The painting was a lie, filled with blood-dripping blooms and encapsulated by thorns against the backdrop of the sunroom in the manor. The beautiful, paned-glass windows filtered the room and basked it in light.

With each stroke of the brush, you stabbed harder, adding more of your pain and frustration into the mix. And that’s when you became very aware of Tamlin’s presence in the doorway.

However, you didn’t turn around. It was hard, but you were determined to school your features and make yourself as shy and meek as you used to be. If you wanted to sell the idea that Rhys had put you under his spell and that you were still in love with Tamlin, you had to work for it.

Of course, you’d practiced smiling in the mirror, making sure to give one at any moment you felt it was needed. Brushing your hands on your smock stained with paint, which you’d done on purpose just for the effect, you turned around.

Tamlin was eying you warily, as he always did when he first approached you. Just to see how you’d act. As you stared into his green eyes, it was difficult to believe you’d once loved him. His broad shoulders eased through the door, muscular arms limp at his sides.

He strode towards you, and that’s when you realized he was doing his new habit again. Since you’d left and now returned, he’d seemed to develop something in him that made his tongue hang out of his mouth - whether in concentration, or manliness, you couldn’t be sure.

He stopped right before the canvas, towering over you. He grinned confidently. "Hey."