A quiet stillness settles into my bones, the constant chatter in my mind fading out, like a decrescendo of an important note at the end of a symphony. It lingers long enough to do its job, to evoke emotion, and then I’m left with an eerie internal silence that makes me know.

Just know.

“I know what I want to do,” I declare, making Alice’s lips twitch, the smile tight, deep grooves in her lips a sign of age and many, many complex movements that aren’t quite smiles, but designed to fool.

This one is real, though.

“I’ll pose.”

“No!” Silas commands, his spine stretching to full height, his body filling out in a clear stance of power and authority.

“Yes. I consent. It’s my choice.”

Plus, I’m pissed.

He turns to Alice. “These new paintings–will they be on display somewhere?”

“Maybe. Galleries love me.”

“You’re Alice Mogrett. Of course they do.” He gives me a look I can’t name. “As long as–”

I cut him off and address Alice. “Robe?”

She nods toward a partition. “Behind the screen.”

And with that, I parade past Silas, eyes never leaving his, my mouth tight with a fuck you smile.

“Jane, I know you’re emotional right now. The car bombing, and you’ve had to deal with Bosworth and his team, and then the crazy old lady with the rifle–”

“Hey!” Alice protests. “Don’t call me a lady! I’m anything but.”

“Fine. Crazy old woman. But Jane, are you sure you really want to do this?” he implores.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“If the paparazzi are stalking you here, like that guy who got on the premises, if one of them gets a photo of you naked...”

“What? I might be shamed?” I cover my mouth with my fingertips in mock outrage. “That would be so embarrassing, wouldn’t it?”

He gives me a look of reluctant understanding. “Got it.”

“I have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

“Gain? What do you gain from taking your clothes off?”

“If you haven’t figured that out yet, buddy...” Alice says with a chuckle.

Silas interrupts with, “You know what I mean.”

She props her closed fist on one hip and turns to him.”No. I don’t. What possible reason would Jane have for not posing as the subject of a work of art? This mess she’s in now–it’s scandal. It’s a feeding frenzy. It’s yellow journalism at best and sleazy gossip at worst.” She looks at me. “But it is temporary. These jackals will go away. Some bigger, better scandal will come along. And then Jane will be a tarnished footnote in history. The painting, though… it will show her truth. Her essence. It will represent who she really is, and in one hundred years her name won’t be uttered, but her temporary beauty will be gazed upon and admired.”

I don’t need his permission. But I don’t want his contempt. Living in the space between those two is a kind of torture.

Madness, really.

I have to cross the line that separates them, so I step forward, one step toward the screening partition. Then a second step. A third. By the time I am behind it and see the robe, my heart is beating so hard in my chest, I’m sure it’s dented my ribs.

“Alice, I didn’t plan for this. My hair, my–”

“You know none of that matters,” she chides. “It’s the authenticity that is important. Not the exterior wrapping.”

Twice in the same day, then, I find myself naked in front of Silas.

Once by accident.

Once by choice.

My choice.

As I reach back to unzip the sundress, I remember his touch. Maybe that’s why I’m doing this. Because it’s real. Because it makes me more real. Silas is on the other side of this screen, unable to stop me, but unable to leave.

For once, I have power.

If this is what it takes to grasp some, then so be it.

I remove the bra and panties, folding them neatly on top of my sundress. A small stool behind the screen is a simple place to set my clothes. The robe is cold cotton against my heated skin. The warm air is responsible for some of the heat, but Silas is the trigger for far more.

I’ve never posed in a state of arousal before. I take a moment to cycle through some deep breaths, the familiar warmth between my legs now a curse. A deep acceptance comes when I pose, all the judgmental voices inside me quieting.

Expectations come from the outside, but also from our inside self. We find our boundaries by failing. Sometimes, though, the boundaries are imposed by the most critical expectation-setter of all.

Self-doubt.

And that is a prison. The only way to break free is to face all your fears. It’s a kind of courage so terrifying, people would rather lie to themselves than be real.

You can’t be unreal when you’re naked, on display for the sake of the gaze. The artist’s expectations are simple:

Just be.

Move when told. Angle your body a certain way to achieve a certain effect. And then–relax. Or not. Pose. Freeze. Smile. Move that leg. Look contemplative.

Be an object.

Do you know what a relief it is to just be an object sometimes?

Not someone else’s object.

My own.

I step out from behind the screen and walk to the staged area where Alice wants me to pose. A simple woven shawl, some flowers, and a small pitcher rest on a table.

