Dominic's Chronicles
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The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of the city beyond the windows. I was leaning against the railing, glass in hand, the cool liquid catching the dim light. No folders, no contracts—tonight, the office had been set aside, if only briefly.
And then I saw her: Aurora, stepping softly toward me, her movements deliberate, her presence commanding in a way she seemed unaware of.
She stopped a few feet from me, glancing at the glass in my hand. Her fingers danced across her phone screen, typing out words I had grown to anticipate, though never quite predict. I watched as the message appeared: "I want a drink."
I arched an eyebrow, a trace of surprise escaping me. "You… want a drink?" I asked, my voice low, measured.
She noticed the expression and typed quickly: "I am twenty-three. I'm not a kid."
I let out a dry chuckle, shaking my head. "Not for kids, no. But… you know what you're asking for, right?"
Her eyes sparkled with that quiet fire she often hid beneath her calm exterior. "I know exactly what I'm asking for."
I studied her for a moment, weighing her persistence, and then, with a slight sigh, I set my glass down and reached for the bottle. "Fine. But you asked for it. Don't say I didn't warn you."
Minutes later, she had the glass in her hand, sipping carefully. I watched, noting her precision, the way she balanced the drink as if she had done this a hundred times before.
The first few sips passed with her maintaining composure. I admitted, silently, that I was impressed.
Then, slowly, the effects began to show. Her posture loosened, her fingers trembled just slightly on the glass, and the careful composure faded into something more unrestrained.
A soft laugh escaped her as she typed another message, one I didn't need to read to understand: she was feeling the warmth, the release.
I moved closer, concerned. "You okay?" I asked. She only laughed again, this time looking up at me, eyes bright, cheeks flushed.
The minutes passed, and the alcohol began to take hold fully. She shifted and stood up, swaying slightly.
When I reached to steady her, she brushed past my hand and stood, swaying only slightly, but with surprising confidence.
Then she did something I did not expect. She stepped closer, so close that our knees nearly touched, and looked me in the eyes, laughing softly. After she looked away, her gaze dropping to the floor.
Suddenly she lifts her head her head, glaring in that weak, heartbreaking way. Her thumbs move slowly, stubbornly across her screen. Then she thrusts the phone at me, almost hitting my chest with it.
Why are you so cold? Why are you so indifferent? Why do you behave like I'm a pest?
The words hit harder than they should. I stare at the message, then at her face — flushed, tired, hurting. She's looking at me like I'm supposed to have an answer that will fix everything.
"It's not that you're a pest," I say quietly. My voice sounds too soft, even to my own ears.
She doesn't move. Her fingers tighten around the phone like she's daring me to lie.
I drag in a breath, my throat dry. "You came into my world and…" I glance away, swallowing. "And you broke it apart. Everything I built to keep people out — you tore through it like it meant nothing."
Her eyelids flutter. She blinks slowly, typing something else, hands shaking. Then she shoves the phone at me again.
So… I ruined you?
A bitter laugh slips out before I can stop it. "No," I say, stepping closer. "You ruined my control."
She stares at me, eyes glassy and wet under the dim light. Her lips part, like she's about to type something else, but then she just… drops the phone. It clatters softly against the floor.
Before I could react, she straddled me, balancing on my lap, still laughing, her phone forgotten at her side. Her eyes searched mine, bright, mischievous, unrestrained in a way that both unnerved and fascinated me.
I froze, caught between disbelief and instinct. My hands hovered, unsure whether to pull back or hold still
. Her weight, her proximity, the heat of the moment—it was intoxicating, not from the alcohol, but from her audacity.
She leaned closer, still laughing quietly, and in that moment, I realized that despite her drunken state, there was an unspoken challenge in her gaze.
She was testing me. Testing the boundaries I had long thought unbreachable. And for reasons I couldn't yet articulate, I didn't stop her.
I froze for a heartbeat, then felt the pull, the pull I had been denying for days. Her lips met mine, soft at first, testing, then insistently.
I responded instinctively, letting the force of the kiss take over, the way her body molded against mine stirring desires I hadn't intended to acknowledge. My hands slid along her back, feeling the subtle curves, the tautness of her movements, her fingers clutching at my shirt.
She leaned into me, and the intoxicating mix of her laughter, warmth, and scent had me leaning back, letting her explore the space between us.
There was a dizzying electricity to it, a mixture of playful control and unspoken permission. I tried to reason, to remind myself to hold back—but she was here, right in front of me, and I was powerless to resist.
Minutes passed in a haze of whispered breaths, shared warmth, and tentative exploration. My hands found her sides, my fingers tracing, gentle yet claiming.
She was bold, oblivious to the effect she had, and I couldn't help but be pulled deeper into the moment.
Then, slowly, reality crept back. My mind—normally so disciplined—reminded me where we were. She was drunk, vulnerable, and I was responsible.
