Chapter 718: The Beauty Of Birth

But just as she was feeling giddy and light-headed from everything that had happened, Maria noticed something that surprised her.

Right behind the main tent, partially hidden, stood another easel with a painting completely covered by a white cloth.

She pointed immediately.

“Cassius, look! There’s a painting we missed!”

Her face fell with genuine distress.

“Oh no, I feel terrible. Those children worked so hard, and I completely overlooked one of their pieces.” She ran toward it. “Quickly, let’s see whose it is. I need to apologize to them—”

Cassius caught her arm, gently pulling her back.

“Maria, wait. You don’t need to do that.”

“But I do!” She protested, trying to tug free. “I have to, or I’ll feel so guilty—”

“The painting isn’t by any of the students.”

She stopped struggling and looked at him, confused.

Cassius pointed at himself.

“I painted that one. It’s my contribution to this little exhibition. My way of bringing one of your moments back to life.”

Maria froze, staring at him in disbelief.

“You made that painting, Cassius? Truly? You did?”

She gave him a suspicious glance. “Don’t tell me you paid off one of the kids to make another painting in your place or something like that.”

Cassius scoffed, looking mildly offended. “Of course not, Maria! I’m a man of integrity. I would never do something like that.”

Maria knew he was telling the truth, but she was still stunned.

The thought that Cassius had personally painted something for her made her so excited that she became giddy all over again.

She grabbed his hand tightly, bouncing on her toes.

“Then come on, Cassius! Let’s go! Let’s go see the painting you made! I’m so excited to see it!”

Cassius suddenly pulled her back, his expression turning hesitant.

“Hold on, Maria. Just hold on a second.”

“Why?” She pouted, looking up at him with the expression of a child being denied a treat. “I want to see what you drew!”

A teasing smile crossed her face.

“It’s fine if it’s bad, you know. You already have so many skills, Cassius. It’s totally alright if painting isn’t one of them. I bet you’re embarrassed to show your work after critiquing everyone else so harshly.”

She softened, her voice becoming gentle.

“But I know you put your heart into it. And no matter how it looks, no matter if it’s stick figures or something completely unrecognizable, I’ll be happy. Truly!”

She meant it. The effort alone, the fact that Cassius had tried, was enough.

But Cassius’s expression was complicated. Embarrassed, yes, but also something else. Hesitant.

“It’s not that, Maria.” He said slowly. “It’s just…”

He paused, struggling to find the right words.

“The moment I chose to paint…it’s a sensitive moment in your life. A very personal one.”

Maria blinked, confused.

“Honestly, it’s not like any of the other paintings. It captures a scenario that…well, you might not be able to view it objectively. I don’t know how you felt during that moment, whether it was happiness or sadness or something else entirely. I interpreted it in my own way, based on what I know about you.”

He looked at her, his eyes uncertain.

“And I’m scared that I got it wrong. That my interpretation will offend you, or hurt you, or make you think less of me.”

Maria’s expression softened.

She understood now—at least, partially. He had painted something deeply personal. Something that required vulnerability from both of them.

She reached up and gently cupped his cheek.

“Cassius, it’s alright. No matter what it is, I promise I won’t get angry.”

She paused, then added with a small smile.

“Actually, I don’t think it’s possible for me to get angry at such a handsome face.”

She pinched his cheek lightly, then stroked it with her thumb.

“So please, darling. Show me what you’ve drawn. I really want to see it.”

Cassius stared at her for a long moment, taking in the warmth in her eyes, the gentle curve of her smile.

He sighed.

“Fine, fine. I just hope I haven’t disappointed you.”

He led her over to the hidden easel. Maria’s heart raced with anticipation—she was already prepared to shower him with praise no matter what, even if it turned out to be stick figures or a silly portrait. She was simply happy that he had put in the effort.

Cassius reached for the cloth, hesitated one last time—then pulled it away.

Maria leaned forward eagerly.

She had expected something amateur. Charming, perhaps, in its imperfections. Something she could praise and tease him about, the way he had praised her.

She had been looking forward to making him blush.

But the moment her eyes landed on the painting, her breath caught in her throat.

She stepped back.

Her eyes went wide.

For a moment, she forgot how to breathe entirely.

This was not amateur.

This was not charming.

This was a…masterpiece.

Maria had seen many beautiful paintings in her life.

