"And then she told herself, 'Stop being so weak. Grow up and get over it.' and then she never felt anything again."

Time, mystical time
Cuttin' me open, then healin' me fine
Were there clues I didn't see?
And isn't it just so pretty to think
All along there was some
Invisible string
Tying you to me?
-Invisible string by Taylor Swift.

"OPEN UP!" Yelled Ambrosia, clutching a magazine tight enough to puncture holes in its plasticy sheets, "Open up, open up, open up!"

"It's seven fucking AM, you whore," came the loud groan. The shower clicked shut, curses getting progressively louder. For disturbing his sacred shower rituals, she would have some explaining to do.

"OPEN UP!" She bellowed, having waited an appalling sum total of fifteen seconds.

"I'M INDECENT, WOMAN. GIVE ME A SECOND!" Roared the man in response.

Another exasperating ten seconds later, she raised her hand to bang on the door. At the same time, it swung open, revealing a puffy-eyed, grumbling brunet wearing an expensive Versace robe. He vaguely reminded her of Master Oogway, but now wasn't the time to bring that up.

"I swear, Sia, when a man has masque in his hair, you do NOT fuck with—"

Smacking the magazine in his chest, she stormed into the room, "What in god's name is this?"

He examined it carefully, grumbling profanities lewd enough to make Ambrosia proud, "The latest Prada magazine. What's wrong with it?"

She folded her arms, creating a formidable barrier, "Why aren't you on the cover?"

"Because the sky is high and you'll be married in July?"

"Cut the crap, Seokjin. They asked you to be the face of their brand. If you turned down an offer like that—I'm ashamed to call you my friend. Your income, you stupid fuck toad, it would triple—"

"I have money, Am. I don't need more. Besides, I never liked modelling. I love makeup," he explained gentler than she expected him to be. Grinning, he added, "Stupid fuck toad is a great insult, though."

"So you turned Prada down," she gritted her teeth.

Shrugging in the most glamorous way possible, Jin thought for a second, "Not exactly..." He spoke, "See the model on the cover? I did his makeup."

"You're a makeup artist now."

"Yup. They hired me as soon as I told them."

She walked over to the bed, flopping down on the sage green sheets. Falling back, she laid down. Delining a job offer, the notion seemed alien to her. And for a passion? Absolutely ridiculous.

In all ten years of her working life, she'd never turned down a job. Be it running across to get tea for her bosses or planning the fifth wedding in a month. The thought of letting go of a stable career was reprehensible. Jin was a born model. Liquid talent ran through his veins, and he threw it away.

"That could have been you, Jin," she sighed, half-heartedly flinging the magazine across the bed, "You'd go to Paris every year, New York, London and Milan. And you let it go. I can't believe it."

"Am, I did it for me. I love makeup. It makes me happier than I ever could be. I'll never regret this choice," he joined her in bed, laying his head beside hers, "I'll still go to Milan and Paris and New York. It's just gonna be on the makeup team instead of with the models."

Begrudgingly, she rolled her eyes. Although having friends was a new experience for her, she knew that she'd have to support his decision, whether she liked it or not. She sighed, "As long as you're happy, I guess."

"You can come to fashion week with me. And get all my makeup samples," he enticed, noting her irritability exceeded any disappointment she felt towards him. All she needed was consolation.

And it worked like a charm. Like a bullet, she rolled over and hugged the elder, "I'm so proud of you! I love you, Seokjin!"

"There's my girl," he hugged her back, painfully aware that his wet hair was creating a puddle on his new sheets, "I gotta style my hair before it dries, Sia. I'll see you later, kay?"

SUNLIGHT PEEKED through the overcast sky, creating little pockets of gold in the gloomy clouds. Seated in the passenger's seat of Jimin's car, Ambrosia couldn't resist the urge to wear the new sunnies she'd bought on her latest shopping spree with Jin. They did burn a substantial hole in her wallet, but the moment she put those pink glasses on, she knew she had to buy them. It was instinct.

