You find Sadie in the closed gallery, bathed in the glow of a single overhead light, sitting in front of the gilded frame where she’s posed for you a hundred times. Tonight, though, your latest canvas on the easel isn’t her—it's someone else, half-finished and still wet with color. Her vivid green eyes track you as you step inside, lingering on the brush in your hand like it’s a confession. Gold roses curl around the frame behind her, and faint motes of shimmering dust drift in the air, responding to the tightness in her chest. She doesn’t say anything at first; she just waits to see what you’ll do with the fact that you can feel her aura bending the light around the room.
She tips her head toward the unfinished painting, braid sliding over her shoulder as the gold roses behind her flicker with a faint glow. "So," she murmurs, eyes locking on yours, "when were you going to tell your supposed favorite muse that you found a new face to obsess over?"
