Dominic's Chronicles
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I hadn't meant to stop at her door that night.
It was late — past midnight — and the house was quiet, everyone already gone to sleep. I'd only gone upstairs because I couldn't. Not really. My mind had been too loud, my chest too tight.
And before I realized it, I was standing there. Outside her room.
The light had been off, but there was something — a faint hum, a shift in the air, something that made me raise my hand to knock.
But I didn't.
I just stood there, fingers hovering an inch away from the wood, wondering what exactly I thought I was doing.
What could I have possibly said if she'd opened the door?
I couldn't sleep? I was worried?
It sounded ridiculous even in my head.
So I dropped my hand and turned away, forcing myself to walk back down the hall like it hadn't happened.
The next morning, I'd gone to work earlier than usual. It was easier to drown in things I could control — figures, meetings, the endless rhythm of decisions that didn't involve feelings.
Now, sitting behind my office desk with the city stretching endlessly beneath the windows, I watched the reflection of my own face in the glass. Cold. Composed. Predictable.
Exactly what people expected.
Across the table, the department heads droned on — projections, contracts, expansion updates. I heard every word, but none of it stayed. My attention drifted somewhere else, to a pair of silent eyes I shouldn't remember so clearly.
I clasped my hands together on the table. "Proceed with the revised merger terms," I said evenly.
"Yes, sir," someone replied.
Work continued. Files moved, screens lit up, voices filled the room again.
And still, I couldn't shake the image of that closed door.
The hesitation that had lasted all of three seconds but had followed me for days.
Three seconds.
That was all it had taken for me to realize I'd lost the ability to look at her the way I used to — distant, unaffected, untouched.
I leaned back in my chair, exhaling through my nose. The sound of my phone buzzing broke the silence.
"Sir," my assistant's voice came through the intercom. "Your eleven o'clock is here."
"Send them in."
The meeting went on, efficient as always. I asked the right questions, gave the right orders, and signed the necessary papers. But even as the pen moved across the page, my mind wasn't in it.
It was still standing in front of that door.
Still remembering the moment I'd almost — almost — let something slip that shouldn't.
And for reasons I couldn't explain, I wasn't sure if walking away had been strength… or cowardice.
By late afternoon, the office had emptied a little — the kind of hush that comes when the day begins to wind down but the work hasn't stopped.
I was still at my desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled halfway. The city glowed behind the glass — all light and motion, the exact opposite of what I felt inside.
The contracts were stacked neatly beside my laptop. Everything was in order. Everything always was.
Except me.
I rubbed my temple, scanning the document in front of me for the third time without processing a single word. My mind wouldn't stay here. It kept circling back to last night — the hallway, the silence, the way I'd almost knocked.
Almost.
A knock on my door broke the thought. "Sir?"
My assistant, Anna, stepped in carefully, a folder in her hand. "These are the design reports you asked for. The collaboration proposal from your brother-in-law's company was attached as well."
I nodded. "Leave it."
She placed it on the table, hesitating. "You haven't taken a break all day."
"I don't need one."
Her lips pressed into a line, but she knew better than to argue. "Understood, sir."
When she left, I leaned back, eyes falling on the folder she'd dropped. My brother-in-law's company. That meant her brother.
And if he sent something over, there was always the chance—
I flipped the folder open. Inside, neatly clipped to the front, was a single sheet — a preliminary visual layout.
Color swatches. Design notes. A faint sketch on the corner, small but precise.
I knew that linework.
It wasn't hers officially, but it was hers — the way she shaded edges, the way every stroke felt deliberate and soft at once.
I traced it with my gaze, jaw tightening.
Of course she'd have her hand in his projects. Of course she'd be part of something that ended up on my desk.
I closed the folder and leaned back again, staring at the ceiling for a moment.
Every logical part of me said to ignore it. To treat it like any other submission, any other design.
But logic had never been the problem.
It was the memory of her sitting in that garden, paint on her fingers, sunlight on her face. Silent, but louder than anyone else in the room.
I exhaled sharply, reaching for my phone, thumb hovering over her contact name — one I'd never actually used.
Then I locked the screen and set it aside.
Boundaries.
They'd always defined me. Controlled me. Protected me.
But lately… they felt like the only thing holding back a flood I didn't want to admit existed. By the time I finally stood, the skyline outside had deepened into that shade of blue that almost looked black.
The city was alive, but my office felt still — the kind of stillness that pressed on your chest if you stayed too long.
