Chapter 6 - Protection & The Hidden Art Gallery Clues
Three days later, Rebecca was discharged from New York General Hospital.
A sleek black Mercedes van waited in the private basement garage. James personally carried her bags, while Lily skipped happily ahead, holding onto Marcus's hand as if he were her personal giant bodyguard.
Instead of driving back to Queens, the van pulled up to a private, gated estate in Riverdale, overlooking the Hudson River. The house was a stunning blend of glass, stone, and warm wood, surrounded by sprawling green gardens and ancient oak trees.
"James... what is this?" Rebecca asked in awe as he opened the car door for her.
"This is home," James said gently, helping her out. "I bought this property three years ago. I could never bring myself to live in the penthouse downtown—it felt too empty. I built this place hoping that maybe, someday, I'd have a real family to share it with."
Lily ran onto the lush grass, letting out a delighted squeal. "Look, Mommy! A treehouse! There's a real treehouse!"
Rebecca smiled through tears, watching her daughter's pure joy. "It's beautiful, James. But... are you sure we're safe here?"
"My private security firm monitors this entire perimeter 24/7," James assured her, putting his arm gently around her waist. "Your father's name has been cleared, Richard is awaiting trial without bail, and Julian is cooperating fully with the prosecution. No one can hurt you ever again."
Later that evening, after Lily had been tucked into a grand bedroom filled with plush toys and starry night lights, James and Rebecca sat together in the library, drinking warm tea near the fireplace.
"I went by your gallery apartment yesterday to collect your things," James said softly, setting a small wooden box on the coffee table. "I found this in your closet."
Rebecca’s eyes softened as she recognized the antique mahogany box. "My father's restoration tools."
"And these," James added, pulling out a stack of rolled canvases.
He carefully unrolled one on the table. It was an oil painting of a young man sitting on a park bench under autumn trees, looking off into the distance with a gentle smile.
It was James. Painted from memory, captured with stunning detail and deep tenderness.
"You painted these?" James asked, his voice filled with emotion.
Rebecca looked down at her hands, her cheeks turning slightly red. "Every year on your birthday... I painted one. I couldn't see you, but I couldn't forget your face either. Painting was the only way I could talk to you without breaking my promise to your father."
James leaned over, cupping her face softly in his hands. He looked into her green eyes, seeing all the years of sacrifice, love, and silent suffering she had endured.
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"You don't have to paint memories anymore, Becca," James whispered, his lips inches from hers. "We're going to paint the rest of our lives together."
He kissed her gently, a slow, sweet reunion that dissolved five years of pain in an instant.
