Aurora's Realm
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The drive to Dominic's house felt endless, but when the car finally pulled into the gated estate, I understood why.
His penthouse towered above me, glass and stone gleaming in the afternoon sun, sharp lines and polished edges. It looked nothing like home—too cold, too perfect.
The moment I stepped out, uniformed staff were already waiting. They bowed politely, and the head maid, a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and a warm smile, took the lead.
"Miss Sinclair," she said, her voice professional but kind. "We've prepared a room for you upstairs. Your things will be arranged shortly."
I nodded, clutching my bag tighter as I followed her inside. The marble floors clicked under my shoes, each step echoing in the wide silence.
Dominic wasn't here—I knew that. He was buried in his work somewhere in the city. Still, his absence filled the space louder than his presence ever could have.
The maid guided me to a spacious bedroom, airy and bright, nothing like the darker tones that seemed to suit Dominic's taste. "This will be yours," she explained. "Sir Dominic asked us to make sure you'd be comfortable."
I wandered further in, brushing my hand across the smooth bedding, the neat arrangements. It was beautiful, but it wasn't mine. Not yet.
As the other servants bustled in with boxes and bags, the head maid continued, "Sir Dominic also had a separate room prepared for your art. You'll find it down the hall. We've already set up your easels, paints, and sketch pads. Everything is waiting."
I blinked, surprised. My painting had always been… personal, almost hidden. I hadn't expected him to notice, much less prepare an entire room.
"And your flowers," she added gently, as if she already knew how much they meant to me. "They're being transported here. There is no garden, but Sir Dominic asked that a section at the back of the house be planted for you. It will take time, but soon it will grow."
A garden in the middle of his steel and glass world. My chest tightened in a strange mix of gratitude and confusion. He didn't care for such things—I knew that. But he had done it anyway.
I drifted from room to room as the day went on, watching my things slowly blend into his space.
My canvases leaned against his walls. My clothes folded neatly into drawers that had been empty. My scent filling the air where his cologne once ruled.
It was still his house. Still his world. But piece by piece, a part of me was being stitched into it.
And yet, as I stood in the quiet painting room, sunlight spilling over the empty canvas, I couldn't stop wondering—why?
The house was too large to sit still in, so after the maids unpacked my clothes, I wandered the hallways.
Every corridor stretched wide and spotless, lined with muted colors and polished floors that seemed too pristine to touch. I paused at doors, some opening into studies, others into guest rooms.
Then I found myself before a sleek, dark door tucked neatly at the far end of the hall. It was different—heavier, more private.
I reached out, curious, but before I could try the handle, a voice behind me made me pause.
"Miss Sinclair," the young maid whispered, bowing slightly. "That's Master Dominic's room."
I blinked, drawing my hand back.
She lowered her voice further, as though the walls themselves would report her. "The room is secured with a passcode. Only he enters there. No one is permitted inside unless he's present."
Her words carried weight, a clear line drawn in this house of glass and stone. His sanctuary. His secret.
I nodded slowly, stepping away. I didn't need to be told twice. Whatever Dominic kept behind that door wasn't meant for me. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Then one of the staff guided me toward a room at the back of the penthouse. When the door opened, I froze.
It was an art studio. My art studio.
The light poured in through tall windows, spilling over the easels set up neatly in a corner, my canvases leaned carefully against the wall, brushes arranged in a line on a low table.
Even the faint smell of oils and paint already lingered in the air.
The head maid smiled at me, bowing slightly. "Sir Dominic instructed this room be secured for you, Miss Sinclair. It has its own passcode—known only to you. No one will enter here without your permission."
Something fluttered in my chest at her words. My space. My own little world within his.
I touched the edge of a canvas, almost reverently, before stepping back.
Later, as evening fell, the mood of the house shifted. My flowers arrived, carefully transported and now being planted in the open soil behind the house.
I stood by the window, watching the gardeners work. Slowly, the lifeless yard began to take color—my garden reborn in strange soil.
My bedroom had also taken shape. Clothes were folded neatly, my perfumes placed where I could reach them, and books stacked at the bedside. It felt softer now, a little less cold.
Dinner was served downstairs. I ate alone at the long table, the silence heavier than the meal itself. Dominic's chair at the head stayed empty, the weight of his absence filling the room.
When it was done, I went upstairs. I sat in my bedroom, scrolling through my phone for a while before pulling out one of my books.
The words blurred after a few pages, my thoughts wandering instead to the day and the strange new rhythm of this house.
And then I heard it.
The faint click of the front door. A low murmur of greetings from the staff. The shuffle of polished shoes against marble floors.
