Aurora's Realm
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The tray between us looked too polished, too deliberate, as if every silver edge had been chosen to remind me this wasn't my world. Still, my stomach knotted with hunger.
I picked up the fork, careful not to make too much sound, and ate in small, measured bites.
His presence was a weight across the table. Not harsh, not unkind—just… heavy. Dominic didn't speak again, and neither did I. I couldn't. But even in silence, it felt like he heard everything anyway.
I typed into my phone, though I didn't show him this time:
Why do the smallest things feel like they matter here? Why does it matter if he made space for me? Why does it matter that he let me sleep?
I didn't know. All I knew was that, for the first time in this house, the food didn't taste cold.
I had asked him how long I'd slept, admitted I hadn't meant to drift off in his office, and thanked him for the unexpected space he'd allowed.
His response had been curt, his expression unchanged, but something unspoken lingered between us.
At lunch, the silence stretched as always. His presence had a way of making me feel both fragile and indestructible at once, as though he could undo me and hold me together in the same breath.
By the time we left the Blackwood Tower, night had fallen fully over the city. Dominic drove this time, the car gliding through the streets with a smooth hum.
Silence filled the space between us—not unbearable, but heavy enough to press against my chest.
It wasn't until midway through the drive that his voice broke through, low and controlled.
"How was it… at the office?"
I blinked, fingers already moving over my phone.
Different. Busy. But fine.
I angled the screen toward him. He only gave a short nod, eyes still fixed on the road, and the silence folded neatly back into place.
I turned back to the window, letting the city lights blur past. We were two people sharing the same car, the same house, and yet… still orbiting each other like strangers.
The rest of the drive was wordless. His hands remained steady on the wheel, his profile unreadable against the passing glow of the streetlights.
I pressed my phone to my lap, though my fingers itched to type something—anything. But the words I wanted to say felt pointless, too fragile to hold up in the thick quiet between us.
When the gates of Dominic's estate finally swung open, relief pulsed through me like a slow exhale.
Dominic guided the car into the long driveway, the sleek exterior lights of the house casting sharp lines across the night.
The moment the engine stilled, silence settled heavier than before. He was out of the car first, quick and efficient, the same way he carried himself at work.
I followed a step behind, my heels clicking softly against the stones as though announcing a presence he didn't really need reminding of.
Inside, the house felt cavernous again. The staff had retired hours ago, leaving only muted lamps glowing in the hall.
I slipped out of my shoes and let my gaze travel the familiar lines of the place. It was beautiful, yes—but it was not home. Not yet.
Dominic's voice cut through the quiet, distant but deliberate.
"Dinner will be served shortly. Don't stay up too late after."
I nodded, clutching my phone, watching as he disappeared down the corridor toward his wing of the house. My footsteps carried me in the opposite direction, the silence of the house swallowing me whole once again.
And still… even in the emptiness, I could feel his presence lingering, sharp and inescapable, like a shadow etched into the walls.
I let my fingers linger over the cold handle of my bedroom door before stepping inside. Without thought, I carried myself toward the bathroom.
The warm water of the bathtub embraced me like a soft, protective cloak, chasing the tension of the day from my skin.
Steam curled around me, carrying faint traces of the paint that had clung stubbornly to my arms earlier.
As I sank deeper, my mind wandered back to the events of the day—the office, the subtle acknowledgments, the presence of Dominic watching, measuring, noticing.
Even in silence, his attention had found me, and it unsettled me more than I cared to admit.
I closed my eyes, letting the warmth of the water soothe that restlessness, though my thoughts refused to settle entirely.
After a long soak, I stepped from the tub, wrapped myself in a soft towel, and changed into a simple nightdress. It was modest, comfortable, yet in the quiet reflection of the room, it felt like an armor.
My fingers brushed against the edge of my phone, a lingering urge to reach out—though I wasn't quite ready to speak, even in typed words.
Before approaching Dominic, I moved toward my painting room. The door creaked softly as I put in the passcode and pushed it open, and there it was: the canvas I had created the previous day, the version of myself I longed to become.
She stood in the midst of a garden, confident, elegant, unshakable. I traced the lines lightly with my eyes, memorizing the expression I had forced onto her face, the posture I had given her.
My own reflection shimmered in the darkened glass beside the canvas, and for a heartbeat, I imagined merging with her—the Aurora who could stand proud, who could be seen, who could not be diminished.
