“No?” I ask, standing and moving toward the fireplace so I can get a closer look.
The brushwork is gorgeous. There’s something about the way Henri captures light and textures while paying careful attention to shadows. Sometimes, it’s the negative space that’s the most intriguing.
“Is this supposed to be my grandmother?” I ask the question even though I know the answer is yes.
The pregnant woman is a beautiful young Isabella, with her face turned toward the sun. One hand gently rests on her belly. As my eyes scan the perimeter, I notice a man in the shadows, watching. The face isn’t visible, but the posture is protective and loving.
“I’m not sure. I suppose if it is, then this person in the back is your grandfather.”
“Do you mind if I check the inventory number? I’d like to see if it’s listed correctly in the royal archives.”
My father gives me the go-ahead. I reach up and lift the painting off the wall. It’s heavier than I expected, and I have to brace myself as I flip it over. On the back, in faded ink, is an inventory number, and it matches the painting we’ve been searching for.
This is it. This is the painting Addison and I have been searchingfor—the missing Isabella in landscapes—and it’s been here the entire time, hiding in plain sight.
Something is tucked behind the frame, pressed against the canvas. An envelope, yellowed with age. I pull it free carefully, afraid it might crumble in my hand.
The handwriting on the front is elegant, feminine, and it holds a single word—Lucian.
My father’s name.
I turn to face him, holding up the envelope. “Did you know this was here?”
“No,” he says.
I try to hand it to him.
“Please. Do the honors.”
I stare at the envelope in my hand, then back at my father. I lower myself into the chair, the painting propped against my legs, the envelope resting in my lap.
“Open it,” my father says.
My hands are trembling slightly as I slide a finger under the seal. The paper inside is thin and fragile, covered in the same elegant script. I unfold it carefully and begin to read.
My dearest Lucian,
I’m curious how long it took you to find this letter—or if you’ll find it at all.
You weren’t mistaken. What you saw when you were fifteen was real. I’ve carried the shame of lying to you about that day for my entire life, and I’m sorry. I was afraid. Afraid of what the truth would do to you, to our family, to Henri. So, I did what I’d been taught to do and protected the Crown at the expense of the truth. That was wrong. I owe you an apology that’s long overdue.
I think you’ve suspected that Henri is your biological father.
I tried for years to have a child with Felix after I was threatened to never see Henri again. Once my father passed away and I took reign, it became clear that I wasn’t getting pregnant. I panicked. I was checked out by the best doctors, and everything seemed fine. I even tracked fertility schedules.
Producing an heir was one of my requirements. I was sad and upset, knowing the bloodline would die with me. I thought I’d never know what it meant to be a mother.
But after long, honest discussions with Felix, everything changed. He knew how much I’d loved Henri before we married and how my father had threatened to have Henri arrested. He gave his blessing for me to pursue the relationship—in secret, of course—and accepted it as his duty. There were rules, and we did everything we could to prevent any scandals from leaking into the palace. It worked.
You, my son, are the best gift I’ve ever had, but you wouldn’t have happened without both men.
Felix married me because we were both forced into it, but he wanted me to be happy. And he desperately wanted to be a father. He loved you so much, Lucian. He chose you. He raised you and wanted to be your father in every way that mattered. The love he gave you was never a lie. It was the most generous thing he ever did. I’m so sad he’s not here to see you succeed.
But Henri loves you too.
Every painting he made of me, every moment he spent in this palace, was so that he could be near you. He watched you grow from a distance, and it broke his heart that he could never claim you as his own. When you learned to ride, he was there. When you graduated, he was there. He is always there for you, Lucian. Always watching. Always proud. But he follows the rules that have been put in place for our relationship long before you were alive.
I know this is a lot to handle. It’s why it’s easier for me to write it and pray that you’ll find it.
