Page 77 of Outcast’s Return

“That too,” he admits. “This space? This is who I am. My purpose. I didn’t get to go to university. I don’t have a fancy degree. I fell in love with art, and I was so determined to carve out my own little slice of that world. I’ve had to fight every day to create this gallery, but it’s mine.”

I watch his eyes as he speaks, brighter than ever. I’ve never seen him like this. So animated. His shoulders are relaxed and his words pour forth like a river. It’s like he’s forgotten how to brood.

I’ve never seen him this alive.

“Is this what you wanted to show me?” I ask him.

Fabien shrugs.

“You needed to get out of the penthouse,” he explains.

He tries to throw the statement away nonchalantly, but I see right through him. He’s lying. Of course he is. Fabien brings no one here, on a private tour like this, unless it matters.

“You told me once you got into art because your father bought you a painting,” I mention.

“Yes. I did.”

I look up at him.

“You loved your father, didn’t you?”

The question slips out before I can stop it.

Fabien’s taken aback. His usual collected façade gives way for a second. It’s as if no one has ever asked him that question before.

There’s a beat of stillness.

“Yes,” he replies softly, “and I want to do right by him. I want him, wherever he is, to be proud of me. To know I have carried on his legacy.”

“You have,” I say. “He would be proud of you. I mean, look at this place.”

Fabien is quiet for a moment. His eyes drift over the paintings.

“When I lost him and my mother, I lost my entire family,” he whispers. “I was an orphan, and I hated that. And then Clement and... you invited me into your home.”

“Clement and Baptiste. You have your brothers.”

And you also have me.

I dare not utter those words. It’ll make everything too real.

I step up to a Juniper Wren painting Fabien’s got hanging on a wall. It captures a moment of a storm in Scotland. The sky pushing the wild sea into a tempest. The waves crash against a rock that remains solid and stoic. I see emotion colliding with steadiness. I remember Sylvie talking to me about the secluded Scottish genius. About how she’s her favorite artist. I look at the beautiful brushstrokes. The artistry. The emotion sprawled across the canvas.

Both Sylvie and Fabien have good taste.

I turn back to the man.

“Why did you really bring me here tonight?” I ask quietly. “Tell me.”

“You were rotting on that couch, Jolie.”

“Come on, Fabien. I want the truth. There’s a reason, and I want you to admit it.”

He takes a deep breath.

“Because I wanted to show you my world.”

There’s another beat of stillness between us.