She had expected a portrait. An image of her face, her body, her beauty. That was what she had posed for.
Instead, Cassius had painted her breasts!
No arms. No shoulders. No hint of her face or hair or anything that might identify the subject as a complete human being.
Just her breasts, presented in all their naked glory, as if they were the only thing in the world worth capturing.
And they were magnificent.
That was the truly infuriating part. Isabelle's own painting had been beautiful, but it was clearly a painting.
You could see the brushstrokes, the artistic interpretation, the subtle elevation of reality into art.
But Cassius's painting didn't look like a painting at all.
It looked like he had somehow taken a photograph of her breasts and transferred it directly onto the canvas!
Her skin glowed with a healthy, luminous quality—ivory with just the faintest blush of pink in all the right places.
