Aurora's Realm
⸻
I sat on the small stool in my painting room, my face still hot from embarrassment. Every time I thought about what happened outside, a wave of heat rushed through me. The look in his eyes, the space between us, the tension I swore I didn't imagine—
I buried my face in my hands. God, what was that?
I shook my head hard, trying to get rid of the thought. He probably didn't even think about it. He was Dominic — calm, composed, untouchable. A man made of rules and ice.
The room was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioner. I started rearranging my brushes just to give my hands something to do when a sound cut through the quiet.
A knock.
Firm. Controlled.
My heart skipped.
"Aurora?"
His voice — low, even, and maddeningly steady.
I turned toward the keypad by the door. Only I could open it. For a second, I considered pretending I didn't hear him, but my legs moved before I could think twice. I keyed in the code. The door clicked open, slow and quiet.
He stood there, tall and composed, a faint shadow of exhaustion under his eyes but not an ounce of warmth in his expression. His sleeves were rolled up, tie loose, but his presence was still sharp — precise.
"Good evening," he said simply, stepping inside. "I wanted to make sure you've settled in."
I nodded once, fingers curling around the edge of the table. He walked a few steps into the room, his gaze moving briefly across the canvases before landing back on me.
"Everything looks fine," he said. "You've made yourself comfortable."
His tone was neutral — almost distant. Like last night hadn't happened. Like he hadn't looked at me the way he did.
I forced a small nod. Yes, I mouthed.
He glanced at my lips, then back at my eyes, his expression unreadable. "Good."
The silence that followed pressed against my chest. I searched for any sign — a flicker, a hesitation, something that said he remembered. But there was nothing.
His next words were clipped, professional. "If you need anything, let me know through the staff. Don't overwork yourself."
He was already turning toward the door when I took a step forward without thinking. My fingers twitched, wanting to reach out, to stop him — to ask if he really didn't remember.
But I couldn't.
And he didn't look back.
The door closed softly behind him, leaving me in the quiet hum of my own heartbeat.
I sank back onto the stool, my throat tight.
If he had forgotten… why did it still feel like I was the only one who hadn't?
The night stretched endlessly.
I tried closing my eyes. I tried counting the slow rhythm of the ceiling fan. I even tried focusing on the sound of the wind brushing against the windowpane — but nothing worked.
Every time I blinked, I saw him. Standing in the doorway of my painting room, calm, distant, cold. Like nothing had ever happened. Like I hadn't made a fool of myself.
I turned on my side, pulling the blanket higher over my shoulders, but the ache in my chest wouldn't settle. He's forgotten, I told myself. He's moved on.
And I should too.
But the words didn't fit right in my head. They didn't sound true.
Because no matter how I tried, I couldn't forget. Not the way his eyes had flickered for a second — just a second — before he masked it. Not the way the air had changed when he'd stepped into the room.
It wasn't enough to mean something. But it was enough to haunt me.
I sighed and pushed myself up, the bedsheet rustling quietly. The moonlight poured through the curtains, faint and silvery, painting lines across the floor.
My sketchbook sat open on the table, the page half-finished — a sketch I'd started earlier and abandoned when I couldn't focus.
I sat down and picked up my pencil. My hand moved on its own, tracing soft, careful lines. I didn't mean to draw him, but I did. The slope of his jaw, the calmness in his eyes, that faint distance he carried like a second skin.
When I finished, I just stared at it. My chest ached.
I hated that I remembered him like this — quiet, steady, unreachable.
With a shaky breath, I tore the page out, folded it, and tucked it into the drawer beside my bed. Out of sight. Out of mind.
Or at least, that's what I told myself. But as I lay back down, the silence settled over me again, heavy and still.
And I realized — I hadn't really pushed him out of my mind. I'd just hidden him there.
The house was silent again. Too silent.
I turned to my side, watching the soft shadows stretch and fade across the wall. I was finally starting to drift — not asleep yet, but hovering somewhere in between — when I heard it.
A sound.
Faint, distant… but there.
The soft hum of footsteps in the hallway. Slow. Steady. Familiar.
