The Artist’S Secret Obsession: My Face On His Canvas
face on wall
The sunlight was too bright. It stabbed at Ivy’s eyelids, forcing her to bury her face deeper into the pillow. Her phone had been screaming on the nightstand for three minutes straight. Finally, she groaned, fumbling for the device and pressing it to her ear without looking.
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Hello?" her voice was a thick, sleepy rasp.
...
Ivy! Oh my god, Ivy! Why didn't you tell me?"
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Ivy blinked, her brain struggling to catch up with the high-pitched energy of her best friend, Chloe. "Tell you what? Chloe, it’s 7:00 AM."
...
Don’t play coy with me! You’re in a relationship with him? Since when? How did you even meet him? Is he as brooding and handsome in person as the magazines say?"
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Ivy sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. "Who are you talking about? I’m not in a relationship with anyone
...
Stop lying!" Chloe shrieked. "The whole world knows now. He literally declared it to the public in the most romantic, artistic way possible. Ivy, he painted you!"
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Ivy froze, her hand dropping from her eyes. "What? Who painted me?"
...
Roman De Luca! The Roman De Luca! The man whose paintings sell for ten million dollars before the paint is even dry. He just unveiled his center-piece for the 'Obsession' gala, and Ivy… it’s you. It’s 100% you."
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Roman… De Luca?" Ivy’s heart skipped a beat. The name was legendary—a reclusive, genius artist known for his dark, intense portraits and a temper to match. "Chloe, you’re crazy. I’ve never even met the man. I’ve never been to his studio. I don’t move in those circles."
...
Then explain the portrait, Ivy! It’s on the front page of the Art Section. It’s titled 'The Muse I’ll Never Forget'. I’m sending you a link, but you need to see the physical paper. It’s everywhere!"
Ivy hung up without a word. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Roman De Luca. Roman De Luca. She knew the name, of course. Everyone did. But a portrait?
She threw the covers off and ran downstairs, her bare feet slapping against the cold hardwood.
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
"Mom! Mom, where are the papers?" she shouted as she burst into the kitchen.
Her mother, Sarah, was calmly pouring coffee, looking over her shoulder with a frown. "Ivy Winters, what is the meaning of this shouting? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
The newspaper, Mom! Where is it?"
...
It’s on the table, but you are not touching it until you sit down and eat your breakfast. I made eggs and—
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
I don’t want eggs!" Ivy snapped, lunging for the folded paper resting near the toaster.
...
Ivy! Don’t you use that tone with me," her mother rebuked, placing a hand on her hip. "You’ve been stressed with your studies, but that’s no excuse to skip a meal. Sit. Down. Now."
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Mom, please! This is important!"
...
"Everything is 'important' with you," Sarah sighed, turning back to the stove. "Eat first. The news will still be there in ten minutes."
Ivy didn't listen. She snatched the paper, her hands trembling so hard the newsprint rattled. She flipped past the world news, past the local politics, until she reached the Lifestyle and Arts supplement.
There it was.
The headline read: DE LUCA’S SECRET UNVEILED: THE FACE BEHIND THE OBSESSION.
Below it was a high-resolution photo of a massive oil painting. It wasn't just a likeness. It was her. The way her hair fell over her left shoulder when she was tired. The tiny, almost invisible mole just below her collarbone. The specific, haunting shade of her hazel eyes. In the painting, she looked like she was waking up from a dream—vulnerable, beautiful, and completely exposed.
Ivy’s blood ran cold. She felt sick. She had never met Roman De Luca in her life.
...
"Ivy? What is it? You’ve gone pale," her mother said, finally noticing her daughter’s frozen expression.
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
"I have to go," Ivy whispered.
...
Go where? You haven't had a bite!"
Ivy didn't answer. She took the paper and bolted back upstairs, dialing Chloe’s number again.
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Chloe? Are you there?"
...
