The gallery was beautiful—distressed white brick walls, perfect lighting, and paintings that made my breath stop. I moved through the space, letting the art wash over me, and found myself stopping in front of a large canvas.
A nude woman. Curvy, soft, real. Not a model’s body but a body that had lived. There was something innocent in her face. She had a slight smile and her eyes were closed as if she was lost in a dream. But her body— her body was pure sensuality. She had lush breasts and full hips, and the curves of her stomach were painted with such love and attention that you couldn’t help but see an almost devotional beauty in it.
I stood there, transfixed, tears pricking my eyes.
Someone cleared their throat behind me.
I turned.
A younger man stood there—late twenties, perhaps thirty at most. He had an ethereal quality to his features, like he’d stepped out of one of the paintings himself. He had high cheekbones, a refined jawline, an elegant nose that Renaissance sculptors would have wept to capture. His eyes were a striking gray-blue, and his dark hair fell in soft waves that he’d tucked behind one ear.
He was beautiful. Almost painfully so.
“What do you like about the painting?” he asked in accented English, his voice soft and melodic.
I looked back at the canvas, trying to find the words. “I love how the artist captured the way a woman could be both innocent and lustful without it looking cheap or exploitative. She’s... she’s a goddess. Real and human and divine all at once.”
The young man smiled, and it transformed his face. “You understand it perfectly.”
“The artist is very talented.”
“I am the artist.” He extended his hand. “Florin Blanchet.”
My mouth fell open slightly. “You painted this?”
“Oui. And several others here.” He gestured around the gallery, but his eyes never left my face. “May I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
“You are the most beautiful woman I have seen in a long time.” He said it simply, as if commenting on the weather. “From the moment you walked into this gallery, I have been captivated. I have been so mesmerized by your beauty and your presence that I could not help but follow you around.”
I felt heat rise to my cheeks. “I—”
He stepped closer and smiled. “I assure you, I never do this. I am not the type of man who approaches women in galleries and tells them they are beautiful. But you...” He shook his head, almost wonderingly. “I have been searching for my next muse for a very long time. SomeoneI can know deeply, someone who inspires me, someone I can treat like a gift from God. And the moment I saw you, I thought—she is the one.”
No one had ever said words like this to me. Not even Mark, not even in those early days when we were falling in love.
No one had ever looked at my body, my real, curvy, stretch-marked body, and called me a goddess.
“I...” I couldn’t find words.
“I would very much like to paint you,” Florin said. “If you would allow it.”
“A nude?” The word came out breathless.
He smiled again. “Oui, mademoiselle. If that is what you want. But before that, I want to treat you like the goddess that you are.” His eyes were intense, sincere. “Will you go out on a date with me? Tonight?”
Then his gaze dropped to my left hand, to the wedding ring I still wore.
“Ah. Only if your partner agrees, of course.”
My partner. My husband. The man who’d lied to me, who was probably at this very moment planning his next date with Simone.
Mark didn’t appreciate me. He’d made that abundantly clear.
If he thought I wouldn’t be able to get dates, that I’d sit at home lonely and desperate while he explored Paris, he was wrong.
So wrong.
