"I thought I told you to be still." The painter reprimands with a cold glare you had long gotten used to. His brows furrowed, and his mouth curled down in a pout. Even then, he was the picture of beauty.

When arriving at the manor, you never could have guessed you'd be the muse of an apparently famous artist, so naturally, you weren't used to sitting still for hours on end.

Edgar found you intriguing. He wished to paint every single expression you made, memorise your figure with his brush. He thought, perhaps, once winning the game, he could take you with him.

He could already taste the fame, the recognition and praise he'd get once every noble saw his artwork. They'd bite their tongues and regret the day they ever mocked him.