Yeah! Did you see it? It’s incredible, right? You look like a goddess!"
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
It’s a nightmare, Chloe! I don’t know that man! I’ve never talked to him!" Ivy was throwing on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, her movements frantic. "Where is the exhibition? Right now."
...
"It’s at the Grand Gallery downtown. It opened an hour ago for the press and VIPs, but the public line is already around the block."
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Meet me there. Now. I don’t care about the line. I’m getting in
...
Ivy, wait! What are you going to do?"
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
"I’m going to find Roman De Luca," Ivy said, her voice shaking with a mix of fear and fury. "And I’m going to ask him why he’s telling the world I’m his, when I don't even know his face."
muse
Ivy’s fingers flew across her phone screen, the blue light reflecting in her wide, anxious eyes.
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Nothing," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Chloe, there isn’t a single photo of him. Not one."
...
I told you, Ivy. Roman De Luca is a ghost. He’s the most famous artist of our generation, but he’s a total recluse. He doesn’t do interviews, he doesn't do red carpets, and he definitely doesn’t do selfies. The public has no idea what he actually looks like. They just know his signature."
Ivy looked back at the newspaper on her lap. The portrait of her was so detailed, so intimate, it felt like a violation
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
If no one knows his face, how did he paint mine? I’ve never sat for a portrait. I’ve never even been in a studio!"
...
Maybe he’s a stalker," Chloe said, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "A very, very rich stalker. Look, I have to go—my boss is glaring at me—but get to that gallery. Demand answers!
The air inside the gallery smelled of expensive champagne and floor wax. Ivy bypassed the long lines of tourists and headed straight for the sleek, obsidian-colored front desk.
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
I need to speak with the manager," Ivy said, her voice trembling slightly
The manager, a tall man with a silver goatee and a silk cravat, looked up from his tablet. He started to give a polite, rehearsed dismissal, but then his eyes landed on Ivy’s face. He froze. His gaze flicked from her to the massive canvas hanging in the center of the hall, then back to her.
...
Mon Dieu," he breathed, his eyes wide with reverence. "The Muse. You’re even more... haunting in the flesh. The bone structure, the light in the eyes... Roman has captured your soul, Mademoiselle."
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
I didn't give him permission to capture anything," Ivy snapped, leaning over the desk. "Where is he? Where is Roman De Luca?
...
The manager straightened his cravat, looking nervous. "Mr. De Luca does not see the public. However..." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "For you, exceptions can be made. There is a private gala happening in the West Wing. Only the elite are permitted. I will give you a special entry pass. You will find him there."
He handed her a gold-embossed card. Ivy snatched it and headed for the heavy oak doors guarded by two massive security guards.
The interior of the West Wing was a different world. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the guest list looked like a 'Who’s Who' of the billionaire world. Ivy felt wildly out of place in her sneakers and jeans, but her anger acted as a shield.
She scanned the room. She didn't know his face, but she looked for the center of gravity.
In a secluded corner, sitting on a velvet lounge sofa, were two men. One was dressed in a sharp, casual blazer, laughing and holding a glass of scotch. The other sat deeper in the shadows, his face partially obscured as he leaned back, watching the crowd with a bored, predatory stillness.
Ivy marched straight toward them. She stopped in front of the man in the blazer.
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Do you know where Roman De Luca is?" she demanded, her hands clenched at her sides
The man in the blazer stopped laughing. He looked Ivy up and down, his eyes widening as he recognized her. He nudged the man sitting in the shadows next to him
...
Well, look at this," the man chuckled. "If it isn't the girl from the painting. The legendary Muse has come to find her creator
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Ivy ignored his tone. "I am not a 'Muse.' I am a person whose privacy has been invaded. Tell me where he is
...
The man in the blazer grinned. "She’s feisty, Roman. You didn't mention she was a firecracker
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Ivy blinked. Roman?
