Nathaniel Dorsey had never sat for a portrait before.

It seemed like an indulgence, the kind of thing reserved for aristocrats and self-absorbed millionaires. But his mother had insisted,

You need something timeless, Nate, a legacy. So there he was, standing in the softly lit studio of

Camille Laurent, one of the most sought-after portrait artists in New York.

He'd expected an old woman with a sharp tongue and paint-stained hands. Instead, he found her.

Camille was not what he had pictured. She was young, mid-thirties at most with ink-black hair coiled in a loose bun strands escaping in lazy defiance

her eyes were green sharp mischievous and knowing she wore a thin off-white blouse, streaked with paint,

tucked into dark jeans that hugged her hips in a way he shouldn't have noticed.

Mr. Dorsey, she said, you're early.

Bad habit, he replied, clearing his throat.

She studied him for a moment, then gestured towards a leather armchair positioned beneath a golden light.

Sit, get comfortable.

Nathaniel adjusted his tie and did as he was told, trying to ignore the way her eyes lingered on him, assessing.

He'd done plenty of business deals, negotiated mergers worth billions.

But something about Camille's gaze made him feel exposed.

She picked up a brush and began. For the first ten minutes, there was silence, save for the soft scratch of charcoal against canvas.

Nathaniel watched her, fascinated.

She painted like a woman possessed,

fingers smudging, eyes flicking between him and her work.

There was a streak of blue on her cheek, a dab of red near her collarbone. He wanted to wipe it away.

So, she said finally, breaking the quiet, tell me something about yourself. He exhaled. I run a real estate firm. I drink my coffee black. I have an irrational

hatred for jazz. She smirked. Boring. Tell me something real. His lips twitched. I once punched my best friend in the face because he kissed the girl I loved.

...