Clueless Aesthetic Novels & Stories

I was tempted to think the aestheticians were magical. After that, I was given the dress to wear and asked to select from a range of shoes and purses that all went with the dress but varied greatly in mood. I chose the stylish but nicely wearable pumps in nude leather that sort of made me look like I was standing on tip-toe and a simple silvery clutch.

She picked at the fraying edge of the couch's cushions, her manicured nails—still perfectly maintained despite her emotional turmoil—catching threads that unraveled under pressure. Clara's fingers flew across the keyboard with the practiced efficiency of someone who lived and breathed in both legal briefs and digital spaces. Her pale complexion had grown even more pronounced from long hours under fluorescent office lighting, but her movements remained precise, methodical. "Look, the fashion design community on I*******m is huge. And there's this whole movement of women reclaiming their creativity after difficult periods in their lives. Your story would resonate."

“Under those corporate parameters, are there specific stylistic vectors your tongue wants my hand to steer his choices toward?” I seized the tactical opening instantly. “Yes. Absolute confirmation. Nothing that translates to a low-tier mate trap. Zero threads that imply a brainless bimbo aesthetic. My image requires an architecture that registers as highly intelligent, yet entirely sharp. Dominant. Historic. Symmetrical cleavage represents a viable asset, but nothing that evokes the visual data of a primitive breeding den pin-up.” “The metrics are logged. My hands will manipulate what we can behind the veil.”

"Claire, I need to ask you a few more questions about the night of the murder." She stepped aside from the door, gracefully inviting me in with a gesture. I couldn’t help but notice the natural elegance in her movements. Every gesture seemed calculated, each movement precise. Part of me felt overwhelmed by a strange fascination, but I forced myself to remain calm. The inside of the apartment was just as refined as Claire herself. Modern furniture, minimalist sculptures, but also personal touches that revealed a distinct taste for art. The main room, spacious and bathed in light, was carefully decorated. Yet, there was something unsettling about this perfect place. I felt a sense of discomfor

She was a closed book with a face of a witch, case-bound with leather and parchment— the reason why I had been glued and interested underneath her cover. "I think I won't ever understand you," Khloe spoke after a couple of minutes, her ministration ceased and I watched her at the corner of my eyes. She was looking around, her brows knitted inwards, and probably in puzzlement. "Your style in art is messed up. Who would post their works imperfect and unfinished?"

“You need elegant disinterest. Like this is normal.” “But it’s not normal.” “Which is the problem. Adrian Knight dates a certain caliber of woman. Poised. Sophisticated. Used to wealth.” She shows me a headline. “‘Brooklyn Designer In Over Her Head.’” My stomach drops. “That published this morning,” Clarissa continues. “Unless we address the optics.” “The optics.” “How you’re perceived. Right now: charming but unpolished. Genuine but naive. Out of your depth.” She smiles. “We need to change that narrative.”

Tattered drapes hung in front of a missing window. Aimee took several photographs from all different angles of the paraphernalia that littered the home. She changed lenses, filters, zoomed in and zoomed out. She heard Clint moving about, but as soon as she started clicking away, she only had attention for what she saw through her lens. She abandoned herself to what spoke to her. Others saw a broken chair or trash. Aimee saw beauty that reached out to her from the past. Art was about what you could make others see and feel. If the piece spoke to her, she could make it speak to others, and that is what she wanted, to speak to people.

There was a stiff tension in the room, and the rest of the others had no idea that it was beyond what met the eyes—but the two knew it so well. "To me it means taste, uniqueness, and timeliness," Claire sternly answered, making Ryan lift an amused eyebrow. "Something I can easily consider paying a fortune for, not because I can, but rather because it completes me, and also compliments my taste," she added, without breaking eye contact. "Well said, Ms. Levy." Ryan smiled sinisterly. "Now tell me, as a designer yourself, and not as an employee of Starlight, are you okay with the designs you've just suggested to us? Can you actually advise me to go on with it?"

She was already writing something down, lips pressed together, posture stiff. Next was Dr. Ary Thorne. I’d read his papers in school. He cared about concepts more than aesthetics, and right now his eyes weren’t dismissive. They were curious. Kenji Mori sat beside him, calm and composed. Known for minimalism long before it became fashionable, he leaned forward slightly, hands folded, gaze steady. At the end was Clara Vance. Creative director. Trend-maker. Dangerous in the quiet way. She hadn’t spoken yet, just watched. Dubois cleared his throat.

While some bold ones were actually sleeping. Rabbit, however, looked one blink away from collapsing face-first onto his desk. Noah’s eyes narrowed slightly. “…and Wilde uses aestheticism not merely as philosophy,” he continued evenly, voice smooth as he resumed pacing slowly across the front of the room, “but as a shield. Dorian’s obsession with beauty becomes an excuse to separate himself from consequence.” Rabbit’s head dipped again. This time lower. A strand of white hair slipped across his face as he blinked heavily. His pink eyes were surrounded by a sea of pale red.