Unwritten History
1124 Words
“Welcome to SELAS!” The saleslady’s voice rang out, bright and rehearsed, as Chloe and Elleri stepped into the store.
Elleri glanced around, taking in the sleek displays and polished shelves. This was Adrian’s brand—his creation. She’d heard Chloe mention it before, how Adrian had launched his own sports shoe line after making waves in the basketball world. His brand wasn’t exactly globally famous, but locally? It was a hit. Fans saw him sporting his own designs on the court, and every time a new collection dropped, Adrian made sure he was the first to wear them. His shoes weren’t just a product—they were a statement.
A saleslady approached, flashing a well-practiced smile. “Looking to buy today?” Her gaze flicked to Elleri, giving her a slow once-over, from head to toe.
Elleri caught the lingering scrutiny and forced a small smile. Then, she shifted her weight, glancing sideways at Chloe. Did she really look that out of place here? She hadn't thought much about her outfit before walking in, but now—under that assessing gaze—it suddenly felt like she should have.
“We’re just going to look around first and check the—” she started, but the words barely left her lips before the saleslady cut in.
“Here we go again.”
It was quiet, muttered under her breath, but unmistakable.
Elleri’s brows furrowed. “Excuse me?” She wasn’t one to pick fights with strangers, but that tone—dismissive, laced with something she didn’t like—made her pause.
The saleslady didn’t miss a beat. “Ma’am, don’t take this the wrong way, but…” She let out a little chuckle, tilting her head. “I really don’t think this is the store for you.”
Chloe, who had been scanning a rack of shoes, snapped her gaze toward the conversation. Meanwhile, Elleri blinked, caught completely off guard. Was this how they treated customers here?
She knew Adrian’s brand had a solid following, but this? This level of snobbery? Did they really believe only certain people deserved to buy his shoes?
Her curiosity flickered. How expensive are these shoes, anyway?
“I’m sure they’re not that bad. We can probably afford a pair, right?” she said, her voice light but firm, moving closer to Chloe.
Chloe hesitated. Then, in a low whisper, she dropped the number.
“Ten thousand.”
“What?” The word burst from Elleri before she could stop it.
She turned to Chloe fully now, her expression a mix of shock and disbelief. The saleslady, catching her reaction, smirked—just a little, barely noticeable, but there.
“That’s insane,” Elleri muttered. “What was your brother thinking?”
Chloe only shrugged. She wasn’t exactly involved in Adrian’s business decisions. All she knew was that, somehow, people still bought his shoes—even at those prices. Maybe it was the star factor. Maybe it was the exclusivity. Either way, the fans lined up.
“If the prices here are too much for you, there are plenty of other stores outside the mall,” the saleslady chimed in, her tone sweet, but not quite friendly. “Besides, I doubt even the cheapest pair here is within your budget.”
That was it. Chloe's patience snapped. “Miss, do you even know who you’re talking to—” she began, voice sharp with irritation.
But before she could say more, Elleri’s fingers wrapped around her wrist, holding her back.
Elleri’s gaze flicked to Chloe, confusion and frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Why is she stopping me? If the saleslady knew who she was, maybe—just maybe—she wouldn’t look at her like she couldn’t afford to breathe in this store.
The saleslady arched a brow, eyes full of amusement. “What, is she famous or something? An actress? Maybe a model, like Aster?” She let her gaze trail over Elleri again, slow and calculated. “Mm… I don’t think so. Models don’t dress like that.”
Elleri stiffened, the words cutting sharper than she expected. And what exactly is wrong with the way I dress? She glanced down—just a simple T-shirt and jeans. Comfortable. Practical. It wasn’t like she had walked in here looking sloppy. But under the saleslady’s judgmental stare, her outfit suddenly felt like a problem.
Why does it matter what I’m wearing? She didn’t come here to impress anyone—just to see Adrian’s work up close. But instead of excitement, all she felt was irritation.
Then something caught her eye.
Sketches. Framed. Hanging neatly across the store walls.
She took a step forward. The designs—they looked familiar.
“Wait… are those—” She stopped mid-sentence, blinking as recognition slammed into her.
Chloe noticed the shift and frowned. “What is it, Ate?”
The saleslady followed her gaze, then smiled proudly, as if preparing to deliver some grand revelation. “Oh, those? Those are the original designs Ms. Aster gave to LA back when he was still in the military. They became his inspiration for the brand.” She leaned in slightly. “Here’s a little trivia—‘SELAS’ comes from their initials.”
Elleri’s breath hitched. “Aster?” She turned to the saleslady, disbelief tightening in her chest. No. No, that can’t be right. How could they claim those sketches were Aster’s?
She knew them—every line, every curve, every detail. Because she was the one who made them.
The saleslady sighed dreamily, clasping her hands together like she was narrating the most romantic story ever told. “Honestly, LA might just be the most romantic guy out there. No wonder his creations are so expensive—they carry the weight of his love story with Miss Aster. They were separated because of their careers, but they never stopped loving each other. And now that she’s back? Oh, it’s only a matter of time before we hear wedding bells.”
Elleri’s heart pounded as she stared at the framed sketches, words failing her. He thinks these designs came from Aster?
And then there was the name—SELAS. Their initials.
It was almost laughable. Adrian hadn’t just used the designs. He had built an entire brand around the idea of them—around her and Aster.
It was like he was sending a message, one that was painfully clear. I never belonged in his life the way Aster did.
They were childhood friends. Maybe classmates. But nothing more.
No matter what she had once meant to him, she was now staring at proof—etched into sketches, framed on the walls—that she had never truly mattered.
- Writer
