Aurora's Realm
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The morning sunlight spilled across my floor, pulling me awake with its soft insistence. I blinked against it, stretching lazily before sliding from bed. My body still felt heavy, though I couldn't quite place why.
A hot shower helped, steam curling around me, washing away the fragments of restless dreams I couldn't remember.
When I stepped out, skin flushed pink from the heat, I wrapped myself in a towel and padded to the wardrobe, pulling out something light and airy—a soft blouse and a flowing skirt.
By the time I made it downstairs, the house had already come alive. The dining room buzzed with quiet efficiency—plates clinking, the aroma of fresh bread and coffee drifting from the kitchen.
"Morning, Aurora," Lila chirped, balancing a tray on one hand. She was younger than most of the staff, her energy almost out of place in the otherwise hushed house.
I lifted my phone, thumbs moving fast: Morning. You're always so energetic. Did you even sleep?
She laughed, tossing her hair back. "Two hours, tops. But someone has to keep things fun around here. You know, between the serious boss and the silent princess."
My lips curved into a smile, and I typed quickly: I'm not a princess.
Lila leaned in, whispering with a smirk, "Could've fooled me. You've got the whole mysterious thing going."
I shook my head, trying to look stern, but the heat rising in my cheeks betrayed me. She laughed, light and easy, before someone called her name from the kitchen and she darted away.
Her words lingered though, curling inside me like smoke. A princess. I didn't feel like one. But for a moment, the thought made me almost… lighter.
I ate in silence, the food warm but my mind elsewhere. After clearing the table, I wandered outside, drawn by the garden as if it were waiting for me.
The air met me gently—crisp, touched with the sweetness of dew. I crouched near the flower beds, pressing my palms into the soil.
There was something grounding about it, the way dirt clung under my nails, the way water soaked into thirsty roots. Petals brushed against my fingers as if whispering secrets only I could understand.
I stayed there longer than I meant to, tending each plant with care, pruning leaves, brushing off dust, letting the sun warm the crown of my head. The garden didn't judge my silence. It didn't demand anything. It simply existed, and for once, I felt like I did too.
When my hands grew sore, I rose and went back inside, collecting my painting supplies. The canvas, blank and waiting, felt almost like an invitation.
I carried it outside, setting up under the tall oak tree near the garden's edge.
The breeze shifted, carrying the scent of cut grass and the faint hum of the city beyond the estate's walls. I dipped the brush into paint, the bristles soaking up color, and pressed it against the canvas.
At first, my strokes were hurried, restless. But slowly, they steadied, growing softer, more deliberate. Shades of blue bled into one another.
Gold streaked across the corner like sunlight breaking through clouds. I lost myself in it, my breath matching the rhythm of each line.
Minutes bled into hours.
The world shrank until it was just me, the brush, and the quiet stretch of sky overhead.
I didn't notice when the gate closed. I didn't hear the footsteps in the hall. I didn't realize Dominic had already returned—earlier than he ever did.
But he was there. Somewhere beyond the windows, beyond the stillness of my cocoon, his presence lingered unseen.
And I… painted on, oblivious.
The birds chirped somewhere high above. The breeze carried the faint smell of earth and dew. I closed my eyes for a moment, tilting my face to the sun, warmth spilling across my skin.
When I opened them again, I noticed a smear of blue paint on my wrist. I laughed under my breath—soundless, but full—and wiped it against my dress carelessly.
The air shifted.
I didn't know why I felt it—like the estate itself had exhaled. A subtle awareness prickled at the back of my neck, though I didn't turn. I brushed another stroke onto the canvas, more careful this time, trying to shake off the strange feeling that I wasn't alone.
But I was too deep in the painting, too caught up in the light and the colors to care.
So I let the world shrink again. Let it become nothing but me and the brush and the promise of a finished canvas. The brush slid from my fingers when I felt it—warmth. A presence.
I froze.
He didn't have to speak. He never did. The weight of him at my back was enough, the subtle shift of air when he stopped just behind me.
Slowly, carefully, I turned my head. Dominic stood there, his shadow spilling long across the grass, his gaze fixed on my canvas like it held answers he hadn't asked for. My heart hammered so hard I was sure he could hear it.
I fumbled for my phone, the screen slick against my paint-stained fingers. You're back early.
The words glowed against the glass before I turned it for him to read.
His eyes flicked from the phone to me, sharp, unreadable, then back to the painting. For a moment, he said nothing, and the silence stretched, taut and heavy between us.
I swallowed, lifting my brush again with shaking hands, as if pretending to paint could somehow steady me.
But he was still there. Closer now. Close enough that the faintest brush of his breath stirred the stray strands of hair that clung to my cheek.
I wasn't sure how long the silence stretched, only that my chest ached from holding my breath. Then his voice came, low and measured, cutting through the weight between us.
"You've been out here long."
The brush trembled slightly in my hand. I tilted my phone, typed quickly, and turned it to him. It's quiet here. I like the quiet.
His gaze lingered on the words before lifting back to me. Something softened—barely there, but I caught it.
"I can see that." His eyes flicked to the canvas again. "You've been busy."
I followed his gaze to the half-finished strokes, the woman emerging in color and light. My throat tightened. My thumbs hovered over my phone before I forced myself to type. It helps me breathe.
For a second, I wondered if it was too much, too bare. But when he read it, he didn't laugh, didn't dismiss me. He only nodded once, slowly, as though he understood more than he wanted to admit.
The tight coil in my chest loosened. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. For the first time since he'd stepped behind me, I didn't feel caged by his presence.
Instead, I felt… steadied.
I dipped my brush again, letting the bristles sweep across the canvas. The strokes were smoother now, less hesitant. His presence didn't feel like an intrusion anymore, more like an anchor I hadn't known I needed.
