Dominic's Chronicles
⸻
The elevator doors slid open to the top floor of Blackwood Tower, and I stepped out, rolling my shoulders to ease the stiffness from the last meeting.
Ana was still at her desk, scrolling through a tablet. She looked up immediately.
"Sir, Ms. Sinclair is here," she said, standing a little straighter.
I stopped mid-step.
"Aurora?"
She nodded. "She's waiting in your office. Said she needed to give you something personally."
For a moment, I didn't move. My grip on the file in my hand tightened slightly before I nodded once and continued down the hallway.
The glass doors to my office were half-open. She was standing by the window, sunlight washing over her hair — long and loose, cascading all the way to her waist.
Joggers. Cropped hoodie. Sneakers. Effortlessly calm, like she belonged anywhere light could find her.
She turned when she heard me enter.
I closed the door behind me, letting the soft click echo through the silence. "You didn't tell me you were coming," I said, keeping my tone even.
Her tablet was already in her hand.
Alex said you wanted the updated designs today.
I blinked, processing that. "Right. I did. But I didn't expect you to bring them yourself."
I sent it to your email but I wasn't sure you had received it.
Something about that made my chest tighten. "You could've sent them through Alex."
She only shrugged.
Silence settled again — not uncomfortable, just weighted. The kind that made every sound feel louder than it should.
I stepped around to my side of the desk, setting my briefcase down. "Alright. Let's see what you've got."
She crossed the room quietly, her sneakers barely making a sound on the marble floor, and handed me a small flash drive. Her nails brushed my fingers when I took it — a fleeting touch, almost nothing, but it still sent a pulse up my arm.
I cleared my throat and turned to the monitor.
The file loaded quickly — bright, clean lines and muted tones. She'd refined everything — sharper transitions, better symmetry.
"You changed the layering," I said finally.
She nodded and typed,
It flows better this way. The transitions feel more balanced.
I studied the screen again. "You're right. It's good work."
When I looked back up, she was watching me — quietly, like she was searching for something I hadn't said.
I forced myself to glance away first. "I'll have Ana send this to the design team. They'll prep it for review."
She nodded again and turned slightly, as if debating whether to stay or leave.
I spoke before I could stop myself. "Aurora—"
She looked back.
But I didn't finish.
Because I didn't even know what I was going to say. Then She stood by my desk, her fingers tapping sharply across the tablet screen, her expression unreadable.
You could've asked me about the designs, Dominic. It's mine, not Alex's. It's cold, you know… the way you act sometimes.
Cold.
That word again. It hit deeper than I expected.
I straightened slowly. "Cold?" I repeated, my tone harder than I meant. "Aurora, I asked Alex because he answers. He talks. He doesn't make me stand here guessing what's going on in his head."
Her brows furrowed, and she typed faster.
You didn't have to guess. You could've just asked me.
"Asked what?" I snapped. "How do I even have a proper conversation with you when half the time, you won't—"
I exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over my jaw. "You can't even talk to me, Aurora. You just type. Every damn thing is typed. You expect me to understand everything through a screen like it's normal. I don't know what you want from me," I said, voice rough. "I try to understand, but you make it impossible. You build walls and then blame me for standing on the other side. I'm human, Aurora. I can't keep talking to silence."
Her eyes flashed, the first real fire I'd seen in them in weeks. She began typing again, this time slower, deliberate.
Oh, right. Because you're so easy to talk to?
I frowned.
You say I build walls, but have you looked at yourself? You shut everyone out, Dominic. You walk around like nothing touches you, like you're made of ice and rules and distance. You think you're better at hiding it, but you're not. You just got good at pretending you don't feel anything.
That… hit somewhere I didn't want to touch.
I opened my mouth, but she wasn't done.
You're cold to everyone. Not just me. And maybe you should ask yourself why.
The silence after that was deafening.
I clenched my jaw, trying to steady my voice. "You don't know what you're talking about."
Her expression didn't change — just a small, almost broken smile that said she'd expected that answer.
I do. More than you think.
She turned then, quick and quiet, her tablet pressed to her chest as she headed for the door.
I caught the faint tremor in her shoulders — the way her breath hitched when she reached for the handle — and I knew she was fighting tears.
But she didn't let them fall. Not in front of me.
The door shut softly behind her, and the sound echoed in the room like something final.
I stood there, staring at the spot she'd just left, every word she'd thrown at me looping in my head.
Cold. Distant. Pretending not to feel.
