Dominic's Chronicles
————
Damien's voice carried through the hallway, sharp with laughter, teasing as ever. I stood at the doorway, half-listening, until something in his tone drew my eyes to the staircase.
And there she was.
Aurora.
She moved carefully, her hand grazing the banister, her head lifted just enough to hold herself with quiet dignity. Damien's low whistle reached me, but I barely heard it—because in that instant, my mind returned to the morning.
She had looked at me differently.
Not with fear, not with hesitation. No. For the first time, her eyes had met mine directly—steady, unwavering, almost cold.
A shift so subtle yet so sharp that I felt it like a crack running through stone. She hadn't flinched, hadn't looked away. She'd faced me head-on, silent but unyielding.
I couldn't decide if that glance unsettled me… or intrigued me.
And now, as she reached the bottom of the stairs, that same edge clung to her still. It lived in her gaze, in the quiet line of her shoulders, in the way she carried herself as though daring me to look away first.
It followed me even when we stepped out, even when the driver pulled the car around. Aurora slipped into the back seat with quiet composure, her posture straight, her expression calm yet unreadable.
She carried herself elegantly, like someone who had finally decided she belonged in her own skin.
Not a drenched, sad puppy. Not the girl cowering at the edges of my world.
No—this was different.
The hall was already alive when we arrived—polished marble floors reflecting golden light, the low hum of conversation rising beneath the classical music drifting from the quartet in the corner. Familiar faces turned toward us the moment we stepped inside.
I felt it, the ripple of attention that followed our entrance. Not at me, not at Damien—at her.
Aurora walked a step behind, silent, but carrying herself with an elegance that made even seasoned socialites pause mid-sentence. She wore her quiet like armor, and the curious glances she drew didn't pierce her.
My mother spotted us almost instantly. Her eyes softened, her expression brightening as she swept across the floor, her gown trailing behind her.
"My children," she said warmly, embracing Damien first, her voice thick with affection. Then her gaze found Aurora.
"Aurora, darling," she said, her voice full of pride, as if introducing her to the whole room through tone alone. "I'm so glad you're here tonight."
Aurora offered a polite nod, her hands folded gracefully before her. She didn't shrink under my mother's embrace of words, didn't falter when others began to notice.
I watched.
My mother's tone was welcoming, warm as a hearth. "You look radiant tonight, my dear. I knew you would."
Damien smirked beside me, whispering low enough only I could hear. "See, even Mom approves. You should stop looking like you're evaluating her quarterly performance report."
I ignored him. My eyes remained on Aurora.
The girl who, not long ago, had looked like she might vanish into the walls of my home… now stood quietly, but unmistakably seen.
And somehow, for reasons I couldn't yet name, that unsettled me more than her fragility ever had.
My mother never wasted time. Within minutes of our arrival, she had Aurora at her side, guiding her across the ballroom floor like a jewel she wanted everyone to see.
"Come, darling," she said warmly, her hand resting lightly on Aurora's arm. "You must meet the rest of the family."
I followed, glass in hand, silent, watchful. Damien trailed with his usual careless grin, ready to play mediator if needed.
Names were exchanged, polite nods given. Some faces were genuinely welcoming, others wore thin masks of civility. I could spot the difference easily.
It didn't take long. One cousin—Clarissa, who had always been too enamored with her own voice—smiled sweetly at Aurora before letting her tone curdle.
"So, you're the one," she said, her words syrupy but edged with disdain. "You're… quieter than I expected. I suppose that must make things… easier."
Another aunt leaned in, her jewels clinking as she tilted her head. "She's pretty," she said, not to Aurora but to my mother, as if Aurora were a painting on display. "But fragile things don't last long in this family, do they?"
I felt it then—the subtle tension around the table, the way eyes turned, waiting to see if Aurora would flinch.
But she didn't.
Her chin lifted just slightly, her expression calm, her silence deliberate. She stood there, mute but unbroken, as if she were carved from the same marble as the floor beneath our feet.
I watched her fingers move, almost casually, against her phone. A moment later, Damien's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then burst into laughter loud enough to draw curious stares.
"God, I love her already," Damien chuckled, shaking his head. He slid the phone back into his pocket, his grin wicked. "She's funnier than all of you combined."