My heart skipped.
No one came upstairs this late. The staff's quarters were on the other side of the house, and the hallway lights had already gone off hours ago. I held my breath, listening harder.
The steps stopped right outside my door.
Silence.
For a moment, all I could hear was the dull rush of my own heartbeat. I sat up slightly, my fingers clutching the blanket. The keypad on the door glowed faintly in the dark — untouched. Whoever it was didn't try to open it. They just stood there.
Seconds passed. Then, softly — a low, almost imperceptible sound. A sigh.
My pulse fluttered.
And then the steps moved again, fading down the hall until everything went quiet once more.
I stared at the door long after the sound was gone, my mind spinning.
It could've been anyone. A guard. A mistake. Maybe I'd imagined it.
But deep down, I knew that walk. The rhythm of it. The calm, unhurried pace.
Dominic.
I lay back slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of my lips before I could stop it — small, confused, but real.
Maybe he hadn't forgotten after all.
Morning crept in softly, pale light slipping through the curtains.
I'd barely slept. My body had rested, but my mind hadn't stopped. It kept circling back to the sound from last night — those steady footsteps, that faint sigh outside my door.
I sat on the edge of my bed, fingers tangled in the blanket. Maybe it wasn't him. Maybe I just wanted it to be.
Still, I couldn't shake the way it had felt — quiet, deliberate, almost… protective.
With a small exhale, I pushed the thought away and got up. The cold floor met my feet, a reminder to stay grounded, to stop thinking about him.
I freshened up, brushed my hair into a loose ponytail, and tried to look like someone who had slept peacefully.
When I stepped out of my room, the hallway looked the same as always — spotless, sunlit, untouched. No sign that anyone had been there last night.
Still, my eyes lingered on the keypad for a moment.
The faintest smudge of a fingerprint marked the edge of the screen — near the side no one usually touched.
My breath caught.
I brushed my thumb over it gently, pretending it was nothing, but my pulse gave me away.
Downstairs, the house was quiet. I found the maid setting the table for breakfast. She smiled politely when she saw me, then hesitated.
"Sir Dominic left early this morning," she said. "He asked that you be served first."
I blinked, surprised. He never did that.
I nodded slowly and mouthed, Thank you.
She smiled again and left me alone.
The smell of coffee drifted through the room, but I wasn't hungry. I sat there in silence, staring at the untouched plate, wondering if this was just courtesy — or something else.
Because maybe he had come upstairs last night. Maybe he'd stood by my door for a reason.
And maybe this was his way of saying something —without actually saying it.
By midmorning, I couldn't stay in the house any longer.
The air inside felt too still — too heavy with things I didn't want to think about. Every sound seemed to echo last night's silence. Every glance toward my door reminded me of those faint footsteps.
So I picked up my phone and typed a short message to my driver:
Be ready in ten minutes. I want to go to my brother's company.
His reply came almost instantly:
Yes, Miss Aurora.
That was all I needed.
The city outside the car window was alive — buses, people, light. It should've distracted me, but all I could see was him. His calm face, his quiet voice.
The way he'd looked right through me yesterday, as if nothing had happened.
When the car pulled into the familiar glass building, I exhaled slowly, trying to shake him off.
My brother's assistant greeted me in the lobby with a bright smile. "Miss Aurora! He's been asking for you."
I smiled politely and followed her upstairs. The elevator ride felt longer than usual — the hum of soft music filling the silence.
When the doors opened, my brother was waiting by his office door. His grin was the same as always — warm, teasing, unguarded.
"Look who finally decided to leave the house," he said.
I smiled, unlocking my phone and typing quickly:
I needed a change of air.
He chuckled. "You always do when you start overthinking."
I typed again,
I'm not overthinking.
He laughed outright. "You typed that too fast. Definitely overthinking."
I gave him a look that made him raise his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. Sit. You look like you could use coffee."
I sank into the couch while he poured some into a cup and handed it to me. His energy always filled the room — easy, light, the opposite of Dominic's quiet control.
"So," he said, leaning against his desk, "what's really going on? You don't show up here out of boredom."
