Evelyn POV
The room is quiet. Still. The only sound is the faint creak of the floor beneath my slippers, and the soft, rhythmic flutter of canvas as the breeze slips through the narrow attic window.
Daphne has gone, just as I asked her to.
And I remain.
Alone with this painting.
I step closer to it, my heart thudding unevenly, louder than I care to admit. The closer I get, the harder it is to breathe. It isn't just a painting.
It's me.
Not the way the palace artists painted me. Not the way the people of the estate see me. Not the duchess in silk and steel, not the symbol of grace and authority. This is me, seen through her eyes.
Vulnerable.
Warm.
Alive.
She saw all of that, in me.
And she put it here, in oils and light and brush strokes that tremble with the weight of feeling.
