Ambrose's Muse

Expectations are a waste. You expect your child to lead, to protect, to grow up and follow your footsteps. But when they don’t, when they dare to forge their own path or when they fall into the traps of life, when things become complicated... when they don’t become what was intended for them: it germinates discord, conflict and sometimes death.

Ambrose stared at the woman in front of her, Madame Diane, her eyes glinted with greed. She was getting a hefty commission today. Twenty per cent of seven hundred thousand was a lucrative deal, after all, one which she deserved.

“Trust is fickle, Madame Diane,” Ambrose whispered, “but you wear your testimonials like war commendations, and I would like to believe them.”

“You will trust me when you see her, Mr Vasilakis,” Diane purred, “I do my job well.”

“I shall be the judge of that,” Ambrose said, “I had very specific requirements.”

“And she happens to tick all the boxes. Innocent as a white lily, she is untouched and pure.”

“Why does she want to be a part of this debauchery?” Ambrose inquired.

“She needs the money; her younger sister is battling cancer, and her parents are barely scraping through. She also has a hefty student loan on her. The girl is desperate,”

Ambrose nodded, with the money he was giving, she would not only be able to treat her sister but also pay back her student loans. She would still have enough money left.

“The money will be paid in instalments,” Diane said, “just like you wanted.”

Ambrose was in need of a muse. A girl he could paint naked, and he had specific requirements. She would have to stay in his house for two whole months. The painting would be very private to him, this was a clause from her. No one would be allowed to see it ever. He promised that in the contract, he wasn’t even planning on showing it. It would be a part of his exclusive collection, only for his eyes.

“I think everything is in order then,” Ambrose announced, “bring her forward.”

“Promise me one thing though,” Madame Diane whispered, and Ambrose raised his brow.

“Don’t fall in love with her,” she whispered.

Ambrose’s lip turned upwards, a semblance of a smile. He didn’t know what the word meant, and he had sworn off of love decades ago. Madame Diane was funny.

“Don’t worry, Madame Diane,” Ambrose brushed it off, “bring the girl forward.”

Diane turned around and whispered something in the ear of one of the girls. The girl nodded and went towards a curtained room.

“Her name is Bell,”

“Short for Isabelle?”

“It is just Bell, nothing else, like doorbell?” Diane explained.

“Bell,” Ambrose tasted the words on his lips.

“Madame Diane, Bell is here,”

“Bring her in, Crystal,”

Crystal walked out of the curtained room and Ambrose could sense another girl behind her. Crystal moved away from in front of her, leaving Bell alone. Ambrose felt his heart speed up, something akin to sheer astonishment hit his system. What stood in front of him wasn’t a girl, it was an ethereal beauty. She didn’t belong here.

Bell’s hair was styled into a milkmaid braid. Each strand was carefully pinned. It suited her delicate face. Her red lips were the first which he observed, they were full and plum yet small and cute. Bell’s nose was delicately shaped, it was perfection. Her long lashes fawned over her cheeks, they hid her eyes.

“Look up,” Diane said. There was a sharpness in her voice, and sweet Bell flinched. Ambrose almost wanted to empty his gun in her head. Like a little bunny, she looked up, and Ambrose struggled to maintain his rigid posture.

They were heterochromatic, her big doe eyes were two different colours. One green the other blue.

What a beautiful creature, all packed in a tiny, dainty little body. She was such a small thing.

“Remember the promise, Capo Valentine,” Diane whispered. The wicked smile on her face taunted him.

Bell was a problem, and he was fucked.