Painting Of Cleopatra นิยาย & เรื่องราว

April whispered to me and I turned to see the cutest smile on her face as she gawked at the million dollar paintings on the walls, “is that Cleopatra?” “The real question is how are you more breathtaking than every work of art in here?” I leaned in and kissed her neck and she moaned under her breath. “Ace, behave,” she poked my side with her elbow, but I could spot the smile she was biting back. We got into the elevator with Celine and had our eyes locked on each other in an affectionate, endearing, and heated way. It made my insides stir and my throat dry up. I wondered how she could have such an effect on me by simply holding my gaze.

She didn't realize she had gotten to the room her mother usually painted in until she heard Dahlia Vause's voice. As usual, the door of the room was ajar, and the beautiful paintings all over the room didn't fail to catch Cleopatra's eyes. "You still paint. And they are still as beautiful as ever." She smiled faintly, remaining at the door. Dahlia, who was about to move her brush, paused for a moment. "Still? I find your words insulting, Cleopatra. 19 years later and you think my recent paintings are on par with the ones of 20 years ago. Tsk."

He smiled because he won the first auction. “Oh my god. We get a lot just from selling that?” Miller’s cousin was astonished. “Yep. This is the auction after all.” Miller exclaimed proudly. The auction continued. For the second item, it was an ancient picture found in the depth of Egyptian pyramid. The picture showed a figure of a queen Cleopatra with her feline pet. Even though the graphic was not as good as the current technology, the history value of the picture was original. This antique started with a price of two thousands and five hundreds dollars.

The sharp, insistent sound of his phone cut through the haze of desire, yanking Calvin back from the edge of the moment. At once, his gaze flicked to the phone. Seeing the caller, he answered, voice calm, measured, every word controlled as he retreated into the inner room meticulously careful not to let Cleopatra catch a single syllable. Cleopatra rose, moving with quiet deliberation around the office. Her eyes traced the carefully curated portraits lining the walls, each one radiating restraint, precision, an air of controlled elegance until one made her stop, breath catching in her throat. Her gaze froze. The portrait was impossibly familiar, yet here, in this space, it struck with an almo

, Dylan offered. It was a cave of some sort, there were green crystals of varying shapes protruding from different parts in the cave. They served decorative purposes and for other vital use. They was the sound of water touching the ground with full force indicating there was a wave nearby. Cleopatra was clad in a silk, transparent green dress with high neckline, long sleeves and a high slit. Her bare feet gingerly glided over the cold floor. There was a large crystal ball in the middle. Her hands hovered over it, causing it to shine bright. A lone raven flew in that moment and perched on her shoulder. All of a sudden a host of other ravens flew inside the cave…

I could tell the person who drawn this must have a great talent. I walked to the next canvas on the other side of the wall and caressed and painting where Layla was petting a golden yellow big seven-headed cobra with adoration. Layla's emotions were shown very beautifully in the canvas. I touched the frame of the canvas and to my surprise, it slid to left and another piece of art was there behind. I realised there was a big collection of the album here and started moving them to the left side.

He looked like a king…or at least, someone decorated. I only knew one painting in this room. I shook my head. “Constantinople.” “Who’s that?” I squinted at the painting to get a better view. “Leader of the Byzantine Empire…one of the greatest to ever walk the planet. He fell to the Ottoman Empire…and Edric was a witness…hence, this painting, I assume.” I pulled back and observed the room even more. “What about that?” I asked, pointing to another one far above us, but clear enough, that you could make out the woman with soft features, and a smile that paled, but was enough, I imagined, for her to keep still while the painter worked his magic.

I didn’t wait for her to reply before I quickly hung up the phone and then gave my undivided attention to the holy divine in my presence. “I am Rana.” She stood before me and extended her long arm, clamped in luxury and gold. She was like a whole goddess, the way the red lipstick sat on her lush lips, her high cheekbones framed with makeup; and boy the eyeliner. Egyptian’s eyeliner game was unmatched. It had to run in their blood to reach this kind of perfection, “I am Crystal. Cleopatra as well.” a warm wave wrapped around me from behind when saying the name. Rana’s handshake was firm and strong for her delicate features. She then stepped backward,

More cynical and active than the princess herself. I leaned against the opposite wall of the lighted hallway, a figure of Cleopatra was in one of the paintings to my right, the frame gilded, the features old-fashioned. That's worth millions. I tried to be as patient as possible waiting for Normani to give me a new verdict of what we had to do or submit, but it didn't seem to take more than 20 long minutes of standing in the hallway. Soon the door opened, and I could see well, she he had his face lying on Normani's shoulder and his eyes were closed.

History thick in the air. Ekreth stood in front of a massive oil painting, hands clasped loosely behind his back. He was in human form, wearing simple black. A fine coat, unadorned but regal. Nyxar stopped just behind him. “You always look for art when something weighs on you?” Ekreth’s gaze didn’t move from the painting. “Not always. But this room remembers more than most. It’s good company, when the present grows too loud.” Nyxar followed his gaze. The painting was an old one - faded but still striking. A woman stood tall, wrapped in deep green and gold, eyes like flint. A blade rested at her side. Power and sorrow clung to her, even through brush strokes.