"I can see myself in those," the prince commented, looking at her with a baffled expression once she put them on, "Can't say I don't like the view, but are you sure you want to wear those to a gallery?"

"Why not?"

"Well, you're supposed to see the paintings," he continued, struggling to keep his eyes on the road, "If you prefer them tinted pink, that's up to you."

"It's fashion, honey. Fah-shun."

"You're spending way too much time with Jin," he sighed, giving up.

"Funny," she rolled her eyes, "Did you hear? He turned down being the face of Prada Sykaria."

"Oh, he finally told you?"

"No, I found the magazine without his face on it," she frowned, turning to him, "What do you mean 'finally told me'?"

"Well, he was afraid to. You're all all-work-and-no-play and he was afraid you wouldn't support him."

"Seriously? That's ridiculous! Of course I would support him. His happiness matters more than—"

"You barged into his room while he was showering and interrogated him like a he was a serial killer or something."

"I did not! I am offended and—Alright, I did do that," she groaned in exasperation.

He smirked, childishly happy at one-upping her. Pulling the car over, he hit the brakes, "I'm glad he's doing what he loves, though. Makeup seems to make him happy."

Agreeing with a begrudged smile, she watched as the prince rushed out of the car over to the passengers seat. He opened the door, holding a hand out for her to take.

With her hand in his, she stepped out of the silver Merc, allowing him to shut the door behind her.

They stood outside Sykaria City's biggest art gallery.

Ambrosia breathing quickened, her feverent efforts to stifle a panic attack going in vain. Her nails dug deep into her clenched palms, nearly drawing blood. The pep talk she had with herself that morning obviously hadn't worked.

He placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.

Dragging her eyes from the floor, she met his. He was smiling. That warm, encouraging smile. A little dimple made itself known, silently promising her that everything would be okay. His eyes glimmered in the escaped rays of sunlight, turning them from brown to a pool of honey.

She placed a hand on her heart, calming herself down. She had to get over it.

That terrible night, over ten years ago.

She could still hear her mother screaming, begging for it all to stop.

She remembered being fourteen, excited to go to an art gallery for the first time. It was the biggest one in her city. Her father had bought a new dress for her, a beautiful purple number.

She remembered being happy, so happy.

And then it happened. Stealing not only her innocence, but her entire childhood as well.

That night had never once left her mind.

"We can go back if you like," Jimin offered, eyes sincere. He was visibly concerned, but he knew it wasn't his place to ask.

"No. I have to do this," she put her foot down, exhaling sharply. She was Kang Ambrosia. A businesswoman. Wedding planner extraordinaire. She did not give up.

Nodding slowly, he gestured to the glass doors, following her in.

They walked into a lobby, greeted with air conditioning and the smell of lemon cleaning supplies. The place seemed deserted. Ambrosia assumed that it was cleared for the prince's arrival.

Her suspicions were confirmed when they passed the gallery cafe, full of attendants bustling around to set a table for two. She waved at them, smiling in an attempt to divert her attention.

"This room houses the work of Sykarian contemporaries," Jimin stated, opening the door to a large hall. All sorts of paintings hung from the walls, each of different shapes and sizes.

"Usually, a gallery picks work of only a specific style or shape, but this room signifies the large range of art forms our artists have mastered. There's sculpture, surrealism, cubism, realism, portraits, landscapes," he explained further, gesturing to a section of the room.

She followed him down an aisle of masterpieces, breath hitching at the sight of each. It was clear that every painting was done by someone who truly deserved to have his work displayed here. It was breathtaking, how meticulously crafted each piece was. Slacking her new fashionista identity, she pulled off her sunglasses, resting them atop her head.

She found herself at a complete loss for words. All she could do was listen to Jimin speak about each painting like it was a peek behind the curtain into the artists soul.

"This is one of my favourite pieces in here. See the use of that indigo? That's this artist's signature. He never ends a painting without that stroke," Jimin pointed at the next painting, a beautiful display of vivid colours. There were wings, smeared on in thick paint. The back of a woman's head could be seen, a blue flower adorning her topknot. It was adroitly done, a true masterpiece.

