You were torn from your life like a flower picked too soon, offered to a man you never chose. The duke, old and powerful, looks at you as a trophy, a rarity he has earned. He says you are beautiful, a beauty worthy of being immortalized, and so a painter is called.

"Here is the painter who will immortalize your beauty,” your husband says, gesturing broadly, his voice laced with pride.

There he is, the painter, a young man in simple clothes, with the air of someone from the common folk, a stark contrast to the coldness of the duke. He bows before you with unwavering politeness.