One million dollars -- a dream come true for struggling college student Ashlynn Morgan. All she has to do is sign on the dotted line and agree to become surrogate mother for CEO multi billionaire Felix Dunnerson and his wife Deborah.
Yet, during th...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"I think it's creepy how her eyes follow us around."
Felix laughs. "Yes, that might have been the effect Leonardo da Vinci wanted to accomplish when he painted the Mona Lisa. I read he was rather eccentric."
I stare at the picture of the woman who was once considered stunning. Today, her skin would probably be too pale, her plain features not extraordinary enough to make her stick out in a crowd. Societal standards have changed, and those who judge can be cruel if one doesn't meet their definition of beauty.
"Do you know why he chose her as a model?"
"There are different theories. The most common is that the model was Lisa Gherardini, the wife of a Florentine cloth merchant who commissioned the drawing in honor of the birth of their son. Some art historians believe it was da Vinci's mother since he never turned the commissioned painting over. I suppose we'll never know for sure unless we meet him in an afterlife."
"If you believe in such things."
"That's a given."
I walk to the other side of the painting and back, but the impression never changes. No matter where I'm standing in the room, the eyes of the Mona Lisa follow me. It's downright scary how an artist could get that effect with a few strokes of a brush. I totally suck at art, barely able to draw stick people, so the resourcefulness of the mind is just astonishing.
"Ready to go?" Felix asks when I can't tear my gaze away.
"Sure. Where to next?"
"There is one more stop to make before I take you to dinner."
"Let me guess—the Eiffel Tower."
"Nope."
I pout. The whole day, I've been nagging him to take me there, but he has been purposely vague, as if attempting to avoid Paris's number one tourist attraction altogether. We had breakfast on the Champs-Élysées after a rather awkward moment in immigration where he presented me as his wife, and I had to show Deborah's passport. Resembling her to a T comes in handy in a situation like this. Afterward, I promised myself I'd apply for my own one as soon as we'll get back.
The Arc de Triomphe and the burned ruins of the Notre Dame church were next on the program before an elaborate lunch in a small bistro prepared us for an extended visit to the Louvre. Now three hours in, I'm dying of thirst and my feet hurt. I still wouldn't ask him to take me back to the hotel, eager to soak up as much of the city as possible.
The driver opens the door to the long stretch limo for us and the car begins to move as soon as we have settled inside. I watch the faces of the Parisians we pass in the street. There's a certain elegance and style that sometimes lacks in US cities, even if the feeling of being constantly underdressed has been haunting me since moving to California. I'm convinced that even the pantyhose of most of my classmates are some designer label I've never heard of.