"You paint often?" he asked, his tone calm, detached, yet edged with something that told me he genuinely wanted to know.
I paused, wiped my fingers on the cloth beside me, and typed. Every day. It's… the only place I don't feel small.
He read it, and for a second, something flickered in his eyes. Recognition? Sympathy? I couldn't tell. His jaw tightened, but his voice softened when he spoke again.
"Then don't stop."
The words, so simple, rooted deep inside me. I lowered my phone, staring at him like I had to make sure I'd heard correctly. He didn't elaborate, just stood there with that quiet authority that always seemed to wrap around him.
I typed again, this time with a hint of teasing I didn't think I'd dare. You sound like you're giving me an order.
The corner of his mouth shifted, the faintest ghost of a smirk, gone almost as quickly as it appeared. "Maybe I am."
The unexpected warmth that bloomed in my chest startled me. I ducked my head, hiding behind a strand of hair as I brushed another stroke of color across the canvas. My thumbs moved slowly over the screen. I don't mind, not this time.
Silence stretched again, but it wasn't heavy. It was… comfortable. Safe.
Then his voice cut through, quieter than before. "You look… calmer."
I blinked up at him, caught off guard. He wasn't watching the canvas anymore. He was watching me.
My chest tightened, but my fingers found the screen. Because for once, I am.
When he read it, he didn't say anything. He just stood there, his gaze steady, unreadable—but I felt something shift, something subtle. Like the walls he carried so easily around him weren't as high as before.
And for the first time since I'd stepped into this house, I didn't feel like an intruder in his world.
I felt like I belonged—at least, in this moment. And then, just as I began to think he might stay longer, he rose. His shadow fell over me for a heartbeat, and then his voice—measured, even—slipped into the air.
"Don't stay out too late."
It wasn't quite an order. Not quite concern. But something in between that left my chest oddly full.
By the time I looked up, he was already walking back toward the house, leaving me with the colors on my canvas, the cool evening breeze, and a strange sense of comfort I hadn't realized I was searching for.
Dominic wasn't usually like this. He was sharp-edged, always pressed into the shape of responsibility, his voice measured, his presence heavy with command.
But just now, standing behind me, speaking in a way that didn't feel like an order… he had seemed warmer. Softer. Almost human in a way I wasn't used to seeing.
It was strange, unsettling even. For a moment, I wondered if something had shifted between us, if something had happened that I couldn't quite put my finger on.
The thought lingered like a shadow at the edge of my mind: maybe he was changing. Maybe we were changing.
I traced a line of green across my canvas, but my mind kept circling back to him. Warmer, gentler, less untouchable than the man who usually carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
It was enough to make me wonder if last night—though hazy—had left its mark on him too.
I exhaled slowly, pressing the back of my hand against my cheek, realizing only then that I was smiling. A small smile, fragile but real. For the first time in a long while, I didn't mind the quiet.
I shook my head quickly, forcing the thought away. Maybe I was imagining it. Maybe the sunlight, the quiet garden, the smell of fresh paint in the air was just making me see him differently.
Dominic wasn't someone who changed. He was stone carved into a man. If he had been warm today, it was nothing but coincidence.
I gathered my brushes and palette, wiping the streaks of color from my fingers, and began stacking everything into my arms.
The walk back into the house felt longer than it should have, each step echoing softly against the polished floors.
I climbed the stairs carefully, balancing my supplies, the familiar scent of turpentine and canvas clinging to me.
By the time I reached my painting room, sunlight had filtered in, bathing the unfinished works along the wall in gold. I set my things down with a sigh, brushing a lock of hair from my face.
That was when it happened.
A flash.
The way his eyes had locked onto mine last night. The warmth of his breath when I leaned too close. My own laughter, too loud, too careless.
The heavy burn of alcohol in my throat. And then—his hands. Strong, steady, but trembling when I pressed myself against him. The look of shock, then restraint, then… something else entirely.
I froze, one brush slipping from my grasp and clattering onto the floor.
Another flash. His lips on mine. The way my fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. The way he had stopped. The way he had looked at me—like I was both a temptation and a sin he couldn't quite forgive himself for.
My heart hammered, my breath shallow.
It all came rushing back now, piece by piece, until I felt my cheeks burn. Last night wasn't a dream. It wasn't just alcohol-fueled nonsense. It had happened. I had made it happen.
And Dominic… had let me.
I pressed a trembling hand to my chest, staring blankly at the half-finished painting in front of me, unable to escape the weight of the memory that had finally broken free.
Heat spread across my cheeks until it stung. Embarrassment crashed over me in waves, stronger than anything I'd felt in a long time. What had I done? What on earth had possessed me?
I had straddled him. I had kissed him like I had any right to. I had laughed in his face, pressed against him, pulled him into something no sane version of me would have dared.
And he… he had kissed me back.
I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could scrub the memory clean, erase it with the same ease I wiped paint off a canvas. My fingers dug into the edge of the easel as if the wood could ground me.
How was I supposed to face him now? Pretend like none of it had happened? What if he looked at me differently—what if he thought I was reckless, or childish, or worse?
The thought of meeting his eyes again made my stomach twist painfully. I could already imagine it: that steady, unreadable gaze of his, the silence that lingered between every clipped word. Except now, hidden beneath, would be the memory of me throwing myself at him in a drunken haze.
What if he regretted it? What if he already hated me for it?
I bit my lip hard, pressing my forehead against the cool windowpane. Maybe I could avoid him—slip around the house quietly, stay in my painting room, or retreat to the garden. But avoidance wasn't forever. At some point, he would be there, in front of me, and I would have to see him again.
And I had no idea how I was going to do it.