Clueless Aesthetic Novels & Stories

PROLOGUE Dr. Claire Holloway sat at her desk, her fingers tapping against the polished wood surface, a metronome of restlessness. Her office was pristine, a reflection of the order she strived to maintain in her professional life. The muted tones of the room—the soft beige walls, the neatly organized bookshelves, and the strategically placed furniture—exuded calm and control. But behind the facade of tranquility, there lingered an unspoken yearning, a quiet ache that seemed to echo in the hollow spaces of her heart.

That’s not a compliment. “That’s the aesthetic we discussed,” Weston reminds her, his tone patient in a way that suggests they’ve had this conversation before. “Farm chic. Rustic elegance. Remember?” “Of course.” Her smile is bright and brittle. “It’s exactly what we talked about.” It’s absolutely not what she wants and we all know it. I make a mental note that Eloise’s moods seem to shift like weather patterns—warm and engaged during the dress fitting, cool and dismissive now.

It featured a plunging V-neckline that offered just the right amount of cleavage to leave a man breathless, while a dangerously high slit showcased my perfectly toned legs. Paired with a bold red lipstick, I knew every man in that room would be at my mercy—even someone completely unavailable wouldn't be able to look away. “Girl! You are absolutely stunning!” Chloe gasped, biting her knuckle in admiration. I smirked, deeply satisfied that the aesthetic strategy was falling into place perfectly. “You’re a masterpiece yourself,” I replied with a quick wink. We grabbed our accessories—I opted for a matching crimson clutch—and slipped into our heels. “The driver is waiting downstairs,” Chloe anno

AUglyelle's POV I scrolled through social media and stumbled haven'tra’s page. She had quite a following. An interesting page. I didn't follow her. I didn't want her to know I saw her. I didn't also like or comment on a single post. Clara always looked like a stack of dollars. Antonioni’s money. My husband’s money, I’m sure. Every picture screamed excess, designer bags perched like trophies, luxury clothes and accessories, champagne glasses tilted just right, expensive and beautiful nails, flowers from different functions and admirers, skin glowing like she never worried about tomorrow.

Marina was waiting inside when I arrived, a woman in her fifties with silver hair and impeccable style. "Claire!" she greeted, kissing both my cheeks in that effortless way some people had. "Come, let me show you what I'm thinking." She led me through the boutique, pointing to an entire wall near the front window. "Your collection here," she said. "Prime visibility, everyone who walks past will see it." I looked at the space, imagining my designs displayed there, imagining strangers stopping to look. "It's perfect," I said honestly. "I think so too," Marina agreed. "The aesthetic fits beautifully with our brand, strong, sophisticated, unapologetic."

"So your compensation is divorce? And taking half of my assets?" He slammed the divorce agreement hard into my face. "I didn't expect this, Lily. You're more calculating than I thought. Every clause your lawyer wrote is airtight. But why should my property go to you? If you want a divorce, fine—but only if you leave with nothing." I answered honestly, "The lawyer said this is my right."

“That’s irrelevant.” “Is it?” Claire hummed. “She is a nice change from your usual lineup.” I knew exactly what she meant. Max had said the same thing. If I thought I was hiding, then I was doing a very bad job at it. “Blonde. Polished,” she continued. “You’ve had a very consistent aesthetic over the years.” I sat up straighter. “This is not like that.” Claire grinned audibly. “That’s what you all say.”

he gave me one of his intense gazes again. You've got to be kidding me. How clueless is this man? This wasn't some crappy romance movie where the female lead falls for the rude and arrogant asshole. This is real life. I am a real woman who was already in a happy relationship with a great guy. Who does he think he is?

“You know what’s funny?” “What?” “I used to think healing would feel dramatic.” She glanced around the apartment softly. “But actually…” A faint laugh escaped her. “…it feels like choosing curtain colors and arguing over bookshelf placement.” God. Adrian laughed quietly. “Which, for the record, you are losing.” “Absolutely not.” “I refuse to let you organize books by emotional vibe.” “It’s called aesthetic intelligence.” “It’s called chaos.” She shoved him lightly while laughing. And God. That sound. That lightness.