Ever been struck by lightning in a room full of artful pretense?
No. Never. Until Jasmine.
Her gaze, a discerning brushstroke cutting through my veneer of suit and status, finds the artist yearning beneath.
In this world where every brushstroke guards a secret, her gaze is an incision through my crafted façade. Reading unspoken truths in my art, truths even I dare not voice.
I’m comfortable with art as my silent confidante, and my hidden voice when she steps into the frame.
She talks art, but her every word sketches a challenge I can’t resist.
Her depth, an irresistible magnet. Her beauty, not just seen but felt.
Jasmine’s not just in the room—she’s the air itself.
Suddenly my inspiration now craves a muse. My heart, no longer my own, craves her.
Peeling away my layers is a plot twist even I didn’t see coming.
Because revealing my truth could be the stroke that breaks everything.
But what if it’s the only way to complete our masterpiece?
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