Beautiful: A Novels & Stories

My heart raced with anticipation, and I crossed my fingers, hoping for a positive outcome. The door swung open, and there stood Olympia, with a radiant smile that instantly brightened up the room. "Oh, it's so good to see you! You're so beautiful" she exclaimed, her eyes filled with warmth and genuine joy. Her beauty was undeniable, and it was clear where her daughter Cassandra had inherited her looks from. Olympia was a stunning woman, exuding elegance and grace.

However, without saying anything, she closed her book, grabbed her backpack and moved it to the side, leaving an empty seat for the handsome guy. Ciara hated sitting with strangers, but she hated talking to overly attractive people even more. Since earlier, there had been quite a few glances towards where Ciara was sitting, mostly focused on the handsome guy next to her. Throughout the class, neither Ciara nor the handsome guy spoke a single word to each other. This was also what Ciara wanted. Just as the class ended and Ciara was packing up her things, she was surprised when the handsome guy sitting next to her started talking to her again:

“Hello, sweetheart. Aunt Willa can’t wait to hold you.” “I think this kid is thrilled to see you.” I chuckled. “I’m so excited. How’s the room decoration going on?” “Still working on it.” I noticed a new painting. A mysterious woman on a beautiful landscape in the sunset. “That’s beautiful.” “Really?” She blinked. I saw the gaiety in her eyes. “Yeah. It’s the quietness, the contentment, and the beauty that is represented in the landscape and the sunset, of course. The woman is happy in her life.”

She smiled a little bit at me, giving me comfort and assurance. "Hello, Madam. I'm Beauty, a good friend of your son. Your son bought you your favorite flowers." She slowly placed flowers on my mother's grave. "Don't you know that yellow is my favorite too? I also like pink roses. It's nice to meet you." Beauty dipped her head halfway and shut her eyes. She seems like she's offering a peaceful prayer. I felt my jaw tense up. I took out the sunshade from my back pocket and put it on. I watched Beauty kneeling and tenderly caressing my mother's engraved name.

"Wow, that's amazing! I can tell you're a talented person. You must make a lot of money from writing, right?" Every man liked being admired, especially by beautiful women. Being straightforward by nature, I responded honestly, "It's alright. I've earned a few million, enough to retire on. I've put down the pen now." Her eyes widened in shock at my words. She blurted out, "Let's exchange numbers, sir! That way, you can ask me if you have any questions about the supplements." I was momentarily at a loss as this was the first time a beautiful woman had ever asked for my number.

Her eyebrows were thick and arched with confidence, and her cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass, yet her smile—when it came—softened her whole face. Her eyes were the kind that held too many stories and not enough time to tell them all, a deep shade of whisky brown with golden flecks that made them look almost... enchanted. But it was more than just beauty. Nina Blackwood had poise. Grace. That enviable quality where she could sit on a stiff leather chair in a corporate office, sip black coffee, and still feel like she was sipping red wine in a rooftop lounge somewhere in Paris. And yet, she wasn’t intimidating. At least not to me. Not anymore.

I brush it away, fingertips skimming warm skin, and my stomach knots when I catch the faint shimmer of dried tears. Why was she crying again? Was it because of me? The thought feels like a punch under the ribs. My heart cringes. This girl is extraordinarily beautiful, naturally ― not like all those superficial bitches that surround me all the time. She’s beautiful in that rare, infuriating way — not because she tries, but because she doesn’t. No fake lashes, no overdrawn lips, no designer filters. Just Aria — real … original … fresh … unique … unforgettable. Shit.

He is not going to find the answer on my face. I noted six weeks ago, the night she looked up at me across a dinner table and delivered the specific sentence that has made me hate her ever since, that she was beautiful. Beautiful is not even the adequate word. It is a placeholder for something I lack the inclination to articulate further. The champagne and the mascara and the ruined dress do not change this, which I find genuinely irritating. Beauty in a woman I despise is its own particular inconvenience, because it only intensifies the hatred rather than diluting it. It gives the hatred something to work against.

Berry said. “Thank you, Sir. I just came from a beauty salon and the staff did their jobs really well.” Clarissa was a little embarrassed to speak but she found the courage to do so. “See, I told you, Berry. She does look like our favorite Spanish Miss Universe.” Bamby cut in the conversation. “Truly, her features are amazing and I am sure that my clothes will make her look more regal,” Berry responded.

A child with her beautiful face and his blue eyes. If only that were possible.