“Stay away from my man,” she warns me.
I stop walking, ready to slam her face into the gravel. Instead, I act as the bigger person and continue to my cottage.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against it, replaying the night. I have less than a week until the competition that could change everything.
I push off the door and head for the shower, my mind wandering back to Tatiana’s warning on the trail.
Didn’t Louis say she was being sent home?
21
LOUIS
There’s less than a week until the competition that will change everything. We hold full conversations in stolen glances.
Each time I see Addison in the halls, I remind myself not to stare, or smile, or cross the room and pull her into my arms the way I want. We agreed to be careful until after the competition, and that means pretending she’s another artist competing for a position I don’t care about.
My father’s assistant has been shadowing me more than usual, appearing at odd moments with questions about my schedule or reminders about meetings I didn’t forget. The council requested three separate briefings this week on topics that could have been handled in a single memo. It tells me they’re watching and waiting, trying to figure out what I’m planning next. Let them watch because they won’t see what I have coming.
The judging takes place in the grand gallery, the same room where Henri Beaumont’s work has hung for decades. Delphine’s been digging through archives for a week to help me locate everything he created, but I’ve not heard anything yet.
Ten easels are arranged in a semicircle, each draped in white cloth to conceal the paintings beneath. The artists are nowhere to be seen because the royal family and a panel of judges will evaluate the work without knowing who created it. Merit matters more than reputation, and talent matters more than connections.
I take my seat between my parents and Delphine while my father laughs with one of the judges about something that happened at last year’s regatta. He looks healthy today, all fake happiness, and no one would guess he’s refusing treatments. I notice how my mother keeps finding reasons to touch his arm, like she’s making sure he’s still here.
The head judge stands and welcomes everyone before launching into the history of the royal portrait artist position. I’ve never heard this speech or been through this process, so I take in every word while keeping my posture relaxed and my expression politely interested.
When the attendant reveals the first entry—two landscapes of the palace grounds—my mother makes a note on her scoring sheet. She doesn’t look impressed.
Entry after entry follows with portraits of dignitaries, the royal gardens, and the palace at different times of day.
They reach entry number seven.
The attendant removes the first cloth, and I stop breathing.
It’s me in the conservatory with late afternoon gold pouring through the tall windows and long shadows splashing across the marble floor. I’m seated in the leather chair by the ferns with a book open in my lap. My attention is caught, and though I look as though I was interrupted, there’s intrigue in my eyes. She painted the exact moment our eyes met and somehow captured that invisible string that keeps us connected.
I swallow hard and try to keep my breathing even, but my blood is rushing through my veins. The brushwork is loose in the background but precise in my hands, my jaw, and the tiny crease between my brows. The light catches dust glittering in the air, making the whole scene feel suspended in time. It’s private and unguarded. She painted me the way she sees me, like a man who forgets himself when she’s in the room.
My mother leans forward. “Extraordinary technique. Look at the way the light moves.”
My father nods. “Remarkable. Henri would be proud.”
The second cloth falls away.
It’s a first-person view of the chessboard, where I’m sitting across from the viewer and holding the white queen between my fingers. It represents me holding Addison, protecting her. There’s a smirk on my lips, and my posture is easy, comfortable, like I’m exactly where I wantto be. The perspective puts the viewer directly in her seat, so anyone looking at this painting sees what she sees when we play. There’s an intimacy to how she focuses on me.
And there, tucked beneath the edge of the chessboard and barely visible, is a folded note.
She painted our secret into something that will hang in this palace long after we’re both gone. The note will still be there—our private language, hidden in plain sight for anyone who knows where to look. It’s so damn hard to hold back the smile that wants to form on my lips, but I manage.
I feel my sister focused on me, and when I glance at her, she mouths,Wow.
She knows Addison painted these. She’s known for weeks that the two of us have been sneaking around, and she keeps telling me that she’s helping. I believe her.
“The emotional depth here is striking,” one of the judges says. “You can feel the connection between the artist and the subject.”
“Intimate without being inappropriate,” another judge adds. “Whoever painted this understands how to reveal character without sacrificing dignity.”
