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Chapter Three
In his private studio in the palace, Prince Theodore stood motionless before his easel. The only sound was the soft scrape of bristles across the canvas, the prince’s hand moving with the kind of precision that spoke of years of painting. This latest piece—a portrait bathed in light—was shaping up to be his magnum opus, each detail a testament to his unyielding dedication.
“Remarkable,” came a voice from the doorway, and Theodore glanced up to find King Albert standing in the doorway.
“Father,” Theodore greeted, the formality of his tone undercut by the warmth of their shared smile. “Do you think it’s good enough?”
“Without question,” the king affirmed, stepping closer to study the canvas. “Your talent continues to astound me.”
Theodore’s brush paused mid-stroke, and he considered his father’s words, feeling the weight of expectation and the thrill of meeting it. His art defined him, even if only his family understood that he was the one who crafted the beautiful pieces.
Queen Beatrice glided into the room next, her grace undiminished by time. “Theodore, your work brings such life to this old palace,” she said.
“Thank you, Mother,” Theodore replied, his brush resuming its dance. “I endeavor to capture beauty as you have always taught me.”
“Speaking of beauty,” James chimed in as he sauntered in, trailed by Eloise, whose curious eyes darted around the studio, “Amanda insists you’ve outdone yourself this time.”
“Our brother’s skill is unrivaled,” Eloise added, closing the distance to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with their mother.
“Yes,” Amanda agreed, entering last. “You paint as if the very soul of the subject is at your command.”
Theodore felt a surge of gratitude for his family’s unwavering support . “If my paintings can reflect even a fraction of the love coming from you all, then I’m a success.”
“Success is yours already, my boy,” King Albert declared. “But remember, duty calls as well.”
“Of course, Father,” Theodore acknowledged, his mind briefly clouding with the duality of his existence: prince and painter, duty and desire.
“ANOTHER MASTERPIECE finds its home,” Nicole murmured, stepping back to admire the alignment.
“Nicole, the lighting here is divine,” commended an admirer, his voice echoing lightly off the high ceilings.
“Thank you, Martin,” she replied. “Art deserves to be seen in the best light.”
As she drifted from piece to piece, ensuring each was showcased to perfection, the gallery door opened behind her. Prince Theodore stepped inside, his presence bold yet unassuming, his attire impeccably tailored, a silent testament to his royal lineage. But today, he was simply a patron, a lover of art.
His eyes scanned the room—pausing, admiring—until they found her. Nicole, unaware of the prince’s scrutiny, continued her work, while Theodore’s heart sped up. She was the living embodiment of the woman who haunted his canvas at home—her cheekbones, the curve of her neck, the way her hair tumbled in chestnut waves.
“Excuse me,” Theodore said, approaching her, his voice steady, betraying none of his inner tumult. “Your gallery is a treasure trove.”
Nicole turned toward him, her eyes briefly widening in recognition of his presence. “Thank you, Your Royal Highness. We strive to inspire and evoke.”
“Indeed, you succeed admirably,” Theodore remarked, his gaze lingering on her face, trying to imprint every detail. Her presence stirred something within him, a connection that transcended the mere physical likeness to his muse.
“Is there a particular style that interests you?” she inquired, unaware of the thoughts racing through Theodore’s mind.
“Portraiture, primarily,” he admitted, the truth slipping out wrapped in the guise of casual interest. “The human form, the soul captured in a moment—it’s compelling.”
“Ah, then you’ll find our upcoming exhibit enthralling,” Nicole said, gesturing toward a promotional flyer. “It’s a celebration of the modern portrait.” She couldn’t remember anyone from the royal family ever gracing her gallery with their presence, and she couldn’t help the clamminess of her palms or the nerves having him there shot through her body.
“Sounds fascinating,” Theodore replied, his voice smooth as velvet. He observed her movements, her eloquent hands articulating her words.
“Will you be attending?” she asked, a strand of hair falling gracefully over her shoulder.
A pause hung between them, pregnant with possibility, before Theodore answered, “I would be delighted.”
They shared a smile, a fleeting connection that bridged the gap between stranger and acquaintance. In that moment, Prince Theodore had found a kindred spirit in her that seemed to lighten the weight of his dual life. Yet, duty beckoned, and with a silent promise to return, he bid her farewell, stepping back into the sunlight with a new purpose flickering in his chest.
“Art has a way of speaking directly to the soul, doesn’t it?” Theodore mused aloud.
