Chapter 22
Chapter
Twenty-Two
AXEL
The Louvre is a beast of history and grandeur, swallowing us up.
I keep one hand in my pocket, the other one at my side, brushing against Jo’s as we join the slow-moving queue for the gallery that has Jo so excited, the small one with the Mona Lisa and The Last Supper, pushing forward inch by inch.
I glance at the faces around us, all tourists craning their necks, but my eyes keep drifting to Jo.
She’s quiet for the moment, taking in the high-ceilinged corridors, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration as her mind catalogues and analyses everything around her.
“Are you excited?” I ask, leaning slightly toward her.
She grins, her eyes sparkling, the kind of grin that makes me forget everything but her.
“Excited? Axel, I’ve been waiting for this moment for what feels like my entire life. I might burst from enthusiasm.” She laughs, light and airy, a sound that seems to echo around the cavernous hallways, makes me want to bottle it up and keep it forever.
“Where’s my commentary? Why have you gone so quiet?” I tease, elbowing her lightly.
A faint flush colors her cheeks. “You don’t need my commentary. My father was a connoisseur of fine art. I’m sure he must have taught you a lot.”
“Yes, he did,” I say honestly. “He taught me to know the brush strokes, the value, the provenance, but you see the beauty in the smallest details, and I like seeing them through your eyes.”
She snorts, shaking her head. “Flattery won’t get you closer to the Mona Lisa faster, you know.”
“But it might get me closer to you, though?” I say with a wide grin.
Jo rolls her eyes, but she laughs. Her laugh is soft and musical, and I realize I’m grinning like an idiot.
I’ve made her laugh, and that feels like a victory.
I can’t believe this is the woman I was so determined to hate.
When I learned the truth about that email that hurt Joseph so much, that it wasn’t her who sent it, and that she had no idea he even existed, I was so fucking relieved and happy I wanted to punch the air.
Already, I was finding it harder and harder to turn off my feelings for her and maintain the outward impression that I didn’t like her.
Finally, we’re inside the gallery. Under thick glass, the Mona Lisa is less imposing than I expected, yet the painting extrudes energy like no other painting.
Perhaps it is all the billions of eyes that have witnessed it.
The slight smile, the knowing eyes, the way centuries of obsession cling to her image like a shroud.
Jo leans closer to me, whispering under her breath.
“Look at the layering,” she murmurs, pointing subtly to the texture of the paint. “The way Leonardo built the background so softly, it almost melts into her. It’s absolute genius.”
I nod, fascinated by Jo’s intensity, the way she notices and explains with effortless passion. And the way she calls Leonardo DaVinci, Leonardo as though he’s an old family friend.
“You make it sound like she’s alive,” I murmur.
“That’s the point,” she says softly, her eyes glued to the portrait. “She is alive, in a way. In the art, in the emotion she conveys, in the legend.”
I glance at Jo’s profile, and I feel a surge of something I haven’t allowed myself to feel in a long time.
The curve of her lips, the tilt of her head, the way her fingers twitch slightly as she gestures, it’s like she’s radiating light and beauty.
My mind switches the scene, imagining the same precision, the same attention, focused on me. And the thrill is a dangerous thing.
The crowd moves along, and we push forward towards The Last Supper.
I’ve seen plenty of religious works, plenty of iconic pieces, but Jo’s commentary on other pieces has made me see nuances I would never have noticed on my own, and I am interested in hearing her opinions on this one. I cross my arms.
“All right,” I murmur. “Convince me.”
Jo tilts her head, her violet eyes catching the low museum lights and seeming to almost dance. “Convince you of what?”
“That it’s more than a long dinner table and a bunch of upset men.”
She huffs a quiet laugh. “You are impossible.”
I glance at her rather than the mural. “So, enlighten me.”
“You’re allergic to romance,” she corrects gently, stepping closer to the painting. “Look at the moment he chose. It’s the second after Christ declares that one of them will betray him.” She gestures toward the center of the piece. “He caught a moment in time. The shock of Jesus’s statement.”
My gaze shifts back to the artwork. The figures are frozen mid-reaction, their hands lifted, brows furrowed, bodies leaning toward or recoiling from the central figure.
“They’re all reacting differently,” she continues. “That’s deliberate. Leonardo wasn’t painting saints. He was painting men.”
I step closer.
“So that one,” I say, and I nod toward a figure half risen from his seat. “He’s angry?”
