Chapter Four: "Brushed in Scarlet: A Love Between Lines and Silk"
That morning, I walked across the hallway, barefoot and half-asleep, rushing to the bathroom. My cornrows had loosened overnight, so I gently pulled them out, letting my thick, untamed afro bloom. I massaged my scalp as warm water ran over it, the shampoo foaming with a satisfying tingle. After rinsing, I moved into my skin routine with practiced ease—cleanser, toner, serum, moisturizer, and a soft glow in the mirror.
I stepped into the shower, letting the water wash off the drowsiness of the night. I dressed in my usual comfort: oversized baggy clothes. Baggy outfits were my work armor—free, soft, and unapologetically me. I only wore suits or high fashion when I had important appointments or press events. Otherwise, I preferred the comfort of blending into my creativity, not standing out from it.
My afro bounced proudly as I entered the kitchen. I whipped up a batch of sweet pancakes, humming to myself while flipping them. The scent filled the air with warmth. But as I was about to eat, a thought hit me like a slap:
"Ugh, Juliet… you forgot your morning workout again!"
I sighed dramatically but sat down anyway. One missed workout isn't a crime.
After breakfast, I dashed outside. The breeze kissed my skin, and I felt alive.
The driver of my personal car opened the door swiftly.
"Good morning, boss," he greeted.
"Good morning," I smiled as I slid into the seat.
The drive to Aurielle House of Fashion was smooth. The building stood tall like a cathedral of dreams—a place where imagination met luxury. When we arrived, I stepped out, sunglasses on, confidence switched on.
Ariana, my assistant, met me at the door with her usual big smile. Honestly, sometimes I wondered if her cheeks ever got tired.
"Good morning, boss," she beamed.
"Good morning, Ariana," I replied with a chuckle.
"How are you today?"
"I'm good. You?"
"Surviving," I teased. "Anything interesting today?"
"A lot, actually," she said, her tablet already open.
We entered my office, a blend of velvet, glass, and soft pink tones. I sat down and skimmed through the files on my desk.
"Have you completed the client papers?"
"Yes, boss. Everything's in place."
"Good work." I leaned back, stretching my arms. "I'll be leaving early today."
"Art class?" she asked with a knowing smirk.
"You know me too well."
I pulled out a sketchpad and showed her a few ideas for our eveningwear line.
"What do you think about this color palette?" I asked, pointing to a bold crimson design.
Ariana's eyes lit up. "The red one is a showstopper."
"Agreed," I nodded. "Red always knows how to command attention."
I glanced at the calendar on my desk.
"I'll be gone next week for that business event in Milan. So don't bother looking for me."
"Got it, boss," she laughed.
After a few more meetings, I packed up my bag.
"Ariana, I'm heading out."
"Okay, boss. Enjoy your art date ,I mean, class."
I gave her a playful glare and left the building.
Back in the car, I told the driver, "Take me to the studio."
"Yes, boss."
Art had become my personal therapy. Ever since that night in Florence two years ago, it had become a secret part of me.
The night I met Lucien Moretti.
I remember walking through an elegant Italian gallery, stunned by the soul painted into every canvas. One piece caught my eye....so raw, so alive. I couldn't look away.
"It gives a sense of peace, doesn't it?"
The voice beside me was velvet and smooth. I turned—and there he was. Tall, mysterious, with blue eyes that held stories. A gentle smile on his lips.
"Nice to meet you, my lady," he said.
"Nice to meet you too…" I whispered, caught in the intensity of his gaze.
"I love that you're moved by my work."
I blinked. "Wait… your work?"
He chuckled softly. "Yes."
"Oh my God… this is unbelievable. Your art is—wow—it pauses time."
"Thank you," he said, humbly. "It means everything to me when someone sees more than paint."
"I wish I could do what you do," I admitted. "I want to express what I feel—paint the world I carry in my head."
"That's the first step," he said. "And I can help you."
I stared at him. "You would?"
He extended his hand. "Lucien Moretti."
I took it. "Juliet."
"Beautiful name for a beautiful mind."
Before I could say another word, a man in black approached. A bodyguard. Lucien turned.
"I have to go, Juliet. But call me anytime."
He handed me his card, gave me one last breathtaking smile, and disappeared into the night.
That was how it all began.
The car now pulled through black gates into his family's mansion. I still remembered the shock when I looked him up later. Lucien Moretti—not only a world-renowned artist but heir to one of Europe's oldest art dynasties. Born into wealth, raised in elegance, but his spirit… was nothing short of poetic.
A man greeted me at the mansion door.
"Good afternoon, madam."
"Afternoon," I smiled.
"I'll take you to him."
The mansion was a piece of art on its own. We entered the lounge where Lucien sat, legs crossed, sipping wine. His suit was undone, his shirt sleeves rolled, and his hair casually tousled. When he saw me, his entire face lit up.
"Juliet," he said softly. "You look beautiful."
I smiled. "You're not looking bad yourself."
"Drink with me?" he asked, holding up a glass.
I bit my lip. "Just a little. Don't want to get tipsy before painting."
He laughed gently. "Fair."
We walked into his private art studio. The air smelled of paint and faint jasmine. A large canvas stood in the center—another masterpiece in progress.
I put on my apron, picked up a brush, and started working on my piece. As I painted, I could feel Lucien's eyes on me. I turned to meet his gaze.
"What?" I asked, smiling nervously.
He walked closer, gently helping me fix the angle of my brush.
"You've grown so much," he said, his voice lower now. "Your imagination… it's wild and beautiful."
My heart stuttered.
I looked into his eyes. "It's because of you. You believed in me."
Lucien stepped even closer. "Your talent was always there. I just helped you uncover it."
There was a pause. A tension in the air. I felt his hand brush lightly against mine. I turned, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks.
"How was your fashion show in Paris?" he asked, voice softer.
"It was incredible," I whispered. "But this… painting with you… this is the real magic."
He didn't respond immediately—just looked at me like I was the most fascinating thing in the room.
Then, finally, he said, "Juliet… You inspire me."
My heart beat louder than my thoughts.
And in that moment, I didn't feel like a fashion designer or a student or a girl still figuring it all out.
I felt… seen.