, to restore it, to make it live again. And I can’t help but think that if these are the paintings that haven’t needed to be covered up, what the hell sort of treasures are in those covered frames?
And this is all possible because of my father.
For the first time in my life, I feel the real weight of loss. I lost something special. Really special. I realize I can grieve, and I can feel hurt. I can even take a step back from my mother and let her stew in her own pettiness that deprived me of a father. But I can also move forward, take what is offered, and make it my own.
I close my eyes, and instantly, my father’s face, his voice, his pride in me, flowers into a small, steadying presence, a reminder that even in absence, love can exist, quiet and steadfast. And just like that, I feel resolved. The betrayal, the secrets, the lies - they are a part of my story now. But they will not define me. Not today. Not ever.
I take a deep breath. This is my beginning. The past may have been hidden from me, but the future is mine to shape.
Chapter
Thirteen
JO
Ipace slowly between the racks. Every step I take echoes on the hard floor, and with every step it becomes more and more obvious: this is no ordinary workspace. This place is almost reverent, like a church. Housing masterpieces, irreplaceable, each one carrying centuries of history… and now, by some surreal twist of fate, restoring them to their original glory has become my responsibility.
The wonderful silence is disturbed by the soft click of the door’s locking system. I freeze. The door swings open, and Axel steps in. He’s impeccably dressed. His green eyes catch the light as they scan the room and come to settle on me. His gaze is cold, but my stomach does a crazy somersault. A familiar pang of something unnamable, something I shouldn’t feel for such an insufferable man, goes through me. My pulse quickens despite myself.
“Jo,” he says, his voice calm but clipped. There is no warmth, no sign of the anger with which he stormed out of Gavin’s office earlier, just controlled authority.
“Axel.” I raise a sarcastic eyebrow, even though I am acutely aware of the electricity throbbing in the air. “What can I do for you?”
“Gavin informs me you’ve agreed to the… stipulations of Joseph’s will. I trust he told you I have too?”
The tension in my shoulders tightens, but I nod.
He nods back, the movement precise and controlled. “Good. I suppose we should draw some rules that will make this situation more bearable.”
“What sort of rules?”
“We live in our respective suites and have as little interaction as possible, while we fulfill our obligations – me within the business, you with the art collection.” He frowns. “And while we find a way to produce an heir each by the end of the stipulated year.”
“Agreed,” I answer, my voice steady despite the turmoil in my chest. I’m not being totally honest. I might not produce the heir. If I don’t find the right guy, I’m not making a baby just to fulfill my father’s demand for an heir. I might just stay around to clean the paintings.
We stare at each other, our agreement hanging awkwardly between us. I feel as if there is a silent battlefield of wills going on between us. He doesn’t like me, and I’ve just lied to him. Then, as if by mutual understanding, we both turn away at the same time and walk away in opposite directions, him towards the door he entered by, and me back to my workstation.
I find a binder in the top drawer of the desk and open it to find detailed instructions on the order I am to work on the paintings. I go and find the first one and bring it over to the workstation. For a moment, I sit in front of the first painting I’ve been assigned in silence. Wow! My hands tremble slightly as I unwrap it from its protective covering.
The air around it smells of dusty varnish, old canvas, and aged wood. I take a moment to breathe it in. Then I place my fingers lightly on the surface, feel the texture of the old master beneath my touch, and experience a thrill of anticipation. This is what I’ve been trained for. This is me in my element. The world outside, with its peculiar stipulations and unreasonable demands, can wait.
I’ll start with the angel’s face.