Dominic's Chronicles
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The alarm went off at five. I was already awake.
I never really slept, not fully. My head was always counting hours, minutes, deadlines.
By six, I was at the gym in the lower wing of the my penthouse. The punching bag bore the brunt of whatever restlessness I refused to name. Each hit echoed through the room, steady, mechanical. Control. That was all that mattered.
Shower. Suit. Tie. Cufflinks. Precision. The mirror didn't lie—my face gave nothing away. Sharp, clean. Unreadable.
At the office, the city was barely awake, but my desk was already stacked with files. Numbers, contracts, projections. Everything in its proper place. I buried myself in the work the way I always did—ruthless, efficient, unrelenting.
And still… between lines of ink and paper, an image flickered.
Her eyes downcast.
Her silence.
Aurora Sinclair.
I tightened my jaw and flipped the file harder than I should have. This was weakness. Allowing distraction was weakness. And I didn't tolerate weakness. Not in myself. Not in anyone.
By the time the board meeting started at nine, every trace of her was shoved into a locked corner of my mind. The Blackwood name didn't bend for anyone. And neither did I.
The conference room was already filled when I walked in. My presence alone was enough to silence the low chatter. Chairs straightened. Pens stilled. Eyes dropped to papers.
I didn't speak immediately. I never did. I let the silence stretch just long enough to make everyone shift in their seats before I placed the file on the table.
"Quarterly reports." My voice was calm, clipped. "Let's begin."
Slides flicked across the screen. Graphs, percentages, targets. I absorbed them faster than they could explain, already dissecting weaknesses.
"Mr. Green," I said when one of the finance heads stumbled over a number. My eyes pinned him where he sat. "Is that hesitation, or do you genuinely not know the figures you've been paid to manage?"
The man swallowed. "I—uh—sir, it's—"
"Stop." My tone cut through the air, cold and sharp. "You will not stutter through excuses in my boardroom. Either come prepared or don't come at all. Am I clear?"
A meek "Yes, sir" followed. The room held its breath.
I leaned back slightly, letting the weight of silence drive the point home before continuing. "Next."
The rest of the meeting went like that—precise, merciless, efficient. No wasted words. No wasted time. My staff knew better than to relax around me; one misstep and they'd feel the edge of my voice, the way Green just had.
By the end, they were drained. I wasn't. Control, after all, was fuel.
When I stood, chairs scraped back instantly. "I want corrected projections on my desk by noon. No errors. No excuses."
"Yes, sir." The reply was in unison, obedient, fearful. Exactly how it should be.
Walking back to my office, I could feel the eyes on my back, the unspoken dread. It didn't bother me. Respect born from fear was still respect. And I had no use for softness.
Aurora Sinclair. The name flashed again, unwanted, irritating. I shoved it back down like I had all morning.
Work. Control. Efficiency. That was all that mattered.
The office was still humming faintly from the tension of the last meeting. I had just loosened my tie and was seated behind my desk with my pen in hand, when the door opened without a knock.
"Mother," I said, rising.
She walked in, her poise as commanding as mine but softened by warmth. Before I could brace, she was already pulling me into a brief embrace. I let her. She was the only one I ever allowed that close.
"You look like you've been at war," she said, narrowing her eyes at me. "Don't tell me you've forgotten what sleep is."
"Mother," I sighed, sitting again. "I'm fine."
She took her seat across from me, smoothing her skirt with an elegance that was second nature. "Good. Then we can talk."
I stiffened. "If this is about Aurora Sinclair—"
"It is," she interrupted, arching a brow. "Dominic, the families decided this years ago. The girl has lost so much already—you cannot treat her like a merger clause you'd rather ignore. She is to be your wife."
I leaned back in my chair, jaw tightening. "Marriage is not my priority. I have a company to run."
"And yet, the company and the marriage are tied together," she countered. Her tone was gentle but sharp enough to cut. "Aurora has no one else now. You will not make this harder for her."
