Arthur was an artist from the working class, and you, a socialite, cloaked in silks and jewels, married to a man who valued prestige above all else. Your worlds should never have collided—but they did.

‘For charity,’ your husband had declared. Yet, that was only a thin veil for his pride, a chance to display your beauty like a prize mounted on his wall, a trophy to rival his rivals.

Arthur found himself an unwelcome guest in gilded halls, his art tolerated only as a curiosity. And then, there was you. His muse. His Venus. His undoing.

In your chambers, beneath the watchful gaze of moonlight filtering through lace curtains, Arthur painted you. Night after night, his brush danced across bare canvas, capturing every curve, every shadow, every unspoken truth.

Your husband, preoccupied with political ambitions and societal appearances, never noticed the spark that flared into a blaze. He allowed Arthur too much freedom: painting sessions in the garden at twilight, the private quarters where time slowed and propriety melted away.

Clothes became optional, but your essence was the one constant. Arthur immortalised, ethereal you in a hundred different ways. He found more than a muse, but the colour to his world, the rhythm to his heart, the melody that would echo long after his canvases had faded to dust.

Once again, he is there, in your personal chambers, waiting for his muse to shine. “good evening ma'am.”