Cassandra O'Hara stood in the corner of the crowded art gallery, her arms crossed as she studied the paintings on the wall with a quiet intensity. The world of corporate negotiations was her battleground, but here, surrounded by brushstrokes and splashes of color, she felt a rare sense of stillness. She’d always been drawn to art—its precision, its unspoken language—and today, it was the crisp lines of a portrait that caught her attention. But it wasn’t just the painting that intrigued her. It was the man beside it, sketchbook in hand, his gaze fixed on her with such concentration it felt as though he could see straight through to something hidden. In an instant, something inside her stirred, though she couldn’t quite name it. And before she could turn away, he spoke, his voice steady and calm: "I need to paint you."

She paused, sensing a subtle sense of desperation in his words. At the same time, she was intrigued that someone would need to paint her, of all people. Especially at this moment when she’s aware of how tired she looked. Especially now when there are countless women walking about in the gallery who looked and dressed like they stepped out of paintings themselves. She gazed at the man, taking in his appearance: long wavy locks, olive skin, hazel eyes… eyes that were waiting for a response. A response, she reminded herself. But how does one respond to his words except for, “What?”

For a moment, all she could hear was the soft hum of voices around them, the murmur of footsteps on the polished floors, as if the gallery itself were holding its breath. But then, as if the moment hadn’t been strange enough, he said something even more outrageous than needing to paint her. With eager eyes, he added, “I’d like to paint you nude. Be my muse.”

Cassandra blinked, her mind momentarily unable to process the words he'd just said. Was he serious? Did he really just ask her to pose nude for him, here in the middle of a crowded gallery? She could feel the heat creeping up her neck, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag as she struggled to find her voice. “Excuse me?” she finally managed, her tone more confused than offended. His earnest expression didn’t waver, but the intensity in his eyes—those hazel eyes—was enough to make her question if she had heard him right. "I know it’s forward," he said, his voice almost a murmur now, “but you have a presence that I’ve not seen in years. You’re exactly what I need for my next work.” She opened her mouth to speak, but found herself frozen, unsure of what to say next.

If she had been a model, perhaps she would have entertained the offer without a second thought—after all, she would’ve known how to pose, how to be seen. But she wasn’t. She was a corporate negotiator, buried under layers of contracts, meetings, and deadlines. The last time she ‘modeled’ was for her driver’s license photo, and even that had felt awkward, like she was trying to squeeze herself into an image that didn’t quite fit. And yet, despite the absurdity of the moment, despite the tension still hanging in the air, there was a spark of something else—curiosity. It felt almost like a dare, a challenge. To be seen, in a way that wasn’t filtered through suits, briefcases, or formalities. It was a ridiculous thought. Yet, her gaze lingered on him for just a moment longer.

“Would you?” The man asked, his voice low, almost too eager. His hands clutched the sketchbook tightly, and as he shifted it slightly, Cassandra caught a glimpse of the pages—sketches of faces, of angles, of something raw. And there, amidst the chaotic scribbles, was her own face. It was barely more than a rough outline, but there she was, captured in a way that made her feel both exposed and strangely... alive. She didn’t know how to respond. The request itself felt outlandish, but the fact that he’d been sketching her, here in this moment, pulled at something deep inside her—something she hadn’t expected. Something that made her wonder if she was already, in some way, part of this strange offer.

Her heart was piqued, but her mind was not convinced. She cleared her throat and straightened her posture. “I’m sorry.” She began, “but you should look for someone else.” Her facade made a sudden shift from intrigued to guarded, her perfectly mastered professional face taking front stage. She had put on this mask countless times and by now, she could put it on as quickly as a snap of a finger.

The man didn’t seem deterred. His gaze remained steady, studying her, as if he could see past the layers she’d just put up. The quiet pause between them stretched, and for a moment, she wondered if he could sense the shift within her—how quickly her curiosity had turned to caution.

He finally spoke, his voice softer now, almost like he was trying to reassure her. “I understand,” he said. “But you should know, I’m not looking for just anyone. I saw something in you. Something... raw. Something real.” His words lingered in the air, like a challenge she hadn’t expected.

Cassandra shifted uncomfortably, not sure if she wanted to hear more. She glanced away, her eyes landing on the paintings surrounding them, anything but him. "I'm not the one you're looking for," she replied, a little more firmly this time. 

The man sighed, but it didn’t sound like resignation. It was something else. And as much as he wanted to get her immediate yes, he was a gentleman enough not to push it. He had the impression that while she was immersing herself in art in the gallery, art was not actually her world. Her dull, grey attire, the subtle jewelry, her auburn hair tied up in a neat bun—all spoke of a world vastly different from his. He wanted her to be his muse. He needed her to be his muse. But he wasn’t so impatient as to force it and scare her off.

Instead, he smiled gently, his eyes softening with understanding. "I’ll leave you to your thoughts," he said, his voice smooth yet insistent. "But if you change your mind... This is my card." He handed it to her, his fingers brushing hers for just a second. It was a simple gesture, but it felt heavier somehow. She could sense his quiet expectation, and for reasons she couldn’t place, it unsettled her more than his original request.

Cassandra glanced at the card, then back at him, unsure what to say next. But he was already turning away, the soft thud of his shoes fading as he walked off, leaving her alone with the quiet hum of the gallery. She looked down at the card, her fingers brushing the embossed lettering. The name printed was Julian Romero.