Aurora's Realm
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I hadn't planned to think about it again. I told myself to focus on Damian's teasing, the easy laughter we'd shared when we returned home. But no matter how much I smiled, my thoughts kept drifting back—back to that fleeting moment at the party.
Dominic's hand.
The warmth of his palm against the crown of my head. Gentle. Unexpected. A pat. So simple, yet it had stunned me to the core.
He had looked straight into my eyes when he did it, unflinching, as though testing me, as though searching for something.
And I had frozen. Because no one touched me like that. Not with that strange mixture of authority and… softness.
I thought that would be enough to keep me awake tonight, that memory alone. But then came the second one.
His voice calling my name from the staircase. "Aurora."
The way I had turned, expecting his usual coldness, only to be met with words that shook me deeper than they should have.
You looked really good today.
He said it like he meant it.
And then he vanished up the stairs before I could even register my own reaction, leaving me standing there, heart unsteady, head full of questions I couldn't answer.
Why did he say that? Why did he touch me?
I curled up on my bed, staring at the ceiling, the weight of both moments pressing down on me. For the first time, I wasn't sure what to make of Dominic anymore.
For the first time, I wondered if I was starting to see cracks in the walls he had built around himself.
Damian's laughter still lingered in the room long after it died down. I smiled, yes, but my chest felt heavy. My thoughts weren't still, not in the slightest.
They swirled, circling the same place over and over, reminding me of every pat on the head, every cold word, every fleeting warmth that vanished before I could even hold onto it.
I curled my legs onto the couch, unlocked my phone, and tried to distract myself. A little scrolling would help, I thought. Numb the mind. Fill the silence. But distraction rarely plays fair.
The first headline that flashed across my screen made my breath catch.
Aurora Sinclair introduced to the Blackwood family as their future daughter-in-law. Is the CEO finally settling down?
My finger froze, hovering over the glass. I opened the article. And there it was—my picture. My own face, framed in glittering lights, dressed in that gown, shoulders squared, chin tilted ever so slightly.
For a moment, I almost didn't recognize myself. That girl on the screen looked elegant. Composed. Confident.
The kind of woman who belonged in a room like that.
But that wasn't me. Not really. That was the facade I forced into place, the mask I stitched together out of necessity. Because Dominic's family wasn't one to be toyed with.
They were sharp-eyed, cold-smiled, merciless in the way they carried themselves. And if I was to survive in that orbit, even just a little, I needed to grasp at whatever thread of confidence I could weave.
Even if it wasn't real yet.
Even if it trembled inside me, threatening to collapse the moment I was alone.
The phone slipped from my fingers onto the bed as my thoughts whispered back at me: But maybe… maybe I can become that girl one day.
Maybe I can be as confident as Dominic is, commanding the room with nothing more than presence. Maybe I can raise my chin high and actually be worth it.
A shaky breath left me. My fingers clenched briefly around the edge of the bedspread, and I lifted my chin just slightly, letting my shoulders fall into a straighter, steadier line. But I know Rome wasn't built in a day. Still… I have to start somewhere.
Because something inside me shifted last night—something I didn't want to lose. I refused to let it slip away.
The Blackwood family might want to test me, to see if I could bend or break. Dominic might want to make me feel small, like I didn't belong.
But I would show them.
I wasn't fragile glass.
I might be quiet, but I wasn't hollow.
And as I rose from the bed, letting the first rays of morning catch the edges of my hair, I felt it—a spark of something steadier, a small flame of boldness I would carry with me today.
The house was quiet—just the soft rustle of the staff going about their morning chores. No footsteps echoed through the halls except my own as I moved about, taking my time.
The lingering hum of yesterday's events still throbbed faintly in my mind, a mixture of exhaustion and something else I couldn't yet name.
I made my way to the garden first, savoring the freshness in the air. The flowers had been tended so carefully; whoever had planted them back into the soil did not harm a single petal.
I stood for a while, letting the cool breeze brush over my face, and let myself breathe deeply.
Breakfast had been light, simple—a quiet companion to the thoughts tumbling in my head. Once done, I carried myself upstairs to my painting room.
