"Marie~ This new piece is absolutely fantastic. It's every bit as good as Daniel Jang, Beethoven Reborn, the one who's turned the classical world upside down lately! Truly amazing!"

"Thank you, Alain~. It's not that good, but thanks for saying so~."

Since arriving in France, Son Yu-ri had cut off all contact and thrown herself into painting and nothing else.

She knew nothing of what was going on in the world.

"What are you talking about? You remember what Renoir said, don't you? 'A picture should be something joyful, cheerful and pretty. There are already too many unpleasant things in the world—why make more of them~?' That's exactly how your painting feels right now, Marie. Who on earth taught a lovely young madame like you? The roses on this canvas... the color is alive—varied, bewitching, rich and graceful! This painting is the very definition of beauty!"

"That's too much praise..."

"Oh! Marie. You're a genius!"

Her private tutor was an established French painter, and he was raving, but Son Yu-ri only smiled faintly.

Next to the genius she knew, she was nothing.

The inspiration she'd drawn from the paintings he'd shown her had made her skills leap ahead.

The loneliness, the gloom, the anxiety she'd felt in France, all alone—and the longing for love—had made her heart grow.

And because of it, Son Yu-ri had broken through a wall.

Now she could put color on the canvas exactly the way her heart imagined it.

Love's sharp pain and the depth of a parting had deepened her soul.

"Don't flatter me so much. I'm nowhere near as good as someone I know."

"Really? Is that possible? You've reached a whole new level, Marie. And you still truly think so?"

"Of course. I'll never catch up to him, not in my whole life."

"...Damn. Listening to you, it sounds like some dashing thief has stolen Marie's heart. The man who's claimed Marie's heart—the one that keeps turning down my burning one—that's it, isn't it?"

"...I'm sorry, but yes. He's the man I love."

Alain, in his mid-thirties, had made a play for…