As she stood outside the door of the room, Emily couldn't help but marvel at the portrait inside.

Lost in thought, she absentmindedly entered the room, drawn to the portrait like a moth to a flame. She approached it slowly, taking in every detail of the man's face. The young man was undeniably handsome, with chiseled features and piercing black eyes that seemed to stare right through the canvas. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, with a strong jawline and a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

His hair was dark and artfully tousled, falling in loose waves around his face. He wore a white shirt that was unbuttoned at the collar, and a hint of a gold chain peeked out from beneath the fabric. He held a paintbrush in his hand as if he had been caught in the act of creating something beautiful.

The portrait itself was a masterpiece, capturing the young man in exquisite detail. He was surrounded by a garden of roses and lavender, the colors so vivid that they almost seemed to leap off the canvas. The garden was expansive, stretching out behind him in a riot of color and texture.

The landscape was breathtaking, with rolling hills and a distant mountain range visible in the background. The sky was a brilliant shade of blue, with fluffy white clouds that seemed to drift lazily across the canvas.

Emily pried her eyes away from the portrait. She swallowed the lump of saliva that pooled in her mouth. Her breath seemed to have been caught somewhere. She couldn't find it. It's as d the man in the portrait stole it from her. She was so entrance by the man in the portrait. She gazed at it again. Unable to fight the urge.

Despite the beauty of the garden, it was the young man who commanded attention in the portrait. His enigmatic expression seemed to hint at hidden depths as if secrets were lurking just below the surface. He was a study in contradictions, both approachable and elusive at the same time.

Emily swallowed again. She took a deep breath and released it fast almost coming out like a growl. The artist had captured the man's body perfectly, with just the right amount of shading and texture to make him look almost three-dimensional. He was tall and lean, with broad shoulders and powerful arms that looked as if they were capable of great strength.

As she stood there, transfixed, she failed to notice the disarray of the room around her. Cobwebs clung to the corners, dust covering every surface. But the portrait remained untouched by time as if it had been painted only moments ago.

Emily reached out a hand, almost as if to touch the man's face. But then she hesitated, unsure of herself. Who was this man, and why did he hold such a powerful sway over her? She wondered. Could he be...

She stepped back, her gaze never leaving the portrait. It was as if the man himself had stepped out of the painting and was standing before her, a force to be reckoned with.

Could he be Pier Brice, Emily wondered. She hadn't seen a photo of him when she did her research.

For a moment, she was again lost in thought wondering what secrets the man in the portrait held, what mysteries lay hidden behind his stoic facade. But then she shook herself, realizing that she had been standing there for far too long.

She glanced around the room seemingly forcing herself to focus on something else, but her eyes still threw glances at the portrait.

***

Pier stood beside Emily, watching as she gazed at his portrait with a mixture of awe and admiration. He felt a sense of happiness and contentment as he watched her take in every detail of his painting.

The portrait depicted him as he had been in life, young and handsome, with a twinkle in his eye and a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. He remembered how meticulously chose that shirt and how the gold chain around his neck gave him a rash the day after.

As Emily stared at the portrait, he felt himself growing shy, almost as if he were standing before her in person. He had always been a bit of an introvert in life, preferring the company of books and art to that of other people. But now, as a ghost or whatever he was, he found himself yearning for the company of the living.

He watched as her eyes widened with admiration, and he felt a sense of pride wash over him. He had always been proud of his appearance, and it was clear that Emily found him just as attractive as he had hoped.

But there was something more in her gaze, something that made his heart - if he even had one - skip a beat. It was as if she were falling in love with him, with the man behind the portrait, and not just the image on the canvas.

Pier felt a surge of emotion as he watched her, a longing to reach out and touch her, to feel her warmth and her presence. But he knew that it could never be, that he was trapped in his ghostly form, forever separated from the world of the living.

And so he stood there, watching her as she admired his portrait, feeling a sense of happiness and contentment, but also a deep sense of sadness and longing. He knew that he would never be able to be with her, but... No. There was a way.

As he watched her pry her gaze away from his portrait, a sinister smile crept on his lips. There was a way. But first, he must let her finish the third floor. He wouldn't want to spend the rest of his existence with someone who lacked the talent and courage to match his. Not again. It would endly end the same way.

***

Emyli's eyes darted around the room in an attempt to avoid the portrait that had already captured her attention for far too long. She was determined not to give in to the strange pull that the painting seemed to have on her.