"It's stunning," she breathed.

"The wings were put on using a knife, then covered in gold foil," he explained.

"Really?" She frowned, "Gold paint would've been so much easier to clean up. The indigo has a lot of interesting texture to it, the wings are 3-D, I don't see the benefit of adding gold leaf. It adds extra texture, which makes the painting look slightly messy. There's no physical contrast."

He narrowed his eyes, picturing the wings in gold paint instead of leaf, "You're right," he admitted, "Let's move on to the next piece."

They travelled down the lengthy aisles, paintings on either side of them. The room was smartly divided using a number of crosswalls, giving more space to add artworks.

They went down the next few aisles with only Jimin's commentary filling the silence. As though he'd personally painted each piece, he detailed their techniques and individual styles down to a t.

She observed the each painting with undivided attention, eyes widening and lips parted. It was beautiful. Undoubtedly so. The beauty in art exceeded any physical beauty a face may behold.

To her, beauty was in the little things. Listening to someone speak with true passion, with unconditional faith was the purest form of beauty.

Listening to Jimin was exactly that. He spoke of art in a way that made her believe in love. Nothing romanticised her, but listening to a man describe the little details of every artwork in the room made her reconsider the past ten years of her life. This, this level of love and dedication was what she missed out on in her hurry to make money.

In that moment, she realised that money will follow. All she needed was to love. To love a hobby, a person, herself.

"This painting actually started out with a green ebauche, surprising since the end product is quite a red-toned portrait," he gestured to a relatively smaller canvas, the last in that aisle, "It symbolises loneliness. Even though this woman is surrounded by happy people, she's still lonely."

"That's bleak," Ambrosia deadpanned, "What's ebauche?"

"It's a thin layer of paint you apply to a canvas before starting your actual painting. Just to get your cogs running and sketch out the designs."

"That's weird. And a waste of paint. You can't even see it.

He chuckled, "It's not a waste of paint, it helps the artist decide what to create. I do it too."

"You sketch in paint?" She asked, no malice in her tone. Only an innocent mixture of surprise and curiousity.

"Yeah, it helps get my ideas down fast."

"How about using chalk on the...ebauche?"

"That would actually work fine too," he replied, answering each of her questions gently.

She simpered, letting the topic go. Using paint where it wouldn't even be seen still seemed like a waste of resources to her, but who was she to argue? She couldn't even hold a paintbrush without doubling over.

While she was on edge, skittish from being in the very place she'd lost her innocence to all those years ago, he maintained his composure. Jimin knew she wasn't doing too hot. She was sweating between mumbling the same, "it's beautiful" to every painting. Adding in her own two cents was her way of dissuading from the fact that she was in an art gallery.

Something had happened here, he was sure of it. But if he pressed for answers, she'd cuss him out to kingdom come. Her Indian tongue was quite entertaining when she persecuted Jin, having himself as the target wasn't something he looked forward to.

Besides, he didn't want her to clam up.

"There it is. I thought you'd like this one, it's the main reason I got you here," he folded his arms, smiling at a large painting, a few feet taller than the two of them.

"I love the contrast. There's so much going on," she beamed. This one managed to elicit a smile from her, just like Jimin had promised. 

"Well, this piece took three years to complete. It has—"

"Three years? That's absolutely ridiculous," she exclaimed, "This kind of painting shouldn't have taken more than a few weeks. It could've been done so much more efficiently—"

"Am, there's no efficiency in art. It's expression," he explained gently, "This artist was going through a custody battle with her former husband over their kids. The thick brush strokes, intricate lines and delicate nature of this painting show her desperation to regain control of her life. She didn't do this for it to be displayed in galleries. This painting, love, is what kept her sane."

A moment of silence ensued. Painting had kept the artist sane.

How ironic, she thought. A skill could mean salvation to someone, and destruction to another.

It had surely destroyed her all those years ago. She hardly noticed them walking up to the gallery's largest display.

"That's Mrs Kim's painting. Jin's mom. It's this gallery's prized possession," he whispered, leaning towards Ambrosia, "I was about six when she finished this piece."

