Isabella’s POV
His lips against mine. The way his hands had gone to my face when he kissed me a few hours ago. It lingered in my mind, refusing to fade no matter how hard I tried to focus. Every brushstroke, every blend of color on the canvas, seemed to echo the intensity of that moment.
The first painting stood before me, almost complete. It was abstract, full of swirling emotions and vivid colors that reflected my journey—the chaos, the danger, and the strange, undeniable pull between Alessio and me.
But the second painting was more personal.
I dipped my brush into the deep crimson paint, letting it glide across the canvas in long, deliberate strokes. The image was starting to take shape—a reflection of us. It wasn’t a straightforward depiction, but the symbolism was clear. Alessio’s
