The Unmasking
806 Words
Watching Yvonne walk away, both men seemed to relax—but only for a moment.
Then Aaron’s gentle façade faded, his voice cooling to an icy edge:
“I’ll ask one more time. How did you get that invitation?”
Ezra wasn’t having it either. Having his date with Yvonne interrupted had already put him in a foul mood. He didn’t even bother looking at Aaron, simply curling his lip dismissively.
“Like I said—from the brand. What, are you their accountant now?”
“I don’t need investors.”
Aaron fought to keep his composure. With guests still flowing past, he maintained a calm exterior—but behind his back, his hands clenched.
“Your invitation is invalid. As the host, I have every right to ask you to leave.”
“You wanna try?”
Ezra stood taller than Aaron. With Yvonne gone, he saw no reason to hold back. He straightened up, looking down at Aaron with the unbridled audacity of youth.
Yvonne had no interest in getting caught between them. Taking sides would only make things worse.
Leaving the two to their squabble, she slowed her steps and turned her attention to the exhibit.
This was a fashion show curated by Aaron and his team. Originally debuted overseas, it had now come home—with several new pieces added. Rich with Eastern-inspired motifs, the collection harmonized beautifully with the classical European gallery.
Yvonne studied each piece. Many featured intricate, painstaking embroidery. Delicate fabrics held dreamlike patterns—whispers of beauty and meaning.
She felt she almost understood Aaron’s vision—and yet, like his sudden departure years ago, it remained just out of reach. Sketches—some minimalist, some frenzied—were displayed beside the garments. They felt like tired birds returning to the forest, or fish meeting birds mid-flight—elusive, untranslatable.
Shaking her head, Yvonne pulled herself back to the present. Aaron was here now. Dwelling on the past was pointless.
Smoothing her dress, she decided it was time to leave.
The gallery wasn’t large. Despite its ornate style, the lighting was soft, and the sparse crowd gave the space a hushed, almost sacred quality.
As Yvonne turned the final corner toward the exit, she collided with someone.
Rubbing her forehead, she began to apologize—then froze.
It wasn’t that Yvonne was bad with faces. In fact, she remembered details about everyone she met. But the man before her now—tall, refined, almost austerely handsome—made her breath catch.
He had a mole under his right eye. And as he adjusted his posture, she spotted another—on his neck.
Exactly where her play partner’s had been.
That night had been dimly lit, masks on, identities blurred—but she’d memorized that mole. She’d kissed it, nipped it, left marks around it while he trembled and begged.
That mole.
“Are you all right?”
His voice snapped her back. Deep, cultured—exactly like his.
She stared, speechless, until he spoke again:
“Miss? Is everything alright?”
That voice—it was him. She was sure of it.
He extended a hand—slender, pale, elegant. She took it briefly, her touch light.
“I’m fine. Just… distracted.”
“Distracted?” He sounded amused. His tone was cool, detached. He glanced toward the exhibit. “I’m Alistair. I was invited to the show—came straight from a performance.”
He introduced himself smoothly. Yvonne studied him. He wore a crisp white suit—pristine, untouched. He looked pure, untouchable.
She remembered now—her sub had been obsessed with cleanliness. And he’d had… quirks.
“Yvonne Rossi,” she replied calmly. “Also invited.”
“Yvonne…” He let her name linger. “Aaron’s mentioned you.”
So he knew Aaron. Before she could respond, he added:
“I should go. But—here.”
He drew a slender business card from his inner pocket. Their fingers brushed as she took it. And in his eyes—usually so cool and detached—she saw a flash of heat.
Raw. Wanting.
Then he was gone, leaving only a faint, clean scent—like fresh linen and winter air.
She looked down at the card. White, minimalistic. And in elegant script, a single word:
PUPPY
Her sub’s name. His name.
Memories flooded back: that night, his clean-cut elegance contrasted with the filth he’d whispered, the way he’d begged, thrashed, come undone under her touch. How he’d trembled, wept, lost control completely.
She’d reduced him to a shaking, desperate mess.
Alistair, hm?
Tucking the card into her knit bag, Yvonne pulled out her phone and navigated to a familiar chat screen. Her message was brief and bold:
So… Alistair or Puppy?
- Writer
