A Smile I Didn't Know I Needed
Were you missing me?
That question has been lingering in the back of my mind for hours—quiet but persistent, like a pulse beneath the chaos. It's been a week since I last saw even a shadow of her, and I've been counting the days without admitting that I am.
The office was a mess—papers scattered across my desk, half-finished lyrics buried under financial reports, coffee cups I don't remember drinking. Michael stood a few steps ahead, his voice sharp and clean as he issued instructions. People moved around us like currents—faces I recognized, others I didn't. Different teams, different companies, all converging for the same reason.
The executives were arriving today. Artists from several labels were scheduled to meet us, too—violinists, painters, digital creators. With each passing minute, I became certain that I was going to be trapped playing the violin; it became painfully true that maybe I would never lift my hands to paint again.
Nothing felt normal today.
People came and went in waves. Meetings were being set up, artists were escorted from one room to another. I should've been focused on the schedule, the contracts, the presentations.
But all I could think about was her.
Michael noticed my distraction; he always did. He asked if I was alright. I said yes. It wasn't true, but it got him to turn back to the chaos.
I stared at the papers on my desk without processing a single line.
And just like that, it was time.
I pushed back my chair and stood, the quiet scrape of it almost swallowed by the noise outside. Michael was already a step ahead, and I fell into pace beside him as we walked toward the elevator. The hallway felt colder than usual, or maybe it was just the nerves tightening beneath my ribs. We waited in silence until the elevator arrived with a soft chime, and when the doors opened, the chrome interior reflected the tension I was trying to hide.
Inside, I felt every heartbeat echo too loudly. My fingers kept drifting to the cuffs of my coat, smoothing the fabric again and again as if that could steady me. I was dressed sharply—black coat and matching tie, the clean white shirt beneath setting a sharp contrast. My pants and shoes followed the same dark palette, precise and deliberate, while my socks matched the shirt, a detail only I cared about. The glasses perched on my nose weren't part of the outfit so much as a necessity; hours of reading reports and drafting responses had left my eyes strained.
The mirrored elevator walls caught my reflection—tired, composed, and more nervous than I wanted anyone to notice.
Michael's pale finger pressed the button for the 8th floor—the floor reserved solely for the CEO's office, which, unfortunately, belonged to my father.
"Are you nervous?" Michael asked, his voice low, almost casual, though I could hear the tension beneath it.
"What do you think?"
"I think you're as nervous as me," he replied, glancing at me from the corner of his eye.
I shook my head lightly. "Way more than you."
He huffed a quiet breath, something close to a laugh. "Well, everything is going to be fine. You have me, and I have you."
I gave a small nod, the kind that wasn't quite confident but honest enough. The elevator hummed beneath our feet as we ascended, the silence hovering between us like a shared understanding.
Ding!
The elevator stopped on the 8th floor with a soft jolt. As we stepped out, we were immediately met with rows of security guards lining the hallway. Their presence wasn't surprising; today's meeting had gathered some of the most talented and well-known executives and artists in the industry. Extra caution was expected.
The meeting room was located in the far left corner of the floor, connected to the CEO's office. As we walked past it, my eyes landed—unavoidably—on the polished golden nameplate fixed beside the door.
Arthur Ardel, CEO
My father's name gleamed back at me, sharp under the fluorescent lights, as if reminding me exactly where I stood and who I was expected to be.
The office room was already filled with men in black suits, some old with decades carved into the lines of their faces—reminders of the years they'd spent shaping the music industry—and others young, polished, rising so fast they practically glowed beneath the fluorescent lights. A handful of new artists lingered near the sides of the room, stiff and careful, as if afraid to exhale too loudly in front of so much power.
The atmosphere itself was suffocating. The air smelled faintly of expensive cologne, polished leather, and ambition. This was a room where every breath seemed to cost money, where everyone walked in with an ego sharp enough to cut glass. If you didn't radiate authority, confidence, or something dangerously close to it, you would be swallowed whole. The industry didn't grant mercy—not even to its own.
My seat was near my father's—of course it was. He sat at the head of the long glass table, the position only someone like Arthur Ardel could occupy without question. The chair looked like a throne in the way it framed him. On either side of him stood two of his bodyguards, both built like walls carved out of stone, their hands clasped in front of them, eyes sharper than the security systems guarding the entire floor.
I lowered myself into my seat, my posture straight, even though my chest felt tight. Michael slipped quietly into the chair beside me, brushing his sleeve against mine in a silent reminder that I wasn't alone in this. Meanwhile, the projector hummed softly, casting a cold, blue glow across my father's stern features.
I could feel the weight of the room pressing down on me. Every once in a while, a pair of eyes flickered my way—evaluating, curious, maybe even expectant. It was always like this whenever I sat this close to my father. I wasn't just Aubrey Ardel here; I was Arthur Ardel's son. And that title came with a gravity I wasn't sure I could carry.
The meeting was long and suffocating. Voices layered over one another—sharp disagreements, forced compromises, thinly veiled insults coated in politeness. Then, inevitably, the solutions arrived, sealed with rehearsed smiles and heavy nods. By the time the final deal was drafted and ready, everyone looked exhausted, though still itching to maintain the image of perfect composure.