She looked at the man in the shadows. He finally leaned forward, the light catching the sharp angles of his jaw and those cold, intelligent eyes. He looked like a wolf in a tailored suit.
Roman De Luca(ml)
The man you’re looking for isn't here," the man—the one in the shadows—said smoothly. His voice was like velvet over gravel.
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Don't lie to me. Your friend just called you Roman.
Roman De Luca(ml)
Roman is a name. It doesn't mean I’m the artist you’re looking for. Perhaps he’s in the back? Or perhaps he’s just a figment of your imagination?"
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
You think this is funny?" Ivy hissed, stepping closer. "My face is on every newsstand because of some arrogant painter who thinks he owns my likeness. I want that painting taken down, and I want an apology.
Roman De Luca(ml)
An apology for making you famous?" the man asked, his gaze traveling over her face with a clinical, almost possessive intensity. "Most women would pay millions for that kind of immortality."
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
I'm not 'most women'!" Ivy shouted, drawing the attention of a few nearby socialites. "You’re all the same. Arrogant, entitled, and—
...
Ivy, stop," the man in the blazer interrupted, looking amused. "You’re arguing with a wall
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Fine!" Ivy threw her hands up. "If he’s not here, tell him I’m coming for him. Legally
She turned on her heel and stormed away, her heart thundering. Chloe had left an hour ago to go to work, leaving Ivy alone in this den of sharks. She needed air. She wandered into a smaller, dimly lit gallery room filled with abstract sculptures.
In the center of the room was a small, delicate piece—a sculpture made of thin glass threads. It looked like a frozen teardrop. Without thinking, drawn by its beauty, Ivy reached out her hand. Her fingertip was an inch away from the glass
Roman De Luca(ml)
Don't touch it
The voice came from right behind her ear. Ivy jumped, spinning around. It was him—the man from the sofa. He was standing so close she could smell his scent: sandalwood and expensive tobacco
Roman De Luca(ml)
It’s fragile," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Just like a secret. One touch, and it shatters
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
You followed me," Ivy accused, backing away until her heels hit the pedestal of the sculpture
Roman De Luca(ml)
I’m the host," he teased, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "I go where I please in my own house.
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Your house? This is a gallery.
Roman De Luca(ml)
I own the gallery, Ivy Winters." He stepped into her personal space, forcing her to look up at him. "I own everything inside these walls. Including the images on them
Ivy opened her mouth to argue, but she was interrupted by a loud, boisterous shout.
...
Roman! There you are!"
...
An older man, a well-known art critic, hurried over and threw an arm around the man’s shoulders. "The exhibition is a triumph, Roman De Luca! You’ve outdone yourself. The portrait of this girl... it’s your masterpiece!"
Ivy’s jaw dropped. The air left her lungs in a sharp gasp.
She looked at the man in front of her—the man who had watched her argue, the man who had lied to her face, the man who was now smirking as the critic praised him.
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
You..." Ivy stammered, her face flushing a deep, angry red. "You are Roman De Luca?"
...
The critic laughed. "Of course he is! Who else could paint like that?
Roman waited until the critic wandered off before he looked back at Ivy. The smirk was still there, dominant and unapologetic
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
You lied to me," Ivy whispered, her voice shaking with pure rage. "You sat there and watched me act like a fool while you pretended you didn't know who I was
Roman De Luca(ml)
"I never said I wasn't Roman," he replied, tucking his hands into his pockets. "I said the man you were looking for wasn't there. You were looking for a monster. I’m just a man with a brush."
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
You’re a liar!" Ivy shouted, shoving his chest. He didn't even stumble; he felt like a mountain of solid muscle. "Why didn't you tell me? Why did you hide?
Roman caught her wrists in one hand, his grip firm but not painful. He leaned down, his face inches from hers.
Roman De Luca(ml)
Because I wanted to see if the real Ivy Winters was as captivating as the one I’ve been dreaming about," he murmured. "And I have to say... the painting doesn't do your temper justice.
