"Okay, so spill," Lila's voice came through the phone, a mischievous glint in her tone. "What happened after you left the gallery? You didn't just walk away from him, did you?"

Cassandra chuckled softly, glancing at the perfume bottle where Julian's card rested. "I'm not even sure what to make of it. He was... persistent. Asked me to pose for him, like really asked me." She paused, rubbing a bit of moisturizer into her skin, catching a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror. "And when I said no, he—"

"Wait, he actually asked you to pose nude?" Lila interrupted, her voice rising in surprise. "Oh my god, Cass, are you seriously telling me you turned that down?"

"Yeah, I mean, it was totally out of nowhere!" Cassandra sighed, feeling her shoulders tense. "But it wasn't just that. It was the way he said it, like I was the only person who could possibly be right for this... role. And then I just—I don't know, I couldn't say yes. But now I can't stop thinking about it."

"Girl, you're telling me you're curious?" Lila's voice dropped into a teasing tone. "You're going to Google him, aren't you?"

Cassandra smiled, shaking her head. "How did you know?"

"Well, just tell me how it goes," Lila added, before ending the call with a soft laugh.

Cassandra finished with her moisturizer and turned to face the mirror. The reflection that met her was that of a familiar stranger—a face she had known all her life, yet one that now felt somewhat unfamiliar. There were no fine lines, perhaps because she rarely allowed herself to show emotion. Her eyes, deep like the ocean, seemed to harbor life, though mostly undiscovered. In that moment, the vanity felt like a frame, and she wondered if she herself were the art piece. It almost felt nice, though a bit awkward. "What would I look like if he painted me?" she muttered to herself before snapping out of her thoughts and grabbing her phone.

Her gaze shifted to the card resting against the perfume bottle, a piece of paper that seemed to beckon her. Then, she brought up Google on her phone and typed his name into the search bar, Julian Romero.

As the results loaded, Cassandra scrolled through them, her eyes scanning the brief biography that appeared at the top. Julian Romero—renowned classical painter, known for his mastery of old techniques, an artist who had built a career from landscapes and portraits of elegantly dressed subjects. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to suggest that he was anything less than exactly what he had presented himself to be. But as she continued scrolling, a picture caught her eye: a nude painting, delicate and breathtaking, a woman draped in light as if she were rising from the very canvas. It didn't look like anything she'd expected. There was no lust, no vulgarity—only raw, poignant vulnerability. The name of the piece was Isolde's Rising.

The painting captured a woman poised in the center of the canvas. Her form was both regal and vulnerable, as though she were standing at the crossroads of a battle—her body strong and commanding, yet the look in her eyes was one of quiet surrender. She was naked, but not in a way that felt exposed. Instead, there was an icy dignity in her posture, as if she were a queen preparing for a battle of the heart rather than the body. The way the light hit her skin suggested a subtle glow, as though she were emerging from the shadows, yet her gaze was distant, not inviting, but rather as if daring the viewer to truly understand the power she held. Her limbs were strong but delicate, with the faintest tension in her muscles, like a warrior ready to spring into action, but she remained still—an enigma waiting to be unraveled. The cool blues and grays in the background gave the painting a sense of coldness, yet the warmth of her figure brought an element of hope. Isolde's story was unwritten but felt in every brushstroke, forever caught between the fragility of ice and the might of a ruler.

Cassandra found herself staring at the painting, zooming in and out once in a while as she observed it, feeling the strength and awe that the art piece exuded. She had a preconceived idea that modern artists objectify women, but Julian's art was not such objectification at all. It was real art that told a story. Despite the woman being nude and exposed, it felt empowering. "He wants to paint me like this?" She mumbled, still staring at the painting through the tiny screen of her phone.

She then looked up the details of the painting, its dimensions, where it was currently at, and found that it was life sized and currently owned by a private collector abroad. She found an interview about it where Julian said that it took four months to complete the painting. If Julian was to paint her, wouldn't she have to be naked in front of him for many, many days?

Cassandra's heart pounded, torn between the thrill of discovery and the unease Isolde's Rising stirred within her. The painting captivated her, its allure impossible to ignore, yet every fiber of her being screamed caution. It was irrational—surely, it couldn't be real. She couldn't risk allowing herself to be vulnerable. Her entire upbringing had ingrained the belief that being truly seen was both a weakness and a danger. And yet, deep within, a quiet yet persistent voice—her heart, perhaps—urged her to take the chance.

Her mind raced with conflicting thoughts, but one thing was clear—talk wouldn't have convinced her. Words, no matter how carefully crafted, could not penetrate the walls she'd built over years of self-reliance and emotional restraint. She had heard countless promises and justifications in her life, all too easily drowned out by the steady hum of her rational mind. But there was something about Julian's artwork, something in the rawness and respect it held, that was different. It wasn't just his words that mattered—it was the quiet power in his paintings that spoke louder than anything he could have said.

She could already feel herself swaying, the barriers of caution weakening with every passing moment. The name on the card in her hand felt less like a stranger's invitation and more like an opportunity—a chance to break free from the confines of her own resistance. The quiet hum of the night wrapped around her as she found herself reaching for her phone again, her fingers trembling slightly as they hovered over the screen.

Before she could second-guess herself, she tapped in the number printed on the card, the screen lighting up with a soft buzz. She held her breath as it rang, the sound echoing in the stillness of the room. Each ring seemed to stretch into eternity, but she remained still, feeling the weight of the decision she was making. This was it. There was no turning back now.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, a gentle voice echoed through the line. It was the same voice she remembered from the art gallery, but now it was laced with a quiet curiosity. "Hello?"

Cassandra's breath caught in her throat, her hand trembling as it gripped the phone. It was him. Julian.

Her heart pounded against her ribs, the words lodged in her throat, refusing to come out. This was it—the moment where she either stepped into the unknown or backed away. Her mind whirled with doubt, but her fingers remained steady on the phone.

"Hello?" he asked again, the sound of his voice pulling her back to the present.

For a moment, she thought about hanging up. But then, with a quiet exhale, she forced the words out, "I... I want to pose for you."