Although he was only thirty-three, Matteo Rossi was already a sensation in the Italian art world. A sculptor unlike any other—his hands seemed to breathe life into cold marble. But what truly set him apart was the mystery that wrapped itself around his creations. He sculpted only women. Always women. And every figure was carved with such haunting detail, as though he had memorized every curve, every shadow, every breath of the body he molded.

People whispered. Who was his muse? Why did every statue feel so real—so familiar?

One frequent visitor to the house was his sister’s friend, a famous makeup artist and hairstylist known for her bold humor and infectious energy. One evening, she and his sister decided to play a harmless prank: sneak into his room while he was asleep and put makeup on his face.

They tiptoed down the hall, giggling under their breath. But as they opened the door, the laughter died instantly.

She froze.

Time stood still.

Matteo wasn’t asleep. He was standing in the center of his room, facing a marble statue. His hand rested gently on its waist, his lips pressed to its mouth in a kiss so tender it felt almost sacred.

But the true shock… was the statue itself.

It was her.

Down to the smallest detail—the curve of her lips, the tilt of her head, even the tiny beauty mark beneath her lower lip. It wasn’t inspired by her.

It was her.

As if she'd been trapped in marble long before she even stepped into the room.