I glanced at him, then back at my phone. My fingers hovered over the screen before I typed slowly:
Nothing serious. Just needed a change of space.
He studied me for a moment, unconvinced, then sighed. "You have that look again."
I raised an eyebrow and typed,
What look?
"The 'I'm fine, but I'm absolutely not fine' look."
I smiled faintly, shaking my head. He always saw through me too easily.
So he dropped it, switching to talk about work — new designs, upcoming contracts, another expansion he was planning. I nodded where I could, typed short responses when he asked for my opinion, and even managed a few smiles.
But my thoughts weren't fully there.
Every time I looked out the window, my mind slipped back to the house — to that sound in the hallway, to the faint sigh outside my door.
I kept telling myself it didn't mean anything. That he was too cold, too disciplined, too him to ever do something like that.
But deep down, something in me whispered otherwise.
And no matter how far I'd gone that morning, I couldn't escape the quiet echo of his footsteps.
"Earth to Aurora."
My brother's voice snapped me back to the room. I blinked, realizing I'd been staring at the same document for way too long.
He was watching me with that familiar half-smile — the one that said he knew exactly what was going on, even when I didn't say a word.
"What's going on in that head of yours?" he asked. "Because it's definitely not quarterly reports."
I unlocked my phone and typed quickly:
Just tired. Didn't sleep much last night.
"Didn't sleep much?" His tone shifted, teasing. "Should I assume that's work stress or… someone?"
My fingers paused mid-air. That was all he needed. His grin widened like a cat who'd found milk.
"Oh, come on. Don't give me that look," he said. "There is someone, isn't there?"
I rolled my eyes and typed fast:
You're imagining things.
He chuckled, leaning against the desk. "I'm your brother, remember? I know when something's off. You're quiet — even for you. That only happens when someone's taken up permanent residence in your thoughts."
I sighed, fighting a smile as I typed back:
You should stop watching so many dramas.
He laughed, delighted. "Mhm. Sure. Just don't forget to invite me to the wedding."
I arched a brow, typing with a small smirk tugging at my lips:
Of course you'll be there… if there's ever one.
He grinned wider, eyes twinkling. "Yeah, well… the way you're acting, I'd say the wedding's inevitable at this point."
I shook my head, unable to stop the quiet laugh that escaped me — soundless but full of warmth. He was insufferable.
Still, when he turned back to his files, the teasing words lingered longer than they should have.
Inevitable.
My chest tightened, just a little. Because even I couldn't tell if the thought terrified me… or thrilled me.
By the time I left Alex's office, the sun had already started dipping behind the buildings.
He'd teased me one last time before I got into the car — something about booking the wedding venue early. I'd rolled my eyes and typed,
You're unbelievable.
And he'd laughed like he always did, loud and carefree.
The drive back was slow, caught in evening traffic. I leaned against the seat, watching streaks of orange and pink fade into blue.
My phone buzzed once — a system reminder that the lights had switched to evening mode.
Normal. Predictable. Routine.
When we finally reached the estate, I stepped out, thanked the driver, and went inside. The faint scent of fresh flowers filled the hallway. The housekeeper must've replaced them again.
Everything looked untouched — still, serene.
I slipped off my shoes and made my way upstairs, pausing at the top for no reason other than the quiet itself. Maybe I'd gotten too used to silence; it followed me everywhere now.
In my painting room, the familiar comfort greeted me — soft light, the faint smell of paint, the gentle chaos of brushes and unfinished canvases.
I exhaled, setting my bag down and brushing my fingers along the edge of my easel.
This was the only place that didn't ask questions. The only place that didn't expect answers.
I sat for a while, just staring at the strokes I'd left unfinished days ago. My mind wandered — not to what Alex said, not to the teasing — but to the memory that kept surfacing no matter how hard I tried to bury it.
The way he'd looked at me. The silence that had felt louder than any voice.
I shook my head quickly and picked up a brush.
Work. Focus. Breathe.
But even as the colors began to blur together on canvas, the thought lingered somewhere in the back of my mind —
not heavy, not sharp, just… there.
Quiet. Unavoidable.