4.3Art in Plain Sight

Lex led them back upstairs, moving with the same calm, controlled ease that had kept him ahead in boardrooms, negotiations, and now—the art world.

Evangeline followed, her mind clearly still racing, her interns whispering furiously behind her.

When they reached the office, Lex pushed open the door and paused just long enough to glance back at them.

"Fair warning—it might be a bit shocking."

Evangeline arched a brow but said nothing as she stepped inside.

Lex watched their reactions carefully.

It took precisely three seconds for the first intern to freeze.

Five for Evangeline's breath to catch.

Her gaze swept the space, cataloging details that most people overlooked—but not her.

The office was sleek, elegant, modern. Everything in it felt intentional. But the weight of what they were looking at hit like a slow-burning realization.

Lex turned, casually pointing at the heavy metal bookends resting on his desk.

"Those? Brancusi."

Evangeline inhaled sharply, stepping closer. "A Brancusi sculpture. As bookends."

Lex smirked. "Nice, right?"

Slowly, her gaze moved again—this time lower, toward the door.

Lex followed her line of sight, already anticipating her reaction. He nodded toward the smooth, abstract bronze form resting against the doorframe.

"That's a Henry Moore."

One of the interns made a small, strangled sound.

Evangeline pressed two fingers to her temple, laughing in a way that was half disbelief, half something close to admiration.

"You've been using a Henry Moore as a doorstop?"

Lex exhaled through his nose, settling into his chair. "Not all art belongs in glass cases."

Evangeline let out another soft laugh, shaking her head before finally sinking into the chair across from him.

"Alright, Latham. You've made your point." She leaned forward, eyes sharp. "What exactly do you want to do with all this?"

Lex folded his hands over the desk, his smirk turning just a little sharper.

"I want to lease out the collection."

Silence.

Evangeline blinked, her posture shifting. "You don't want to sell?"

Lex's smirk widened. "Why sell power when you can lease it?"

Evangeline had recovered quickly from the shock of the doorstop revelation, but now, Lex was about to drop something even bigger.

He leaned back in his chair, tapping a single finger against the polished wood of his desk. "I have a documentary."

Evangeline narrowed her eyes slightly. "Of what, exactly?"

Lex's smirk was subtle. "Of this discovery. But more importantly, of Vivian Maddox's legacy."

Her expression shifted—intrigue flickering in her sharp gaze.

"You know rich people don't really need to sell," Lex continued smoothly. "But these pieces—these artists—they've been forgotten. And that's something that shouldn't happen. My oversight."

Evangeline crossed her arms, watching him carefully. "And you want to change that."

Lex didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned toward the sleek, high-definition screen mounted on the office wall, picking up the remote. "See for yourself."

He pressed play.

—

The screen lit up with grainy home video footage.

The soft hum of an old camcorder, shaky but warm, capturing a world most people only ever saw in auction catalogs and history books.

A party, located at the brownstone in the late 80s or early 90s.

Famous faces, artists, collectors, actors—a snapshot of the world Vivian Maddox had moved through effortlessly.

Lex sat back, watching for the first time alongside them.

Jonathan's voice came through in a smooth narration over the footage, telling the art history behind each piece, each collector, each movement.

Cuts to old logbooks—Jonathan flipping through pages filled with records of purchases, sales, auctions attended.

Then—

The camera shifted to a young boy in Paris.

Little Lex. No older than six or seven, standing in an auction house, his small face serious as he watched the bidding for Picassos, Warhols, de Koonings.

Evangeline let out a slow breath, watching as the young version of Lex took it all in—absorbing the movements, the numbers, the weight of art as currency.

Lex said nothing.

Because for the first time in years, he was seeing himself the way the world had once seen him. The way his family saw him.

A child born into art, into legacy.

Then—the final highlight.

A party. Somewhere in the mid-90s.

Two women stood in quiet conversation—Vivian Maddox and Mei Lei Latham.

And between them—

Seven-year-old Lex, sitting on the floor, painting.

The camera lingered on him for a second. His tiny hands steady, brush moving with confidence.

He hadn't known, back then, that he was being recorded.

Hadn't known that this moment—this small, fleeting thing—would one day become evidence of something undeniable.

Lex exhaled, eyes still on the screen.

Evangeline was watching too, her expression unreadable.

Then, after a long silence, Evangeline finally turned to face him.

Her expression had shifted—the sharp-eyed curator replaced by something more serious, more deliberate.

She wasn't just impressed.

She was invested.

"Latham." Her voice was quiet, measured. "The Met is prepared to make you an offer."

Lex tilted his head slightly. "Go on."

Evangeline exhaled, eyes flicking back to the screen for a brief moment before settling on him again.

"A long-term loan agreement. Exclusive rights to display the collection, full restoration and preservation under our care, and a dedicated wing—not just for your modern pieces, but for the entire Maddox-Latham artistic legacy."

She let the weight of the words sink in before adding, "It would be one of the most significant private-to-public art partnerships in recent history."

Lex's fingers tapped idly against the armrest of his chair, but he didn't look away.

A dedicated wing.

Not just a gallery. Not just a rotating exhibition.

A permanent mark in one of the most prestigious museums in the world.

Evangeline leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming. "We're prepared to offer a considerable sum for the loan—on your terms."

Lex exhaled, his smirk barely there. "Define 'considerable.'"

She smiled. "Nine figures. Minimum."

Jonathan let out a low whistle. One of the interns looked like they were about to faint.

Lex?

He just smirked.

Now they were speaking his language.