"It's beautiful. The birds, trees, blue sky. It's so serene," she marveled, eyes softening as she took in the powerful emotion behind the painting. It was like a window, opening into the artists mind. She wanted to reach out, to brush her fingertips against the rough, yet familiar canvas. To feel the textured brushstrokes under her skin.

But she hesitated. Although she'd slowly but surely changed over the course of the past two months, she certainly wasn't perfectly fine. Talking to the prince, to a person who understood, had deeply impacted her.

It was the little things. They way she'd stopped wearing all-whites in the name of convenience, her newfound love for dressing up. She'd never laughed and smiled as much as she had since meeting the royal as she had in the past ten years.

Someday—no matter how far away—she might even be able to overcome her crippling fear.

Noting her apprehension, he brushed his hand against her fingertips, hoping to comfort the tense woman, "You can feel it if you like. Mrs Kim wouldn't mind," he urged.

She seemed to visually loosen up under his touch, slowly shifting her eyes to the floor and then to meet his. Lips parted, she looked like she was about to undertake a herculean task. For her, it certainly was.

In silence, he put his hand atop hers, feeling it tremble. She lifted it, all on her own, and raised it up to the painted canvas. His palm did nothing but help, a warm encouragement. She slowly felt the cold, dry paint, running her digits along the textured cloth.

The feeling was magical, sending sparks up and down her body. She could see what the artist thought, feel what the artist felt while painting such a masterpiece.

"Thank you," she whispered.

She brought her hand back down, shuddering softly. He squeezed it, providing comfort.

"Shall we head to the cafeteria?" He offered. Nodding slowly, she agreed. Walking out the same way they came in, they remained mum. Their connection lay in the silence between them, the sanctity of two artists in a room full of art.

As they sat down at a table for two, she spied all the workers looking in their direction, gazing wistfully at their prince. He noticed her staring at the glass behind him, and smiled knowingly. With a gently flick of his hand, he beckoned them to come in, aware of the fact that they—like everyone he'd ever come across—were dying to meet him.

Sooner than he could turn back around to face Ambrosia, the gallery director gushed over them, following a long line of servers. Unlike contemporary media sensations, the beloved Sykarian Prince signed each and every autograph, took over fifty photos and graciously complimented everyone. All with that dashing smile and warm nature.

Ambrosia could never. She would've started abusing by the fifth autograph, grumbling and cursing through every photo. Being a prince really was hard, but Jimin made it seem like a cakewalk. Like he was born for his people, born to serve them with every ounce of blood in his body.

He really was. He wore his heart on his sleeve, prepared to die for his subjects.

Jimin truly knew the way to her heart, but nothing warmed her insides up more than watching him greet a young girl—one who's room was likely decorated with posters of said prince. He would give her a little kiss on her hand, call her beautiful and ruffle her hair. Then she'd blush and run away covering her face.

He'd chuckle, knowing all too well. The whole interaction would bring butterflies to Ambrosia's stomach.

He seemed like the perfect person. One with an aim, and the dedication to achieve it. She didn't, anymore.

Deep down, she wished it was his coronation she was planning.

Once the crowd had dispersed, he turned his back to them, facing her. Pushing a plate full of food her way, he gestured to her to begin eating.

"They love you," she pointed out the obvious, unable to stop smiling as she swallowed a bite of her pizza.

He grinned, "They're amazing."

She recalled an interaction she'd had with Jeongguk and the royal guards. It was at a cancer drive, giving ribbons and roses to young children. Jimin was gleaming up on stage, shining like that exactly where he belonged. In a pained tone, they'd confessed to her that they too wanted Jimin to ascend the throne, not his butt-wipe of a brother.

She'd never asked Jimin about it. Deciding now was better than never, she spoke, "You're clearly the perfect prince—"

"I'm sure that's not the only reason you're in love with me," he finished, smirking. Ambrosia's attention darted to that darn dimple that popped up again, infuriating her.

"Sweetheart, I'm not in love with you," she chided, blowing him a raspberry, "Anyways, you're the best candidate for the throne. Why is Kangmin becoming king instead of you?"