This time, I didn't forget the lock. I needed this space for me alone, to pour out everything I had been holding, everything I couldn't voice.
Hours passed unnoticed. The brush in my hand became a language of its own, translating emotions I could not speak aloud. When I finally set it down, I stepped back and studied the canvas.
Each stroke, each color, was a reflection of the tension, the vulnerability, but also the spark of courage that had begun to flicker within me.
I almost wished my parents could see this—see that even though I had always been fragile, even though the world had taught me to stay small, there was a part of me growing, daring to stretch out.
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I pressed on. I had to gather myself. I had to anchor this newfound spark somewhere inside me, where no one—not even the Blackwoods—could take it away.
The quiet settled around me again, but now it felt different—less like emptiness, more like possibility.
And for the first time in a long while, I believed that maybe, just maybe, I had begun to claim a space that was truly my own.
I left the painting room, my mind still buzzing with the residue of yesterday's events. The lock clicked behind me, and I made my way to the kitchen. A glass of water first—I needed to hydrate, to settle
. But as I sipped, a sudden craving hit me: chocolate, cookies, something sweet. I grabbed a small stash and carried it to the sitting room, the familiar comfort of soft chairs and the muted hum of the TV drawing me in.
I flipped on the television, letting the sound fill the space around me. But after a while, I realized I was bored. The images on the screen felt distant, lifeless compared to the ideas swirling in my head. I set the remote aside and a spark of inspiration hit me.
Back to the garden? Yes. My painting supplies called to me. I gathered my canvases, paints, brushes, and carried them outside. The morning sun bathed the garden in gold, and a gentle breeze teased the flowers around me.
This time, I painted myself—not the timid girl who shrank at every glance or the quiet observer of the world. I painted the woman I wished to become: confident, radiant, fully aware of her worth.
On the canvas, I stood in the midst of this very garden, smiling, head held high, elegance woven into every line of my posture. The brush in my hand was no longer just a tool; it was a vessel of possibility, of transformation.
I paused often, stepping back to study her—the woman who looked so sure of herself, so grounded, so alive. The girl in the garden wasn't fragile or hesitant. She radiated a quiet power, a warmth tempered by strength.
And somewhere deep inside me, I felt the faint stirrings of that woman beginning to exist not just on canvas, but in reality.
I painted until the sun shifted, until the shadows of the flowers stretched long across the grass, and still I painted. Each stroke, each color, was a small act of claiming myself, of daring to imagine the life I could live—the presence I could command.
By the time I set the brush down, the garden seemed almost different, like it had shifted with me, and I smiled. For the first time in a long while, I felt the promise of something more. Something stronger. Something… mine.
Hours had slipped by without me noticing, and the sky was slowly darkening, painting the garden in dusky purples and golds. Yet I remained where I was, brush in hand, standing before the canvas
. My eyes traced every line, every color I had laid down, and I whispered to myself, quiet but resolute, Yes… I can be this woman one day. I will be.
The wind rustled through the leaves, carrying the soft scent of flowers, but I hardly noticed. My focus was entirely on her—on the woman I had dared to imagine: confident, elegant, unshakable.
My reflection in the painting wasn't just a dream anymore; it was a goal, a promise I was determined to honor.
Finally, with a deep breath, I carefully gathered my canvas. The garden had been my stage, my sanctuary, but now it was time to retreat, to protect what I had created.
I carried the painting back to my room, every step deliberate, as if I were shielding a precious secret from the world.
Inside my painting room, the familiar scent of paints and canvas wrapped around me like an old friend. I placed the painting where no one would see it, tucked away from prying eyes.
No one—neither Dominic, Damien, nor anyone else—would witness this part of me. This was mine, entirely mine.
Sitting before my supplies, I picked up my brushes again, ready to lose myself in color, in creation, in the woman I was still becoming. Tonight, I painted for myself. For the woman I would one day fully embody.
And I knew, deep down, that I would keep painting, keep shaping this version of me, until I could step into the world with the quiet certainty and strength I longed to possess.