There were many different ones: of me taking his hand and opening up his fist when he got angry at the bellboy Ren, of him throwing me over his shoulder, of me in the wedding dress when I was still in the boutique trying it on, of him kissing my cheek on the day of the press conference, of me asleep in bed next to him, of him kneeling before me at the duchess’ welcome as he gave me his mother’s ring, of me kneeling with him after the fight, of their first real kiss on a corner of a street in Paris.
The one of us in Paris must have been fairly recent. The paint was still wet. But it was not the last painting in the series of paintings that lined the wall.
When I saw the last one, I knew that this was the one he’d stopped me from looking at that night. I didn’t know how to feel, only tha
