Aurora's Realm
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Without thought, I finally carried myself to my bedroom, leaving the canvas safe in the painting room. The smell of turpentine still clung faintly to my skin, the tips of my fingers stained with color.
I peeled off my clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water wash over me, strip away the remnants of paint and the heaviness of the day.
By the time I emerged, wrapped in a robe, my body felt lighter, calmer, almost as though I had shed another layer of uncertainty.
I changed into something soft and comfortable, brushing the remnants of paint from my hands before curling up in the armchair by the window.
For a while, I just sat there, watching the way the evening shadows stretched across the floor. The house was quiet, save for the faint hum of life downstairs.
A knock broke through the silence. Firm, steady.
My breath caught. Dominic.
I hesitated, fingers brushing the armrest before I rose and crossed the room. My hand lingered on the knob a moment before I turned it, pulling the door open just enough to see him standing there.
He looked composed as always, his presence filling the doorway with an ease that made my chest tighten. "Dinner's ready," he said simply. His tone wasn't cold exactly, but clipped—like it was habit to keep his words precise. "You should come down."
I blinked up at him, caught between reluctance and a strange flicker of curiosity. Eating alone was easier. Quieter. But the way he stood there, waiting, left me little room to refuse.
So I nodded once. Small, but certain.
His eyes lingered a fraction longer on mine, unreadable, before he gave a short nod back. "Don't take too long," he said, then stepped aside, giving me the space to move past him if I chose.
I closed the door gently after him, leaning against it for a moment. My pulse still raced from something I couldn't name.
Dinner with Dominic. Just the two of us.
The thought felt heavier than it should.
I smoothed the front of my dress before stepping out, padding softly down the hallway until the faint scent of roasted herbs and warm bread reached me.
The dining room lights glowed softly when I entered, the long polished table already set. Only two places arranged, side by side instead of across from each other.
Dominic sat at the head of the table, a glass of water in his hand. His posture was as composed as ever—back straight, one arm resting casually on the chair. When his eyes lifted to mine, my steps faltered for the briefest moment.
It was different, being here without Damien. No easy buffer, no distraction. Just Dominic.
I slipped into my seat quietly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear as the staff placed the dishes in front of us.
For a moment, the only sound was the clinking of cutlery and the soft shuffle of footsteps retreating. Then silence again, the kind that pressed too heavily against my chest.
I picked at my food, unsure of what to say, if anything. Dominic didn't seem in a hurry to fill the space either. He ate with quiet precision, every movement deliberate. The quiet stretched between us until I thought it might suffocate me.
Finally, his voice cut through the stillness. Deep, steady. "You've been… busy today."
My fork paused halfway to my mouth. I nodded almost defensively, before I could stop myself.
His gaze lingered on me, unreadable. Not mocking, not approving—just… seeing. And somehow that unsettled me more than anything he could have said.
I lowered my eyes back to the plate, heat prickling at the back of my neck.
Dinner with Dominic was supposed to be simple. Just food. Just silence. Yet somehow, every second felt like a test I didn't know the answers to.
Dinner passed in silence, just as I'd expected. The clatter of cutlery was too loud in the vastness of the dining room, and every so often, I felt the weight of Dominic's gaze, sharp and assessing, grazing over me like it always did.
He didn't speak much, and I couldn't if I wanted to. So we finished our meal in that heavy, unspoken rhythm—the quiet between us louder than any words.
But when I set my fork down, something inside me stirred. A restlessness. I didn't want to just leave the table and retreat back into myself. Not tonight.
I knew where he would go. He always went there—his place, his watchtower, where the world narrowed to contracts, whiskey, and shadows.
And I found myself walking that way, my steps slow but certain, carrying me toward him as though pulled.
When I reached the doorway, he was already there. The glass in his hand caught the faint light, his gaze trained on some document before him, the picture of control.
For a moment, I just stood there, clutching my phone in both hands, my heart thundering in my chest.
Then, carefully, I walked closer. He didn't look up immediately, but I knew he was aware of me. He was always aware.
My fingers trembled as I unlocked my phone, typing the words I couldn't say aloud. "I want to talk to you."
I stood in front of him and held the screen out, the glow of it lighting the quiet space between us.
His eyes finally lifted from his papers, meeting mine, then dropping to the phone. For a heartbeat, the silence thickened, charged and uncertain.
I stood for a moment, then sat across from him. My fingers trembled slightly as I unlocked my phone, the glow of the screen casting light against my face. I typed slowly, each word feeling like a stone dragged out of me.
"I didn't want this marriage."
I turned the phone toward him. His eyes flickered to the words, unreadable, steady as always.
My thumbs moved again, faster this time, as if once I started I couldn't stop.
"You make me feel like I'm… invisible. Like I'm here, but not really seen. Not wanted. Just… tolerated."
I swallowed, forcing myself not to look away from him.
"I know this wasn't your choice either. But it doesn't make it hurt less."
For a second, I hovered. My chest tightened, but then I typed the last words, softer, more fragile than the rest.
"Thank you for trying, though. For making the place… less unbearable. I notice it. Even if I don't say it."
I didn't write more. I wouldn't tell him yet about the other things—the fire I could feel building inside me, the quiet urge to step into something more than just existing in someone else's shadow. That was for later. When I was ready.
For now, I just watched him read, waiting for whatever would come next.
His gaze lingered on the screen longer than I expected, each second stretching into forever. I could almost see the gears turning in his head, but his face betrayed nothing. That unreadable mask again.
Finally, he looked up, meeting my eyes with that same unwavering intensity that had always unsettled me. For a moment, I thought he might brush it off, pretend he hadn't read a thing.
Instead, his voice came low, deliberate.
"You're not invisible, Aurora. Not to me."
The words were simple. Bare. But the way he said them—slow, grounded, as if he meant to carve them into the air between us—made something tighten in my chest.
He leaned back slightly, fingers tapping once against the armrest of his chair.
"I never asked for this arrangement either. But since we're both here… I don't intend to pretend you don't exist."
My breath caught, and for a second I almost looked away. Almost.
His gaze didn't soften, but it held steady, anchoring me.
"You're stronger than you think. Maybe one day you'll see it."
He said nothing else. No grand gestures. No promises. Just those words, and the weight they carried, before he turned his attention toward the window again as if that short exchange had cost him more than he was willing to admit.
I stood there, my phone heavy in my hands, my heart heavier still.
Immediately the conversation ended, I excused myself quietly, slipping away to the safety of my room. My steps felt heavier than they should, my body tired from the day, but my mind far from at rest.
Once the door was closed behind me, I leaned against it for a moment, letting the silence wrap around me. Dominic's words circled in my head, stubborn and unshakable: "You're not invisible, Aurora. Not to me."
Not to him.
I pressed my palms against my face, then lowered them slowly, staring at the faint paint smudges still clinging to my fingers. He didn't know what it meant to me, to hear that.
I hadn't wanted this marriage, not like this. I had expected to endure it—quietly, in the background, unnoticed, unneeded. That was safer.
But he was making it impossible to remain unseen. He was making me feel… like I mattered. Like maybe there was a place carved out for me in this house that wasn't temporary or borrowed.
I curled up on the bed, pulling my knees to my chest. For the first time in a long while, the thought didn't scare me. It unsettled me, yes. Confused me. But it also warmed something inside me that had been cold for too long.
And as the night folded in around me, I let that warmth linger. The words—his words—followed me like a soft echo, until the weight of sleep finally pressed my eyes shut.
Not invisible. Not to him.