She had lived in the capital, in the royal palace, surrounded by art collected from across the continent. She had gazed upon works by masters, pieces that had taken years to complete.

None of them compared to this.

The shading was flawless. The colors were vibrant yet harmonious, each hue perfectly chosen to complement the others. The light seemed to glow from within the canvas, illuminating the scene with a warmth that felt almost alive.

Everything was realistic, yet enchanted—like a window into a fairy tale, or a memory touched by magic.

Maria realized, with a start, that this was probably the most beautiful painting she had ever seen.

She had severely underestimated Cassius’s skills.

He wasn’t just good at painting. He was a master. A genius. Someone whose work could hang in the grandest galleries and draw crowds from across the world.

But that wasn’t what shocked her.

It was what the painting depicted.

Once again, it was her.

But not performing a noble act. Not achieving something great. Not helping others or changing the world.

It was something much warmer. Much more personal. Much more…loving.

It was the happiest moment of her entire life.

The birth of her daughter.

In the painting, Maria lay on a bed, looking slightly disheveled. Her hair was messy, damp with sweat at the temples. Her nightgown had slipped slightly, revealing a hint of cleavage, and a blanket was pulled up to her waist.

She looked tired. Exhausted, even.

But her eyes.

Her eyes were shining.

In her arms, wrapped in a soft bundle of cloth, was a newborn baby. Tiny. Fragile. So small that it was obvious she had only just entered the world. A tuft of pink hair peeked out from the blanket, and her eyes were closed in peaceful sleep.

It was Joy.

Maria was looking down at her daughter with an expression of pure, unconditional love.

The kind of love that transcended words, that could only be expressed through touch and gaze and the silent communion between mother and child.

It was the most beautiful thing Maria had ever seen.

And it was her.

If other master artists had seen it, they would have fallen to their knees and begged Cassius to take them as disciples. It had the power to move fathers to protective tears, mothers to open weeping, and young girls to dream of motherhood.

But the one most deeply affected was Maria herself.

She stared at the painting in a daze, lost in a flood of memory and emotion. Her eyes grew misty, and her hand unconsciously pressed against her chest as if trying to steady her racing heart.

Cassius watched her reaction nervously. He rubbed the back of his neck, voice hesitant and embarrassed.

“I—I chose this moment because, while going through your reports, I read about what happened. About how, when you were carrying Joy, so many people were against it.”

“They said terrible things about you and the child. About how the church abandoned you, told you to get rid of it, to treat it like a mistake.”

His voice hardened slightly.

“And even after Joy was born, the cruelty didn’t stop. It only got worse. Everyone assumed you were despairing. That you regretted having her. That you hated the child and wished you could take it all back.”

He looked at her, his eyes fierce.

“But I didn’t believe that. Not for a single moment.”

“I truly believed that when Joy was born, you looked at her with the most loving expression a mother could have.”

He looked at her earnestly.

“I believed that in that moment, you finally understood what love truly meant. That you had no regrets, none at all because the moment you saw her, everything in your life finally made sense.”

He gestured at the painting.

“So I wanted to create something that countered all those ugly rumors. Something that showed what I believe really happened or at least, what I believe you felt in that moment.”

His voice grew hesitant.

“Maybe you were struggling with other things. Maybe it wasn’t as simple as I imagined. But this…”

He pointed at the canvas

“….this is how I see you. Knowing how much you love Joy now, knowing how caring and affectionate you’ve always been…I can only imagine what you looked like when you first held her.”

He looked at her nervously.

“I hope you’re not offended. If you don’t like it, you can throw it away. I won’t be upset. I just…I wanted to try. To do something meaningful for you.”

But to his surprise, Maria did not say anything at all. She didn’t react, didn’t pull away, didn’t even blink.

She simply continued to stare at the painting in a complete daze, as if the world around her had faded away and she had been transported straight back into that very moment in the past.

Her eyes were glistening, and her lips parted slightly while she relived the memory through the canvas.

Cassius’s brow furrowed with concern. “Maria…are you all right?”

She still didn’t look at him. Her gaze remained fixed on the painting, on the tender image of herself holding newborn Joy.

It was as though she were witnessing that day all over again, feeling every emotion, every ache, every overwhelming surge of love.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she turned to him. Her expression was extremely emotional, tears already welling in her eyes.

But at the same time she looked strangely calm, as if she had reached a deep, quiet peace in that single moment.

“Cassius…is it all right if I can touch the painting? Just gently?”

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