The paper made its way around the table—pen strokes, signatures, loops of ink carrying weight none of us could immediately comprehend. When it reached me, I stared at the line with my name printed above it. My fingers hovered. For a moment, I wondered if anyone could see the slight tremor in my hand. Eventually, I signed. I always do.
As the meeting adjourned, suits shuffled out, offering shallow pleasantries to my father—compliments he didn't need, alliances he didn't trust, respect he believed he already owned. My father returned the nods with his usual stiffness, offering no warmth yet demanding loyalty.
Just as I took a breath, ready to escape the room that had drained me, his voice cut through the fading chatter.
"Aubrey. My office."
I followed him, my footsteps measuring the distance between duty and dread. One of his assistants pushed open the heavy wooden doors—doors that looked like they were built to separate the powerful from the insignificant. The assistant stayed outside as the doors shut behind me with a low, final thud.
My father's office was exactly as it always had been—grand, cold, meticulously arranged. It wasn't just an office; it was a monument to his empire. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the entire New York City skyline, glittering like a million little secrets. The city looked endless, but from here, it felt small—almost insignificant under Arthur Ardel's gaze.
His oak desk stretched across the room like a barricade. Behind it, the black leather office chair sat perfectly aligned, as if waiting for his next conquest. To the side, the black sofas and coffee table remained untouched, reserved for conversations that would never see the light of day.
But none of that pulled my attention the way the portrait did.
Alex.
It dominated the far wall—a massive black-and-white photograph that captured him in a rare moment of softness. His smile was easy, gentle, the kind that always made me feel like everything would eventually be okay. His jet-black hair blew with the breeze, sun filtering over him in a way that made the photo feel alive despite the monochrome.
My breath caught for a second.
Even now, even like this, my brother managed to steal the room without even being here.
My father stood in front of his desk, hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid. He didn't look at the portrait. He never did. He didn't have to.
I did.
Every. Single. Time.
It somehow hurt me that he didn't have a single picture of me in this office. Not one.Alex's face dominated the room, frozen in light and softness, while I—alive, breathing, standing right here—was invisible on these walls. I hated the twist in my chest, the bitterness curling inside me. I was envious of my brother, and I despised myself for being jealous of someone who had died.
My father lowered himself into his massive leather chair with the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. I stayed standing because he hadn't told me to sit—and because sitting felt like accepting something I wasn't ready to accept.
He steepled his fingers, the faintest sigh escaping him."Aubrey, listen, son… I am really proud of you," he said, words that sounded almost foreign coming from him. "And I will let it slide—what happened that day."
My lungs tightened. That day. He said it like it was an inconvenience, a slip-up, something to overlook. But to me, it was a fracture I had never learned to grow around.
"I know you are still grieving your brother," he continued, his voice impossibly even. "And you are stuck in the days when there were two of you."
He wasn't wrong.It was true—I was indeed stuck there. In the before. In the version of our family that still had enough air to breathe. In a world where Alex's laughter filled the halls and my father didn't look at me as though he expected me to be a replacement for a ghost.
My father leaned back slightly. "I know it hurts to move on," he said, in a tone that suggested he didn't fully understand the depth of that hurt. "But one must find a reason to move on. Otherwise…" His jaw tightened. "Otherwise, the people we met in that meeting room—people like them—will walk all over you."
His words hung in the air, heavy and cold.
People like them.Power, ambition, predators disguised as professionals.If I didn't learn how to move forward, he believed I'd be devoured.
But he didn't understand that I wasn't afraid of them.
I was afraid of a life without my brother in it.
But somehow, the emptiness that I felt—this echoing, hollow space inside my chest—had been filled by someone who should've never mattered this much. A café worker. A girl working in a small, warm little place tucked between crowded streets and busy lives. She didn't even know the world I came from, yet she stepped into mine without even trying.
The thought of her slipped into my mind, soft and uninvited, and I felt my lips curve into the faintest smile.
My father noticed.
His brows lifted, eyes widening for half a second—an expression shockingly vulnerable for a man like him. And then… he smiled.He smiled.
It was small, fleeting, but real. And something inside me—something wound tight for months, maybe years—just melted.I didn't know if it was relief or longing or the simple desperation of a son wanting to be seen.
"Yes, Dad," I said quietly, almost reverently. "I won't disappoint you."
But as the words left my mouth, they tasted complicated.Was I so desperate for his acknowledgment that I'd take scraps of it like they meant everything?Was I craving freedom, approval, or simply space to breathe?Or… was I so deeply, undeniably in love that nothing else mattered anymore?
Those questions followed me like shadows as I pushed open the heavy doors and stepped out of his office.
The moment the door closed behind me, the air felt lighter—but the weight in my chest didn't leave. It shifted, settling somewhere deeper, somewhere closer to the truth I wasn't brave enough to face yet.
I walked down the hall, my footsteps echoing, my father's words lingering, and the memory of her smile warming the places grief had frozen over.
And for the first time in a long time…I didn't feel entirely alone.