Page 12 of Bitter Lies

“He is, but enough about him.” I don’t want to waste our time discussing Dr. Grieves. “How have you been? Anything new happening around here?”

We settle into the plush armchairs in the parlor as the housekeeper arrives with a tray. The aroma of freshly brewed tea fills the air. I thank her before pouring us each a cup while my grandmother watches quietly.

Handing her a saucer and a teacup, I try again. “Gram, what juicy gossip do you have for me?”

She brings it to her lips and sips. After a moment, she says, “Rico sold my favorite painting.”

About to take a sip, I hesitate and set my teacup down. “Grandfather sold the Botticelli? Why would he do that?”

“I cried when they took it away.” Her voice, surprisingly calm and serene, belies the gravity of the situation. “No explanation. Only that it was necessary, end of story.”

With a hum, she gazes out the picture window overlooking Hyde Park as if lost in her thoughts. “It’s a shame, really. All the things I love are disappearing, and I can’t do a damn thing about it. Before I know it, he’ll sell all my precious art and force me to stare at the bare walls in my gallery. Every week, another one is taken away. You know how much I enjoy my paintings.”

My relationship with my grandfather is strained. He can be a supercilious bastard who sees no need to explain his decisions to the women in his life. He rules with an iron fist, never budging once his mind is made up.

That won’t stop me from speaking with him. I need to know what’s going on.

“I’ll talk to him.” Reaching over, I rest my hand on her arm. “If necessary, I’ll purchase a few of your paintings, the ones you love the most, and hang them in the Oxford gallery. You’re welcome to visit anytime you want. I’ll sort this out, I promise.”

The saddest smile I’ve seen since my uncle’s death crosses her wrinkled face. “I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me, Sofia. You’ve always done what’s necessary to keep the peace.”

She pauses, her expression shifting. “I don’t like you marrying a man so much older than you. I’ve told your father this. But what choice do you have?” Her gaze drifts, unfocused. “The baby… your baby deserves the best. It’s better this way. It has to be.”

There’s a long pause as her fingers tighten around mine.

“King Ramon is the safer choice.” Her voice lowers, urgent now. “They can’t find out. Do you hear me? If they do… if either of them learns the truth…. hell will rain down on all of us.”

Shock has me loosening my grip on the delicate china teacup, and it slips. It hits the carpet with a soft thud, spilling hot tea on the expensive rug.

This newest secret, a hazy whisper from Grandmother’s fading mind, leaves me deeply unsettled.

Not sure what to say or do, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Who’s my real father, Grams?”

A deep grunt from the doorway startles me. “She’s having one of her spells, Isabel. You cannot believe the words that fall from her lips.”

Standing, I glare at my grandfather. His eyes flicker, and the subtle shift in his posture betrays his lie.

“And was she confused when she told me you sold the Botticelli?”

With a confident stride, he enters the room. “I didn’t sell the Botticelli.”

Sunlight glints off the polished wood of the liquor cabinet as he pours himself a generous glass of bourbon. He turns to me, unamused; the amber liquid sparkling inside the crystal. “If you don’t believe me, go see for yourself.”

“I think I will.” Heading down the hallway, I make my way to the climate-controlled gallery.

As a child, I was never allowed inside alone, but I’m an adult now. My love of all things art spiraled when Larkin married my brother Antonio. Art bridged the relationship between two of my favorite role models. I watched my grandmother proudly share her collection with my sister-in-law during an official royal visit to London. The three of us sat in the gallery for hours while they talked about the pieces Gram had collected throughout her life. Over the years, we’ve spent countless hours together, immersed in the world of art.

If I’d not found my calling in medicine, I might’ve pursued a career as an appraiser. I have a sharp eye for detail and a knack for spotting the imperfections that impact an item’s worth. Both women taught me well.

The gallery is locked. It always is. Only my grandparents have keys.

I once suggested an electronic keypad, but Grandfather wouldn’t hear of it. He thinks keys are better because they’re less likely to be hacked. I could argue that keyed locks can be picked, but I’d be wasting my breath.

He takes his time; his steps are slow and deliberate. It’s his way of telling me he’s in charge, not me. Once he’s at the door, he fiddles with the keys until he finds the set that disengages the locks.

I know what he’s doing but refuse to let him see how much it bothers me, even though I want to yank the keyring from his hand and do it myself.

Finally, the lock clicks, and he pushes the door open, activating the lights. His sigh, heavy with resignation, barely registers as I brush past him, showing me no concern. “See. All her precious paintings are right where they’ve always been. Nothing’s missing.”