Cracks in the Armor
811 Words
Back in the bedroom, Bianca tried to pull Yvonne back into the game, but Yvonne gently refused. “Something came up at home,” she said softly. “Raincheck, okay?”
Truth was, Yvonne was worried about Sebastian. His behavior had been off—unsettling, even. The rawness in his voice had struck a chord deep within her, one she hadn’t known existed.
She caught a cab back, the city lights blurring past. As the villa came into view, she noticed only the living room light was on.
Sebastian was home. But in what state?
She unlocked the door quietly with her fingerprint and stepped inside.
There he was—slumped on the living room sofa.
And he was a mess.
The couch, usually adorned with the vintage American-style cushions Yvonne had picked out, now held a man coming undone. Several bottles of liquor sat on the coffee table. Yvonne didn’t drink, and she certainly didn’t collect expensive spirits—these had to be from Sebastian’s private stock.
A half-filled glass sat beside him, the amber liquid catching the light. He groaned, voice low and rough. His eyes shone with unshed tears; the tip of his nose was flushed from the alcohol.
Yvonne stood there silently, watching him unravel.
“Yvonne… whatever you’ve done with those men… I can do it too.”
His words were fragmented, choked. “Just look at me… please, look at me.”
He set the glass down hard, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He cried without sound—a silent, shaking release.
“Don’t hate me… don’t leave.”
The words finally broke through, raw and unfiltered.
“Sebastian,” Yvonne said softly, “you’re drunk.”
She reached out, touching his forehead. Her cool hand seemed to soothe the feverish heat of the alcohol. He leaned into her touch, nuzzling her palm like a wounded animal.
His hair was nothing like Ezra’s soft strands—it was coarse, almost sharp against her skin.
She didn’t want to take advantage. Not like this. Not with him. When he’d first moved in, she’d seen him as little more than a stern guardian. How had it come to this?
She helped him up, half-supporting his weight as she guided him to his bedroom. Once he was settled in bed, she finally took a steadying breath and looked around.
It was almost ironic: had he not been drunk, she might never have stepped foot in Sebastian Stone’s private space.
This was her first time inside his room—a converted guest bedroom, stripped of all warmth.
The guest room had once been traditional, almost quaint.
Now, it was unrecognizable.
The walls and floors had been redone in stark, minimalist tones. The whole room felt cold—monochrome, severe, almost oppressively tidy.
Everything was in its place: the bed neatly made, his laptop and notebooks aligned perfectly on the desk. Even the bookshelf stood orderly, filled with dense, academic titles.
But at the very bottom, tucked away almost shyly, was a thick photo album with a pink cover.
Something about it felt familiar. Curiosity got the better of her. She bent down and pulled it out.
The album was clean, well-kept—even edged with delicate lace detailing.
It was heavy in her hands. She flipped it open.
Page after page was filled with photos of her.
From monthly baby pictures to recent university events—it was a visual diary of her life, meticulously preserved.
The realization hit her slowly, then all at once.
She snapped the album shut and placed it back exactly as she’d found it.
Anyone could have a crush on her. But not him.
Not Sebastian.
She glanced back at him—now asleep, vulnerable and unguarded. In this state, he almost seemed… sweet.
With one last look, she quietly closed the door and left.
Back at the exhibition hall, Aaron Lockwood remained alone, studying the subtle details of his displayed work.
He knew the show had been a critical success. His fingers trailed over the fabrics—soft, luxurious, flowing like whispered promises.
He paused before the centerpiece of the collection.
The piece everyone had debated, speculated about, but never truly understood.
He had never revealed its inspiration.
How could he?
This piece—this dress—was for Yvonne.
He had imagined her in it a thousand times. The way she would smile, the softness in her eyes… It was what kept him going during his darkest creative droughts.
He had become a designer because of her.
His memory was unreliable in many things, but not when it came to her.
He remembered everything: how she had once said he drew beautifully, how she’d mused that fashion design seemed fascinating, how she’d…
How she’d said so many things—random, careless, unforgettable things.
And Aaron remembered.
He always would.
- Writer
