Aurora's Realm
——————
I woke up the following morning after many attempts. My body felt heavy, as if even sleep had betrayed me. I had stayed indoors the entire day yesterday, hiding from the whispers I imagined lingered outside my window, from the eyes I swore were still watching me.
The memories of the dinner clawed their way back the moment I sat up—the fall, the gasps, the cruel headline. My chest tightened, and for a second, I couldn't breathe. I pressed a hand against my throat, willing the ache away.
The room was dim, curtains still drawn. I hadn't bothered to open them. Light felt too harsh, too exposing. I shuffled toward the bathroom, avoiding the mirror this time. I wasn't ready to face the reflection of swollen eyes and trembling lips.
Grandpa had knocked on my door last night, more than once. I couldn't bring myself to answer. What would I even say? That I was fine? That I didn't care? Lies. He would know. He always knew.
But this morning felt different—thicker somehow, like the air itself carried weight. Something was coming. I could feel it in the way my chest refused to settle, in the way my skin prickled as though anticipating a blow.
I pulled the covers tighter around myself and sank back onto the bed. Maybe if I stayed hidden long enough, the world would forget. Maybe the whispers would die down, and I could pretend it never happened.
But I knew better.
The world never forgets.
I was still curled in bed when a knock came at my door again, firmer this time. Alex's voice followed. "Aurora, come downstairs. Grandpa wants to see you. It's important."
Important. The word sank into me like ice water. My legs felt unsteady as I forced myself up and dressed, fingers clumsy against the buttons of a plain dress. No makeup, no effort—just me, stripped and bare, the way the world probably already saw me.
When I entered the sitting room, they were waiting—Grandpa in his usual chair, Alex standing behind him, shoulders tight, eyes wary. Their silence wrapped around me until Grandpa finally spoke.
"There's something you need to know," he began, voice steady, but not unkind. "Something that was decided a long time ago—before your parents passed."
I froze, my gaze darting between them. Grandpa's eyes softened, but the words that left his mouth landed like a hammer.
"You're to be married, Aurora. To Dominic Blackwood."
The name crashed into me, sharp and cold. For a moment, I couldn't even process it. Married? To him? The man with eyes like steel who'd seen me at my weakest, the stranger whose gaze had lingered on me like a weight I couldn't shake?
I shook my head, backing up a step, but Grandpa's expression didn't waver.
"This arrangement was made years ago between the Sinclairs and the Blackwoods. It was your parents' wish."
My throat tightened. My hands trembled. I wanted to scream that this wasn't fair, that my life wasn't some pawn in a family contract. But no sound came—only silence, as always.
Alex moved, his fists clenched at his sides. "Grandpa, this isn't right. She—she's not ready for this."
But Grandpa only sighed, as though he carried the weight of two generations on his shoulders. "None of us are ever ready, Alex. But the decision has been made."
And just like that, my world shifted again. First the humiliation. Now this.
I felt the floor tilt beneath me as though the universe itself was determined to remind me of my weakness.
The decision had been made.
The words echoed in my head until I couldn't bear it anymore. My chest burned, my vision blurred, and before I realized it, my feet were moving. I turned and fled—up the stairs, down the hall—my breath ragged, the walls closing in around me.
By the time I slammed my bedroom door shut, the tears had broken free. Hot, unrelenting, spilling down my cheeks as I sank to the floor. My sobs came out soundless, body shaking, my hands pressed hard against my mouth as though I could trap the grief inside. But it didn't stop. It never stopped.
A knock sounded once. Then again, softer.
"Aurora," Alex's voice. Not stern. Not demanding. Just him.
I couldn't bring myself to answer, but the door creaked open anyway. He stepped inside slowly, careful, as if approaching a frightened bird. His eyes softened when they landed on me crumpled against the bed.
"Hey," he said quietly, crouching down beside me. "Don't do this to yourself. Please."
I shook my head, curling tighter, burying my face against my knees. He reached out, hesitated, then gently touched my shoulder. The warmth of his hand only made the tears fall harder.
"You're stronger than you think," he murmured. "You've survived more than most people could even imagine. Don't let them break you."
I reached blindly for my phone on the bed, my fingers clumsy as I typed through the blur of tears. I held it out to him with trembling hands.
Why aren't you at work?
His brow furrowed, but then a small, pained smile tugged at his lips as he read. He glanced at me, shaking his head slightly.
"Because you're more important," he said simply. "The company can wait. You can't."
My throat tightened all over again. I wanted to tell him how much that meant, how much I needed him here—but all I could do was stare, tears still sliding silently down my face.
Alex didn't leave. He stayed crouched beside me until my sobs quieted into ragged breaths. Then, without a word, he stood and disappeared for a moment. I thought maybe he had given up, maybe he had decided I was too much of a burden.
But then he came back—with a tray. A bowl of soup, still steaming, and a glass of water balanced carefully in his hands.
"Eat something," he said gently, setting it on the nightstand. "You've barely touched food since… that night."
I shook my head, turning away. The thought of food made my stomach twist.
He sighed, sitting down on the edge of my bed. "Aurora… if you fall apart, what happens to me? To Grandpa? We can't lose you too."
The words pierced me. My chest ached all over again, but this time it wasn't from despair—it was from the weight of his love, his loyalty. Slowly, hesitantly, I sat up. My hands trembled as I reached for the spoon, and he didn't move until I took the first sip.
"That's my girl," he whispered, relief flickering across his face.
I wanted to cry again, but instead I forced myself to take another mouthful. The warmth settled uneasily in my stomach, but it was something. And with Alex watching, with his hand resting lightly on the back of my chair, I kept going until the bowl was half-empty.
When I finally pushed it away, exhausted, he pulled the covers over me without asking.
"I'll stay," he said, already dragging the chair closer to the bed. "Don't argue. I'm not leaving you alone tonight."
I opened my phone again, typing slowly, You don't have to.
"I know," he replied, meeting my eyes. "But I want to."
Something in me broke quietly then—not in the way that hurt, but in the way that let me breathe again. For the first time since the dinner, I closed my eyes without fear that the darkness would swallow me.
And Alex stayed. He stayed until sleep finally took me.