“Peter,” she says. “Angry, yes. Also, impulsive. Defensive. See how he leans forward? There’s tension in his shoulders. And he’s holding a knife.”
I squint and see it, something I never would have noticed on my own. “Hmm… That’s subtle.”
“It’s meant to be,” she replies. “He’ll use it later in Gethsemane. Leonardo foreshadows that.”
I glance at her. “You sound very certain.”
“I am,” she says with a small shrug. “I restore paintings for a living, Axel. I spend my days staring at brush strokes and tiny details most people walk past.” She steps closer, lowering her voice to an awed whisper. “Look at Judas.”
I follow her gaze. Judas sits slightly back, shadowed.
“He’s recoiling,” she says. “See the way his head dips? He’s clutching the purse with the silver. And his face? It’s darker. Leonardo uses shadow to isolate him.”
“I thought that was just aging.”
She smiles faintly. “No. That’s intention. Perspective isn’t just spatial. It’s emotional.”
I study the piece with a new understanding. I nod towards Christ. “And him?” I ask quietly.
“He sits calm amid the chaos. Composed. Everything converges towards him. The lines of the walls, the windows, they draw your eye back to the center, to him. He’s the vanishing point.”
“The mathematical anchor,” I murmur.
Her lips curve. “See how the lines of the ceiling beams all lead to his head? It creates depth. You feel pulled inward.”
“I do,” I admit.
“And the windows behind him?” she continues. “They form a kind of halo. Not painted but implied.”
“Subtle.” I step closer, and our arms brush. “So, the symbolism is in the geometry.”
“And the gestures.” She points lightly. “See their hands? Leonardo was obsessed with hands. They reveal what the face hides. Doubt. Anger. Fear. Denial.”
“You’re saying this is basically a Renaissance group chat meltdown.”
She turns to me slowly, scandalized. “Did you just put one of the most studied paintings in Western art on par with an internet argument?”
“It is a modern parallel.”
She studies me, amused but determined. “Perhaps you’re right. At its heart, it’s about humanity. He froze forever that split second when everything changed, when trust fractured. It’s about human reaction to accusation. To guilt. To uncertainty. Everyone wants to know who the betrayer is.”
“But Judas knows it is him,” I say.
“Yes.” Her voice softens. “And he still sits there.”
There’s something in her tone that makes me look at her rather than at the canvas. “You admire that?” I ask.
“I find it tragic,” she says. “He’s already isolated before he leaves. You can see it. His body angles away from the group. His elbow disrupts the line of the table. He’s physically out of harmony. It is already too late to turn back, and he knows it.”
I stare again. I hadn’t noticed that. “You see layers,” I murmur.
“I see choices,” she corrects gently. “Artists don’t do anything accidentally. Even silence is intentional.”
“Is that what this is?” I gesture toward Christ’s stillness. “Silence?”
“It’s acceptance,” she says. “He knows what awaits him, but he does not shy away from it.”
There’s a pause between us, thick and contemplative. She steps behind me, close enough that I feel the warmth of her through my jacket, and lightly touches my wrist.
“You don’t hide what you feel when you talk about this.” I nod toward the painting. “Your entire face changes.”
She studies me carefully. “What do you see?”
“Conviction,” I say. “Reverence. And a little defiance.”
“Defiance?”
“You expect people not to understand it,” I reply. “And you’re prepared to argue.”
Her mouth curves. “I am always prepared to argue.”
“I’ve noticed.”
We stand in silence for a moment, the muted murmur of other visitors drifting through the gallery.
“I know art well enough, but not like you do. I guess to me, art is about status,” I admit. “Acquisition. Investment. Owning something rare. To you it’s … everything.”
She doesn’t look at me. “That’s because you were raised around acquisition.”
“And you?”
“I was raised around preservation,” she says softly. “It gives a very different instinct.”
I study the faces again. The tension. The disbelief. “You’re right,” I say finally.
She arches an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not surprised you know this stuff, but I’ll be honest, I am surprised that you are able to make me see it too. I get that it’s not just a long table and a lot of upset men now.”
A quiet laugh escapes her. “High praise indeed.”
I lean closer, lowering my voice. “You make me see things I wouldn’t otherwise notice.”
Her gaze lifts to mine, her eyes steady, searching. “That’s what art is supposed to do,” she says.
“No,” I murmur. “That’s what you do.”
We move back from the painting, letting the next people in to see it.
