“Don’t tempt me with a good time,” I say as he slips away.
I stay in the nook and wait until he’s completely disappeared before I walk in the opposite direction.
I can survive this if it means forever with him.
And Tatiana’s face? That stays a ghost on my canvas until I have no other choice but to paint her features.
Some things I refuse to visualize because they’ll only make this nightmare real.
25
ADDISON
The portrait studio is bathed in morning light when I arrive, and for a moment, I stand in the doorway, preparing myself for what’s to come. Tall windows line the eastern wall, filling the space with the kind of warmness painters dream about. The room smells like an old library or the familiar scents of a museum that typically calm me, but not today. Easels and supplies are arranged for me, and in the center of the room, a small platform holds two ornate chairs positioned at an angle.
Louis and Tatiana are already there, waiting for me to arrive.
They’re seated together, her hand resting on his arm, their bodies angled toward each other like they’re together—because to everyone in this room, they are. This pose is practiced, perfected, and designed to project unity and affection for cameras and crowds. I’ve seen it in every tabloid photo from the past week, but witnessing it in person is different. I’m not prepared for this.
The queen stands near the window with her hands clasped in front of her, watching me enter. Her expression is pleasant and unreadable. It’s the same look she’s worn every time we’ve crossed paths since our confrontation. The queen has won this round, and she knows it. I’m here to paint her victory and to get in line.
“Miss Cross.” She greets me with a nod. “Thank you for being punctual.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” I set my bag down near my easel andbegin unpacking my things, keeping my focus. Charcoal pencils, sketch pad, and my camera for reference photos. “The light in here is beautiful. This will photograph well.”
“That’s the intention.” She gestures toward the platform. “I trust you have everything you need?”
“I do.”
I don’t look at Louis. If I do, I’ll lose the little control I have. Just days ago, he held me in a hidden corridor and promised me this was almost over.
I arrange my pencils by hardness and flip to a fresh page in my sketch pad, letting the familiar ritual settle me. When I finally lift my eyes to the platform, I keep my focus soft, taking in the composition of the angle of the chairs, the shadows, and negative space between their bodies.
“Shall we begin?” Tatiana’s voice is warm and eager. She looks like a woman who’s thrilled to be here.
“We have.” I hold a pencil in my hand. “This first session is usually just preliminary sketches to establish the composition. I’ll need you to hold relatively still, but we can take breaks as needed.”
Louis shifts in his chair, but I don’t meet his gaze.
“How would you like us positioned?” Tatiana asks.
“Just as you are will be fine for now.” I begin sketching the basic shapes, blocking in the chairs, the platform, and the fall of Tatiana’s skirt. “I may adjust you as we go.”
The queen settles into a chair near the window, supervising the entire session. This feels like a humiliation ritual.
I pick up my camera and snap handfuls of photos of them together from different angles, then return to my sketchbook.
I work in silence for the first twenty minutes, building the framework of the composition while avoiding Louis’s face. The scratch of charcoal on paper fills the quiet. I sketch Tatiana’s posture instead of his—the elegant line of her neck, the way her dark hair falls across her shoulders. She’s beautiful, like a marble statue, polished and cold.
“You havelovelybone structure,” I tell her—because it’s true. I’ve found that saying something neutral is better than the silence that stretches too long.
“Thank you.” She grins, tilting her chin. “My mother always said I was born to be painted.”
“She wasn’t wrong.” I offer her a small smile.
I move to Louis’s hands next, roughing in the shape of his fingers where they rest on the arm of the chair. These hands have touched every inch of me. They were tangled in my hair while he kissed me breathless. Now they’re posed beside another woman, like props on a stage. I trace their outline on paper while my own hands stay steady.
I wonder if this is how Henri felt all those years. I’m sure he had an audience as well.
