Page 8 of Until She’s Mine

Lucian

E velyn’s art conservation studio is located in Midtown, housed in a converted warehouse that’s been gutted and rebuilt into a sleek, modern space.

It’s just after lunch, so the administrative part of the studio is quiet, with a few assistants working diligently at their desks.

The air smells faintly of turpentine and aged paper, a scent that clings to Evelyn like a second skin.

The receptionist, a mousy thing with horn-rimmed glasses, leads me to the empty boardroom, where I take a seat. I pull out the case file, adjust the Montblanc pen parallel to the document edges, and wait.

The museum’s board members file in one by one, a parade of old money and older grudges. I’ve done my homework on each of them—their divorces, their debts, their desperate attempts to cling to relevance in a world that’s moved past their particular brand of aristocratic entitlement.

“Mr. Blackwood, we’re honored you took a personal interest in our little problem. Your family’s support has been invaluable to the museum,” the board president, Sarah Langford, simpers as she settles into her chair. The others murmur their agreement, sheep following their shepherd.

“Every issue holds significance, Mrs. Langford. Especially when it intersects with the interests of the Blackwood Foundation.”

It’s an exaggeration.

The disputed artwork currently at the center of their legal quagmire is a minor piece in the grand scheme of our family’s philanthropic endeavors, which are essentially tax write-offs and image.

But it’s a piece Evelyn wants to restore.

Tobias couldn’t be bothered to leverage family connections on her behalf, but I see the opportunity for what it is—a chance to step in where my brother has failed, to show Evelyn that I’m the one who truly understands her passions and needs.

My brother’s greatest flaw is taking what’s precious for granted.

The meeting progresses with the predictable tedium of legal negotiations.

I dissect their opponent’s claims, outlining a strategy that will secure the artwork and crush the opposition’s arguments.

The board members lean forward, hanging on every word, their eyes gleaming with the particular hunger of those who mistake proximity to power for power itself.

“The Caravaggio will be yours within two months,” I conclude, closing the file with finality. “My team will handle the litigation.”

My eyes meet Evelyn’s supervisor, Marcus Duval, who shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

I’ve done my research on him, too, as I do with everyone who touches Evelyn’s life.

Marcus is competent enough, but he lacks vision.

More importantly, I’ve seen how he looks at Evelyn—the lingering glances at benefit galas, his hand hovering on her shoulder when discussing projects. He thinks his interest is subtle.

It’s not.

“There is, however, one condition.”

Langford leans forward, her hands fluttering nervously. “Of course, Mr. Blackwood. Whatever you need.”

“Evelyn Laurent will lead the restoration project.”

A flicker of surprise crosses Duval’s face before he schools his expression into neutrality. Langford nods vigorously, her relief palpable.

“Of course,” she says. “Ms. Laurent is more than qualified.”

She is more than qualified. Caravaggio is Evelyn’s specialty; her bachelor’s thesis was focused on his techniques and materials.

She’s published papers on his chiaroscuro methods, spent a semester replicating his work.

But none of it matters to Sarah Langford.

She’d give the project to a janitor if it meant keeping Blackwood money flowing.

“Excellent,” I say. “Now let’s discuss the terms of the Blackwood Foundation’s sponsorship.”

Half an hour later, I’ve successfully obtained a position on the museum’s advisory board and secured Evelyn’s position as lead restorer on the Caravaggio.

The board members exchange relieved glances as they sign the agreement.

They think they’ve won a multi-year partnership, but they’re wrong.

This was never about the museum or the art.

It’s all about her .

Don’t get me wrong, I like art. Love it, even. But for me, the act of creating something is the best part. It’s personal, raw, and intimate. Looking at other people’s emotions crystallized in paint and canvas has never held the same appeal as capturing my own thoughts in charcoal and paint.

As the board members file out, murmuring their gratitude and assurances, I linger behind, pretending to review the documents one last time. Duval hesitates at the door, casting a backward glance in my direction. There’s a flicker of resentment and suspicion in his eyes.

I meet his gaze head-on. He looks away and quickly exits the room.

“Mr. Duval.” I intercept him on our way to the elevator. “You seem concerned about Ms. Laurent’s involvement.”

He adjusts his glasses. “Evelyn’s overworked as it is. I worry that adding this project to her plate might be ill-advised.”

“Your concern is noted. But unnecessary. Evelyn is more than capable of managing her workload. I trust you’ll provide whatever support she requires.”

The elevator arrives with a soft chime. Duval steps inside, his jaw tight. “Of course.”

“Blackwood!” Langford waves from down the hall. “The Times will want a comment on—”

“My secretary will contact you regarding the press release.” I step into the elevator with Duval before she can finish.

The doors slide shut, cutting off her protest. The air thickens with Marco’s sandalwood cologne—Tobias’s favorite.

“Tell me, Marcus. Do you always speak on behalf of Evelyn when she’s not present to defend herself? Or is this a special case?”

Duval shifts his weight, his discomfort palpable. “I-I’m not speaking for her, Mr. Blackwood. I’m merely expressing concern as her friend.”

“Yet you opposed her promotion last spring.” I smile at his startled blink. “Odd, for a friend.”

The promotion would have moved Evelyn from his team to the museum’s senior restoration department, where she’d have more autonomy and prestige.

It would have also meant less time under his watchful eye, fewer opportunities for his lingering touches and concerned glances.

So Marcus blocked it with concerns about her readiness and need for more experience.

“You don’t know anything about—”

“I know you’ve been infatuated with her since NYU.

” I press the emergency stop button. “I know you still have the exhibition ticket stub from your first date-that-wasn’t-a-date.

” His pupils dilate, confirming my investigator’s report.

“But most importantly?” I straighten his crooked tie.

“I know you’ll step aside. Not because I’m asking, but because you know she deserves better than to be caught in the crossfire of your pathetic attempts to win her affection. ”

The silence in the elevator is deafening, broken only by Duval’s shallow breaths. His hands twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t speak.

I release the emergency stop, and the elevator hums back to life.

“Evelyn is brilliant,” Duval finally manages, his voice strained. “She deserves recognition for her work.”

“On that, we agree.” The elevator opens to the lobby. “Which is why you’ll ensure she has everything she needs for the Caravaggio restoration. Good day, Marcus.”

My phone buzzes as I cross the lobby. It’s Tobias, predictably drunk at two in the afternoon:

Dad says uve stolen my case?? Wtf Luce

It’s been a week, and he noticed only now. My brother has always been slow to react to anything that doesn’t directly affect his immediate pleasures.

I reply with a single line:

You left it unattended.

The town car idles at the curb. Through the building’s glass facade, I catch a glimpse of Evelyn in the atrium. She’s in a white coat, her hair twisted up with a pencil, while she frowns at a tablet in her hands.

She’s beautiful.

My fingers itch for my sketchpad.

Soon , I promise. Soon you’ll understand what it means to be truly seen.