udy on the second floor. She was holding a smal

a hesitant whisper. "It was under a

ight, clearly a preliminary drawing for the ceiling fresco above us

y father's work. He wasn't the reclusive, celebrated artist yet; he was just my dad, smelling of turpentine and smiling. He pointed to the ceiling and told me, "Eve

ld honor the manor's history, honor my father's connection to it. I approached him with a proposal to restore the house, framing it as a professional service, hiding

not the one I wanted most. The years passed. Lily's arrival was just the latest in a long line of humiliations. From the moment she set foot in the ma

er to me. He vanished around the same time as my father, unable to bear the loss. I

dskeepers-they saw my dedication. They treated me with a quiet respect that Ste

whispers at art auctions were about the brilliant restoration,

tudy with Lily. Sterling appeared in the

studio apartment," he said, his voice cold and final. "You'll b

ece by piece. My work, my credit, and

handed the sketch back to Lily. "It's a beautiful fi