Five pieces, each more intimate than the last, each unmistakably me. The final painting shows a woman kneeling, head bowed, in a position of supplication that makes my cheeks burn.
The crowd's reaction is a mix of awe and intrigue. Curious stares press in, but not recognition.
Paul masterfully obscured my identity while capturing my essence. The air fills with whispers, theories, and speculation about the mysterious woman in the paintings.
But it's not just the poses that capture my attention. In each painting, the woman is adorned with jewelry—familiar earrings that belonged to my grandmother, and a necklace I've never seen before.
It's the fifth and final piece that steals my breath.
The painting looms large, commanding the room with its presence, yet the closer I step, the more intricate the details become—exquisitely delicate, almost painfully precise. The firelight flickers, casting soft shadows across the canvas, drawing my attention to the ruby pendant painted around my neck. It gleams as though it's real, not just pigment on abrushstroke. The texture is so finely rendered, I swear I can feel the cool weight of the gem resting against my skin.
I've never seen this pendant before. It's not mine, and yet the earrings in the painting match it perfectly, as if the artist knows something I don't.
I lean in, eyes locked on the gem, and that's when I see it—the imperfection.
Inside the depths of the ruby, just beneath the surface where the light fractures, there's a flaw, delicate yet unmistakable.
At first glance, it's nothing more than a flicker, a ripple of light. But as I focus, it takes shape—a swan, impossibly graceful, gliding effortlessly across an invisible lake. Its neck curves elegantly, wings tucked close to its body, as though frozen in the midst of a tranquil journey within the very heart of the jewel. The water beneath it is smooth as glass, undisturbed, reflecting the firelight in rippling waves. The swan, serene and perfect, seems forever suspended in that quiet, dreamlike moment.
The firelight catches the ruby again, and for a brief moment, the swan almost appears to move, its reflection shimmering across a mirrored lake.
The detail is maddeningly perfect, so real that I could reach into the painting and touch it, feel the smooth surface of the lake, hear the silent glide of the swan's wings through the water.
How can something I've never seen feel so intimate? So connected to me, yet completely foreign? The swan stirs something deep inside, an almost visceral pull, as if it knows secrets I'm not yet ready to uncover.
"Vivianne." Dr. Phillips murmurs beside me. "Are you alright? You look pale."
I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. My mind races back to the day I met Paul, the way his gaze lingered on my earrings.
He noticed them, memorized them, and recreated them with perfect accuracy.
But the necklace... where did that come from?
A sharp intake of breath beside me draws my attention.
Father stands rigid, his face a mask of barely contained fury. His eyes flick between the paintings, locking onto the ruby pendant in the fifth one. His knuckles whiten around the champagne glass, the tremor in his hand betraying his calm facade. The heat of his anger is oppressive, suffocating, but Prescott's presence beside me is somehow worse.
"Quite scandalous, isn't it?" Prescott's breath is hot against my ear, making my skin prickle. His voice is low, his words meant only for me. "A woman on her knees… perfectly obedient. A preview of things to come."
I tense, my gaze flicking to the painting in question—the woman kneeling, head bowed in complete submission, her arms soft at her sides. The detail is exquisite, haunting, a reflection of vulnerability and surrender. But the way Prescott describes it, with that smug edge in his voice, makes my stomach turn.
He's not referring to the painting. His meaning is clear. It's a glimpse of what he expects from me. From our wedding night.
His hand settles on the small of my back, the touch deceptively gentle but firm, pressing against me like a silent claim. It feels like he's forcing me into the same position as the woman in the painting, kneeling at his feet, submitting to his every demand. Every instinct screams to wrench myself away from him, but I stand still, locked in place by his suffocating presence.
"Perhaps we should move up the wedding date, my dear. No need to delay the inevitable." His lips hover near my ear, his breath brushing my jaw. "Soon enough, you'll be on your knees for me, and you won't be able to refuse me." His tone sharpens, dark with promise. "I expect all the pleasures that come with anobedient wife. And I can't wait to start making those babies your father desperately wants."
Bile rises in my throat, and my hands clench into fists, nails digging into my palms. The weight of his words, his expectations, presses down on me. There's no affection in his voice, no warmth. He doesn't see me as a person—just a body, a means to an end, a symbol of wealth and power he believes he's entitled to.
But the painting—that damned painting. I look at it again, at the woman on her knees, and a strange pull tugs at the edges of my mind. I've never craved submission, but when I imagine kneeling before Paul—the one who painted me in that position, who saw me like this—my body reacts in a way that shocks me. There's something there, something unspoken, electric.
With Paul, the thought of submitting doesn't fill me with dread. It excites me, twists my insides in a way that's both terrifying and exhilarating.
I can see myself like that—kneeling before him, not because I'm forced, but because I want to. Because there's a power in the way Paul sees me, the way he's captured me in this painting, that Prescott will never understand. Paul doesn't want to break me—he wants to free me, to know me, and that thought is more intoxicating than anything Prescott can offer.
But here I am, standing next to Prescott while he speaks to me like I'm already his possession, already trapped in the gilded cage he's prepared for me.
"Move it up if you like." My voice is calm but laced with cold defiance. My pulse pounds in my ears, but I refuse to let him see how much his words affect me. "Don't mistake compliance for obedience. You may get your wife, but you'll never have me."
