For several consecutive days, Nathan Moore did not go to Titus Zane's room to torment her.
He had looked up online that when a woman's intimate area is injured, it's not suitable for relations and needs time to recuperate.
And Titus Zane just quietly stayed at home, not going out.
During the day, she locked herself in her room, with a glass of red wine by her side, sitting in front of the easel painting.
This oil painting must have been the longest and most heart-invested piece Titus Zane had ever worked on. She sketched and refined it every day, only to feel it still wasn't perfect upon completion, so she would crumple it up, throw it into the trash, and start over.
The subject was still that same piece.
At the open window, a figure stood facing the wind, the breeze lifting a woman's long hair—an undeniably aesthetic scene, but the woman's silhouette exuded a touch of melancholic sorrow and loneliness.