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Let go of me," she hissed
Roman De Luca(ml)
Not until we settle the bill, Muse," Roman said, his eyes darkening. "You want the painting down? Fine. But you’ll have to give me something much more valuable in return."
Ivy’s heart hammered against her ribs. She was trapped—not by a frame, but by the man who had created it
paint
The air in the small, boutique coffee shop was thick with the scent of roasted beans and expensive hazelnut syrup. Ivy sat across from Roman, her arms tightly crossed over her chest. A steaming cup of black coffee sat between them, untouched. She hadn't even reached for the sugar.
Roman, however, looked perfectly at ease. He leaned back in his chair, his long fingers wrapped around a ceramic mug. He watched her with a calm, infuriating intensity.
Roman De Luca(ml)
"You should drink it," he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, melodic cadence. "Coffee is like a first love, Ivy. It’s bitter at the start, dark as a moonless night, but once it touches your soul, it warms you from the inside out. To ignore it is to ignore a masterpiece waiting to be felt."
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Stop it. Just stop. I didn't come here for a poetry reading or a lesson on how to drink caffeine."
Roman De Luca(ml)
"No?" Roman tilted his head, a lock of dark hair falling over his brow. "Then why did you agree to meet me?
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
"Answer me about the photo," Ivy demanded, leaning forward. "About the portrait. The one in the gallery. The one that’s currently making my life a living hell."
Roman De Luca(ml)
Roman blinked, looking genuinely puzzled for a split second before a slow smirk spread across his face. "Which one? I have many pieces in that exhibition."
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Don't play games with me, Roman. My one. The one with my face on it."
Roman De Luca(ml)
"Oh!" Roman chuckled, a deep sound that vibrated in the small space. "That one. Ah, yes... my Lyla." He paused, his eyes gleaming. "My imagination lover
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Ivy stared at him, her mouth falling open. "Excuse me?"
Roman De Luca(ml)
"You are excused," Roman replied instantly, his tone casual and dismissive.
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
"You called it an 'imagination lover'?" Ivy hissed. "That is my face. Every mole, every lash, every expression. How can you sit there and tell me it’s a figment of your imagination?"
Roman De Luca(ml)
Roman set his coffee down and leaned in, his gaze turning sharp. "I’ve never seen you before that night at the gala, Ivy Winters. I’ve never walked past you on the street. I’ve never seen your social media. The girl in that painting... she came from my mind. She’s soft. She’s silent. She’s the kind of woman who inspires a man to create, not to argue." He let out a short, dry laugh. "She is certainly not like you. You’re... rude. Aggressive. Real.
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Ivy’s face flushed a deep crimson. "I don't care what you call her! I want to buy it. Name your price. I want that painting out of the public eye and in my possession where I can burn it."
Roman De Luca(ml)
Roman’s smirk vanished, replaced by a cold, stony expression. "You can’t buy it."
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
"Why not? Everything has a price for people like you."
Roman De Luca(ml)
Not that," Roman said simply. "I don't sell my heart to people who want to set it on fire. You want it? Fine. But you can't have it today. Or tomorrow."
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
"I'll wait," Ivy snapped, grabbing her bag. "I’ll wait until you realize that having a 'real' woman sue you for every dime you're worth isn't worth a piece of canvas.
That night, the house was quiet. Ivy sat at the small kitchen table, watching her mother, Sarah, aggressively scrub a spot on the counter that was already clean. The tension in the house was palpable, a heavy fog that had settled years ago and never truly lifted.
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Mom," Ivy said softly. "Why are you always so angry at Dad? Even when he calls, you barely speak to him."
...
Sarah stopped scrubbing, her shoulders tensing. She didn't turn around. "Your father is a poet, Ivy. Do you know what that means? It means he lives in the clouds. He lives in words and metaphors." Her voice cracked. "When your brother died... when we needed a man to hold this family together, to handle the funeral, to pay the bills... your father wasn't here. He was 'chasing a vision' in the mountains. He was writing about the beauty of grief while I was drowning in it."
