Dominic's Chronicles
—————
I didn't want to be here. Every step into the Sinclair mansion was a reminder of how little control I had over this situation. My mother's hand lingered on my arm, guiding me in like I was still a boy who needed direction.
I could still hear her voice from earlier this morning, sharp and insistent. "Dominic, you'll come with me. No excuses. It's time you stopped resisting." She hadn't cared that I had work to handle, or that I'd already told her I wanted no part in this arrangement.
She had pulled every card she knew—family duty, respect for tradition, appearances—and in the end, I'd given in only because arguing with her was like slamming fists against steel.
Now, here I was.
Alex Sinclair looked like he had just stumbled out of bed—hair disheveled, shirt creased, his smirk careless.
He muttered something about the hour under his breath, probably amused at how miserable I looked. I cut him a flat, warning glance before turning away.
Grandpa Sinclair tried to lighten the atmosphere. "No need for formality," he said warmly. "We're family, after all."
Family. The word hit the air with weight, but it didn't land with me. This wasn't family—it was obligation, duty, a business deal dressed up as something more.
I stayed silent, jaw locked, letting the stillness stretch just enough to be uncomfortable. My mother's subtle murmur—"Dominic."—was the only thing keeping me from snapping.
Then my eyes drifted briefly to Aurora. She sat there quietly, hands folded in her lap, expression composed but strained. For the barest second, our eyes met, and I saw it—restraint, unease, the same caged energy simmering beneath my own skin.
But I shut it down before it reached me.
This wasn't about her. This wasn't about what she felt, or what I thought I saw. This was about control. And right now, I had none.
I stood off to the side, watching as my mother glided forward like she belonged in every room she entered.
Her attention went first to Aurora. "Sweetheart," she said softly, her tone almost coaxing. "You look well today."
Aurora's response was subtle—a gentle nod, a flicker of a smile—but enough to satisfy my mother, who lit up as if she had just won something.
Then she turned toward Alex, who still looked half-asleep, hair untamed and shirt out of place.
Instead of scolding, my mother chuckled lightly. "You must've just woken up. I suppose it means you're comfortable at home. That's good."
Alex rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, returning a lopsided grin. "Yeah… something like that."
She nodded approvingly, as though the simple exchange confirmed something important in her mind.
I could almost see the way she was gathering threads—Aurora's quietness, Alex's boyish charm—turning them into the kind of picture she liked to hold up in front of people.
And all the while, I stayed silent. Detached. My mother's warmth filled the room, but I felt none of it. Not for me. For them. Always for them.
Aurora glanced at me once, brief and cautious, as though testing the air. I didn't shift, didn't soften. I let the wall stand where it always did.
My mother thrived here, I endured. That was the difference.
We moved to the sitting room, the three of us settling into our seats. Alex lingered only for a moment, flopping down carelessly onto one of the armchairs.
His hair was still a mess, and he yawned so widely I thought my mother might finally scold him.
Instead, she only gave him a knowing smile. "Why don't you get some rest, dear? You look like you could use it."
Alex stretched, half-smirked, and shrugged. "Guess I'll leave you to it then. I'll be upstairs if anyone needs me."
And with that, he padded out, leaving me alone with Aurora and my mother.
The room fell quieter, the kind of quiet I never trusted. Aurora sat opposite me, her hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes lowered toward the floor.
My mother waited until the sound of Alex's retreating steps faded before she leaned forward, her tone soft but edged with purpose.
"Dominic," she began, her gaze flicking between me and Aurora, "it's time the two of you spent more… intentional time together."
I knew where this was going. My jaw tightened.
She continued, as though she hadn't noticed. "The wedding isn't far off. And while both families are aligned, marriage isn't just business. It's living, breathing, adjusting to each other. That won't happen if you keep her at arm's length."
Aurora's eyes lifted briefly, brushing mine before darting away again. She didn't need to speak—I could read her unease in the way her shoulders stiffened.
I leaned back in my chair, voice cold. "And what exactly are you suggesting?"
My mother's smile widened, patient, determined. "That you stay here. With her. At least for a time. Share a roof. Share space. Get used to one another before the vows are exchanged."
Her words landed like lead. I didn't move, didn't speak, but the weight of them pressed hard against the walls I'd built.