I dragged a hand across my face. "And what would you have me do? Pretend this is a fairytale?"
Her lips twitched as though she were fighting a smile. "No. You've never been the fairytale type. But you could at least try to visit her. Speak to her. You might find she doesn't bite."
I exhaled. "I'll think about it."
"That's not good enough." She stood and circled my desk, resting a hand on my shoulder. "Promise me you'll try."
I hesitated, then gave in. "Fine. I'll go. Once. No guarantees."
Her smile widened with quiet triumph. "That's all I ask."
For a moment, silence lingered between us. Then she tilted her head, studying me with amused eyes.
"You know," she said, "if you glare at your poor staff the way you're glaring at me right now, I'm shocked any of them still have jobs."
"They make mistakes," I replied evenly.
She chuckled softly. "Dominic, if perfection were required for survival under you, you'd have fired yourself years ago."
I said nothing, though my mouth threatened to twitch.
"Ah," she said, pretending to gasp dramatically, "was that almost a smile? No? Just a shadow of one? Fine. I'll take it."
She straightened, smoothing her hair back into place. "I have things to handle at home. I'll see you later, my son."
With one last glance—a mixture of pride and patience—she swept out, leaving the faint scent of her perfume and her words hanging in the air.
I leaned backwards, resting my hands on the desk, fingers pressed together. Visit Aurora Sinclair. My mother made it sound like a polite courtesy call, as though I had time to waste on forced pleasantries.
I wasn't a man who entertained weakness. And Aurora Sinclair radiated it. I'd seen it in her eyes at the dinner, in the way she clung to her brother like a shield. Her silence was not elegant—it was fragile. And fragility broke.
Still… family obligations were chains, and I had worn them since birth. My parents would not relent. The marriage had been decided long before either of us had a say in it, and my refusal would only bring another storm to my desk.
I pulled open the drawer, reached for my calendar, and scanned my schedule. Meetings, contracts, negotiations—the lifeblood of my empire. And now, this interruption.
"Anna," I called through the intercom, my tone clipped.
"Yes, sir?"
"Clear my evening two days from now. Push the client dinner to Friday. And call the Sinclairs' estate. Arrange a time."
There was a pause on the other end—brief, but noticeable. Then her efficient voice returned. "Understood, sir. Anything else?"
"No. That's all."
I released the button and leaned back in my chair. My reflection glinted faintly in the glass of the skyscraper window. For years I had built walls around myself—steel, glass, command. And now my parents wanted me to tear them down for a woman I barely knew.
Aurora Sinclair.
The name carried an odd weight, like an unfinished sentence.
I shook the thought from my mind. She was just another obligation. Nothing more.
Reaching for the file at the corner of my desk, I forced my focus back to numbers, contracts, and the familiar silence of power.
But no matter how deep I buried myself in work, her name lingered like a whisper at the edge of my thoughts.
Two days. That was the window I had given myself. Two days to tolerate this intrusion into my schedule, this disruption in my order.
I closed the file and glanced at the clock. My mind was already moving ahead, calculating.
If I had to see Aurora Sinclair, I would do it on my terms. No drawn-out dinners. No awkward silences. A meeting—brief, efficient, nothing more.
I pressed the intercom again. "Anna."
"Yes, sir?"
"Pull every recent file you can find on the Sinclairs. I want their current holdings, company standings, legal documents—everything. Have it on my desk by tomorrow morning."
"Yes, sir."
I ended the call. This wasn't about her. This was about control. About walking into that house knowing exactly who I was dealing with, and making sure she understood it too.
Still, when I set my pen down, I realized my grip on it had tightened enough to leave a faint indentation on the paper beneath.
I stood, moving toward the window, watching the city burn with evening lights. Aurora Sinclair. I told myself the visit was nothing. A formality. A performance for my parents' sake.
And yet, for reasons I didn't care to examine, the thought of walking into that house felt like stepping onto a path I hadn't chosen.
I hated paths I didn't choose.