His mood dampened instantly. His playful smile now appeared pained, as though he was struggling to keep it up.

"Kangmin is father's favourite son. He gets the throne," Jimin shrugged, as though he'd accepted this years ago.

"That gives nepotism a new meaning," she joked, hoping to lighten the mood even though it's current disposition was totally on her, "I can't be the only one who sees how much of a dick he is."

"He's becoming king. That's all I can say."

"You realise that you're the only one who deserves it, right?"

He smiled softly. He didn't deserve the throne.

Kangmin's best friend didn't attempt suicide because of him. Jimin's did.

If the people knew that, they wouldn't want Jimin to see the light of day ever again.

"I appreciate you saying that, Ambrosia. But what's done is done."

"Alright," she put her hands up, accepting defeat. If she were him, she would fight. She'd do everything in her power for the throne, not because she deserved it, but because Kangmin definitely did not.

To make up for ruining the mood, she stabbed a few fries, holding them up at his mouth. He frowned, bewildered. She swung it around in the air as though he was a child, to which he laughed, opening his mouth.

"How could you feed me fries with no ketchup, Sia?" he gasped, giving Jin's drama a run for it's money, "Unacceptable, I swear—"

"Oh, stuff it," she snapped, shoving another forkful of ketchup-less fries into his gaping mouth. Laughing, she got back to eating ghar own food, giving up on feeding the fussy prince.

"I've been meaning to ask you this," he began, "How do you know all this?"

"Know what?"

"About painting. Using chalk instead of paint to sketch, how long a painting would take to complete."

She paused, lips parting. Shifting her pasta around with a fork, she spoke, "Well, I remember painting as a child."

"You don't anymore?"

"Nope."

"Why?"

"Because I—You know, work and everything," she shrugged him off, feeding him another bite just to keep him from speaking.

A lie.

She had time, enough to paint in the very least.

In ten years of working like her life depended on it, she had forgotten about her desire to paint. That night had killed her innocence, taking away any child-like laughter that resonated through her tiny home. Since then, all she did was work.

Sweep floors at an event planning company, assist her bosses and finally get to organise her first wedding. After that, there was no going back. She was booked day and night, flying around the globe.

She had money, enough to sustain her extravagant lifestyle till the day she died. She didn't need to make any more.

It was the pathological fear of boredom, of having nothing to do. Left alone, she would take to her thoughts, a place she didn't want to go. An empty feeling would settle in her, leaving her sick to the stomach.

This emptiness existed solely from the void that painting had left in her heart. She missed something, something congenital. Something vital.

And now she knew what was missing. Only problem, she was afraid of it.

"I could help you start painting again," he offered, knowing fully well that she had flipped out the last time she held a paintbrush, "Whenever you're ready."

Every bone in her body went into fight or flight—her track record favouring the latter—but she stood still. She was Kang Ambrosia. She didn't give up.

It was now or never, she had to get over it.

"Sure. Let's start tomorrow."

Author's note.

And that concludes chapter 11.

All these little Ambrosia X Jimin moments are so much fun to write. When I just started planning this book, I made sure to create chemistry between the characters, like actual common interests and stuff like that.

I've read so many books where there's absolutely no reason for the characters to be together apart from their combined ✨aesthetic-ness✨ in their good looks and physical attraction. A long lasting bond between two people comes from an actual connection. Heart-to-heart. Not just YA's favorite you're-hot-im-hot-lets-date.

All of that aside, we're opening up a new can of worms with this chapter. I can't wait to see your reaction to it.

Theories!

Why the hell is Kangmin becoming king, and not Jimin?

What happened to Ambrosia in an art gallery all those years ago? What's with her mom?

Ambrosia painting again: what's your take on that?

And most importantly, why hasn't Jin done our makeup yet?

Thats all for now. I'd love to have some interaction on here, so leave me a comment! It doesn't have to be about the chapter, it could literally be anything. I'm dyeing my hair pink, so let that be a start.

Have an awesome day, stay safe and make good decisions.