Aurora sat still, her silence deeper than usual, and the room waited for my answer.
I leaned back in my seat, letting silence shield me for a moment. My gaze slipped toward Aurora.
She didn't meet my eyes. Her lashes were lowered, her fingers restless in her lap, brushing against each other as though they needed something to hold onto.
Every shift of her shoulders, every shallow breath, betrayed the nerves she tried so hard to mask.
I studied her the way I would study an opponent across a boardroom table. Careful, deliberate. Noticing everything she gave away without meaning to. The faint sheen of lip gloss catching the light. The woolen sweater slipping just off her shoulder, exposing the fragile line of her collarbone. The way her boots tapped faintly against the floor before she stilled them, as though reminding herself to stay composed.
Weakness. That was my first thought. She carried it in every gesture.
And yet…
My eyes lingered longer than I intended. There was something else there, beneath the surface of her stillness. A quiet resilience. She didn't speak — couldn't — but the silence around her wasn't empty. It was full. Heavy with something unspoken.
I forced myself to look away, my jaw tightening. My mother's gaze flicked between us, sharp and satisfied, as though she had caught me in the middle of something I hadn't admitted to myself.
I straightened, coldness sliding back into my tone.
"She'll get used to me from a distance. That's enough."
Aurora's head tilted slightly at that, just the smallest reaction, but I saw it. She wasn't as unreadable as she wanted to be.
And damn me, I couldn't stop reading her.
Dominic," she said firmly, "distance will not help either of you. If this arrangement is to work, you need to spend time with her. Under the same roof. Let her learn your ways, and you hers."
I exhaled slowly through my nose, my jaw tightening. "That's unnecessary. The wedding is already decided."
"Decided, yes," she countered, "but not lived. Marriage isn't a contract you sign in ink, Dominic. It's… adjustment. And if you refuse to make any effort, you will make both of you miserable."
Her words struck with precision. She always knew where to aim.
I turned my head, my eyes landing on Aurora again. She sat very still, her gaze lowered, but I could see the faint tension in her frame. She had heard every word. Of course she had.
A muscle ticked in my jaw.
"This is your idea, Mother. Not mine."
"Then indulge me," she replied, her tone softening just slightly. "For once, indulge me. Stay here with her. It won't kill you to try."
I hated being cornered. But more than that, I hated the look in my mother's eyes — that mix of steel and pleading.
My fingers tapped once against my knee.
Finally, I gave the smallest nod. Cold. Reluctant. Controlled.
Her face brightened with victory.
"Good," she said simply.
Aurora's head tilted slightly, as if trying to make sense of my decision. I didn't meet her eyes this time. I couldn't.
The silence dragged, my mother waiting for a fuller answer. Aurora's presence lingered at the edge of my vision — too quiet, too careful.
Finally, I leaned back, my tone flat, decisive.
"If there is to be any… bonding," I said, the word like ice on my tongue, "it will be at my house. She will come to me. Not the other way around."
My mother blinked, then narrowed her eyes. "Dominic—"
"No," I cut in, voice firm, absolute. "If I'm expected to entertain this charade, it will be on my terms. She comes to my world, not the other way around."
Aurora stiffened, her fingers tightening slightly around the hem of her sweater. She didn't look at me, but I caught the faintest flicker of unease in the tilt of her head.
My mother's lips pressed into a line, clearly displeased, but she didn't argue further. She knew me well enough to recognize the finality in my tone.
"Very well," she said quietly. "Then she'll stay with you."
I inclined my head once — not a gesture of agreement, but of closure.
The decision was made. On my terms.
Then, Grandpa cleared his throat, the weight of his years commanding the room.
"If this is how it must be," he said, voice steady, final, "then so be it. Aurora will stay at your house, Dominic."
"But understand this—" his gaze pinned me, unflinching, "—you may command the boardroom, you may command your world, but here, she is still family. And you will treat her as such."
Aurora shifted in her seat, her lashes lowering, though I could see her hands trembling faintly in her lap.
I held the old man's stare, refusing to yield. Finally, I gave a clipped nod.
"Fine. She'll be treated… accordingly."
It wasn't reassurance. It was a verdict.
Grandpa leaned back, satisfied enough with the compromise. My mother exhaled softly, as though a battle had been won.
But I knew better. This wasn't their victory.
It was mine.