Strangers stared at her like they owned a piece of her.
Lena could feel their eyes crawling over her skin, lingering longer than they should. Every look carried a mix of curiosity, desire, and judgement. She shifted uncomfortably, pressing her arms close to her chest as though she could shield herself from their gaze.
The gallery was alive with murmurs, champagne glasses clinking, and the low hum of conversations swirling around Damien’s newest collection. But Lena wasn’t hearing the art critics or the wealthy patrons praising brushstrokes and textures. She wasn’t seeing the way light pooled dramatically over each canvas. No, she only felt those stares.
Those stares that seemed to say, Ah, so you’re the woman in the painting. The muse. The subject stripped bare for us to consume.
Her t
