In a dimly lit alcove, away from the prying eyes of the crowd, Madeleine's gaze bore into mine with an intensity that made my breath catch in my throat. "Julia," she began, her voice a whisper that seemed to echo in the quiet space between us. When you're ready to talk, I'm here." At her words, my eyes teared up.
I held my breath, anticipation mingling with apprehension as I tried to conceal my strong emotions. Luckily, or unluckily, His voice entered the small corridor.
"This," Charles said softly, gesturing towards the painting before us, "is one of my favorite pieces in the entire collection. It's called 'Eternal Love'—a masterpiece by the renowned artist Alexandre Durand."
As I gazed upon the painting, blinking the tears from my eyes, my heart swelled with emotion at the sight of the two lovers depicted in an embrace that transcended time and space. The colors danced across the canvas, capturing the raw intensity of passion and the tender intimacy of love. This was exactly the kind of relationship we had been in—one of love, hope, and enthusiasm for our future.
"This painting speaks to me," Charles continued, his voice filled with reverence, "of the power of love to endure through the ages, to defy all odds and conquer even the darkest of nights." His words left a deep impression on both of us and only when he spoke again did I realize we hadn't spoken a word in return.
"I didn't get to introduce myself to your friend earlier, your Grace. I am the Grand Duke of Sinclair. I own this art gallery," Charles confessed, his eyes never leaving Madeleine's as he spoke. "It's a private collection—a labor of love if you will. Each piece holds a special place in my heart. That is why I held this gala."
One look at Madeleine's face, and I knew she was smitten. She immediately started to gush and praise the artwork she had seen, and when he offered us his two arms to give us a personal tour, I knew I couldn't make my escape without raising suspicions or outright snubbing the man.
With gentle guidance, he led us through the gallery past rows of stunning paintings and sculptures, stopping us to admire his favorites. They were all very romantic pieces, and he filled our ears with cheesy romantic lines. Before long, I found myself rolling my eyes at certain lines that he said and at how Madeleine simpered and swooned with each one.
As we strolled through the gallery, Charles's footsteps echoed softly on the marble floors. Madeleine and I followed close behind, our eyes wandering over the vast array of art. I could feel a slight tension in the air, something unspoken simmering beneath the surface. Charles led us with purpose, weaving through the maze of masterpieces, until he stopped in front of a particular painting.
"This one," he said, his voice lower, almost reverent. "This is my favorite piece. I recently acquired it in Vienna."
I turned my gaze to the painting, and my breath caught in my throat. There I was. Or rather, a version of me. The woman in the painting sat alone on a bench, the Parisian skyline behind her, the soft glow of evening light barely reaching her hunched figure. The loneliness that radiated from her was suffocating, even now.
Madeleine stepped forward, oblivious to the growing lump in my throat. She tilted her head as she examined the piece. "She looks so much like you, Julia," she remarked with a bright smile. "The resemblance is uncanny."
I forced a smile, nodding along, but my eyes were locked on the woman in the painting—on me. Madeleine, still blissfully unaware, continued, "The painter really captured something, didn't they? You can see it in her eyes... the loneliness. It's as if she's carrying the weight of the world."
Her words cut through me like a blade. She couldn't know, but they were too true. The painter had captured everything I had been feeling back then—the crushing isolation, the sadness I couldn't shake no matter how hard I tried. And seeing it now, so vividly painted for the world to see, felt like a mirror reflecting a past I wasn't ready to face.
