Chapter 3 — The First Sitting

Third Person

The weathered oak door to Julien’s studio creaked on its hinges as Camille stepped inside, her petite frame dwarfed by the arched windows that loomed overhead. Their frosted panes scattered fractured light onto the room, illuminating a cluttered space thick with the scent of turpentine and linseed oil. Dust swirled in the dim air, glinting faintly in the cold gray light. Camille hesitated at the threshold, her hand clutching the worn leather strap of her satchel while the other gripped the hem of her coat. The chill of the room seeped into her fingers, heightening her unease. She felt small and exposed, as though this place, with its faint echoes of past creations, would take measure of her and find her wanting.

“Close the door,” came a low voice, quiet but firm.

Camille startled slightly, her fingers tightening on the strap of her bag. She turned and pushed the heavy door shut, its hinges groaning as if reluctant to comply. Forcing her shoulders back, she scanned the studio with rapid precision. Paint-streaked palettes and brushes bristled in jars atop makeshift tables. Canvases leaned haphazardly against the walls, their subjects obscured by unfinished strokes. A faint draft rustled the edge of a cloth draped over one painting, hinting at something hidden and unresolved beneath. The room was at once oppressive and oddly intimate, like stepping into the fractured mind of the man who now stood at its center.

Julien Armand, tall and angular, faced a battered easel as though it were a confessor. His dark hair was tousled, strands falling carelessly across his forehead. His fingers gripped the edge of the easel with a subtle tension, the kind that hinted at emotions suppressed but never fully contained.

“You’re late,” he murmured without looking at her, his words clipped but steady.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Camille shot back, her voice sharp, cutting through the stillness. The echo lingered, mingling with the faint creak of floorboards beneath her boots. She was uncomfortable—vulnerable, even—but she would be damned if she let him see it.

Julien turned then, his blue-gray eyes meeting hers. They were striking—piercing, yet clouded with an unnamed weight. He studied her silently, his expression unreadable but intense, as though trying to decipher a puzzle he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve. Camille squared her shoulders, holding his gaze with a defiance born as much from necessity as from pride.

“Over there,” he said finally, with a curt nod toward a wooden stool positioned near the far wall, where the light from the windows softened into diffused beams.

Camille crossed the room, her steps deliberate, her boots clicking faintly against the worn floorboards. She set her satchel down beside the stool and shrugged off her coat, draping it over the back of a chipped chair nearby. Beneath it, her plain gray dress clung to her modest frame, its practicality a reminder of the world she came from—a world of damp apartments and endless responsibilities, far removed from the opulence she’d glimpsed at Madame Mercier’s salon.

Julien moved toward the easel, his steps measured, his gaze resting on the blank canvas like a man approaching a precipice. He adjusted its angle, silent and methodical, before reaching for his tools. Camille, perched on the stool, folded her hands loosely in her lap. Her posture remained upright, her chin tilted slightly upward. Brown eyes narrowed, she let her gaze settle on Julien with a mixture of curiosity and impatience.

“Do you intend to stare at that canvas all day, or should I start posing?” she asked, her tone dry and laced with sardonic edge. The words were sharper than she intended, but the silence pressed too heavily against her nerves.

Julien’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t turn. “Do you always talk this much?” he replied quietly, the faintest edge of irritation threading through his voice.

“Only when I’m uncomfortable,” she admitted, her lips quirking into the faint shadow of a smirk.

He exhaled sharply through his nose—not quite a laugh, but not a sigh either. His gaze swept over her again, more deliberate this time, as though noting the way the light caught the curve of her cheek or the resolute set of her shoulders. There was no lechery in his study, only a detached curiosity, and yet it left Camille feeling exposed.

“Be still,” he instructed, brusque but not harsh. He reached for a paintbrush with an ebony handle, its polished surface gleaming faintly in the pale light. His grip on it was precise, reverent, as though it were an extension of his own hand.

