Aurora's Realm
—————
I hadn't expected it.
The moment I came back to the table, something inside me already felt unsettled—like the laughter I had carried from the restroom had been crushed in someone else's hands.
I tried to sit quietly, tried to fold myself into invisibility the way I had learned over the years. But Dominic noticed. Of course he did.
When he stood, my heart lurched. I didn't know what he had heard, what he intended to do—but when I saw him return, those women trailing behind like guilty shadows, my pulse stumbled.
His voice, sharp and controlled, cut through the air, demanding apologies for me, for the words I thought no one else had heard.
I sat frozen. His laughter—low, dark, and dangerous—still echoed in my chest. It wasn't loud. It wasn't careless.
It was the kind of laugh that made people shift in their seats, the kind of laugh that promised he was capable of much more than just words.
And yet, none of that frightened me.
Not because he wasn't frightening, but because… I understood. He had defended me. Without hesitation, without caring what anyone else thought.
When the women finally left, shame clinging to them like perfume, I realized my hands were trembling in my lap. I forced them still and looked at him. Just looked.
My lips parted as if words might come, but they didn't. Instead, I let my eyes hold his, steady and quiet, hoping he would see the gratitude I couldn't voice.
My fingers moved before I could stop them, brushing against each other in the silent gesture I had always used with my brother and grandfather—my way of saying thank you.
And for a fleeting second, Dominic's gaze softened. Not much, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for me. Enough to make me feel like he had truly heard me, even without a single word leaving my lips.
Maybe I was reading too much into it. Maybe it was simply his nature to control and protect, no matter who stood in his shadow.
But when his eyes softened—just for me—I couldn't shake the feeling that it meant more.
Or at least… that's what I think.
I caught his gaze across the table, steady and unreadable, and gave the silent gesture again.
Thank you so much.
His lips curved, not into a smile, but something faint. Controlled. "Yeah," he murmured, voice low enough to reach only me. "You're welcome. I would have done the same if it was my brother."
The words slipped through me like ice water.
I tried to hold on to the warmth I'd felt moments before, but it scattered, sharp and brittle, until there was nothing left but the ache of disappointment.
My chest tightened, and the air in the room suddenly felt thinner, as though the walls themselves were closing in.
Of course. Of course it wasn't about me. It was never about me.
I forced myself to nod, keeping my expression calm, even serene. But inside, everything had collapsed in silence. When I risked a glance at him, Dominic's eyes lingered on me longer than they should have—sharp, unreadable.
For a heartbeat, I thought he might have seen through me, might have said something more. But then he looked away, as if what he glimpsed didn't matter enough to hold.
The hollowness inside me deepened.
Before the weight of the silence could crush me, Damien leaned back with a chuckle, rescuing me from the edge. "Come on, big bro, you make it sound like you're auditioning for a knight-in-shining-armor role. Don't let him fool you, Aurora—Dominic may look like an icicle, but he has his rare heroic moments."
His playful grin disarmed the moment, and the tension in the air eased. I let the corner of my lips twitch upward, faint enough to pass as polite, though the shards of disappointment still pressed against my chest.
The ride back was quieter than the journey there. Damien filled the silence here and there, tossing out jokes and small stories, but I barely heard them.
I kept my eyes fixed on the window, watching the blur of city lights smear into streaks of gold and white.
Every so often, I felt Dominic's gaze flick toward me from the driver's seat, sharp and assessing, like he noticed my silence but chose not to ask. He didn't need to; he'd already spoken enough.
I would have done the same thing if it was my brother.
The words clung to me like thorns, digging deeper with each repetition. Gratitude had bloomed so fiercely in me only to be clipped down to nothing. Foolish of me to think it was ever personal.
Damien laughed at something, the sound warm and bright. I managed a small smile so they wouldn't notice the heaviness weighing me down. The silence between us grew, steady and unbroken, carrying us all the way back home.
The ride home ended the same way it began—quiet, at least for me. Damien stretched and hopped out first, his voice lively as ever.
He said something about dessert waiting in the fridge and disappeared into the kitchen the moment we stepped inside.
