“High praise, coming from you and your tastes.”
My mother chuckles but doesn’t take her eyes off me. “Of course, we’ll choose who will become the portrait artist in one week, but I thought I’d commission her to paint me.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You hate sitting for portraits.”
She picks up her tea again. “Delphine showed me different artworkAddison has created. I’m impressed. Miss Cross is different, and I’d like to get to know her.”
The way she says it makes me uneasy, like she knows more than what she lets on. My mother has always been perceptive, but this is intentional.
“I’m sure she’ll be honored,” I say. “To be asked to paint the queen of Montclaire is one of the greatest privileges.”
“I hope.” My mother smiles. “I’d like you to stop by. I know how much you appreciate art.”
It’s a test. I can feel it deep in my bones, but I don’t know what she’s testing. Maybe how we interact with one another?
“Perhaps I will,” I say, matching her casual tone. “If my schedule allows.”
“Actually, that’s an order. Be here after lunch.”
I stare at her. “Yes, Mother.”
The rest of the morning is a blur of meetings, paperwork, and diplomatic correspondence. My mind keeps drifting to Addison sleeping in my arms. Then I remember how she rode me last night with her hands on my chest. Her head was thrown back as she took exactly what she wanted from me.
Fuck. I need to focus.
By one o’clock, I’ve given up pretending to work. I head to my mother’s private chambers, telling myself to act normal and pretend like we’re strangers. After last night, that might be impossible.
The guards outside my mother’s door nod as I approach.
“Your Highness. She’s waiting for you.”
I push open the door and step inside.
The scene that greets me makes me stop in my tracks. My mother is seated in her favorite chair by the window, afternoon light falling across her face, while Addison stands at an easel a few feet away. They’re both laughing. Not the polite, rehearsed laugh my mother uses at diplomatic functions. A real one.
Addison glances over her shoulder when she hears the door, and our eyes meet. She’s wearing a simple blue dress, her hair pulled back in a messy knot with a paintbrush stuck through it. She looks beautiful as she tries to fight a smile.
Immediately, she bows to me.
“Louis.” My mother notices me in the doorway and waves me in. “Come, join us. I think you’d greatly enjoy speaking with Miss Cross.”
“And what makes you say that?” I ask, already walking toward them.
“She sees art the way you do. It’s refreshing,” my mom says.
“Is that so?” I lower myself into the chair beside my mother and stretch my legs out, making myself comfortable. “And what exactly has Miss Cross said that’s so impressive?”
Addison’s eyes flash with amusement, but she keeps her expression professional. “I was only explaining my process to Her Majesty. How I prefer live sessions to working from photographs.”
“Photographs flatten people,” my mother adds, clearly pleased to share what she’s learned. “Miss Cross needs to see how someone moves, how they hold themselves when they think no one’s watching.”
“Interesting theory.” I tilt my head at Addison. “But couldn’t you argue that photographs capture a truth that live sessions miss? A frozen moment, unguarded, before the subject has time to compose themselves?”
Addison sets down her brush and crosses her arms. “Photographs capture a fraction of a second. That’s not the truth. That’s an accident.”
“Some would call it spontaneity.”
“Some would be wrong.” She meets my gaze directly, not backing down. “A photograph catches someone mid-blink or mid-word, and suddenly, that’s who they are forever. That’s not fair to the subject. Painting allows for context. For the full picture.”