“Whenever you’re ready, Jane,” she says, all business, all kindness.

Like Band-Aids, the best way to disrobe in public is to do it quickly, suffer through a few seconds of pain, and then sigh with relief.

I get ready. My hands play with the sash, suddenly bashful.

I look at Silas’s baby blue eyes the entire time.

Silas blinks. Just once. One single movement in his tall, strong body. It says everything and nothing, that blink. He doesn’t look away from me. Long gone is the shy man I met with Lindsay seven months ago. He’s somber and respectful, our eyes connecting the rest of us, the gaze longer and fuller as seconds pass, my breath quickening, his slowing.

We’re reveling in each other. Every breath feels like a new layer, like I’m stripping myself naked from the inside out. The fact that I’m nude under this thin robe, every inch of skin exposed, feels like some sort of disguise.

My inner self needs to undress, layer by layer, piece by piece, until all I am is vulnerable before him, unfurled and flayed, ready for reckoning.

Alice is right.

I need this.

I need all of this.

Silas’s face turns pink, his breath picking up, his eyes moving to Alice though his body stays rooted. She is focused entirely on me, unaware that she’s now the object of his attention. I cannot move, but my eyes can. I steal glances at him, like taking still photos and putting them together in a montage that lets me hold onto that feeling of completion for just a few more aching moments.

“I’m required to remain in the room at all times and to have visual... on the subject,” he explains.

“You mean your job requires that you see her at all times?” Alice is clearly amused.

“Yes,” he chokes out.

“Then you’re in for quite the treat, aren’t you, Boy Scout?” Alice grins. “Not only are you forced to look at a lovely naked body, you’re getting paid to do it.”

Silas blushes, his cheeks turning an adorable pink I remember from seven months ago, the first time I met him, when Lindsay and I got together at a coffee shop after she came back from the Island.

That visit with her was so cathartic, so traumatizing, so... hard. We never got a chance to really talk. The coffee meeting migrated to a bar next door and then Tara invaded our space, turning all the attention and focus on her, our reunion an abbreviated affair.

And then, well… we thought we’d have more time.

Instead, we got more pain.

I’m pretty sure that’s a feature that is built into life itself, but it feels like a curse. Especially now.

Especially when I see traces of the Silas I knew briefly then. It’s an aching reminder of how different life could have been. Is he blushing because he’s embarrassed by me?

Or because he’s attracted to me?

Power comes to us in mysterious ways. We have all these words to describe power: Empowered. Bold. Strong. Authoritative. Dominant. Fierce. Pushy. Aggressive. Assertive.

Yet power that comes from within, that evolves with insight and blossoms in just the right moment, just when you need it, revealing itself as seconds pass and the scattered pieces inside you all assemble into a mass rally that is loud and proud?

That has no name.

What it has, though, is action.

I drop my robe.

I stand there naked.

And I reclaim myself.

Reclamation is a kind of power. It says this is mine once more.

And you cannot take it away.

When I posed for Alice before, in college, she was in charge of a small group of seniors. We met late at night in a tiny studio with big windows, the moon casting its reflected light on my stunned skin. I was a sophomore the first time, told by Alice that my bones were lyrical. How do you say no to someone who exalts your body, compares the lines of your limbs with music?

If that’s not power, what is?

It was never sexual. I wasn’t aroused by posing. If it were simple arousal, I’d never have done it. That people equate nudity with sex is so reductive. It cheapens both the human form and sex itself. Posing and being captured on canvas is a kind of immortality. Those eyes and hands translate my now into a forever. The painting endures. Their vision lives on.

My draped breast, my crossed ankles, my curve of a thigh, my sigh and wistful look become a challenge, a calling, a mission.

Art is about more than me. More than my life’s horrors and pain.

More than my joy, too.

When I’m posing, I am both free and trapped. I serve both myself and a master so much higher than the known world. I can’t move. I can only be observed. I am more than an object but less than a god.

And that in-between is where the creative becomes the holy.

Silas is holding his breath. Mine comes out heavy, thick, rasping, as if I need to be touched by the air, stroked from the inside out. I take the small orchid in its handmade pot painted lilac, deep grooves and small mistakes a mirror to my own blemished skin, my scarred leg from a bicycle fall, my uneven breasts, nipples taut, imperfect as nature intended.

I press my hand against a small table and lean back, moving one knee forward to pose tastefully. I’m not modest. I just know what Alice seeks.

