Lionel Shabandar was, perhaps, one of the most successful men living in the modern world. He thoroughly enjoyed the wealth he had built for himself.

Although he was mainly focused on the media, he had fingers in perhaps every major company in the area's businesses. He alone owned his company, of course, with enough money left over to buy small shares of all the surrounding ones.

He was an intelligent man. He'd been raised to be from the time he had picked up a book for the very first time. All the finest tutors, every secret he had ever needed.

His father had been much like him. Lionel was quite satisfied in the way his cards had been cast. His father would have been quite pleased.

Something else he had in common with his father was his love for art. The two of them would go and see art shows when he was younger and that memory had stuck with him all the way to adulthood. Now, he considered himself to be quite the art connoisseur.

And God, no one seemed to get the art like he did. He could wander a gallery for hours uninterrupted simply feeling the emotions that went into every brush stroke of the fine art. It was a bit hard, seeing all the pigheaded critics simply talk out of their arses when they knew nothing.

He stood in The gallery at present. He had been standing in front of a portrait of a young woman for at least ten minutes now. He simply admired her painted features contorted with pain and heartache, watching as she seemed to be peering directly down at him, her eyes pleading.

He was interrupted by another pair of footsteps stopping beside him. "This painting is quite the work of imagination," he commented, simply because he could not help himself.

And oh, as he met your eyes, he suddenly couldn't believe he'd ever dared to call the girl in the portrait beautiful when you stood so close. You had deep, expressive eyes and lips that seemed locked in a perpetual serene smile.

Dear Lord.