I gathered my jacket, slid my phone into my pocket, and walked out.
Anna was gone, as expected. The others too. Only the faint hum of the elevator and the echo of my footsteps followed me down the corridor.
I paused briefly outside the glass doors of the building. My driver straightened as soon as he saw me, opening the car door in silence.
The city lights blurred past as we moved through traffic. I loosened my tie, eyes fixed on nothing.
My phone vibrated once. A message from one of the directors about tomorrow's meeting. I ignored it. Then another from a client — urgent, apparently. I ignored that too.
For someone who built his life around precision, control, and efficiency, I'd spent the entire day doing none of those things.
I leaned back, eyes half-closed.
And of course, she appeared behind my eyelids. The same way she had this morning.
Silent. Focused. Always somewhere else, even when she was right there.
I wondered, not for the first time, what she'd thought that night. Whether she remembered. Whether she'd thought I'd forgotten.
Maybe that was for the best. Maybe she should believe that.
The car slowed in front of my house — large, minimal, and immaculate. I stepped out, dismissing the driver with a nod, and walked in.
Everything was in its place. Every detail designed to my liking. But the longer I stood there, the more sterile it all felt.
I walked to the study, turning on a single light. Papers, books, files — the usual.
I sat, pulled the folder from earlier from my briefcase, and stared at that same page again. The one with her sketch.
I told myself it was just work. Just a detail I happened to notice.
But the truth was simpler.
I hadn't been able to stop looking at it.
I ran a hand through my hair, frustration edging my composure. I'd built walls for years — and she'd found a way through them without even speaking a word.
I closed the folder, pushing it aside.
Maybe I was imagining it all. Maybe it didn't mean anything.
But as I leaned back in my chair, that quiet part of me — the one I kept buried — whispered the one thing I couldn't quite silence.
It did.
It was close to midnight when I finally left the study.
The house was mostly dark, the lights dimmed the way I preferred — quiet, controlled, predictable.
I'd convinced myself that the stillness would help clear my mind. It didn't.
The image of her sketch was still there. The memory of her at the door last night was still there. Everything I'd tried to shut out just followed me through the halls.
I paused by the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and leaned against the counter.
The sound of soft footsteps made me turn.
Aurora.
She was barefoot, her hair loose, wearing a pale nightgown that brushed just past her knees. Her phone was in her hand, screen glowing faintly.
She stopped when she saw me — surprised, but not startled.
"You're awake," I said quietly.
She lifted her phone, typing.
Couldn't sleep.
I nodded once. "Me neither."
For a moment, she hesitated near the doorway, like she wasn't sure if she should stay or leave. Then she walked toward the island counter and sat on one of the stools.
I watched her type again.
You've been working late a lot.
"Work doesn't finish itself."
She smiled faintly at that, the smallest curve of her lips. Then her fingers moved again.
What kind of work keeps you up this late?
"Design reviews. Contract signings. Usual things that make everyone else rich and me tired."
Her shoulders shook slightly — a soundless laugh. She typed quickly.
You sound exhausted.
"I am." I took a sip of water, eyes drifting over her face. "And you should be asleep."
Could say the same for you.
That made me pause. She was right, and we both knew it.
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable — just heavy with everything unsaid.
Her gaze lowered to the counter. Then her fingers began moving again, slower this time.
Dominic… about that night.
I stilled.
The words hit harder than I expected, though her voice — if she'd had one — would've softened the edges.
I set the glass down. "There's nothing to talk about."
She shook her head slightly and typed again.
You keep saying that. But pretending it didn't happen doesn't make it go away.
My jaw tightened. "And talking about it won't change what it was."
Then tell me what it was.
Her eyes lifted to mine, steady but uncertain. I'd seen her paint storms calmer than this moment.
"It was…" I stopped, exhaling slowly. "A mistake."
She blinked once. No reaction. No visible hurt. Just quiet acceptance — the kind that burned more than anger ever could.
She typed again, her thumbs slower this time.
Right. A mistake.
I hated how that looked on her screen.
I hated how final it sounded.
She slid her phone aside, stood up, and turned toward the hallway. Then she hesitated — glanced back, her expression unreadable — and typed one last thing.
Goodnight, Dominic.
"Goodnight," I said, voice lower than I meant it to be.
She disappeared down the hallway, and I was left staring at the faint light from her phone still lingering in the air like an echo.
For a man who'd built a life on keeping control, I'd never felt more uncertain.