Her chest squeezed painfully at his words. They weren’t a confession of love. They were a confession of dependency, on her image, her body, her presence as inspiration.
The silence stretched until Lena whispered, “Then maybe we’re nothing.”
Lena’s voice cracked in the studio, her anger sharp enough to cut through the heavy silence.
“I’m not just some body for you to draw, Damien! You treat me like I’m your possession, like I don’t exist beyond your canvas!”
Her words bounced off the walls, echoing against the scent of turpentine and oil paint.
Damien stood with his fists clenched, jaw tight, but he didn’t move toward her. He could have, maybe he should have. But instead, he let his pride hold him still. His brushes lay scattered on the floor where he had knocked them over, and the pai
