Chapter 25
ADDISON
The portrait studio is bathed in morning light when I arrive, and for a moment, I stand in the doorway, preparing myself for what’s to come.
Tall windows line the eastern wall, filling the space with the kind of warmness painters dream about.
The room smells like an old library or the familiar scents of a museum that typically calm me, but not today.
Easels and supplies are arranged for me, and in the center of the room, a small platform holds two ornate chairs positioned at an angle.
Louis and Tatiana are already there, waiting for me to arrive.
They’re seated together, her hand resting on his arm, their bodies angled toward each other like they’re together—because to everyone in this room, they are.
This pose is practiced, perfected, and designed to project unity and affection for cameras and crowds.
I’ve seen it in every tabloid photo from the past week, but witnessing it in person is different. I’m not prepared for this.
The queen stands near the window with her hands clasped in front of her, watching me enter.
Her expression is pleasant and unreadable.
It’s the same look she’s worn every time we’ve crossed paths since our confrontation.
The queen has won this round, and she knows it.
I’m here to paint her victory and to get in line.
“Miss Cross.” She greets me with a nod. “Thank you for being punctual.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” I set my bag down near my easel and begin unpacking my things, keeping my focus. Charcoal pencils, sketch pad, and my camera for reference photos. “The light in here is beautiful. This will photograph well.”
“That’s the intention.” She gestures toward the platform. “I trust you have everything you need?”
“I do.”
I don’t look at Louis. If I do, I’ll lose the little control I have. Just days ago, he held me in a hidden corridor and promised me this was almost over.
I arrange my pencils by hardness and flip to a fresh page in my sketch pad, letting the familiar ritual settle me. When I finally lift my eyes to the platform, I keep my focus soft, taking in the composition of the angle of the chairs, the shadows, and negative space between their bodies.
“Shall we begin?” Tatiana’s voice is warm and eager. She looks like a woman who’s thrilled to be here.
“We have.” I hold a pencil in my hand. “This first session is usually just preliminary sketches to establish the composition. I’ll need you to hold relatively still, but we can take breaks as needed.”
Louis shifts in his chair, but I don’t meet his gaze.
“How would you like us positioned?” Tatiana asks.
“Just as you are will be fine for now.” I begin sketching the basic shapes, blocking in the chairs, the platform, and the fall of Tatiana’s skirt. “I may adjust you as we go.”
The queen settles into a chair near the window, supervising the entire session. This feels like a humiliation ritual.
I pick up my camera and snap handfuls of photos of them together from different angles, then return to my sketchbook.
I work in silence for the first twenty minutes, building the framework of the composition while avoiding Louis’s face.
The scratch of charcoal on paper fills the quiet.
I sketch Tatiana’s posture instead of his—the elegant line of her neck, the way her dark hair falls across her shoulders.
She’s beautiful, like a marble statue, polished and cold.
“You have lovely bone structure,” I tell her—because it’s true. I’ve found that saying something neutral is better than the silence that stretches too long.
“Thank you.” She grins, tilting her chin. “My mother always said I was born to be painted.”
“She wasn’t wrong.” I offer her a small smile.
I move to Louis’s hands next, roughing in the shape of his fingers where they rest on the arm of the chair.
These hands have touched every inch of me.
They were tangled in my hair while he kissed me breathless.
Now they’re posed beside another woman, like props on a stage.
I trace their outline on paper while my own hands stay steady.
I wonder if this is how Henri felt all those years. I’m sure he had an audience as well.
The queen speaks. “They make a striking pair, don’t they?”
I keep my pencil moving. “The contrast works well. Dark and light.”
“I’ve always thought so.” She sounds satisfied. “The portraits will be magnificent. Something that will be remembered through the ages.”
This is a lie displayed in colors, a record of it that will hang in this palace long after we’re all gone. I think about Henri and how he hid his love in brushstrokes no one noticed. Every portrait session must have been torture. This is death by a thousand cuts.
“Could you move slightly closer together?” I ask, keeping my voice professional. “There’s too much space between you.”
Tatiana shifts immediately, closing the gap until her shoulder presses against Louis’s arm. He stays rigid, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Like this?” Tatiana tilts her head, looking up at him with adoration.
“That’s perfect.”
