Jonathan downed the rest of his coffee in one long, suffering gulp. Then, without missing a beat, he turned to the interns. "New plan. We're checking the entire damn house."
The interns, already traumatized from the shed fiasco, paled slightly but nodded.
Lex smirked, completely unbothered."You act like you weren't going to do this eventually."
Jonathan shot him a look, rubbing his temple. "Latham, I assumed you had forgotten about a few paintings. Maybe a misplaced sculpture. Not an entire Francis Bacon sitting between your cereal and imported matcha."
Lex hummed, tilting his head. "To be fair, I hadn't checked the pantry in years."
Jonathan closed his eyes, took a slow breath, then exhaled through gritted teeth. "I am actually going to lose my mind."
Lex just chuckled. "Then you'll be in good company."
For the next two hours, the Met team tore through the estate with professional precision.
And they found things.
A Joan Miró lithograph behind a bookshelf.
A Henry Moore sketch tucked between cookbooks.
A Rene Magritte original in the linen closet.
A Sculpture by Isamu Noguchi used as a doorstop.
Jonathan looked two seconds away from throwing himself into oncoming traffic.
Then—
An intern froze mid-step in the hallway, staring at a seemingly ordinary framed piece.
"…Sir?"
Lex and Jonathan turned.
The intern gestured weakly at the frame. "That's… a Degas."
Jonathan inhaled sharply."You are actually joking."
Lex blinked. "…Oh, yeah. That used to be in my dad's study."
Jonathan stared at him."You. Hung. A Degas. In a hallway."
Lex shrugged. "It's a nice hallway."
Jonathan buried his face in his hands. "I need stronger coffee."
By the time they were done, Jonathan was sitting on the floor, staring at the updated catalog with a look of sheer exhaustion and existential dread.
Lex, meanwhile, stretched lazily, looking entirely too pleased.
Jonathan finally spoke, voice hollow. "Final count: 187 new pieces. Total estimated of the newly found pieces value?"
A pause.
"Over $600 million."
Lex smirked. "Not bad for a pantry check."
Jonathan looked up at him, dead inside.
"I am never trusting you again."
Jonathan sat motionless for a full minute, staring at the absurd catalog of newly discovered multi-million-dollar artwork.
Then—suddenly—he snapped his fingers.
"Wait. The guest log."
Lex raised a brow. "What about it?"
Jonathan flipped furiously through his notes, muttering under his breath.
"I saw names. Artists. Big ones. They stayed here. Which means—"
Lex's smirk widened. "Which means they probably left things behind."
Jonathan looked up, grim."We need to check again."
Lex exhaled through his nose, amused. "So, second sweep?"
Jonathan shot him a look. "I'm not calling it that. I'm calling it 'the final inventory check before I have a breakdown."
Lex chuckled, pushing off the desk. "Alright then. Let's check the laundry room."
Jonathan blinked. "…The laundry room?"
Lex tilted his head. "Didn't you say we needed a lost and found?"
Jonathan groaned."Latham, if you're about to tell me you've been storing priceless lost works next to detergent, I'm walking into traffic."
Lex just smirked and motioned for them to follow.
Lex led the team through the laundry room, past neatly pressed linens, and toward a small, unassuming back door.
He pushed it open, revealing a dimly lit storage space—not large, but packed with neatly labeled crates, portfolios, and wrapped canvases.
The Met interns collectively inhaled.
Jonathan pressed his fingers to his temple."Latham. What the hell is this?"
Lex gestured casually."The lost and found."
Jonathan let out a slow, measured breath like a man trying very hard to stay calm.
He stepped forward, peeling back the first cover—then froze.
"Oh my god."
Lex glanced over, smirking. "Something good?"
Jonathan didn't respond immediately. He was too busy staring at the Rothko study like it had personally insulted him.
Then—one of the interns let out a strangled noise.
"Uh… sir? This one's signed… Jackson Pollock?"
Jonathan inhaled sharply. "I can't do this anymore."
Lex chuckled, but before he could respond, another intern peeled back the lid of a smaller crate.
This time, it wasn't a framed painting or a wrapped canvas. It was a stack of sketchbooks.
Some old, leather-bound and worn from use. Others barely held together, pages yellowed with time.
Jonathan flipped one open—then froze.
The lines were bold, messy, alive with movement. Quick figures. Faces. Concepts. The kind of sketches artists did when they were between thoughts, when inspiration struck at the edge of conversation.
Napkin sketches. Notes scribbled in margins. Signed pages—half of them just ideas, experiments.
Jonathan turned the page, then another—then let out a low, disbelieving laugh.
"Holy shit."
Lex arched a brow. "Something good?"
Jonathan turned the notebook toward him.
A loose, gestural charcoal sketch.
It was rough, but unmistakable. A half-finished portrait of a woman, her hair pinned up in an elegant twist. The name scribbled below it—'Diego R. 1952.'
Lex hummed. "Rivera?"
Jonathan ran a hand down his face. "Latham. This is an original Diego Rivera sketch. Just… casually sitting here in your back room."
Lex smirked. "To be fair, it wasn't lost. Just… misplaced."
Jonathan ignored him, already moving to another box. He lifted the lid—then stilled.
Inside were photographs. Stacks of them, carefully preserved.
Some black-and-white, capturing moments from art salons, private gatherings, exhibitions. Others were Polaroids, candid and unfiltered—artists mid-conversation, laughing, painting, writing.
Jonathan flipped through them, his expression unreadable.
Vivian Maddox, standing beside Andy Warhol.
Mei Lei, writing calligraphy while Mark Rothko watched.
A young Francis Bacon, caught mid-laugh, a cigarette in hand.
Jonathan let out a slow breath, flipping through the photos with careful fingers. "This isn't just a lost-and-found, Latham."
Lex barely spared it a glance. "Bag it up."
Jonathan's head snapped up. "Excuse me?"
Lex gestured vaguely at the boxes. "Just pack everything and take it to the gallery. Sort it later."
Jonathan looked one second away from a breakdown."You are standing on a goldmine of forgotten history, and your response is 'bag it up'?"
Lex smirked. "Would you prefer I throw it out?"
Jonathan made a wounded noise. "Don't even joke."
Lex shrugged, unbothered. "Then move it."
Jonathan stared at him for a long moment, then exhaled sharply. "Interns. Wrap everything carefully. I don't trust Latham not to use a Rothko sketch as a bookmark."
Lex chuckled, watching as the team scrambled to carefully pack the unexpected discovery.
Jonathan ran a tired hand down his face. "I swear, if we find another lost masterpiece in your sock drawer, I'm quitting."
Lex smirked, leaning against the doorway. "Then maybe don't check the attic."
Jonathan groaned. "I hate you."
Lex just watched as history got packed into boxes, amused.