The relatives stiffened, disapproving. Aurora only folded her hands neatly in front of her, her face serene. But I noticed it—the tiny flicker at the corner of her mouth, the smallest hint of a smile she tried to hide.
And I… I noticed something else.
She hadn't let them break her. Not with words. Not tonight.
Aurora's fingers again moved deftly across her phone, her face betraying nothing. She slipped it back into her clutch, smooth and silent.
A second later, Damien's phone buzzed. He looked down, read whatever she had sent, and then… cleared his throat.
"Oh, I think this one's for all of you," he said, his grin already tugging wider. His voice carried easily over the hum of chatter.
He lifted his phone, reading her words aloud with mock seriousness:
'Silence, I've learned, is often mistaken for weakness. But I suppose that's because those who rely on noise have so little else to offer.'
The room went still for a beat. Clarissa's painted smile faltered, and the jeweled aunt blinked rapidly, as if unsure whether she'd just been politely gutted.
Damien threw his head back and laughed. "God, Aurora, that's brutal. Polite, but brutal." He turned to them, still grinning. "And she's right, you know."
Aurora didn't move, didn't gloat. She simply stood there, calm, lips barely curved at the edges. Almost angelic, if you didn't know better.
But I did.
I saw it.
That steel she carried quietly, elegantly, beneath the silence.
The silence cracked first with a forced laugh. Then another. Soon the little circle of relatives was sputtering out nervous chuckles, the kind meant to cover embarrassment rather than share in a joke.
Aurora didn't indulge them. Her gaze remained steady, unflinching. Then, with that same graceful composure she had carried all evening, she simply turned and walked away — not storming, not flustered, but leaving them behind all the same.
Damien was quick to follow, sliding past me with a grin plastered across his face. "That was good," he said, loud enough for her to hear as he caught up to her. "You taught them well. I swear, you're scarier with silence than most people are with words."
I lingered where I was, but my eyes stayed on her. The quiet tilt of her chin, the deliberate way she moved, the refusal to shrink. It wasn't the same Aurora I had met weeks ago, the one who seemed to fold in on herself like a shadow.
Something had shifted.
And damn it, I couldn't look away.
A clear chime of silver against glass rang out above the hum of conversation. The room quieted almost instantly.
My mother stood at the center, her hand still holding the spoon she'd tapped against her wineglass, her posture regal and commanding as ever.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she began, her voice smooth, practiced, carrying the kind of authority that didn't need to shout.
"Thank you all for being here tonight. Family, friends—you know I don't often call for such gatherings, but tonight is special. I'd like to introduce someone dear to me, and even dearer to my son."
I felt every eye shift.
Aurora stepped forward when Mother extended her hand, moving to stand beside her. She didn't shrink into herself. She didn't fidget. Her shoulders stayed firm, her chin raised just enough to command attention without arrogance.
"This," my mother continued, pride lacing every syllable, "is Aurora. My soon-to-be daughter-in-law."
Applause broke out. The polite, hollow kind at first—palms meeting palms in slow, reluctant rhythm. Some smiles strained too hard, stretched like masks that didn't quite fit.
A few pairs of eyes glinted with thinly veiled disdain, their clapping little more than duty. But there were also genuine cheers, warmth from the few who meant it, who welcomed her with sincerity.
Aurora stood there, unmoving, poised. Her expression didn't falter even under the weight of all those gazes, all those judgments.
And from my place in the crowd, I couldn't help noticing how the light caught against her lip gloss, how her silence spoke louder than any words could.
Something about that quiet defiance made the applause sound different in my ears—hollow, sharp, fractured. And for reasons I couldn't explain, I felt every forced clap like an insult aimed at her.
As the applause faded into murmurs, my father rose slowly from his seat at the long mahogany table. He didn't need to clear his throat or raise a hand—the room silenced on instinct, as though the weight of his presence alone demanded it.
He didn't look at the crowd first. His gaze shifted to Aurora, steady, unreadable, the way it always was. For a long moment, he studied her as if she were a page he needed to read thoroughly before turning.
Then he nodded once. Just once.
It was small, almost imperceptible, but in this family, a gesture like that carried more than words ever could. Approval. Acceptance.
A silent stamp of acknowledgment that most people here would fight years to earn.