Dominic was home.
The sound of the door downstairs echoed faintly up the stairwell. My heart jumped before I could stop it.
I didn't know why—perhaps the strange tension of knowing this was his house, and now mine too.
I slipped out of my room, the soft click of the door giving me away, and leaned against the wall just outside. My fingers curled around my phone, already open in my palm.
Footsteps. Firm. Unhurried. Then he appeared, his tall frame filling the staircase as he ascended. The staff behind him kept their distance, dispersing quietly, leaving only the silence of the upper hall.
Dominic's eyes found me instantly. They were unreadable, sharp in a way that made me want to lower my gaze—but I didn't.
I lifted my phone instead, thumbs moving quickly over the screen.
Thank you for letting me stay here. Everything has been… nice since I came in.
I held the phone up to him, my heart thudding with the absurd nervousness of it.
He read it, his expression barely shifting. Then his voice came—low, even, cool as ice.
"You're welcome. I trust you've settled in. The staff know what to do. If you need anything, tell them."
There was no warmth in it, no invitation for further words. Just the practical acknowledgment of my presence, the kind of distance I was already beginning to expect from him.
He gave a short nod, then turned away, walking toward the end of the hall. His room. A few clicks on the keypad, the door unlocked, and he disappeared inside without another glance.
I stood there a moment longer, my phone still in my hand, the words I had typed staring back at me. Then, quietly, I slipped back into my own room.
The hall was silent again.
I woke with a start. My chest heaved as if I'd been running, my nightclothes clinging damp to my skin.
The dream—no, the nightmare—slipped away in fragments, but the fear clung stubbornly, curling tight in my stomach.
My throat burned, dry and raw. Water. That was all I needed. Something to steady me.
Padding quietly down the staircase, I moved like a shadow through the vast stillness of the penthouse.
The kitchen light was soft, golden, almost too warm against the hollowness of the night. I poured myself a glass, drank until the ache in my throat softened, then filled it again to carry upstairs.
It wasn't until I reached the landing that I saw him.
Dominic.
He sat on the far end of the hall, the wide balcony doors pushed open. The night air swept in, cool, carrying the faint scent of rain from hours before.
He was alone, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, a stack of papers laid neatly before him. Contracts, I guessed. Meetings. His world.
The glow from the lamp at his side caught the sharp planes of his face, his jaw taut, his expression unreadable as his eyes scanned the page. His presence filled the space effortlessly—untouchable, impenetrable.
I froze. Not wanting to disturb him, not wanting to be seen. And yet, I couldn't look away.
Then his voice cut through the stillness, smooth but edged with something I couldn't place.
"You're not asleep."
My breath caught. He hadn't even looked up, and yet he knew I was there.
I clutched the glass tighter, the water trembling just slightly within it, and wondered if I should nod… or flee back into the safety of my room.
I swallowed, throat still dry despite the water, and dipped my head once in answer. My feet refused to move.
At last, he lifted his gaze from the papers. His eyes—sharp, unyielding—caught me across the distance. The weight of them made my fingers tighten around the glass.
"You wander the halls at night now?" he said, his tone even, clipped, the faintest arch of a brow betraying his disapproval. "Not wise. This isn't your grandfather's house. The staff won't hover around every corner. You're in my home. And here, order matters."
I shifted where I stood, wishing my pulse would steady, wishing my skin would stop prickling under his stare.
He leaned back in his chair, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before continuing.
"Water. That's what drove you out of bed, isn't it? You should keep a jug beside you, save yourself the trouble of roaming around at this hour." His gaze sharpened.
My breath hitched.
He didn't soften. "I don't have patience for fragile things, Miss Sinclair. Not in my world. If you're going to stay here—even temporarily—you'll need to learn that quickly. The walls here won't bend for you. And neither will I."
The words struck like cold iron, each syllable deliberate. He wasn't shouting. He didn't need to. His voice alone carried weight enough to press the air around me.
I forced a small nod, my eyes stinging.
For a moment, silence stretched.
He turned his attention back to the papers, as though dismissing me, his glass resting lightly between his fingers. "Go back to sleep," he said, without looking up again. "Tomorrow won't wait for either of us."
That was all.
My feet finally obeyed, carrying me quickly down the hall. My heart thundered with each step until I was safe behind my door.
I slipped inside and pressed my back against it, the glass of water trembling in my hand.
Another failed attempt. Another night of trying—and failing—to exist in the same space as him without shattering.
I climbed into bed, curling under the sheets, the echo of his voice still burning through me. Sleep came eventually, but not peace. Never peace.