“Good,” she calls out. “Chin to the left.”

As I turn, I catch Silas’s gaze again, eyes locked, my chin up.

I am unafraid.

For the first time in nearly five years, I am truly unafraid.

The next hour passes in an ethereal silence, the room warming over time, the air like a loving mother. Alice always encourages me to feel whatever I feel, to show it in my body, my face, my movements. I’ve never posed for anyone else. I don’t know how other artists do this.

I don’t care.

Time has no meaning as I turn inward, finding peace. My breath is all I focus on now, imagining the painting when it’s done, wondering which emotions it will evoke in people who look at it. Beauty is subjective. I don’t consider myself beautiful. Maybe that’s why I said yes to Alice years ago, when she delicately broached the subject.

Being chosen is the highest honor. Having someone see a part of you that you cannot see yourself is a form of love.

And who can say no to that?

Silas moves to one of the big glass windows and leans forward on a wide windowsill, one with small plants in the corner. He’s still wearing a suit coat, even in this crazy Texas heat. The pressure of his hands on the wooden sill broadens his shoulders from behind, his back spread wide with muscles I cannot see but know are there. As he breathes slowly, I can see the tension in him.

It’s the tension of restraint.

My skin prickles, the sensation starting right below my navel and spreading first to my right thigh, a pleasant feeling that is neither hot nor cold. As more of my skin is consumed by it, my mind goes soft and dreamy, the sharp edges of fear fading to nothing but a blur. I feel like I am floating, weightless, expanding to become part of the world. Each breath I take makes me want to touch Silas. And every breath I push out of my body releases more fear.

When you live in a constant state of vigilance, how do you recharge? The body has limits. It can live for a long time on sheer force of will, but at some point batteries have to recharge. Muscles have to relax. Pleasure has to kick in and be allowed to flourish. We cannot function if we’re bathing in stress 24/7. We’re not designed for it.

It will drive you insane, to the pit of despair, to a hopelessness that contradicts everything we hold dear about human connection and love.

As I watch Silas staring out the window, his shoulders drop, then he stands, stretching his back. His neck is strong in profile, his chest rising and falling with a deep breath.

Even bodyguards need to reset.

“How are you, dear?” Alice asks.

Silas turns quickly, eyes on me, vigilance activated. Within a second he reviews the room and realizes I’m fine. That Alice is being polite. No danger. No risk.

He can power down again.

But he doesn’t look away.

“Do you need a break? The light is still so good. Can you last another twenty minutes?” Alice asks kindly. “Do you need water? To stretch?”

Moving feels like betrayal, but I shake my head.

I cannot look him in the eye. Silas is watching me, his fixed stare simultaneously unnerving and emboldening. This isn’t some prurient titillation, an awkward, lascivious look where I’m an object and he’s in control, the one who takes and expects his self-gratification to be honored.

This is an equal exchange. He is taking his time. He has no choice.

When you drop your defenses and look at the world as it should be, it takes a very long time to shed all of the false constructs inside you. Finding the truth inside is a journey.

Silas is finding his truth by studying me.

My stomach flutters at the thought, my ab muscles curling in just enough to make me take a long, deep breath to re-center. My upper arm brushes against the side of my bare breast. That prickly feeling starts in my right shoulder blade, radiating out to my shoulder, up into my neck, down my arm. I breathe because it’s what we do, right? Humans breathe, think, move.

And love.

“That look,” Alice says, her voice a thin thread of sound, so quiet, it’s almost worshipful. “Hold it.”

What look? I wonder, and then Silas’s mouth softens, his eyes unfocused. He’s looking at my body but he’s seeing a part of himself, the inner journey made possible by lowering his defenses. Joy fills me at the thought.

Be real with me, I want to urge.

And let me be real, too.

“Perfect,” she says, eyes bouncing between her canvas and me.

In my mind’s eye, my body is a straight, centered, wise soul, a glowing core inside. A generator, if you will, that is wise. Born long before my body, the core is more than me, resting quietly, waiting to be called forth as needed. It’s crowded out by all of the external chaos that makes up a lived life. Patient, it waits to be discovered, like a long-buried treasure.

Most of us never know it’s there.

Silas’s gaze peels away the layers that clutter the path to my core self.

Am I imagining this? I don’t think so. Doubt creeps in and dissipates fast, like a cloud threatening to rain but at the last minute floating on and spreading out, once more part of the air.