I sank back into my chair, palms pressing against my eyes.
She was wrong, I told myself. She had to be.
I wasn't cold.
I was just… adapting, you know. That was all.
Adjusting. Nothing more.
So why the hell did it feel like she'd just torn open something I'd spent years burying?
The door had barely closed before the silence turned heavy — too heavy.
I hated it.
I pushed myself up from the chair, pacing once before stopping at the window. The city stretched wide below, the skyline bright and indifferent, like it didn't care that I'd just said things I shouldn't have.
Why did I even let it get that far?
She'd just been asking a question — simple, reasonable. And I'd turned it into something ugly.
I ran a hand through my hair and exhaled, forcing myself to look anywhere but the door. "It's fine," I muttered under my breath. "She'll get over it. It's just words."
But the second I said it, I knew it was a lie.
Because the look on her face when I said you can't even talk to me — that quiet shock, that pain she tried to hide — kept replaying in my head like a damn echo.
"Damn it," I muttered, gripping the edge of the desk.
A soft knock broke the silence.
Ana peeked in, holding a folder. "Sir? The meeting notes for tomorrow—"
Her words trailed when she saw my face. "Everything okay?"
"Fine," I said too quickly. "Leave it on the table."
She nodded slowly, placing the folder down before slipping back out without another word.
The quiet returned, but it wasn't the same. It wasn't the kind I liked — the focused kind that came with work. It was hollow. Uneasy.
I sat down again and stared at the sketches on my desk — her sketches. The same designs she'd argued with me about. Clean lines. Gentle strokes. But powerful. Controlled.
Just like her.
I let out a bitter laugh. "Cold," I repeated under my breath. "She's the one who barely lets anyone close."
Still, the words didn't hold as much conviction as I wanted.
Because even now, I could still see her eyes when she typed that last message. The way her fingers trembled, the way she stood her ground anyway.
I leaned back, rubbing a hand across my jaw.
"She's wrong," I said quietly. "There's nothing going on here. I was just being honest."
But the silence didn't agree.
It pressed in around me, heavy with everything I didn't say — the apology I refused to form, the guilt I didn't want to acknowledge.
I wasn't supposed to care.
She was just another person in my house. My supposed forced fiancée.
Someone I meant to keep my distance from.
So why the hell did it feel like I'd just crossed a line I couldn't take back?
I stared at the designs again — her handwriting on the corner of the page, small and neat — before finally shoving them aside.
"Focus," I told myself. "She'll move on. So will I."
But even as I said it, her face — hurt, proud, silent — kept flashing behind my eyes.
And that silence I once liked so much suddenly felt unbearable.
The rest of the day dragged.
I buried myself in meetings, numbers, and schedules — anything that kept my mind busy enough not to think.
But every so often, in between one document and the next, I'd see flashes — her fingers flying across her iPad, her eyes glinting with anger and hurt.
And my chest would tighten all over again.
By the time dusk painted the windows in streaks of fading orange, I'd had enough. I signed off the last report and shut the laptop a little too hard.
"Call the driver," I said to Ana as I passed her desk.
"Yes, sir," she replied, quiet and professional, though I could tell she wanted to ask if everything was okay.
It wasn't.
The ride home was silent. The city lights blurred past the tinted glass, and for the first time in a long while, the sound of my own thoughts was too loud.
I told myself I'd apologize — maybe tomorrow. When things had cooled down.
When I stepped into the house, the soft scent of dinner still lingered in the air, but the dining table was empty.
Mrs. Langley, the head of staff, approached almost immediately, wringing her hands. "Good evening, sir. You're home early."
I nodded, loosening my tie. "Where's Aurora?"
She hesitated. "Miss Sinclair… refused dinner, sir. Said she wasn't hungry."
I paused. "And now?"
"She's locked herself in her room. I knocked a few times, but she didn't answer. I thought perhaps she was asleep."
My jaw tightened.
Of course she wasn't asleep.
I didn't say anything for a long moment. The words caught somewhere between irritation and guilt.
"Alright," I said finally, low and clipped. "You can go. I'll handle it."
Mrs. Langley nodded and left quietly.
I stood there, staring up the staircase — the faint glow of light spilling from under her door.
Part of me wanted to turn away.
To let her have the silence she seemed to prefer.
But another part — the one that had been restless all day — didn't want to leave it like this.
My hand tightened slightly at my side.
She wasn't eating.
Because of what had happened earlier.