“They had an affair that lasted ten years. Secret meetings, letters hidden in books, and passed through trusted staff.” I study my grandmother’s face, the raw happiness captured in oil and canvas. “My grandfather caught them. He wanted to have Henri publicly executed.”
“But that didn’t happen, clearly. He painted until he passed away this year.”
“My grandmother begged for his life and agreed to never see him again. She had to keep her reputation because the world was a mess back then. The secret stayed hidden for decades, until I uncovered it.” I swallow hard.
Addison exhales. “Henri was allowed to keep his position as royal portrait artist. That’s cruel.”
“It was calculated. My grandfather knew the worst punishment wasn’t death. It was forcing Henri to spend the rest of his life painting the woman he loved but couldn’t have. It gave him power over them both. Henri watched the love of his life have children with another man, age, and eventually die while capturing every moment on canvas.They were never allowed to speak to one another again or be in rooms alone.”
“Sounds like a lifetime of torture.”
Addison’s attention stays fixed on the painting. I can see her processing it, feeling it deeper than most people allow themselves to go. When she finally turns to face me, I watch the pieces click together.
“This is why you wanted me to leave. If I win this contest, my destiny is to become Henri. I’ll paint your wedding, your wife, and your children. I’ll be forced to spend years watching you build a life with someone else while I hide in brushstrokes no one notices but you.”
Hearing her say it out loud makes it hurt.
“You were trying to protect me from this?” she asks.
“Yes.” I can’t look away from the painting, almost imagining their private conversations, the cruelty of being so close and so impossibly far. “Every portrait was a love letter my grandmother could never answer. I can’t do that to you.”
Sadness crosses her face. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought her here. Maybe I’ve shared too much, too soon.
“I’m not afraid of this,” Addison says and closes the distance between us.
We’re standing inches apart. Candlelight catches the gold in her hair and the sparkle in her eyes. She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me. It’s not fueled by frustration and want. It’s full of intention, like she’s making a choice, like she’s sealing a promise.
“You don’t have to be either,” she says. “Moves are being made that you can’t see.”
“Nothing will change this.”
She presses a finger to my lips. “We’re not at checkmate yet. The game isn’t over.” Her attention flicks to the painting, then back to me, like she made a decision that will change everything. “Protect your queen.”
When she kisses my neck, I feel the determination in it. Her hand slides down my chest, over my stomach, and rests above my belt. I should stop her. I should tell her we shouldn’t do this, in this room that holds so much heartbreak. But the way she’s watching me—the hunger, mixed with something deeper—makes it impossible to speak.
I exhale as she guides me back onto the wooden bench. My back presses against the cold stone wall, and the irony isn’t lost on me.
History doesn’t always repeat itself, but it echoes.
Addison stands in front of me, moonlight catching her features, the sea glittering through the window behind her. She’s pure beauty, art in human form.
“You’re staring,” she whispers.
“I can’t help it,” I admit, wanting to remember her—and us—like this.
She steps between my legs and runs her fingers through my hair, tilting my head back until I’m looking up at her. The position makes me feel vulnerable, and I’m not used to that. No one stands over me. No one ever takes control like this. But with her, I want this. Ineedher.
“You’ve spent your whole life with this burden,” she mutters. “I can’t imagine how exhausting that must be.”
“Addi—”
She leans down until her lips brush against my ear. “I see you, Louis.”
My hands grip the edge of the bench as she sinks down, her body sliding against mine as she lowers herself to her knees between my legs. The sight of her there, gazing up at me with those blue-green eyes, makes every coherent thought evaporate.
“I see the real you that you hide, and I don’t want that part of you to disappear,” she says while her fingers find my belt and open it.
The words go straight through me as she works open the button of my trousers, then the zipper. Each sound seems loud in the quiet tower.