I sketch the new positioning, capturing the way her body curves toward his while his stays straight. As an artist, I see the tension. The queen and everyone else will see devotion. Perspective changes everything.
When I finally allow myself to glance at his face, he’s watching me. His blue eyes hold everything he can’t say out loud. There’s an apology, mixed with frustration and love. I want to cross the room and tell him it’s going to be okay, that I understand and know this isn’t real.
Instead, I look back down at my sketch pad and add a line to his jaw.
“The prince seems tense,” the queen observes. “Louis, darling, try to relax. This isn’t a formal state portrait. We want to capture the warmth between you.”
“Of course, Mother.” His voice is flat.
Tatiana laughs, and it sounds legitimate. “He’s always like this when he’s being watched. Aren’t you, my love?” She reaches up and touches his cheek, turning his face toward hers. “Just pretend it’s only us. Show them how you act when we’re alone.”
She’s trying to get under my skin, but it’s not working. Also, I don’t like how my love falls from her mouth so easily. Like she means it.
“That’s better,” the queen says approvingly. “Hold that.”
I sketch Tatiana’s hand on Louis’s face, the curve of her fingers against his cheekbone. My pencil presses harder than necessary, leaving dark lines on the paper.
“Miss Cross, how long do you anticipate this project taking?” The queen’s question is casual but pointed.
“Portraits of this significance typically require several weeks, if not months, of work.” I keep my tone measured.
“The preliminary sketches alone will take at least a week, if not longer. Then there’s the underpainting, the layering, the detail work that really brings the subjects to life.
I want to ensure the final piece meets the standards of the royal collection. ”
“We don’t have months.” She considers this. “The engagement announcement is being pushed forward. We plan to soft launch Tatiana and Louis as a couple at the ball and will let everyone know Louis has chosen his bride.”
I look up, meeting her eyes directly. “Art can’t be rushed, Your Majesty.”
A flicker of irritation crosses her face. “Of course. Quality takes precedence. However, I’m sure you’ll fulfill this deadline.”
It’s not a request; this is a demand.
“Yes, Your Highness. I’ll do whatever I can to make you happy.”
She grins as I crawl into her web. Soon, she’ll spin me up and suck every drop of life from me.
We work for another two hours, taking several short breaks during which Tatiana stretches, and Louis disappears to refill his water glass.
I fill pages with sketches, capturing angles and expressions, and the way light falls across fabric.
I draw everything except Tatiana’s face, focusing on her hands, her hair, the drape of her dress.
I draw Louis completely, memorizing him through the movement of my pencil.
The clock on the wall ticks through the minutes, each one lasting longer than the last.
“I think we should try something more intimate,” Tatiana says when we resume. “For the composition. Something that shows our connection.”
The queen nods. “An excellent idea, Princess.”
Tatiana stands and repositions herself, perching on the arm of Louis’s chair with her hand on his shoulder. Her silk dress rustles as she settles, and a waft of her perfume reaches me across the room. It’s too sweet.
“What do you think, Miss Cross? More dynamic?”
“It reads well.” I start a new sketch. “The diagonal line creates energy.”
“Actually, I think the two of you should kiss,” the queen suggests.
I swallow hard, smiling softly. “Great idea, Your Majesty.”
Tatiana smiles down at Louis, and she moves close until their lips slide together. She cups his face and deepens the kiss.
It’s not a quick peck. Tatiana kisses him like she means it, her mouth opening against his, her fingers sliding into his hair. The kiss goes on for five, seven, maybe twenty seconds, and I watch because looking away would be admitting this hurts.
Louis kisses her back, but his body stays rigid. Tatiana doesn’t seem to notice or care. She’s enjoying this.
“Whoa, whoa,” Louis whispers, pulling away.
My heart is racing; my adrenaline is spiked.
“We don’t need to give them a show,” he says.
When she looks down at him, she’s slightly breathless. Her lipstick is still perfect.
“Sorry.” She laughs, not sounding sorry at all. “Got carried away, per usual.”
For just a second, her eyes flick to me when she says it.
I smile. “Wow. The two of you are explosive. I’m sure kids will soon follow after the wedding.”
Louis’s nostrils flare.
“Oh, yes. Between you and me, I hope I get pregnant immediately.” Tatiana interlocks her fingers with Louis. “He can barely keep me off of him as it is.”