Dominic's Chronicles
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The morning had started as it always did—early, relentless, and measured. Meetings stacked back to back, each one demanding undivided attention.
A mistake here, a careless misstep there, and I didn't hesitate. My voice, low and sharp, cut through the hum of the office. "Focus. This isn't a game." Eyes lowered, apologies muttered—enough. I tolerated nothing less than precision.
By late morning, contracts had been finalized, schedules confirmed, and emails sent with surgical efficiency. I barely registered the taste of my coffee. There was no time to dwell. The day moved forward whether I indulged or not.
By noon, I was driving toward the Sinclair mansion. The streets blurred past. My mind was sharp, scanning agendas, thinking ahead, weighing outcomes.
I didn't notice the sunlight glinting off the mansion's walls or the manicured gardens beyond the gate. That world wasn't mine—until I stepped inside.
Grandpa met me at the entrance, smiling in his gentle way, but I offered only a nod. "Dominic," he said, "good to see you. I hope the morning treated you well."
"On schedule," I replied. Neutral, measured, precise.
Alex hovered nearby, that familiar grin tugging at his features. "Don't scare her, Dominic," he said, joking, but I didn't answer.
Grandpa chuckled. "Dominic, just… ease up a little. She responds better to calm than—well, your usual presence."
I inclined my head once, acknowledgment enough. I didn't need to smile. I didn't need to soften.
They lingered briefly—Alex teasing, Grandpa catching up—but I remained unyielding, cold, silent in all but the nods that marked the limits of civility.
Eventually, they departed, leaving me alone in the house.
I seated myself, scrolling through emails and contracts, the house silent except for the distant hum of life beyond the walls. And then… I heard it.
A soft hum. Light, melodic. Unaware of me, deliberate. I paused. Someone was here. Someone alive. Someone… moving with purpose.
I rose, precise, measured. Each step silent, calculated. My gaze swept the garden until it landed.
Aurora Sinclair. Back to me, brush in hand, absorbed. Her hum continued, gentle, almost careless. I did not move closer. I did not announce myself. I simply watched.
Finally, I spoke, my voice low, cold, and measured. "This is what keeps you occupied, I guess." She stiffened, her body tensing as she slowly turned.
Our eyes met for a brief, electric moment, and I didn't falter. Step by deliberate step, I closed the distance between us, each movement controlled, precise.
My eyes flicked from the canvas to the garden—the sunlight spilling over flowers, the shadows stretching over the soil—and then back to her.
Every tilt of her head, every tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers gripped the brush: I noted it all. Precision in motion. Fragility wrapped in grace.
Grandpa's voice came from the side, gentle but firm. "Ah… you've found her."
Alex, ever the instigator, nudged the air lightly with humor. "See? She's harmless… and maybe you'll even learn something from her."
I did not respond. Humor bounced off me, meaningless. I inclined my head, a minimal acknowledgment.
Grandpa exhaled softly. "Dominic… ease up a little, won't you?"
I gave a sharp, controlled nod. Nothing more.
And then she looked up.
Her eyes met mine, soft and tentative. A careful smile curved her lips—not wide, not forced, but intentional. Gentle. Meant to ease tension.
For a heartbeat, I registered the unexpected, a flicker I could not allow to linger. My chest remained still, jaw tight, posture rigid.
But even as I masked it, I could not ignore her movements, her subtle rhythm, the tension that ran through each stroke of the brush.
Grandpa exhaled, relief evident. Alex muttered, a quiet chuckle escaping him.
I said nothing. I did not need to. I had seen. I had noted. And that small, careful smile lingered in my vision far longer than it should have, though I would never allow it to soften me.
I watched her brush move across the canvas, each stroke precise, deliberate. The soft hum from her lips barely registered beyond my awareness, but I noted it.
"You're focused." My voice was flat, sharp, controlled. No warmth, no curiosity—just observation.
She paused, then nodded once. That was sufficient. No words. No explanation.
"The garden suits you. Efficient use of time."
Another nod. Silent. Calculated. I observed the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers gripped the brush, but I made no comment.
From the edge of the garden, faint whispers. Grandpa and Alex, murmuring. I caught fragments.
"Best to leave them alone."
Alex chuckled softly. "Might make things easier."
I ignored them. Their discussion didn't concern me. The gate clicked—they had retreated. Just her and me.
The clouds shifted. Rain began in steady drops. She froze, eyes darting to her canvas and paints.
I stepped forward. "Move the canvas. It will get ruined."
She tilted her head, then complied. Nodded.
I took the edge of the canvas, holding it steady while she gathered the rest. No words. No softness. No patience tested or given—just efficiency.
The rain intensified. I placed the canvas under the covered area. She looked briefly in my direction. I did not acknowledge her. I did not smile. I did not soften. I remained rigid, composed, cold.
Everything was secured. She nodded once to indicate completion. That was enough.
The rain fell around us. I stayed, silent, arms lightly crossed, posture precise. I did not speak. I did not move. Observation, nothing more.
This was all that mattered. Nothing else.
