Aurora's Realm
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Alex barged into my room without knocking as usual, his voice loud enough to make me flinch.
"Alright, enough. You've been cooped up in here for too long. We're going out."
I blinked at him from the bed, my phone still in my hands.
He didn't wait for me to argue. In seconds, he was throwing open my wardrobe and tossing clothes around like a madman until he settled on leather shorts and a loose woolen sweater that slipped off one shoulder. He dropped them on my bed with a satisfied smirk.
"Perfect. You're wearing this. Don't fight me on it."
I sighed, dragging myself into the bathroom without a word. The hot shower washed away the heavy fog clinging to me, and when I stepped out, I towel-dried my hair, leaving it loose to fall down my back. No makeup. Just clear lip gloss. That was enough.
Back in my room, I pulled on the outfit and boots. Alex's grin widened like he'd just won a war.
"See? I told you. You look amazing. Honestly, I should've been a stylist in Paris. Imagine me—front row at fashion week, handpicking outfits for the runway."
A quiet laugh escaped me before I could stop it. I grabbed my phone, typed fast, and flashed the screen at him:
Paris stylist? Please. You sound ridiculous.
He gasped, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest. "Ridiculous? You wound me. This is raw talent, Aurora. Raw. Talent. People would kill for my fashion sense."
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't hold back my smile. For once, the heaviness didn't feel so suffocating.
Minutes later, we were in his car. He was practically buzzing as he drove. "This restaurant we're going to? It's everywhere. Trending nonstop. I went once already and trust me, the food is on another level. You'll thank me later."
I typed quickly: I doubt it.
He chuckled, shaking his head. "You'll eat those words with dessert."
The restaurant glowed with polished elegance when we arrived, the hum of conversation warm against the clink of glasses. We sat, ordered, and when the food came, Alex put on a whole performance, humming exaggeratedly after every bite.
I stared at him blankly.
He puffed his cheeks like a blowfish until I burst into a silent laugh, shaking my head.
"There it is," he said smugly. "Knew I'd get you to laugh. And by the way—this outfit? Perfect. You can deny it all you want, but I clearly have the eye."
I typed fast and showed him: Keep dreaming.
I shifted back into my seat, and my phone slipped between the cushions. With a sigh, I bent down to fish it out.
That's when I froze.
Three tables behind us, Dominic Blackwood sat with Adam. His gaze was fixed on me—steady, cold, impossible to ignore.
My fingers tightened around my phone as I straightened slowly, forcing my eyes back to Alex, pretending nothing had happened.
But my chest ached with the weight of his stare.
I forced my eyes back to Alex, forcing my shoulders to relax as if nothing had happened. The food blurred in front of me, my mind still caught on the weight of that stare.
"Aurora, stay here a sec. I'll be right back," Alex said, standing suddenly. He didn't give me time to type out a reply before heading off.
When he returned, he wasn't alone. His stride slowed as his eyes flicked past me — then I saw it. He'd noticed Dominic.
Alex's face shifted into his familiar "Sinclair heir" smile, all polished charm and businesslike ease, as he walked straight toward Dominic Blackwood's table.
"Mr. Blackwood," Alex greeted warmly, hand extended.
Dominic rose slightly, his expression carved from stone. "Sinclair."
Their handshake was firm, words clipped. They exchanged the usual pleasantries that only businessmen could make sound like veiled challenges. Numbers. Deals. Market strategies. Neither giving an inch, both fully aware of the audience around them.
Then Alex tilted his head, voice dropping just enough. "Have your parents told you about… this?"
Dominic's eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of recognition in his gaze. "Yes."
The single word was sharp, final.
Something twisted low in my stomach, though I couldn't place why.
And then, without hesitation, Dominic's gaze shifted. To me.
He excused himself from Alex with a slight nod and began walking toward our table. Each step deliberate, confident, until he stood directly in front of me.
"Aurora," Alex's voice carried softly from behind, almost like reassurance, but it didn't drown out the sound of my heart in my ears.
Dominic extended his hand, his expression unreadable. "Miss Sinclair."
I hesitated, staring at his hand, then at his face. His eyes were as cold as before, yet something about their weight pressed down harder this close.
I finally lifted my hand, placing it in his.
Behind him, Alex and Adam had taken a step back, their voices a faint murmur. They weren't paying full attention, but I caught snatches — Adam teasing Alex about dragging me out, Alex defending himself like a brother always did.
But all of it faded under the silence between Dominic and me, our hands still clasped in the smallest of introductions that somehow felt far too heavy.
A sharp vibration cut through the air. Dominic slid his phone from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and his expression hardened even more.
"Work," he muttered, already pushing back his chair. Without another word, he straightened, gave the faintest incline of his head in parting, and strode toward the exit.
"Dominic—hey, wait!" Adam called, springing up. "You're not just gonna ditch me here, are you? What am I supposed to do, polish off your drink? Walk home?"
Dominic didn't slow. Adam cursed under his breath, then jogged after him, tossing Alex a quick wave before disappearing outside.
Silence pooled around us, the echo of Dominic's presence still sharp in the air. My chest tightened, but Alex leaned back in his chair with a grin, snapping the tension like a twig.
"Well," he said, "that was charming. Mr. Iceberg himself." He tilted his head toward me, smile tugging at his mouth. "C'mon, we're not letting the night die on that note. Ice cream. Don't argue—I'm not asking, I'm declaring."
I gave him a look, but he was already on his feet, grabbing my bag and herding me out.
Minutes later, we were sitting on the hood of his car, cones in hand, the soft glow of streetlights painting the night.
"You know," Alex said between licks, "if there was an Olympic medal for dramatic exits, Mr. Blackwood just won gold."
I chuckled, covering my mouth quickly, and Alex's grin widened like he'd scored a victory.
"There it is," he said, pointing at me with his ice cream. "I knew you had it in you. Laughing suits you better than frowning, by the way. Makes you look less like…" He paused dramatically. "Less like you're plotting my murder."
I nudged his shoulder, shaking my head.
"Hey, hey!" he yelped, catching his cone before it tipped. "Careful! This is premium stuff, you wouldn't understand." He puffed his chest out. "Took me years to master the art of dessert selection."
I rolled my eyes, typing quickly on my phone and flashing him the words: Oh, so you're a food stylist now too? Paris will be calling any minute.
He barked out a laugh. "Exactly. Finally, someone recognizes my genius."
We stayed like that for a while—teasing, laughing, eating until our fingers were sticky. By the time we drove home, my chest felt lighter, the sting of earlier replaced by something warmer. For the first time in a long time, I almost felt… normal.