I catch his eye again and all the words come rushing into my throat from the far-flung corners of my body, aching to be spoken.

I want to be a better person with you. I want to be in your orbit, always drawn by forces greater than us, the rumbling hum of physics mixed with the intangible magic of love.

Yes, it’s silly. I know. I’m indulging in thoughts and feelings I have no right to possess, but damn it, I don’t care.

It’s my heart. I can let it run amok for a short while, indulging in fantasy and frivolity, because if I don’t, it’ll break off its leash. I can’t have that. It’s a wild animal that needs space or it will do something lethal.

“And... let’s break,” Alice says, her eyes tucked away by decades, wrinkles making her face a canvas, textured and well used. Her eyelashes are gone, eyebrows sparse, but that long white hair gives her authority, time handing her a kind of beauty I need seventy more years to cultivate.

And I may never possess.

The robe is on the screen, draped carefully. As I move toward it, my calf muscle complains. I take one step and pause, my back to Silas, waiting for blood to flow into the muscle again.

My shoulders ache, so I square them, stretching with a long, slow curve that is yoga-like. Then I reach for the robe and slip it on, the layer veiling me.

Bzzz.

The electronic sound is heretical, interrupting the studio’s quiet space. Silas gives Alice an apologetic look, then grabs his phone from his coat pocket. He looks at the message, then at me.

“We’ve been summoned. They want you at The Grove.” He’s focused on the screen, typing.

“Now? We just got here!” I protest. “Why?”

“Ridiculous,” Alice mutters. “You cannot leave until you’ve been able to relax and regroup. And eat!” Her weathered, leathery hands go to her cheeks in chagrin. “My goodness, I’ve completely forgotten to feed you! Where are my manners?”

She walks to a desk where an old-fashioned phone rests, cord and all. It’s the kind with finger holes you drag around a rotary. One gnarled, leather-skinned finger slips into a clear hole and drags in a counter-clockwise direction. She lets go, and the dial snaps back. Over and over, she does this as I pray to the smartphones gods and thank them. This is how people used phones when my mom was a kid? No way.

Seven digits later and she’s talking with someone. I hear food words like “salmon” and “sauce vierge” and “tenderloin,” all of which make my mouth water.

“Drew says Marshall and Senator Bosworth want you back for a big meeting. The car bombing and other research...” That is more information than Silas has ever given me. He’s relenting, giving in to some sliver inside that doesn’t view me as a scummy traitor.

It’s progress.

I’ll take what I can get.

“You must stay for a meal,” Alice insists, giving Silas a look that dares him to say no.

“Of course,” I reply, tightening the sash on my robe.

Silas glowers at his phone. “They’re saying they need you in California as quickly as possible.”

“Tough shit,” Alice barks, clearly fed up. “They can’t find Jane to be of much use if she’s a starving frayed nerve. You’ll remain here for a few hours and eat a proper meal with good conversation.” She puts her arm around my shoulders. I lean into her, smelling verbena and lilac, baby powder and some kind of earthy spice, like cardamom.

“You should get dressed,” Silas says gruffly, the words an admission that yes, we can stay, but he’s in charge.

“Why should she?” Alice replies. “Maybe we’re not done painting.”

“Paint time or meal time. Pick one. You can’t have both,” he demands.

Alice squeezes my shoulder. “Jane? You can choose. You don’t have to go back. You are your own person.”

Silas closes his eyes and takes his three middle fingers, rubbing a spot on his forehead. “You really can’t say no. The new information indicates you’ve been implicated in communications between John, Stellan, and Blaine on a level no one found before.”

“I what?”

Sadness fills his eyes. Sadness. “That’s all I can tell you, and even that’s too much. Just know that if you don’t come willingly, other agents will come and you’ll be taken back in handcuffs.”

“Am I under arrest?” My heart thumps in my chest like a backbeat.

“More bullshit,” Alice says, going to the fridge to pour more lemonades. I hold up a palm when she grabs the vodka. All my soft, warm feelings are gone, leaving my head swimming. It’s the worst of both worlds, the alcohol loosening me at the same time I’m filled with dread.

“Not arrest, but Jane?” He comes close, gently pulling my arm to guide me away from Alice. He leans in, the scent of his aftershave light, intoxicating. “If I don’t get you back there, the people who will come and take you won’t be as nice.”

“Why do you care?” I ask, at first defiant, then strangely pleading.

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “But I do.”