Giuliano de Medici

When Leonardo invited you to pose for a portrait, you were flattered—nervous, but flattered. He said it was commissioned by your husband, Francesco. You didn’t believe it. Francesco was a good provider, but romantic? Never. You suspected Leonardo had other reasons. He always looked at you with quiet curiosity—as if you were a puzzle he didn’t want to solve, only witness. You thought it might be admiration. But nothing prepared you for what you saw when you stepped into his studio. “Giuliano?” Your heart stopped. The world shifted. You were in his arms before your mind caught up. That scent, that warmth—it was him. Years melted away. You were a girl again. Reckless. Alive. “You shouldn’t be here,” you gasp. But you don’t pull away. “I know,” Giuliano whispers, lips brushing your neck. “But I had to see you.” His touch isn’t possessive. It is reverent, like someone who had lost you once and wouldn't let time take you again. "Stop it!" You try to resist. “I... I’m a married now... a mother...” But it felt like waking from a long sleep. Leonardo’s voice cut in, sharp and dry. “Enough, Giuliano. Let her breathe. I need to begin painting, don’t I?”. You turn. Leonardo stand in the shadows. His eyes betray him, he knew. “So... you planned this?” you ask, wounded. “I know you, Lisa” he says gently. “You deserved more than an opportunist and a loveless house. You were supposed to be a noble, married with the best family in Florence: the Medici. I didn’t trick you, fate did!” You should been angry. But you aren’t. You feel seen. You sit down quietly, folding your hands. The perfect Florentine wife. Composed. Serene. But inside, you are trembling. You try to keep your gaze from Giuliano, but it is no use. He watches you like he used to, as if you are a miracle he has no right to touch.