Silk & Steel
538 Words
Yvonne remembered Aaron used to cry easily as a boy—all red nose and flushed cheeks, heartbreakingly vulnerable. But the years had carved away that softness.
"What's wrong?" Her voice softened. Late as it was, she realized how little she truly knew of the man he’d become since returning from Paris.
"Yvonne…" His voice remained velvety smooth, but something fragile threaded through it.
Through his studio’s floor-to-ceiling windows, Aaron watched his reflection warp in the rain-streaked glass. A bitter laugh escaped him.
"Just remembering things. Childhood things."
He reined in the tremor, forcing calm into his tone. His fingers traced the phoenix design beneath his palm—wings flaring across the drafting paper.
"Do you ever tire of me dragging up the past?"
Yvonne traced patterns on her nightstand, wide awake now. "Not tired. But we can’t live there, Aaron."
He always did this—cloaked vulnerability in nostalgia. Each "remember when?" was a probe, testing if she still saw him as that gentle boy. But she wanted to crack that saintly facade, to tarnishhis precious principles.
Silence stretched like cello strings. Just as Yvonne thought he’d hung up, a fractured sob broke through.
"Thank you."
Memories flashed: eight-year-old Aaron biting his lip bloody while his father’s wooden ruler cracked against his palms. He’d only crumbled when the servants left, burying his face in her shoulder.
Some things never change.
She let him cry, refusing cheap platitudes. When his breathing steadied, she asked:
"You needed something?"
"The exhibition… Will you come?" He rushed on: "I held VIP tickets. For you. Always."
Every show. Every city. Scanning crowds for her silhouette became ritual.
"Wasn’t it in Hartford?"
"Moved it here." His voice hitched. "The board agreed—the city’s architecture complements the theme."
Liar.She heard the desperate thrum beneath his words.
"Saturday works."
Relief flooded the line. She pictured him pressing his phone to his cheek like a talisman. "It’s been too long, Yvonne…"
Office Hours
They drifted through shared memories—a past that felt like someone else’s life. Without those childhood ties, they were strangers orbiting separate worlds.
The call might’ve lasted hours if not for the sharp interruption:
"Director Lockwood—"
"Did I not request knocks?" Aaron’s tone stayed pleasant, but ice glazed the words.
Yvonne listened as an anxious assistant babbled about venue permits. When Aaron returned, his apology flowed smooth as honey. "Work never sleeps. Raincheck?"
"Go tame your chaos."
The moment the line died, Aaron’s face blanked. He turned to the trembling intern clutching blueprints.
"Relocating the exhibit is a mistake," the man blurted.
"Why?" Aaron’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.
"Brand cohesion—"
"Our theme is Rebirth." Aaron stroked his design. "Hartford’s brutalist galleries would suffocate it. This city breathes renaissance."
His logic was silk; his presence, a vice. The intern shriveled under his gaze.
"Shall I finalize the contracts, sir?"
"It’s done." Aaron gathered his hair into a loose knot, revealing the cold glint beneath his lashes. "Close the door on your way out."
The man fled. Outside, he leaned against the wall, heart hammering.
Since when did "the gentleman of the arts" look like he skins kittens for fun?
- Writer
