The gallery was dead quiet. Even the rain seemed to pause.
Gabby heard her. She didn’t move, but her pulse quickened. Marcus stepped out of the shadows, hands in the pockets of his paint-stained jacket. Willey Studio Gabby Model Gallery 106
“She’s not a vessel,” Marcus said. “She’s the source. I just hold the brush.” The gallery was dead quiet
Marcus smiled. It was a rare, dangerous expression. “You heard right.” She didn’t move, but her pulse quickened
Gabby looked at the painting. It was raw, unfinished in the most perfect way. The woman in the painting was her, but more. Truer. The kind of truth you only see in reflections before you’re fully awake.
He pulled the sheet away. The canvas was huge—eight feet tall, five feet wide. Pristine. Terrifying. He picked up a brush, dipped it in raw umber, and looked at Gabby.
Gabby obeyed, letting the soft, golden glow from the restored 19th-century lamp catch the curve of her jaw. She had been modeling for Willey Studio for three years, but tonight was different. Tonight, Gallery 106 wasn’t just exhibiting her likeness—it was exhibiting her .