The next day, Arabelle busied herself with the gallery, but her thoughts remained unsettled. Gabriel's words echoed in her mind, mingling with the tantalizing offer from Lucian. By mid-afternoon, she couldn't take the noise in her head anymore and called Sophie to meet for coffee.
"You did the right thing," Sophie said firmly as they sat outside a small café. "Gabriel's bad news. Always has been."
"I know," Arabelle said, stirring her coffee absently. "But it doesn't make it any easier. If the gallery goes under, everything I've worked for… it'll all be for nothing."
"Then take the commission," Sophie said with a shrug. "Go to this mysterious estate, paint your heart out, and come back with enough money to make Gabriel eat his words."
Arabelle hesitated. "And what if it's another trap? Another person trying to use me for their own gain?"
Sophie leaned forward, her expression softening. "Not everyone's Gabriel, Belle. Maybe this Lucian guy is just… I don't know, a rich recluse who likes good art. Worst-case scenario, you hate it, you finish the job, and you never see him again. But at least you'll have saved the gallery."
Arabelle sighed. Sophie made it sound so simple. Yet deep down, she knew the decision had already been made.
"Okay," she said quietly. "I'll go."
Sophie grinned. "Atta girl. Now, tell me all about this Lucian Devereaux. Is he hot, or just rich?"
Arabelle laughed, shaking her head. "I have no idea. And honestly? I'm not sure I want to find out."
But as she spoke, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was stepping into something far more complicated than she realized.
The car wound its way through a dense, shadowy forest, the gravel crunching beneath its tires
the only sound in the quiet expanse. Arabelle sat in the back seat, clutching her sketchbook like a lifeline. Her heart raced as the forest seemed to close in around her, the tall, gnarled trees blotting out the faint light of the sun.
When the estate finally came into view, her breath caught.
The manor stood at the end of a long driveway, an imposing structure of dark stone and ivy. It looked more like a fortress than a home, with towering spires that pierced the misty sky. A wrought-iron gate groaned open as the car approached, revealing sprawling grounds that were both meticulously maintained and eerily still.
The driver, a stoic man named Mr. Cavanaugh, pulled to a stop at the grand entrance. "We've arrived, Miss Leclerc," he said, his tone as impassive as his face.
Arabelle stepped out, her boots crunching on the gravel. The front doors opened before she could knock, and an older woman in a sharp black dress appeared.
"Miss Leclerc," the woman said, her voice clipped and efficient. "Welcome to the Devereaux estate. I'm Mrs. Hawthorne, the housekeeper. Follow me, please."
Without waiting for a response, Mrs. Hawthorne turned and strode inside.
The interior of the manor was just as grand - and as cold - as the exterior. High ceilings loomed overhead, their beams carved with intricate patterns. The walls were lined with heavy tapestries and shadowy portraits of stern-faced ancestors. The air smelled faintly of wood polish and old stone, with an underlying chill that seemed to seep into Arabelle's bones.
"Mr. Devereaux will see you in the east wing," Mrs. Hawthorne said, her heels clicking against the polished marble floor.
They passed through a series of hallways that seemed to stretch endlessly, each one darker and quieter than the last. Arabelle's steps faltered as they entered a long corridor where the walls were lined with portraits. The faces in the paintings were vivid and lifelike, but their eyes seemed to follow her, their gazes heavy with judgment.
Finally, they stopped in front of a set of heavy double doors. Mrs. Hawthorne knocked once, then pushed them open.
The room beyond was a library, though calling it that felt like an understatement. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes. A massive fireplace dominated one end of the room, its flames casting flickering shadows on the dark wood paneling.
And then she saw him.
Lucian Devereaux stood at the far end of the room, his back to her, staring out a tall window that overlooked the grounds. He was a tall, broad-shouldered figure, his presence filling the space even in silence.
"Miss Leclerc," he said without turning around, his voice low and resonant. "You're punctual. I appreciate that."
Arabelle straightened her shoulders, her nerves replaced by a flicker of defiance. "You're not exactly easy to find, Mr. Devereaux."
At that, he turned.
The firelight illuminated part of his face, highlighting a jagged scar that ran from his temple to his jawline. The other side of his face remained in shadow, but his dark eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch.
"You'll find I prefer privacy," he said, his tone cool but edged with something deeper.
Arabelle held her ground, meeting his gaze. "Privacy doesn't come cheap, I imagine."
The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. "No, it doesn't."
For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the air between them charged. Then Lucian gestured to a nearby chair. "Sit," he said.
Arabelle hesitated, then obeyed, lowering herself into the chair across from him. Lucian remained standing, his posture rigid, as if he were a statue carved from stone.
"I've seen your work," he began, his voice measured. "It's raw. Honest. But there's something about it that's unfinished. As if you're holding back."
Arabelle bristled. "I didn't realize I was here to be critiqued."
"You're here because I believe you can do better," he said, his tone unyielding. "This commission is an opportunity - not just for you, but for me. I want a piece that captures something real. Something true."
"And what exactly is 'true' to you?" she challenged.
Lucian's gaze darkened, and for a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer. Then he spoke, his voice quieter but no less firm.
"Truth," he said, "is what remains when you strip everything else away. The things we hide, the things we fear… that's where the truth lies."
Arabelle felt a shiver run down her spine, but she refused to let it show. "And what is it you're hiding, Mr. Devereaux?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswered. Lucian's expression didn't change, but the tension in the room seemed to deepen.
"You'll find, Miss Leclerc," he said finally, "that I value my secrets. As I'm sure you value yours."