Around us, conversation cautiously resumed, clinking glasses filling the void. My mother's smile widened, satisfied with the effect.
Aurora, to her credit, held her ground. She didn't shrink beneath his stare. If anything, she stood a little taller.
The claps faded into murmurs, some genuine, others dripping with pretense. My mother beamed, standing at the front, with Aurora within her proximity—her presence poised, chin tilted ever so slightly, hands folded neatly in front of her.
Not timid. Just… holding on.
I stood a short distance away, not beside them, but close enough to watch. Close enough to notice.
And then, of course, one of my meddling cousins had to stir trouble.
"Shouldn't the soon-to-be couple give us a little dance?" she chimed, her voice too sweet, too sharp. The suggestion rippled through the gathering, drawing nods, teasing smiles, even a few jeers.
Aurora froze for a moment, caught in the sudden spotlight. She glanced briefly at my mother, then let her gaze flicker—once, fleetingly—toward me. The room waited.
So I moved forward, closing the gap just enough to extend my hand. "Come," I said, my tone clipped, leaving no room for argument.
Hesitantly, she placed her hand in mine, and together we stepped into the center of the room. The music swelled. I led. She followed—graceful, lighter than I expected, yet distant, as though she danced not with me, but with expectation itself.
For the first time tonight, every eye was on us. And for the first time, I understood why. Aurora moved with quiet elegance, her body obedient to the rhythm, her face composed.
She wasn't flawless, no—but she was far from the fragile doll they imagined her to be.
When the dance ended, the applause was polite, scattered. She withdrew her hand the instant propriety allowed and drifted back toward my mother, as though the distance between us was safer.
That was when one of my uncles leaned forward, his voice carrying just enough for nearby ears to catch.
"Pretty enough, yes. But mute as a stone. What use is a bride who can't even speak in her own defense?"
Laughter followed. Cold, shallow. Aurora stiffened near my mother.
I chuckled, low and dark, and the laughter stuttered. My uncle glanced at me, uncertain.
"You find yourself amusing?" I said, my voice sharp as glass. "Mocking a woman's silence when you've built a life out of empty words?"
The hush was instant. My uncle paled, others shifting uncomfortably.
"Pathetic," I added with quiet contempt, letting the word slice through the silence.
Aurora stood tall beside my mother, unmoving, but I caught the faintest tremor in her hands before she tucked them behind her back.
And then—flash.
The family photographer leaned in from the corner, grinning, camera in hand. "Hold that pose!" he chirped, snapping a picture of Aurora standing close to my mother while I remained off to the side.
On cue, one of my cousins muttered loud enough for everyone nearby to hear, phone in hand, thumbs flying across the screen:
"Picture perfect. She fits right in with Mommy dearest. Poor Dominic's already third-wheeling in his own engagement."
Snickers spread. My jaw tightened. Aurora's lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes darting to me for the briefest second before she looked away.
Moments later, she excused herself, leaving the circle of watchful eyes. My mother turned, surprised, but didn't stop her. I stayed where I was, because all eyes were still on me. But my attention wasn't here—it followed her.
Five minutes later, I left too. The murmur of laughter and chatter dulled as I stepped out onto the balcony, trading the weight of the dining hall for the hush of night air.
And there she was.
Aurora wasn't standing. She was curled into one of those hanging swing chairs, the kind that swayed gently when you shifted your weight.
Her heels had been discarded neatly to the side, her legs drawn up slightly, posture relaxed but guarded. She rocked faintly with the chair's slow motion, the fabric brushing her arms like a cocoon.
Her phone glowed in her hands, her thumbs tapping quickly across the screen. She didn't look up when I approached.
"You left," I said, leaning against the railing just a few feet away, my voice lower than I meant it to be.
She didn't answer—not with sound, at least. Instead, she finished typing, then tilted her screen toward me from her nest in the chair.
I didn't leave. I removed myself before I said something I'd regret.
Her eyes lifted then, meeting mine directly. No flinch. No fear. Just cool defiance wrapped in quiet exhaustion.
I let the words sink in, the curve of the swing chair carrying her like she belonged to another world entirely. A world where she could retreat and still remain unshaken.
And for reasons I didn't care to name, My eyes lingered, only because she didn't blend into the room the way she used to.