Dominic's Chronicles
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Her message glowed in the silence. A challenge, a plea, and a truth all wrapped in one.
For a long moment, I just stared at her, jaw set, shoulders tense, every instinct screaming at me to shut it down. To protect my world from hers. To protect her from it.
But she didn't flinch.
She sat there, phone in her hands, eyes steady, as if she already knew I had no real defense left.
My sigh escaped before I could stop it. Low. Resigned.
"Fine," I muttered, dragging a hand over my jaw. "You want to sit here and watch? Then sit. But don't expect me to hold your hand through it."
Her lips curved into the faintest ghost of a smile, and somehow, it felt like I'd already lost the argument.
I motioned to the chair across from my desk. She obeyed without hesitation, settling into the seat like it belonged to her, though I could tell she was drinking in every detail of the office.
Her gaze lingered on the shelves, the wall of glass overlooking the city, and then—on the door to my left.
The adjoining office.
Her head tilted, curiosity sparking in her expression. She didn't ask, of course. She couldn't. But when I glanced up from a file, she was already up, fingers brushing the handle.
The door creaked open.
I almost told her to leave it alone. Almost. But the Singapore partners were calling in less than a minute, and I had no time to indulge or correct her.
So I let her slip in while I answered the call, my voice hardening as I switched back into work mode.
"Blackwood," I said sharply, connecting.
The next hour blurred into strategy, numbers, negotiations. The Singapore team was relentless, but I was sharper.
My tone cut through every protest, my pen moving across contracts while Aurora drifted at the edge of my vision, quiet but present.
She explored the space with her eyes, touched nothing, spoke nothing—just… observed.
By the time the call ended, I barely remembered she was there. Meetings stacked one after another, my calendar devouring the afternoon.
My footsteps carried me through boardrooms, down halls, back again, until the rhythm of work dulled even the echo of her earlier words.
It wasn't until nearly three, when I finally returned to my office, that I noticed.
Her chair was empty.
I frowned, scanning the room once. Twice. The air felt… different without her sitting there, without the soft weight of her gaze.
Then I saw it.
The door to the adjoining office—slightly ajar.
My grip tightened on the folder in my hand as I pushed it open with the edge of my knuckles.
And there she was.
Aurora. Curled on the sofa against the far wall, her phone slipping from her hand, her breathing even and soft. The late sunlight filtering through the blinds brushed against her hair, turning it into strands of muted gold.
She looked… out of place here. Too fragile, too serene for a room built of steel, glass, and relentless ambition. And yet, in some twisted way, she fit more naturally than anyone I'd ever let in.
My chest tightened unexpectedly, a muscle clenching where I didn't want it to.
I exhaled slowly, steadying myself, telling myself it meant nothing. She was simply tired. Overwhelmed. This wasn't her world, no matter how stubbornly she insisted otherwise.
And yet—I didn't wake her.
Not yet.
I stood there longer than I should have, folder hanging useless in my hand.
Her phone was still in her grip, head tipped against the armrest, hair spilling across her cheek. But what caught my eye—what shouldn't have—was the way she was dressed.
A tailored suit jacket, sharp lines softened only by the gold buttons that caught the low office light. The skirt she'd paired it with was shorter than what belonged in this tower—short enough to make my gaze stall for a second too long.
Her legs crossed neatly, heels still in place even as she slept, posture unconsciously poised as though she were made for boardrooms and cameras.
It shouldn't have mattered.
But I noticed anyway.
And it unsettled me.
Something about the contradiction—the steel she tried to wear on the outside, and the unguarded softness in her face as she slept—scraped against the walls I'd built around myself.
For a fleeting second, I almost let it in. Almost.
Another look. Too long. Irritation flared, not at her—but at myself. At the fact that I'd let my eyes trace more than they should, that I'd allowed the smallest crack in my control.
My jaw tightened. A muscle ticked in my temple. This was exactly the kind of weakness I couldn't afford. Allowing softness—hers or mine—was dangerous.
I forced the air from my lungs in a controlled exhale, shifting my weight back, setting the folder down with a sharp click against the desk. The sound was enough to drag me back, to remind me who I was.
Dominic Blackwood.
Not a man who lingered. Not a man who allowed himself to be disarmed by fragile things.
I straightened, adjusting the cuff of my sleeve until the motion steadied me. One last look—brief, clinical, detached. Her suit. Her skirt. Her heels.
And then I pulled the door closed with deliberate quiet, shutting both her and the temptation behind it.
Back to order.... Back to control...Back to armor.
A knock rattled against my office door. Not the sharp, polite kind my staff gave. This one was deliberate. Lazy. Annoyingly familiar.
"Come in," I muttered.
The door swung open and there he was, as insufferably at ease as ever. He shut it behind him, crossed the room without waiting to be invited, and dropped into the chair opposite me.
"Your tower feels too quiet," he said, lounging back like he owned the place. "So I thought I'd come rattle it."
"Then rattle someone else," I replied, eyes on the report in my hand.
Adam grinned. "Cold as always. I swear, one of these days you'll forget how to smile. What is it—another meeting with Singapore? Or are you terrifying Green again?"
My mouth twitched, almost betraying me. "Green has finally decided to do his job."
"Finally?" Adam barked a laugh. "After years of mistakes? Hell, he once submitted quarterly reports in the wrong currency. What miracle scared him straight?"
I didn't answer, scanning the page before me. But when Adam's voice rose again, louder this time, irritation prickled sharp in my chest.
"Tone it down," I cut in, sharper than intended.
He blinked. "What? Since when do you care how loud I am?"
My jaw flexed. I weighed ignoring him, but Adam was relentless when his curiosity stirred. I set the papers aside and met his stare.
"She's here."
