Dominic's Chronicles
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She was still perched on that hanging chair, her heels abandoned neatly at the side, toes curling lightly against the rug. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
The silence wasn't heavy—just deliberate. Like we were testing how much space we could take up without clashing.
"You don't like crowds?" I asked finally, my voice low. Neutral.
Her eyes flicked to me, calm but unreadable. She reached for her phone, typed quickly, and turned the screen.
They're loud. Too many voices at once.
I nodded. "Fair enough." I shifted my weight against the railing, folding my arms. "You're not missing much anyway."
A small lift of her brow, the kind of gesture that felt like it carried a question. I answered it before she typed.
"Fake smiles. Backhanded compliments. You've seen enough already."
She tapped again, slower this time, and when she angled the phone toward me, her message carried the faintest trace of sharp humor.
Sounds like you know this game well.
That pulled a dry laugh out of me before I could stop it. "Too well." I let the words fall, softer than I intended. My guard slipped for a moment, the truth bleeding out. "If I could skip every one of these parties, I would."
Her gaze lingered, steady, like she was measuring the weight of that admission. She didn't type immediately this time. She just watched me.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my expression back to its usual stillness. "But I don't get that luxury."
The pause stretched. Then, finally, her screen lit again.
Neither do I.
It wasn't sympathy. Not exactly. Just acknowledgment. And strangely, it was enough.
The quiet lingered, steady, unforced. A few more lines of conversation followed — nothing heavy, nothing loaded, just fragments that somehow stretched time.
I found myself answering her short messages with more than I normally would, letting the words fall out in an ease I wasn't used to.
Then it happened.
Without thinking, I reached out and laid my hand gently on her head, my palm brushing against her hair as I gave the lightest pat.
Her head snapped up, eyes wide, startled. For a beat, neither of us moved. Her gaze locked onto mine, full of silent questions I didn't have the answers to.
I pulled my hand back, slow but deliberate, my expression unreadable even as I felt the weight of the slip. Still, I didn't look away. Our eyes held, unblinking, the air between us shifting into something I couldn't define.
And then—just as gradually—I broke the connection, turning my gaze forward. The motion felt like retreat, though I told myself it wasn't.
Inside, the thought nagged, sharp and unrelenting. What the hell made me do that? Why did I even…
I shoved it down, straightened, and cleared my throat. "We should head back."
She nodded faintly, slipping her heels back on with quiet precision. Together, we rose from the little corner of escape and returned to the noise of the hall.
Polite smiles. Quick words of parting. Goodbyes to my mother, to my father, to the relatives who still lingered. None of it stuck in my mind. Not really.
Because even as we stepped out, the image of her startled eyes, the feel of that fleeting touch, stayed with me. And it refused to let go.
Damien was already in full swing by the time we got home.
"Honestly," he said, flopping onto the couch like the party had been a marathon, "you should have seen their faces, Aurora. You shut them down without even saying a word. Pure gold."
Aurora's lips curved, small but genuine, her shoulders shaking as Damien kept going, mimicking the relatives' expressions in exaggerated tones.
She laughed—soft, silent, yet clear enough in the curve of her eyes and the way she covered her mouth with her hand.
I stood a few steps away, one hand in my pocket, listening but not truly there. My brother's voice faded into background noise, blurred out by the replay in my head.
The way she'd looked up at me. The surprise widening her eyes. The warmth of her hair beneath my palm, light, softer than I'd expected.
I hadn't planned it. Hell, I still didn't know why I'd done it. It wasn't like me to act without intention, and yet—there it was. A slip I couldn't explain.
Damien barked out another laugh, Aurora shaking her head at him, and I just watched. From the outside, it looked like nothing had changed. She was smiling, he was teasing, the evening carried on.
But for me, everything was still caught in that single moment. That single touch.
And it wouldn't leave.
Damien was still talking when I turned toward the staircase. My feet carried me halfway up before I stopped, the air pulling tight in my chest.
"Aurora."
Her head turned at once, her eyes finding mine. That simple glance—steady, questioning—was enough to unnerve me.
"You looked really good today."
The words left me before I could reel them back. Her lips parted, her expression caught in surprise. I didn't wait to see more. I turned and took the rest of the stairs quickly, retreating before I made a bigger fool of myself.
In my room, the door clicked shut behind me, and I exhaled sharply.
What the hell was that?
I wasn't supposed to be saying things like that. Not to her. First, I'd touched her head like some impulsive idiot. Now this—blurting out compliments as if I'd lost all sense of restraint. That wasn't me. That wasn't who I was.
But her face lingered in my mind, the look in her eyes when I said her name, the way she'd carried herself tonight as if daring the world not to overlook her.
Damn it.
I needed to focus. On work. On control. On anything but her. Because one moment at a time, I was already slipping.
I rubbed a hand over my jaw, pacing the room. She's inside my head. Aurora. Every damn thought circles back to her. And I can't allow that. Not now. Not ever.
I pulled off my jacket, tossed it carelessly on the bed, and strode back out before the walls closed in tighter.
My steps carried me downstairs, past the empty parlor where the laughter from earlier had dissolved. She wasn't there. Damien wasn't there either.
Good.
I walked straight to the balcony, poured myself a drink, and let the burn settle in my throat. I reached for the stack of contracts I'd left there earlier, the black-and-white certainty of numbers and clauses grounding me more than I cared to admit.
Work was my anchor. Always had been.
"Brother."
Damien's voice cut into the night. He stepped onto the balcony, that grin of his lingering like he knew something I didn't. His eyes flicked to the drink, then to the papers.
"What's that?"
"Work." My tone was clipped.
"Work." He dragged the word, leaning on the railing. "You were just downstairs, smiling like a man who actually enjoyed himself for once. Then halfway up the stairs, you stop and tell Aurora she looked good. And now… this." He gestured to the papers, his eyes narrowing. "You don't see the difference?"
I didn't look up. "There is no difference."
Damien pushed off the railing, crossing his arms. "Don't play dumb with me. You've never complimented anyone in your life, Brother. Not me. Not even your own men. But her? You stop to tell her she looked good?"
I set the glass down, slow, deliberate. "It was nothing."
"Nothing?" His laugh was short, disbelieving. "She looked like she'd seen a ghost. And you—" He jabbed a finger in my direction. "You said it like you meant it."
The silence stretched, thick.
For a moment, I almost told him the truth—that I didn't know why I'd said it, that I couldn't shake the image of her face from my mind. But I stopped myself. The war I'd been fighting in my head ended right there. I drew the line.
I leaned back, my voice dropping into the steel edge I knew Damien recognized. "Drop it."
He stiffened, his grin fading at the cold finality in my tone.
"Brother—"
"I said, drop it." My gaze cut to his, sharp and unwavering. "One compliment doesn't change who I am. Or what matters. Don't mistake it for anything more than it is."
Damien searched my face, as though trying to push past the wall I'd slammed down. But after a moment, he exhaled and lifted his hands in mock surrender.
"Fine. You win."
I picked up the contract again, eyes scanning the lines though I barely registered the words. "I always do."
The conversation ended there—not because Damien had run out of things to say, but because I'd made it clear there was no room for more.