Arabella Malik, the lethal American mob boss's daughter.
The beauty of the nineteen-year-old was well-known. Her hourglass figure and glowing grey eyes-which mirrored her father's, had practically everyone praising the ground she walked on.
Arabella...
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✰ Ａｒａｂｅｌｌａ ✰
"𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐦'𝐬"
We moved on to the next room, which was now filled with paintings, one of my favourite types of art.
Hung on walls, and some so delicate they were displayed in glass boxes. Every painting conveyed a surreal, unique message.
Each one has a unique tale, appearance, and significance. Most artists utilised their hands to create, but their mindset was shaped solely by their emotions.
Our emotions were the only ones who generated feelings and stories, expressing our ideas and words that couldn't be said—through art.
That was how it was for me. Whatever I was feeling at the time would be expressed on a canvas or in a sketchbook. My hands would undertake the physical labour, while my mind would focus on the essential task.
Art, in my opinion, can be anything. In any shape or form, whether as a rock or as a simple drawing. The story was the creator of whatever made it distinctive, whatever made it unique.
As a result, I absorbed every painting that attracted my eye and read the story via my eyes. Even if you didn't know the tale, you could figure out a few details about it—which was part of the fun, the mystery of not knowing the plot.
If you were to gaze at a piece of artwork that had no information and was just bland. You may simply make up the story using your imagination and the art's minor features.
The narrative may or may not be true, but it offers you an idea of what it could be.
"Perhaps one of my own will come here one day," I murmured, delicately sliding my fingers down the cold stone beneath the hidden, acclaimed artwork.
Arms came around my waist from behind me, I beamed as I stood in front of the last painting. His cool breath touched the curve of my neck, and a delicate kiss was pushed against it, causing my smile to vanish as the overwhelming sensation of him caressed me.
"It will be," He whispered into my ear. I closed my eyes for a second as his next words were spoken. "I'll make sure of it,"
They were said softly but powerfully. The reassurance and confidence in his tone was the embitterment of the assurance I knew that he would make it happen, no doubt set in my mind.
I completely turned in his arms and confronted his towering self. A glimmer danced in the depths of his eyes, and the straining side of a smile sat upon his lips. His eyes matched mine at the time, and it was a sight to behold.
My gaze moved away from him and onto the room surrounding us as an idea occurred to me. For the time being, it was empty, with only the two of us present, and I smiled smugly.
