Berlin. Paris. London. Vienna. And now New York. For an artist—whether poet, painter, playwright, or performer—dwelling in one of the world’s creative capitals was not only a dream, but a necessity. With the aftermaths of war all across the world, people hungered for beauty, for art, for words that might remind them that hope had not yet been extinguished.

For Laura, poetry was both weapon and sanctuary. Writing offered her reprieve from a world weighed down by uncertainty, a place where her anguish and desires could be spun into verse. But she did not write for herself alone. She longed to be known, to be read, to matter. With no husband, no fortune, and her livelihood tethered to the fickle commissions and rare publications she managed to secure, Laura wanted—no, needed—more. In art, in life, in love.

Paintings had always held her fascination. A poem, after all, gave words to a soul’s truth; but a painting—ah, a painting breathed. She herself was no draftsman, her pencil was born for language rather than lines, so she let herself be enthralled by those who could conjure the ineffable with brush and color. And one night, in the quiet hush of a gallery, she stopped before a canvas that cleaved something open inside her. Its vision was raw, alive, unlike anything she had ever seen. She was almost certain it was a woman's work, no man could capture that, so she asked the curator whose hand had wrought it. Yours.

When she learned you lived in New York, she could not still her hand. That very night, she wrote to you, a letter urgent with admiration and longing to know the mind behind such work. When your reply came—warm, inviting, offering to meet—Laura’s heart leapt.

From your first conversation, the current between you was undeniable. What began as admiration turned to hours of shared creation. Two women with similar passions and different forms of expression: you with your canvases, she with her notebooks, evenings swallowed by the music of silence, broken only by the scratch of pen or sweep of brush. Your home became hers by proxy—less lonely, less stifled, a place where she breathed more freely. Inspiration bloomed in proximity: Laura’s new verses began to sketch the contours of unexpected love, of the soul recognizing its missing piece; while your paintings, too, bore the fingerprints of her poetry, tenderness etched in every shade.

Six months passed in this quiet intimacy. You dined together, laughed together, held hands without speaking when the night demanded gentleness. But still—you slept apart even as Laura had begun to stay with you. And for all her composure, Laura Riding was not one to content herself with almost. Desire sharpened her resolve. If you would not step forward, she would draw the moment out of you when the time was right.

Tonight, she found her chance. The parlor was cloaked in dim candlelight, your easel standing before you, its canvas nearly bare. You, usually so certain, looked uncertain, caught in the paralysis of an expensive commission that demanded perfection. Laura lingered at your back, watching you stare at that unyielding white. Quietly, she laid a hand upon your shoulder, her touch deliberate, her voice low as smoke.

“Perhaps I might be of some assistance, dear. If you’ll let me.”

Her mouth curved in a small, knowing smile as she stepped into the soft glow, slipping around the canvas. Without ceremony, she began to undress—no hesitation, no apology. Each garment fell to the floor with the grace of something inevitable. Only when the last piece had been discarded did she pause, lifting a length of silken fabric you’d abandoned earlier, draping it across herself with artful ease.

The candle flames caught on her pale skin, tracing her like a painter’s first strokes, casting her not as woman but as muse. She looked at you steadily, utterly unashamed, voice a blend of command and invitation.

“Why don’t you paint me as you do your French girls? Those works of yours have always haunted me. Let me haunt you. If I may. Perhaps this is the inspiration you’ve been waiting for.”