His brow furrowed. "She?" Then his eyes flicked instinctively toward the adjoining door, the one no one in this building dared touch. When realization hit, his mouth fell open. "Wait. Don't tell me…"
I leaned back in my chair, unbothered on the surface though every muscle in me was taut. "Aurora. She's in the other office."
For once, Adam was silent. Then he let out a low whistle, dragging a hand through his hair. "That explains it. No wonder Green's suddenly efficient.
No wonder the staff are whispering like schoolchildren. I thought I was imagining the shift, but—damn."
He sat forward, elbows braced on his knees, studying me with that irritatingly perceptive look only he got away with. "So that's the truth behind Blackwood Tower's… new air."
"She's simply there," I said curtly. "Don't read into it."
"Don't read into it?" Adam smirked, shaking his head. "Dominic Blackwood lets a woman sit in his office, and I'm supposed to believe it means nothing? You're losing your edge, old friend."
"Or you're seeing shadows where there are none," I shot back, though my voice lacked the bite I wanted.
Adam chuckled, pushing himself to his feet just as his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, sighed, and slid it back into his pocket. "That's my office calling. I'll let you get back to brooding."
He lingered at the door, eyes glinting with amusement. "But for what it's worth? You're different, Dom. Whether you want to admit it or not."
Then he was gone, leaving silence behind, heavy and accusing.
Adam's words clung to the walls long after he left. You're different, Dom.
I sat there behind my desk, eyes fixed on the numbers in front of me but not seeing them. Different. The word grated, echoing like a challenge. I didn't like it.
I wasn't different. I was the same man who built this empire, the same man who thrived on precision, control, and distance. Aurora's presence here didn't change that. It couldn't.
I leaned back, pinching the bridge of my nose, when a faint sound reached me. A rustle. A soft, muffled shift, like fabric dragging against leather.
My head snapped up. It came from the adjoining office.
I hesitated, jaw clenched. I should ignore it. She wasn't my concern. But the noise came again, sharper this time—a choked whimper. My chest tightened against my will.
Before I knew it, I was pushing the door open.
Aurora lay curled on the small couch tucked against the wall, her short corporate skirt wrinkled, blazer slipping off one shoulder.
She looked far too delicate against the stark leather, her face caught in shadows. But it wasn't the sight of her sleeping that struck me.
It was the way her hands twisted in the fabric of her skirt, her brows furrowing as though fighting unseen battles.
A nightmare.
"Damn it," I muttered under my breath.
I stepped inside, closing the door behind me with a soft click. For a moment I just stood there, watching her restless form, torn between walking away and… something else. Then her breath hitched again, sharp, pained.
I moved.
Kneeling beside the couch, I reached out almost against my own rules, my fingers brushing the back of her hand. Her skin was soft, trembling faintly. "It's just a dream," I murmured, the words low, meant for no one but the dark.
Her lashes fluttered but didn't open. She stirred, shifting toward the sound of my voice, her grip loosening slightly as though my presence anchored her.
My other hand hovered before finally settling against her hair, smoothing back a stray strand from her face.
She sighed at the touch, the tension easing from her features, her breathing slowing into something steady.
I lingered there far longer than I should have, watching the sharp edges of fear fade into calm. There was something disarming about her like this—unguarded, quiet, fragile yet unyielding in the way she simply existed in my space.
When her breathing evened out completely, I drew back, fingers curling into a fist as if punishing myself for letting them wander at all.
I stood, spine snapping back into its practiced steel. This hadn't happened. It meant nothing.
And yet, as I turned away, the ghost of her warmth still clung to my palm.
Her breathing had steadied now, soft and even, but I couldn't erase the image of her restless movements, the faint tremors in her sleep.
How many times had she fought those silent battles alone? It wasn't the kind of unease that came once in a while—it was ingrained, etched into her body like a rhythm she'd lived with for years.
My jaw tightened. Damn it. She had been carrying this for far too long.
Even back at my desk, in the main office, the thought wouldn't leave me. The sound of her faint rustling behind that door pressed against my concentration, every sigh a reminder that she wasn't just some convenient arrangement I could keep at arm's length.
Worse still, the way my body had responded—instinctively reaching out, calming her as though it was the most natural thing in the world—haunted me.
Obsession. That's what this was threatening to become. I finally pushed away from the desk. The silence from the adjoining office had stretched too long.
The door was slightly ajar when I approached. I nudged it open just enough to see her curled against the couch, her body slack, her expression softer than before.
She was awake now, though—her eyes heavy-lidded but open, settling on me with a quiet clarity.
"You're awake," I said, my voice low.
She didn't speak, of course. Just sat up slowly, adjusting the hem of her skirt, her phone still clutched loosely in her hand. There was no rush in her movements, no attempt to fill the silence. Just her gaze, steady, searching.
I lingered at the doorway a beat longer than I should have. "Are you hungry?"
A small nod.
I inclined my head once, sharp. "I'll have something sent up."
By the time I returned to my desk to place the call, I could still feel her presence on the other side of that door, quiet but unshakable. And somehow, that unsettled me more than anything else.
The door clicked softly behind her as she stepped out, phone already in hand. She sank into one of the cushions, her posture careful, almost reserved, before sliding the screen toward me.
How long was I asleep?
"Two hours," I said.
Her fingers moved again.
I didn't mean to. Not in your office.
I leaned back, expression unreadable. She hesitated before typing one more line.
Still… thank you. For making space for me here. Even though it was sudden.
Her words landed heavier than they should have, a weight that pressed beneath my ribs. It shouldn't have mattered—a handful of letters glowing on a screen—but somehow, it did.
I forced my attention back to the untouched tray between us. "Eat," I said, because it was safer than addressing the quiet gratitude lingering in the air.