Reluctantly, I pulled back, though not completely. Our eyes met, hers glassy but bright, a teasing smile curling at her lips even as she slumped slightly against me.
I lifted her carefully, her body fitting against mine as if it had always belonged there, and carried her to her room. She made no protest, only pressed lightly against me, letting me guide her.
I set her on the edge of the bed, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. She let out a soft sigh, eyes fluttering shut, already drifting back to sleep.
I stayed a moment longer, watching her settle, feeling the heat of the moment still linger. Her presence had unraveled the careful restraint I kept, and yet, I felt something else—protectiveness, awe, a pull I didn't want to name.
Finally, I straightened, leaving her room with the quiet hum of tension still echoing behind me.
The quiet of the house was almost suffocating. I stepped lightly into the hallway, careful not to make a sound. The dim light of the moon spilling through the blinds painted the walls in streaks of silver and shadow.
My hands rested on the railing as I leaned, trying to steady my thoughts, trying to make sense of the pull she had over me. Why did she…? My mind replayed every movement, every glance, every laugh that had cut through the night like fire.
The house was still, except for the faint hum of the city beyond the estate. Yet, I could not find rest.
I walked slowly toward the balcony, the night air sharp against my skin, carrying the scent of rain on the garden below. I needed space, needed to clear the chaos inside me.
She was asleep, utterly unaware of the way she had unsettled the man who usually held every inch of himself under iron control.
And yet… even as I tried to summon that control, I could not. Her presence lingered, like a shadow in the corners of my mind, teasing, insistent.
I poured myself a glass of water, then a second, letting the cold liquid anchor me, though only slightly.
Every thought brought me back to her—the quiet certainty she carried in sleep, the way she had surrendered herself to the night, and the audacity, yes, the sheer unpredictability of her. She had a way of claiming space, even without words.
I let the silence wash over me, letting the house hold its breath while I wrestled with mine. Rest was impossible. Reflection was inevitable.
And as I stared out at the faint glimmer of the city, I realized that tonight had shifted something inside me—something that I was neither ready to name nor to face.
The morning light crept into the floor-to-ceiling windows of my bedroom, pale gold spilling across the room. I had woken earlier than usual, deliberately, to avoid seeing her.
The memory of last night still lingered—subtle, insistent—but I refused to let it dictate my morning.
I moved through my routine with quiet precision, dressing and preparing for the day in silence. Every motion was controlled, every thought disciplined.
By the time I left the house, the halls were still, the staff not yet stirring. I made my way out early, keeping distance, keeping control, ensuring I wouldn't cross paths with her until I was fully collected.
The city was still stirring when I arrived at Blackwood Tower, the morning sun spilling across the glass façade. I moved through the lobby with quiet authority, acknowledging staff with a nod, letting my presence set the tone.
"Good morning, Mr. Blackwood," Anna greeted from her desk, crisp as always, the day's agenda neatly displayed on her tablet.
"Morning," I replied, eyes already scanning the office for Mr. Green.
He approached cautiously, papers in hand. "Sir, I've reviewed the reports you flagged yesterday. I… corrected the errors and updated the figures."
I studied him, letting the silence stretch. "I noticed the corrections," I said finally, my tone measured. "Your attention to detail has improved, but don't let this become a one-time effort. Consistency is everything."
"Yes, sir," he replied, straightening, a hint of relief in his expression.
I gestured toward a spread of documents on the table. "These need cross-verification. Any oversight could cost us credibility, Mr. Green. Are you prepared to handle it?"
"I am, sir. I've double-checked everything. No more mistakes."
I nodded, my gaze sharp. "Good. Then show me the results, not just promises. Actions speak louder than words here."
Anna interjected softly, "Mr. Blackwood, the agenda for the internal review is ready. Everything has been scheduled, including the department briefings at 2 PM."
I acknowledged her with a curt nod, already calculating the day in my head. The office was a quiet battlefield; every movement mattered, every decision precise.
I found a moment to step aside, pen in hand, scanning reports once more, ensuring every detail aligned with the standard I demanded. Mr. Green hovered, waiting for further instruction.
"Ensure all figures match the projections," I said, tapping the report. "I want a summary before the afternoon meeting. No discrepancies."
"Yes, sir," he repeated, more firmly this time, as if the weight of responsibility had finally anchored him.
The morning continued with the rhythm of work—calls, cross-checks, and precise exchanges. Even as the hours stretched, I kept my attention razor-sharp, knowing the empire didn't thrive on leniency.
Thoughts of last night—Aurora, the chaos, the unexpected… her presence—hovered at the edges, insistent yet uninvited. But there was no room for distractions. Her adventure, whatever it had been, would have to wait.
For now, work demanded every ounce of my focus. I didn't have the luxury to dwell on anything else when every second here could be spent building, planning, commanding. Productivity came first, and everything else—including the pull she left behind—would remain on hold.