Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
“Are you listening to me?” Tristan demanded.
Ophelia shook her head, shocked at what she had just discovered.
She moved to pick up her pot of wheat-gold paint and a fine haired brush, and began to paint over the bed post that Tristan was still pointing at. She began to tremble as she continued to both study his hand and paint over the offending dark line at the same time. Could it really be him?
Mister Manners himself? Lord Perfect? The Golden boy of his otherwise devious friend group? He was the Devil of the Devil’s Masquerade?
“See how the paint covers the lines?” she forced herself to say, “You will not see the sketch marks when I am done. I promise.”
Silence stretched for a long as Ophelia continued to paint, then a begrudged “fine” left Tristan’s lips.
That is definitely Tristan’s voice! How did I not recognize before?
She supposed it was because she was used to only hearing the man yell or speak snidely to her.
He’d never been a supporter of her friendship with Theo, and they’d never were quite able to have a civil conversation.
Which brought her to her next worry: what if he recognized her?
Would he tell her secret? Would he demand to know why she was doing this all in the first place?
Her worries ran abound as she did her best to focus on her work, but with him standing so closely and her now knowing who he really was, her hands once more began to tremble. She clenched the brush tight, trying to force her body to stop, and ended up snapping the thing in half.
She gasped as broken brush fell to the ground; unable to believe that she’d actually just snapped one of her precious few brushes.
“Oh no,” she whispered, staring down at in a panic.
From behind her, Tristan leaned forward and picked up the two pieces, handing them back to her. She once more inspected his hands, wanting to be sure it was him, and sure enough, those were the hands of her greatest rival.
“You should be more careful,” he scolded, placing the pieces in her open palm. “Do you have another?”
Ophelia nodded, too scared to speak, and reached for a replacement brush from her crate, and began again.
Ophelia let out a soft sigh as she put down her brush; done with her work.
Her tense body twitched with the tightness of her posture; sending jolts of irritating pain down her shoulders, back and jaw.
Usually when she worked the entire world fell away and she was enveloped with a sense of peace, but in this unique circumstance, try as she might, Ophelia could not reach such peace for many reasons.
“Ladies,” Tristan said from behind her, “Would you give us some privacy please?”
The four women on the bed stretched out of their poses, and did not bother to get dressed before they formed a single line to walk toward Ophelia and Tristan.
“Pretty,” the blonde said, nodding at the painting before heading to the door.
“My breasts look fabulous,” the brunette said with a breathy sigh, then joined the blonde.
“God, you made my derrière look extra special, didn't you, darling?” The copper-haired woman said with a wink and a grin. She pushed playfully at Ophelia’s shoulder, then also left the room.
“Mmm, look how powerful I look,” the raven-haired woman said last. She leaned over and kissed Ophelia’s cheek, nearly causing her to have a coronary.
“You might be green but you do have the talent, lover,” she said coyly over her shoulder as she reached the door. She blew Ophelia and Tristan each a kiss, then closed the door softly behind her.
Though a bit scandalized by the cheeky kiss she’d just received, the high praise from the women soothed away some of Ophelia’s tension.
She looked toward Tristan with anticipation, knowing that he had the final say.
He didn’t look back at her, though. Instead all of his attention was focused on the canvas, pouring over every small detail she’d created.
Come on, you dandy, she silently urged, Just say yes so I can get this work and get out of here!
“No,” said at least, his voice monotone as he finally leaned away from the canvas.
Though he couldn’t see it, Ophelia looked at him with a deadpan expression.
“No?” She echoed, forgetting to lower the bass in her voice.
His lips drawn into a straight line, Tristan shook his head.
“What do you mean no?” She demanded.
She’d just been through the most stressful two hours of her life thanks to this man, and she wasn’t going to leave without an explanation.
“I mean it is bad,” he said with a careless shrug. “I mean I am not going to hire you.”
Ophelia’s mouth gaped open.
“Honestly I am as surprised as you are,” he said with a disappointed sigh, looking back at the painting, “With as highly recommended as you came, I was expecting much better.”
Shock, anger, and fatigue all culminated into a deadly storm of emotions as Ophelia’s mouth snapped shut, then opened again.
“You may go now.”
Ophelia shook her head, blinking several times at the careless dismissal.
“I- I am not going anywhere until you explain why you do not like it,” she retorted, crossing her arms.
“It is boring,” he said with a shrug. “It bores me. It is realistic, yes, but there’s no spark.”
“No spark,” Ophelia said softly, then grit her teeth and took a step forward, “No spark?! It’s four naked women, what more spark do you need?”
“Does your voice always get this high when you are upset?” Tristan goaded, ignoring her question entirely. “Are you a eunuch under that garb of loose clothing?”
“Tr- Sir! I need this commission,” Ophelia countered, ignoring his barb.
‘Then you should have tried to harder to impress me,” he retorted, toying with his left cuff, looking completely unbothered.
“Oh, you want me to impress you?” She asked sarcastically.
“I am afraid you must,” he said with another shrug.
“By way of art, or knowledge?” She countered.
He let out a deep, loud laugh.
“Why do I care what you know, boy?” He asked, still chuckling.
“Give me the commission, or I will be forced to tell you exactly that,” Ophelia warned.
“I am waiting,” he chuckled, still not not taking her seriously.
“Give me the commission,” she stated, giving him one last time to stop her.
“No.”
“Give me the commission,” she demanded again, “Or I will tell everyone Who. You. Are.”
Tristan stopped laughing; the sudden silence blaring with danger.
His blue eyes darkened so quickly as he moved with surprising speed to stand right in front of her, that for a moment, she wondered if it was actually him at all.
She swallowed loudly, suddenly regretting resorting to threats.
What if it wasn’t him? Tristan would not hurt her.
No matter how mad he was. He was many things, yes, but a danger to women?
No. Another man, though? A man she’d mistaken for Tristan? In a position of such high power?
She took a step backward, trying to put distance between them, but he kept coming toward her.
Then in the blink of an eye his hand was around her throat and he was in her personal space.
Ophelia gasped at his quickness, at the tightness of his hold…
at the way her body reacted with excitement. Not fear.
She had always loathed being touched by men. Even just the simple touch of her hand or a tap of her shoulder made her bristle in discomfort.
Yet Tristan’s hand wrapped around her throat, pressing just tightly enough to force her gaze up to his? She felt something she never experienced before explode to life within her. Something that made every nerve in her body stand up and pay attention.
He looked down at her, his blue eyes nearly darkening to black as he asked, “You dare to threaten me, boy?”
Despite the obvious danger of possibly being strangled, Ophelia smirked. She had the upper hand and she could not help but revel in it.
“You want better? I can give you better. I can do better if you let me try again,” she offered, trying to placate that predatory look in his eye. “But I am not losing this project,” she said with a quiet authority. “I really need this commission.”
“No.”
Ophelia groaned, losing her night-long battle with her temper and exclaimed in her normal voice:
, and the fear that it might not it be Tristan.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Lord Perfect! Would you please stop being so priggish!” She exclaimed, gripping at her newsboy cap with both hands.
Tristan stopped in his tracks as his mouth fell open
Tristan’s hand instantly fell away from Ophelia’s throat as he stumbled back. His eyes widened, then narrowed, as he leaned forward once more and studied her mask.
“You?” He whispered.