Desperately, she began to search the room for anything that might distract her from the portrait. She rummaged through old books and papers. She found some intriguing-looking journals and wondered if perhaps one of them contained the liquid and mixture that was cited in the article she read. She opened one and started to read. However, she hadn't even gotten to the middle of the first page when she lost interest. Her eyes strayed back to the portrait.

Emily felt a strange sense of unease creeping over her. "Okay this is weird and I'm officially out of my mind," she muttered. She threw the portrait a glance again and as though the man in the portrait saw her or was even alive to react to what she was about to do, she stuck her tongue out then said, "Hold my gaze one more time and I'm never stepping foot in this floor ever again.

A giggle that eventually turned into laughter soon escaped her mouth. She shook her head the nonce more laughed at her own antics.

"Damn it, Emily," she cursed chastising herself. "Focus. Focus focus."

Finally, in a fit of desperation, she began to pace the room, her eyes scanning every inch of the walls and floor for something, anything, that might break the spell of the portrait. But when nothing seemed to work. She gave up and walked back to the portrait, stood really close to it, and said, "Okay, I guess you're my muse and I have to start with you, huh."

She gazed at the portrait as if she hadn't already done so a hundred times over. Her eyes darted from one corner of the massive rectangular frame that held the canvas in place looking for anything that needed repair or whatever. She must have stood in front of the thing for an hour and found nothing. There was nothing that needed work.

But just as that thought danced in her head, Emily realized a weird reality in the situation. The painting held her in its thrall far too long that she failed to see what was so obviously weird. How could the portrait be so damn pristine when everything inside the room was covered in dust, cobwebs, mold, and near dilapidation?

Slowly, she felt the hairs on the back of her head start to rise. She took a step back and then another and then another, eyes still on the portrait. "Okay, I'll just step outside for a bit Mr. Portrait," she whispered. "I'll be back. I promise."

After throwing those words out, Emily bolted out of the room and ran toward the door that served as the only entry and exit to the third floor. With haste when opened and closed the door behind her, locked it, and almost lost her footing as she hurriedly descended.

But as she reached the middle of the staircase, her shaking legs gave out and she stumbled. She immediately closed her eyes and braced herself for her fall. But the impact or pain she expected from hitting the banister or tiles never happened. Someone had caught her midfall

Opening her eyes, she was immediately met by Oliver who had her wrapped in his arms and was grinning profusely.

"Practicing how to be a bird or are you planning on joining the circus in case designing no longer works out for you," he teased.

A deep blush spread across Emyli's face. She would have snarled at him or said profanities and demanded that he put her down. But she was too embarrassed at the moment, she only blushed and stare.

As Oliver gently lowered her to the ground, Emily felt a rush of embarrassment flood over her. She stammered and stumbled over her words, trying desperately to come up with a plausible excuse for her fall. But she couldn't come up with anything at that moment. Oliver's grinning and the mischievous glint in his eyes made her feel even more self-conscious, and she found herself struggling to keep her composure.

She knew that she couldn't tell him the truth - that she had been unnerved by a particular portrait on the third floor, and that her fear had caused her to lose her footing and stumble down the stairs. It was too embarrassing, too ridiculous, and she couldn't bear the thought of being judged or ridiculed. And to say those words to Oliver, a man who seemed to love teasing people only solidified Emily's resolve to make something up.

"So, what got our goose running and stumbling?" Oliver asked. The smile on his face alarmed Emily. There wasn't a way he'd ever figure out the truth so she mumbled something about her shoelace being untied and tried to laugh it off as a silly mistake. But the man seemed to have seen right through her facade, and he reached out to gently touch her arm, offering a sympathetic smile that made her heart skip a beat.

"It's okay," he said softly. "We all have our fears and weaknesses. There's nothing to be ashamed of." He seemed to know exactly what happened to her.

The truth almost came out of Emily's mouth but she stopped when she noticed that Oliver was grinning and near laughing. The asshole wasn't concerned, he was teasing her, Emily mused.

His action was like salt to her wounded pride. "What the hell are you talking about," Emily retorted. She aimed for her voice to come out loud and angry but it escaped as a desperate whisper as if validating what he said.

Laughter. A laugh that echoed throughout the mansion came out of Oliver's mouth. "You scardy cat. Did you frighten yourself up there? What was it? Did you imagine a ghost? Did you sense the spirits of people roaming the third floor?"

Emily shook her head and stepped away from him. She refused to be toyed with. "To hell with you," she murmured and motioned to walk toward the kitchen but Oliver grabbed her arm and twisted her to face him.

She frowned when she saw the expression on his face. He looked serious when he asked, "Or did you happen to fall because of the portrait of Pier Brice?"