The rain outside had softened to a steady drizzle by the time we moved into the dining room. Aurora lingered for a moment at the window, watching droplets streak down the glass, tracing the pattern with a distant gaze.
I noticed the faint hum she carried, soft and quiet, barely audible—but deliberate. She turned finally, following Alex and Grandpa to the table, careful and composed as ever.
I took my seat with deliberate precision, hands folded lightly before me, posture straight, unyielding. Aurora sat beside her brother, silent, still, her composure impeccable.
Grandpa leaned back in his chair, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he regarded me. "Dominic, it's been a while since you've seen the two of them in action. You'd think they'd grown up, but some habits die hard."
Alex smirked beside his sister. "You mean me?"
Grandpa chuckled. "Mostly you, yes. But Aurora here… well, she had her own ways. I remember when she was small, barely able to stand, she managed to tip over the flowerpots in the garden while trying to water them. Terrible mess."
"And Alex—oh, Alex", Grandpa continued. "He thought it was hilarious. He'd sneak water balloons into her room just to watch her scream. I swear, your mother nearly had a heart attack every time."
Alex laughed, shaking his head. "I was innocent! Mostly."
I didn't react. I observed, noting Aurora's quiet presence, the way she simply nodded at times, her hands folded neatly, eyes calm and controlled. She didn't react, didn't speak. She simply existed in the room with an elegance born of restraint.
Grandpa continued, leaning forward slightly. "And then there was the time Aurora tried to 'rescue' the kittens from the top of the tree. Ended up stuck herself. And Alex… well, he climbed halfway up just to watch her flail. We had to get the fire department involved."
Aurora shifted slightly, eyes downcast, but still composed.
"Ah, but don't think they weren't clever," Grandpa added, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Aurora had her moments—quiet, but precise. Alex? He never lacked ambition… or mischief. It was quite the pair."
I remained still, hands folded, posture straight. My expression revealed nothing. My eyes flickered briefly to Aurora, then away, letting the weight of my presence linger over the table.
After the plates were cleared and the servants moved efficiently, I spoke, voice low, precise, cold.
"Aurora Sinclair." She nodded, silent.
"Your family has made the arrangement clear. You understand it." My tone allowed no room for debate.
Another nod. Sufficient.
"I expect decorum. Precision. Composure. Nothing else is necessary."
Aurora acknowledged me once more, eyes brief and steady.
I rose, glancing toward Grandpa and Alex. "Have a good night." I said, voice commanding, low, leaving no room for misinterpretation. I let a fraction of an inch of authority linger in the air before taking deliberate steps toward the door.
Grandpa cleared his throat, leaning slightly forward. "Dominic… take care, son."
I allowed a brief flicker of acknowledgment, then turned fully, walking with measured steps toward the exit. The echo of my presence lingered even as I reached the door, then left.
The drive back was quiet. The rain had eased into a steady drizzle, but the chill in the air matched the rigidity I carried with me.
My mind was focused on nothing more than getting home. Conversation with Alex and their Grandpa had been necessary, but tedious. I didn't entertain idle chatter, didn't allow warmth to creep in.
Pulling into my driveway, I stepped out, feeling the familiar weight of control settle over me. The house was quiet—exactly how I liked it. I entered, shedding my coat with methodical precision.
"Dom?" Damien's voice came from the living room. "You're back early."
"Mm." I didn't bother with pleasantries. I moved into the room, already noting the neat order Damien kept. My brother had always been meticulous. That's why I trusted him.
"You didn't say much today," he commented, leaning against the armrest of the sofa. "Everything okay?"
I ignored the concern in his tone. "Everything is fine," I said, crisp, precise. No softness. No explanation. That was unnecessary.
Damien chuckled, moving closer. "You always sound fine. But you look like you've been in a battle."
I arched an eyebrow, cold, unamused. "A battle requires participants. There were none worth noting."
Damien laughed softly. "Right. Always the stone-cold CEO. I should be used to it by now."
I allowed a brief flicker of acknowledgment. "Do not mistake my composure for absence of thought. I observe. I plan. I control."
He nodded, unconcerned. "Yeah, yeah. I get it." Then he leaned back, relaxing. "Want something to drink? You've been running around all morning and afternoon. You need something."
I paused, considering, then accepted. "Whiskey. Neat."
As he poured, I allowed myself a brief, quiet moment of solitude. Not reflection. Not emotion. Just order. Just control.
"Dom," Damien said softly, almost as if testing boundaries, "you don't have to act all cold with me. You can… you know, relax. Just a little."
I didn't respond immediately. My gaze followed the pour of amber liquid into the glass, steady, controlled.
Finally, I took it, placing it on the table with precise care. "This is sufficient," I said. No more. No warmth. No softness.
Damien shook his head, amused, and sat down across from me. "You really are impossible."
I allowed the faintest flicker of acknowledgment, then leaned back, posture immaculate, mind methodical. The bond with Damien remained—the only exception in my otherwise controlled, cold world. And that, alone, was enough for tonight.