Her words, her voice, and the way her passion shows are intoxicating. I want to lean closer, whisper something in her ear, maybe press my lips to her temple, to her neck, anywhere I can. Not here. Not now. Not yet. Focus. But the heat and longing in my gut don’t care.
We move into the next gallery, a collection I’ve never heard of, filled with smaller works and artifacts.
Most would skim past, some bored, some dutiful, but Jo’s face lights up like the room is on fire.
She’s animated, pointing, explaining, laughing softly at little quirks in the pieces.
I can’t focus on the works themselves. Every word, every flick of her hand, every tilt of her head pulls me in.
“You notice that?” she asks suddenly, pointing to a small sculpture. “The way the sculptor has made the folds of the fabric of her skirt. Isn’t it exquisite?”
I nod absently, and she catches me staring, not at the sculpture but at her.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I lie smoothly. “Just agreeing that she is indeed exquisite.”
Her lips twitch, a faint blush rising in her cheeks. “Are you trying to charm me?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “Is it working?”
Her eyes flash, half amused, half aroused. She laughs softly, shaking her head. “You’re incorrigible.”
“And you love it,” I counter, teasing, watching the way her chest rises and falls with each laugh.
Her gaze flickers to mine, just for a moment, and I swear the world stops turning.
I can feel it, the pull, the electricity, the same tension from the hotel room, from the vault, but sharper now, more insistent.
I want to take her right now. I want her so badly I can hardly breathe.
An image flashes into my head of me lifting her into my arms, pressing her against the cold plaster of the gallery wall, letting my hands roam all over her delectable body. Fuck! She has really got under my skin.
“Axel?”
Jo’s voice cuts through the fog in my mind, casual, light, but it’s enough to remind me I’m standing in front of her like a gawping idiot.
I snap back, forcing a grin. “Yeah. Absolutely. Fascinating piece, isn’t it?”
She raises an eyebrow. “You barely looked at the sculpture, you know.”
I watch her, helplessly captivated. Every detail of her, the way she leans in, the soft brush of her hair against her neck, the spark in her violet eyes when she talks about something she loves, I want to memorize it all. Every gesture, every word.
We wander deeper into the gallery, stopping at small paintings and intricate artifacts, Jo talking, gesturing, and me continuing to lose myself in her.
Occasionally, I glance at the art around us, nodding absently, but my attention keeps drifting back to her.
The way she lights up, the way her face glows when she talks about something she loves, it’s like a fucking drug.
I want to touch her, tease her, whisper something inappropriate and make her laugh.
I want the restraint we’ve maintained to crumble entirely.
“Careful,” she teases suddenly, nudging me with her elbow as we pause in front of a particularly delicate miniature. “You almost tripped over your own feet while staring at me.”
I shrug. “What can I say? You’re too distracting.”
She shakes her head, her eyes sparkling with amusement and something softer. “I’m a menace, I know.”
“An exquisite menace,” I murmur under my breath.
She freezes, a faint flush spreading across her cheeks. “You …” she starts, then cuts herself off, smiling instead, as if that’s the only appropriate response.
I take that as my victory. Small, perhaps, but enough to fuel the tension coiling tighter in my chest. I want to grab her hand, pull her close, make her forget the Louvre entirely, make her forget we’re in public.
I want to feel her pressed against me again, the heat of her body, the sharp inhale when I enter her body.
I’m already imagining how tonight will be, what I’ll do, how I’ll make her feel every inch of the desire she’s stirring in me right now.
I am going to give her the sort of memories of Paris she will never forget.
“Axel?” she calls, and once more, her voice, sweet and clear, pulls me back to the gallery.
“Huh?” I grin at her, trying to appear casual, though my pulse is racing.
“You’re staring, again,” she says softly, a faint laugh in her voice. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?” I counter innocently. “Looking? Appreciating? Learning?”
“Axel,” she says, rolling her eyes, but there’s a tremor in her tone. “Just … don’t.”
I smile, leaning slightly toward her, letting my hand brush hers once more. “I can’t make any promises.”
Her breath hitches just slightly, and I know for certain then that she feels it too. The electricity in the air is undeniable, and for the first time in a long while, I don’t care about control.
Not entirely.
We continue to wander through the gallery, me watching her more than the artwork, and I realize, quite starkly, that I’m done pretending.
The art is incredible, the Louvre is wonderful, but Jo …
Jo is by far the most priceless thing in here today.
And I want her. More than I’ve wanted anyone in a long, long time.