I exhaled softly, leaving the painting undisturbed and going back to my bedroom. I picked up my phone and dialed Alex first, letting the familiar buzz of FaceTime bring a small, comforting warmth.
His face appeared almost immediately, full of that mischievous grin he always had.
"Hey, little sister. How's the corporate world treating you? Surviving Dominic's kingdom?" he asked, his voice teasing but soft.
I typed quickly, my fingers flying across the screen: It's… different. Challenging. I'm learning… observing. Trying not to make a fool of myself.
Alex laughed, the sound light and easy. "Observing, huh? Sounds very 'Aurora.' So… tell me, how is he? I mean, Dominic. Did he make you feel like you were drowning, or…?"
I typed again, trying to balance honesty with subtle humor: He's… not easy to read. I feel… watched, challenged, and yes, maybe a little out of my depth. But I'm learning how he moves things. How he thinks.
"Wow," Alex said, leaning back in his chair. "Look at you—already adjusting to his world. I knew you'd survive it, but… I didn't expect you to play the game this quickly. Proud of you, Aura."
I smiled, reading his words, feeling a little lighter. I typed: Thanks. I… want to do right. I want to… understand everything, even if it's not my world.
"Don't lose yourself in his kingdom, okay?" Alex warned, his tone softening. "Remember who you are. You can be clever, strong, and still… you."
I know, I typed, feeling the weight of those words settle around me. I'm trying.
We lingered a little longer, the conversation meandering between advice, teasing, and laughter. When I finally said goodbye, my chest felt a fraction lighter, my mind clearer. I needed that.
I needed the reminder that I was allowed to be both vulnerable and capable.
Then I called Grandpa. His face lit up as soon as he appeared. "Aurora! My little star. How are you today? How's Dominic?"
I typed carefully, knowing he deserved honesty: I'm learning. It's… different. I feel… challenged, but also… pushed to be more than I thought I could.
He studied me for a long moment. "Ah, my girl… I see. You're growing into yourself, but don't let anyone make you feel small. Not even him. Remember, strength isn't loud. Sometimes it's quiet. It's being steady, being aware, being wise."
I know, I typed. I want to be… capable, to understand. To hold my ground without losing myself.
He nodded as if he could see the determination radiating from me. "That's my girl. Keep learning. Keep observing. And don't rush the person you're becoming. You are already… remarkable."
Thank you, Grandpa, I typed, a quiet warmth spreading in my chest.
Our conversation stretched longer than I expected, winding through memories, advice, and encouragement.
By the time I ended the call, the evening light had dimmed, shadows stretching across the room. I felt a quiet determination settle in me, a fragile yet unyielding spark.
I left my phone on the desk and took a deep breath. Maybe… just maybe… I could begin to step into the world with the quiet, certainty, and strength I longed to possess.
I made my way to Dominic, who was leaning casually in the hallway, drink in hand, the evening settling around him like a cloak.
My steps were measured, careful. I didn't speak—I never did—but my presence alone carried intent.
He raised a brow as I approached, the faintest hint of surprise flashing across his face. I held up my phone, opened the notes app, and typed deliberately: I want a drink.
His lips twitched, caught between amusement and disbelief. "A drink?" he said, tilting his head. "You know what this is… right? Not exactly for children."
I typed quickly, not missing a beat: I am twenty-three. Definitely past being a child.
Dominic's gaze held mine for a long moment, and then, with a faint exhale, he poured a measure into a glass and handed it to me. "You're persistent," he said, almost reluctantly, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
I took the glass, balancing it carefully. Our eyes met, and a silent understanding passed between us. He watched closely as I sipped.
I could feel the heat of the alcohol spread, unfamiliar but intriguing. He seemed impressed—though he didn't say it aloud—at how I handled it at first.
Minutes passed. The warmth of the drink seeped deeper, loosening my careful composure. My mind floated, edges softening, and the world seemed lighter, louder, sillier than before.
I caught his gaze and laughed, the sound more uninhibited than it had been in weeks. And before I fully realized it, I had moved closer.
My chair was now beside him. I looked up at him, daring, playful, unguarded, and laughed again.
Something inside me—bold, unrestrained—made the next move automatic. I straddled him, laughing, our eyes locking in that heated, stunned, suspended moment.
Dominic froze, his surprise written plainly across his features. And I, oblivious to the weight of it all in my drunken state, felt nothing but reckless joy and the unshakable pull of connection.