Page 138 of The Defiant Wife

I look down at her.

She looks entirely too pleased with herself.

"I was enjoying that conversation."

"So was I." She agrees.

"Then why invite him in?"

"Because unlike someone," she says, looking directly at me, "I actually want this portrait finished before sunset."

I lean closer. "So practical."

"Somebody in this marriage has to be."

"I strongly disagree."

"You would."

"I married an executive director."

"And I married a prince who cannot stop flirting."

"I fail to see the problem."

She shakes her head, laughing under her breath. "You know what the funny part is?"

"What?"

"When we first got married, I thought posing beside you for a painting would be the hardest part."

"And now?"

She smiles up at me with so much warmth that my chest tightens. "Now I'm worried the poor artist won't know how to paint the way you look at me."

I don't answer immediately. Instead, I lift her hand and press a slow kiss against her knuckles.

"He doesn't have to."

She tilts her head. "Why not?"

"Because that look isn't for history." I hold her gaze. "It's only for you."

Her breath catches.

The artist coughs politely from across the room. "If the royal couple has quite finished making my job impossible . . . "

Diya laughs, covering her face for a second.

"We're coming."

As we walk toward the easel together, our fingers remain intertwined.

Maybe this portrait will hang in the grand gallery for generations. Maybe our grandchildren will walk past it one day.

But none of that matters as much as the woman walking beside me.

Because paintings preserve faces.