Painted in his obsession

*JODIE* I stared at the photograph in my hand, my breath stuttering. The picture was clean and carried the kind of elegance only money could buy. Yet none of that mattered because the woman staring back at me had my face. “How…” I whispered, my voice barely there, shaky and thin. “How is this possible?” The lady in the picture wore a gown I could never afford, the silk fabric shining like water under light. A diamond necklace sparkled across her throat, a quiet announcement of wealth and power. Her makeup was flawless, her hair curled into waves that fell gracefully over her shoulders. Every single detail screamed of luxury, of a life so far removed from my own. But the face…her face…was mine. I blinked hard, hoping the illusion would dissolve. It didn’t. The same nose, the same sharp jawline softened by delicate features, even the same cute tiny ears. It was like I was staring at a version of myself from another world. The only thing that grounded me, the only reason I didn’t think I was losing my mind was the simple fact that I had never owned such jewelry, never touched such fabrics, never stepped foot in the world this woman clearly belonged to. That was the dividing line between us. Still, the confusion clawed at me. Why did she look like me? I clutched the photo tighter, my palms damp, my chest pounding. The maid who had ushered me into the grand living room shifted uneasily, her eyes flicking from me to the picture and back again. She was in a crisp black uniform, her posture stiff, her expression carefully neutral yet I caught the flicker of discomfort in her gaze. “I… I’ll go call Master Lex,” she stammered suddenly, bowing before hurrying away, her shoes clicking against the marble floor. I turned in a slow circle, my eyes drinking in the house while waiting. It was too big, too quiet, every corner gleaming with money. Dark oak shelves lined the walls, heavy curtains framed massive windows, and expensive art pieces hung like silent witnesses. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish, the scent clinging to the air-conditioning. I hugged the picture to my chest, still shaken. A voice broke the silence. “Good God…” I turned sharply. A man had stepped into the room, tall, broad-shouldered, with neatly styled brown hair and sharp blue eyes that widened as they landed on me. His lips parted in shock. “You” He said startled, blinking as though his brain was struggling to process what his eyes were seeing. “You look …...”he said, not completing the sentence but I already knew what he wanted to say The photograph slipped slightly from my trembling fingers. “Excuse me?” I asked He strode closer, his gaze never leaving my face. There was a stunned awe in his expression, but beneath it, suspicion lingered. He circled me once, his movements slow, deliberate, as though he expected me to vanish if he looked too quickly. “I… I don’t understand,” I murmured, clutching my arms. He exhaled heavily, then extended his hand. “I’m Alexander Adams. You can call me Lex. My brother Leonard Adams is the one who requested this portrait. You must be Jodie, the artist?” I nodded slowly, my voice failing me for a moment. “Yes. Jodie West.” Lex’s brows drew together tightly. “you’ve never seen this picture before today?” “No. I swear I haven’t,” I replied, my throat dry. “I was only told I’d be painting the portrait of a late wife. That’s all.” He tilted his head, his gaze softening, though confusion still swam in his eyes. “Her name is Selena. And she looks… exactly like you. It’s uncanny.” I clutched the photo again and forced myself to look at it. The more I compared, the stranger it felt. The universe had played a cruel joke, two women molded from the same features, yet living worlds apart. A chill ran down my spine. Lex studied me like I was an unsolvable riddle, his jaw clenching, his hands slipping into his pockets as he began pacing. “Leo…” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself. “God, he won’t believe this. He won’t handle this well at all.” I swallowed. “Handle what?” His eyes snapped back to me, sharper now. “Selena’s death broke him. He never got over it. Seeing you… like this… it’s going to tear open old wounds.” My heart pounded harder. “But I’m not her.” “No,” he agreed slowly, though his tone suggested even he was unsure. He pulled out his phone and dialed quickly. His movements were stiff, urgent. He turned away slightly, his voice dropping, though I caught fragments of the conversation. “You need to come… now. Yes, Leo. It’s important. No, I can’t explain over the phone. Just come to the main house immediately. Trust me, you’ll want to see this.” When he ended the call, the weight in the air doubled. My palms were sweaty, my breath shallow. “Your brother… he’s coming here?” I asked nervously. “Yes.” Lex’s tone was grim. The silence stretched. Minutes passed and the more time passed the more tensed I get. My nerves clawed at me, an aroma filled the room. A deep, masculine cologne, rich and heady, touched with cedar and amber. It wrapped around me like an invisible blanket, strong yet oddly comforting. It was the kind of scent that clung to expensive suits and powerful men, commanding attention without trying. I stiffened, my pulse racing. The maid returned at that exact moment, bowing low. “Sir is here.” The heavy double doors creaked open. And then I saw him. Leonard Adams. Have only seen Leo on TV screen . He was taller than I imagined, broad-shouldered, with a presence that filled the entire room in an instant. His black tailored suit hugged his powerful frame perfectly, crisp and clean, every line screaming of wealth and authority. His beard was neatly trimmed, dark against his sharp jawline. His hair, short but slightly tousled, gave him a dangerous, rugged edge. But it was his eyes, storm-gray, piercing that caught my attention the most. He looked like a man carved out of an Elite fashion magazine, the kind of man who made the world bend without saying a word. But when his gaze landed on me, the mask of cold authority shattered. His pupils dilated, his breath caught audibly, and with eight smooth steps he was in front of me. His hands hovered near my face, trembling slightly as though he didn’t trust what he was seeing. “Selena…” he breathed, his voice cracking for just a second. His eyes swept over me frantically, my hair, my features, my stance as if searching for proof. “Selena, how…?” My heart jumped. His intensity was overwhelming, suffocating, as though the air between us burned. “Selena…” He said again, softer this time, like a man seeing a ghost. I swallowed hard, forcing my voice steady. I bent slightly at the waist, c lutching my hands together in a polite bow. “Good day, sir,” I said, trying to inject calm into my tone. “I am Jodie West.”