I lingered by the doorway, clutching my bag close. Maybe if I slipped upstairs quickly enough, no one would notice.
But Dominic's voice caught me.
"You've been quiet."
The words weren't a question, not even really an observation. They were… just him. Direct. Heavy. I turned and gave the faintest nod, my lips curling into what I hoped looked like a smile.
I thought that was the end of it. I thought he'd let me vanish into my room. But when I started toward the stairs, I heard his steps behind me, steady, unhurried. He was following.
At the top of the landing, I paused in front of my door, fumbling with the handle. And then his voice again, closer this time.
"You don't have to pretend."
My chest tightened. I froze, my hand still on the knob, unsure if I should turn and face him or hide behind the door.
"I noticed," he continued, his tone cool but not sharp. "Something happened at the restaurant. You're quieter than usual. Just… don't think I didn't see it."
The weight of his gaze pressed against my back, and my throat ached with the words I couldn't speak. I wanted to tell him he was right.
That the laughter I forced at dinner had already cracked, and the silence afterward was my shield. But all I could do was nod again, slower this time.
After a long moment, he exhaled softly. "Get some rest."
And just like that, his footsteps retreated down the hall, leaving me standing there with my pulse pounding in my ears.
I slipped into my room, shutting the door behind me, leaning against it for balance. His words lingered, circling in my mind long after he was gone.
Maybe he noticed more than I wanted him to.
Or maybe I just wanted him to.
I lay in bed, the quiet pressing in, broken only by the faint hum of the city outside. His words still echoed, colder than the walls that surrounded me.
I've always wanted grand affection. To fall in love, to feel cherished, to know what it means to belong to someone's heart, the kind of love my parents once shared, the kind of devotion I see in stories.
With him, I know there's none of that waiting for me. His world is sharp edges and distance, and I'd be foolish to expect warmth where there is none.
Still, I can't help but hope for something, anything. Not passion. Not love songs or whispered promises. Just a marriage where we don't feel like strangers under the same roof. Where the silence doesn't swallow everything whole.
Right now, we are strangers. Two lives forced together, orbiting without ever colliding. And yet… I find myself wishing, praying, that it won't always stay this way.
Even if I'll never have love with him, I don't want to live in the chill of a home where words never bridge the distance between us.
I just want something real. Something that works. But with Dominic, I know better. There's no space for that in him, no room for tenderness. Expecting it would only leave me broken.
So I don't fool myself with daydreams. What I want now is simpler: a marriage that doesn't feel like two strangers trapped beneath the same roof. Silence I can endure, but emptiness? Emptiness will consume me.
With him, that's all there is—distance, control, and a chill that refuses to thaw. I suppose this is the reality I'll have to live with.
No grand affection. No warmth. Just survival in a house that will never truly feel like home. I turned over in bed, the silence pressing against me harder than the darkness.
My chest felt heavy, my thoughts louder than I wanted them to be. So I reached for my phone and pressed the call button, FaceTiming Alex.
His face appeared, messy-haired, half-amused. "You look like you haven't slept a second, sis."
I gave a faint smile, tilting the screen so he wouldn't see how red my eyes were. He knew anyway—he always did.
"It's Dominic, isn't it?" he asked softly, his voice lowering, protective as ever.
I didn't answer. I didn't need to. Silence has always been my language, and Alex has always understood it.
"Listen," he went on, his tone firm but threaded with warmth, "don't let him freeze you out. You've got more fire in you than you think. And if he doesn't see that, then it's his loss."
My throat tightened, and I wished I could tell him out loud how much I needed those words. Instead, I just nodded, blinking hard at the screen.
"Don't forget, Aurora," he added, leaning closer, "you're not alone in this. You've got me, you've got Grandpa. And if Dominic tries to make you feel otherwise… well, I'll knock sense into him myself."
That made me laugh—softly, but genuinely. Alex grinned, proud of himself for pulling it out of me.
We lingered on the call until the weight in my chest eased, until my eyes grew too heavy to keep open. By the time we hung up, the silence didn't feel so suffocating anymore.
At least not tonight. Not yet.