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
"It wasn't his mistake, Mom," Ivy whispered, thinking of her father’s gentle, distant eyes. "He just processes things differently."
...
"I felt the love," Sarah said, finally turning around, her eyes red-rimmed. "I felt the beautiful words and the flowers and the passion. But I never felt the consequences. Love isn't just a poem, Ivy. It’s showing up when the world falls apart. Remember that before you lose your heart to a man who lives in his own head."
Ivy went to bed that night feeling the weight of her mother’s words. She thought of Roman—another man who lived in his head, another man who saw the world through a lens of 'imagination' rather than reality.
Five days later, Ivy found herself standing in front of a sleek, industrial building on the outskirts of the city. It wasn't Roman’s home—he had been very clear about that. It was his private "art place," a sanctuary where the public wasn't invited.
She pushed open the heavy steel door. The space was enormous, with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the grey afternoon light. Canvases were stacked against every wall, and the floor was splattered with a galaxy of dried paint.
Roman was standing at a tall easel in the center of the room. He didn't turn around when she entered.
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
"I want to buy it," Ivy said, her voice echoing in the vast space. "I’ve thought about it for five days. I’ll pay whatever it takes."
Roman finally turned, a paintbrush still in his hand. He looked tired, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms stained with cobalt blue.
Roman De Luca(ml)
Okay," he said calmly. "Give me the payment."
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Really? Just like that? How much? Three hundred thousand?" She thought that was a massive, generous offer.
Roman De Luca(ml)
Roman let out a sudden, bark-like laugh. "Three hundred thousand?" He shook his head, walking toward her. "Ivy, I had a collector from Japan fly in yesterday. He offered me eight lakhs—eight hundred thousand dollars—for that piece before the gala even ended."
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Ivy’s heart dropped. "Eight... eight hundred thousand?"
Roman De Luca(ml)
"And I told him no," Roman added, stopping just inches away from her
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
No way," Ivy whispered. "It’s just a painting. It’s not that level... it can’t be.
Roman didn't answer. Instead, he raised his hand. Before Ivy could pull away, he brushed the tip of his paintbrush—still wet with a pale, shimmering gold—across her cheek.
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Hey!" she yelped, trying to wipe it off.
Roman De Luca(ml)
Don't," he commanded, his voice low and intense. "You are my imagination, Ivy. Even standing here, yelling at me, you are the most perfect thing I’ve ever conceived. You're... cute when you're overwhelmed
He stepped closer, invading her space until she could feel the heat radiating from his body. Ivy looked up, her breath hitching. Up close, his eyes weren't just icy; they were a storm of blues and greys, swirling with a passion that terrified her.
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
"I’m going," Ivy said, her voice small. She turned to bolt for the door, but Roman’s hand shot out, catching her wrist in a firm, warm grip.
Ivy stopped, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked at his hand on her arm, then back up at his face.
Ivy Winters/irish(fl)
Ivy froze. "Free? Why?"
Roman De Luca(ml)
Roman’s thumb traced a slow, hypnotic circle over her pulse point. "On one condition. You meet with me. More. Not as a muse, not as a model. Just... you and me. Until I figure out why the real woman is so much more haunting than the one I painted."
Ivy remained silent, her gaze locked onto his. The anger was still there, but beneath it was something else—a pull, a curiosity that she couldn't suppress. She thought of her mother’s warning about poets and consequences. She looked at Roman’s paint-stained hands and his arrogant smirk.
Roman De Luca(ml)
Is that a deal, Ivy?" he whispered.
Ivy didn't say yes, but she didn't pull her hand away either. She just stood there in the quiet of the studio, the scent of oil paint and sandalwood wrapping around her like a contract she wasn't sure she was ready to sign.
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