“You’re overthinking the cerulean again, Vic. Just look at the way the light hits the garden—nature already did the work for you, stop staring at the sunlight and eat. Your coffee is reaching that tragic stage of lukewarm” I pulled my gaze away from the floor-to-ceiling glass panes of our breakfast nook, the morning sun casting a halo around the man sitting across from me. Daniel looked every bit the ‘Perfect Son’ the business journals obsessed over. His charcoal suit was crisp, his silk tie was knotted with mathematical precision, and his smile—warm, steady, and utterly devoted—was directed entirely at me. “I can’t help it, Dan,” I said, leaning back as a maid placed a plate of poached eggs and smoked salmon in front of me. “The Amalfi series needs to be perfect. The gallery is expecting a masterpiece, not just a landscape.” “You are the masterpiece, Vic,” Dan replied, his voice a rich, comforting baritone. He reached across the marble table, his fingers grazing the back of my hand
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