Camille shifted slightly on the stool, crossing one ankle over the other. “You could at least tell me what you want,” she challenged. “Am I supposed to look pensive? Cheerful? Mysterious? Or do you prefer your models silent and lifeless?”

Julien’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but the ghost of one. “Just... be still,” he said quietly, his tone softening. “Let the light find you.”

She arched an eyebrow but let his comment stand. Turning her gaze toward the windows, she studied the fog that clung to the city beyond, its muted gray tendrils curling around the rooftops like a shroud. The heavy silence returned, broken only by the occasional scrape of Julien’s brush against the canvas and the faint rustle of his movements.

The minutes stretched, and Camille’s initial annoyance began to give way to curiosity. From the corner of her eye, she observed him—his furrowed brow, the faint tightening of his jaw, the way his hand moved with restrained precision. She found herself wondering how a man so clearly consumed by grief could still wield such control.

“What do you see?” she asked suddenly, the question slipping out before she could stop herself. Her voice was quieter now, almost tentative.

Julien paused, his brush hovering midstroke. “What do you mean?”

“When you look at me,” she clarified. “What do you see?”

He hesitated, his gaze flicking to hers briefly before returning to the canvas. “Light and shadow,” he said finally, his voice low. “Angles. Lines.”

Camille frowned, the clinical detachment of his reply tightening something in her chest. “That’s it?”

Julien dipped his brush into a jar of linseed oil, his movements unhurried. “And something I can’t quite put into words,” he admitted, so softly she almost missed it.

Her frown deepened, but something in his answer made her breath catch. She looked away, her gaze drifting over the studio’s disarray until it landed on the covered painting. The cloth veiled most of it, but she could make out the faint curve of a shoulder, the cascade of dark hair.

“Who’s that?” she asked, gesturing toward it.

Julien’s hand stilled, his expression darkening. “No one,” he said curtly, his voice colder now, the warmth from moments earlier gone.

Camille hesitated, sensing she had touched a nerve. Empathy stirred within her, unbidden, as she watched him turn back to his work with an almost defensive focus. She chose not to press further but couldn’t shake the impression that the painting, hidden as it was, held some piece of him he was unwilling—or unable—to face.

The session wore on, the tension in the room ebbing and flowing. Camille’s thoughts drifted to her mother, to the damp apartment they shared and the pile of unpaid bills that loomed over them. Her fingers brushed absently against the hem of her dress, seeking comfort.

“Your posture’s slipping,” Julien remarked, his voice cutting through her reverie.

Camille straightened instinctively, heat rising to her cheeks. “You could try being a little less demanding,” she retorted, defensive.

“And you could try being a little more patient,” he countered, his tone calm but firm.

Their gazes locked, the unspoken challenge stretching between them like a taut string. Then, Julien turned back to the canvas, and Camille forced herself to sit still, though her jaw tightened in frustration.

The light from the windows began to fade, casting the studio in a dim, golden haze. Julien lowered his brush and stepped back from the canvas, his expression unreadable.

“That’s enough for today,” he said finally, his voice low and weary.

Camille rose from the stool, stretching her stiff limbs. She glanced at the canvas, but Julien had already turned it away, shielding it from view.

“You don’t let your models see the work?” she asked, curiosity lacing her tone.

“Not until it’s finished,” he replied, finality in his voice.

She shrugged, pulling her coat over her shoulders. “Well,” she said, her tone lighter, though tinged with defiance, “I’ll be here tomorrow. Try not to waste my time.”

Julien didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the canvas. Camille lingered a moment, then turned and made her way to the door, her steps slower this time.

Outside, the cold, misty air bit at her cheeks, unraveling the tension that had gripped her. Yet as she walked, a strange mix of relief and anticipation lingered in her chest. Julien Armand was unlike anyone she had ever met—guarded, enigmatic, and undeniably human.

She would never admit it aloud, but she was curious to see what he might paint next.