Court

The museum was quiet and empty but for the security guards and some staff, and I found myself alone in the silence of one of the sketch galleries, hands in my pockets, eyes on the gallery wall.

The piece was one I found myself visiting often—a study drawing of the head of Caesar by Andrea del Sarto. It had been sketched as practice for a fresco, the red chalk lines strong and certain, from Caesar’s long, aquiline nose to the curve of his determined brow and intensity of his eyes, even in profile. He was pictured younger than the vast majority of his renderings, an age before he became Caesar, and his youth lent something wild and commanding to the piece, the resolve and strength of will that would make him emperor.

It had always spoken to me, the embodiment of such power in all its simplicity, the complexity of emotion on Caesar’s face and the ease of which it was drawn. He was the picture of the man I saw in myself—a man of dogged determination and ambition, of ideals and aspirations.

He was a man who would stop at nothing to achieve, to gain what he sought. And so was I.

One piece—that was all I had left to secure. One piece, and I would have my dream in hand.

I’d fallen in love with David when I studied in Florence. I could still remember the moment I’d first seen the monumental statue standing under the dome in the Accademia—it had sung in silence, drawing me to it, my awe striking me senseless for a long, long while. The magnitude, the beauty in every line, every curve, the skill and vision and sheer impossibility of it had held me still, rooted me to the spot with my face turned up and my lungs tight.

It was the most perfect thing I’d ever seen, even in its imperfections, because even those had been intentional. Michelangelo had produced every piece of art, big or small, with the detail of a man obsessed.

I found I could relate.

Dusk had settled over the city as I trotted down the steps of the museum and walked up Fifth toward my apartment, my mind turning over the Medici publication I’d had brewing since receiving the intern’s research. The piece would be the perfect addition to the museum’s magazine and the catalog for the exhibition, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The intern had been on my mind too.

I’d read over her notes a dozen times in twenty-four hours, surprised and stimulated and unable to shake the notion that I’d been wrong about her. Here was her confidence, in her intellect. It just wasn’t apparent anywhere else.

Our encounter in the hallway flashed into my thoughts again, the feeling of her in my arms as I’d righted her, the look on her face and her dark eyes—they were brown, I thought—blinking back tears. She had come from Bianca’s office—fleeing Bianca, I was sure. And a baffling shot of anger whistled through me at the thought. I couldn’t tell you why exactly. Recognition that there was more to the intern than I’d given her credit for, maybe. Or annoyance at Bianca’s disobedience when it came to the girl’s purpose and usefulness.

Either way, I wanted to talk to the intern, if for nothing else than to settle on how to address her. I had questions for her, thoughts I wanted to not only share, but hear her opinion on. Because I had the feeling she would have an opinion, which would trigger a discussion and would subsequently inspire more material for the article.

But today, she’d been too upset to approach.

When I’d asked Bianca what happened, she’d played dumb, but when the girl had burst out of the bathroom with her face red and puffy from crying, it had been obvious. I’d almost gone after her, but the last thing I’d wanted was to deal with a crying female, and the last thing she would have wanted was my comfort. Mostly because I had none to offer.

I nodded to the doorman to my building, stepped into the elevator, and hit the button for my apartment. It was dark inside but for the distant city lights that shone in from the wall of windows overlooking Central Park, and I clicked on the kitchen light, stepping to the fridge. I smiled to myself when I saw my dinner on a plate with a note from my housekeeper.

I leaned against the counter while the microwave whirred, slipping off my tie and unfastening the top couple buttons of my shirt, relishing in the quiet and simplicity of being alone.

It was a state I existed in always, even in the company of others. The preference was personal, easier. I’d spent my life keeping everyone out. As an heir to the Lyons name and fortune, I had been subjected to manipulation enough from friends to colleagues to women. We were old money, the product of generations of industry and investment, a name synonymous with Vanderbilt, Rockefeller, Carnegie, a fact my father never failed to remind me of.

I know. Poor little rich boy. But my environment had hardened me with distrust born from the burn of betrayal. And not even the bonds of my family had protected me.

Everyone wanted something.

My mother had wanted to be happy, but my father had made that impossible, and she’d overdosed on quaaludes and scotch when I was too young to remember, in a combination that could have been accidental or purposeful—no one would ever know. My first stepmother, the woman who had raised me, had only wanted my father’s heart, but he’d cheated on her with the third Mrs. Lyons. My second stepmother had only wanted her tennis coach. And my current stepmother was another story altogether.

Because she’d been mine before she was his.

She was the mistake that had been haunting me for two years, the one I’d let in. The one I’d trusted.

Lydia had been my assistant before Bianca, brilliant and beautiful, easy and equal. We had been well matched, well suited, our lives clicking together with simplicity. And I had done my best to protect her from the scrutiny of my father, the president of the museum and lord of so much of my life. We’d kept our relationship secret; it was the only way I would agree—not only because I didn’t want my father to know my business, which he believed he was entitled to, but I didn’t want her to have to deal with the toxicity of my family. I’d wanted to protect her.

But everyone wanted something, and Lydia was no exception.

The truth was that she wanted the name, the title, the place in society. The money. And it didn’t matter which Lyons gave it to her.

They’d been sleeping together for months behind my back, and when he’d made her an offer, she hadn’t considered refusing. It didn’t matter that I’d had a ring of my own or an offer of my name. It didn’t matter that I’d loved her.

She had never been mine.

And my father? He cared about me in the way one cared about a Ming vase—insurance, by way of progeny. He wanted me to succeed only in the ways that related directly to him. And in his selfishness, he’d stolen everyone I’d ever loved for no other reason than that it suited him. First my mother with her life, then my stepmother with his infidelity, and then Lydia with his betrayal. And it wouldn’t happen again.

It couldn’t.

So I’d resurrected that wall and pushed everyone out. I was married to the museum, to the art. It was my legacy as much as it was my father’s, and I couldn’t walk away. He stayed in his corner, and I stayed in mine. We interacted when we had to and avoided each other at all costs. And no one in the office knew, except the three of us. Over the years, the rumors had faded to whispers and then to silence.

I’d tried to protect Lydia from him, tried to save her. But she had been an instrument of deceit that cut so much deeper than my father could have ever hoped to.

I’d seen my father coming from a mile away. But I’d never suspected her.

I’d started planning the exhibition almost the moment she resigned, and it had become my obsession, the embodiment of my passion, the culmination of all I held sacred. And it was nearly here, so close, I could taste it. And I wouldn’t let it go, wouldn’t give up until I had David in my museum, by my hand.