Dominic sat in his study, a glass of whiskey lazily rolling between his fingers. His mind was far from the reports in front of him—he hadn't been able to stop thinking about them. The twins. Elara.
It should have irritated him how much space she was taking in his mind, but instead, he found himself entertained. Her defiance, her fire—it was unlike anything he'd expected. He could still see the way she looked at him, her chin tilted up in resistance even when she was begging. That mix of boldness and desperation... it thrilled him.
A smirk played at his lips. He had already set his plans in motion—there was no undoing them now. The thought alone sent a wave of satisfaction through him. They were exactly where he wanted them.
He leaned back in his chair, the dim glow of the lamp casting long shadows across his face. But just as he was about to indulge deeper in his thoughts, a sharp knock shattered the silence.
Dominic didn't bother looking up. "Speak."
The heavy wooden doors creaked open, and Mr. Flamont stepped inside. His face was unreadable, but Dominic caught the slight stiffness in his movements. Something was wrong.
"Sir," Mr. Flamont started, but then hesitated. That alone was enough to make Dominic glance up, his amusement fading into sharp focus.
"What is it?" His tone was calm, but there was a dangerous edge beneath it.
Mr. Flamont shifted slightly. "He's here."
Dominic's grip on the glass tightened. The silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating.
"I'm sorry," Flamont continued, his voice lower now. "I tried my best to make sure he wouldn't get here, but this time... it seems your mother was a step ahead."
Dominic's entire body went still.
The ice in his drink clinked softly, a stark contrast to the rage beginning to burn beneath his skin. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tightening as he slowly set the glass down on the table.
His mother. Again.
He let out a slow breath, dragging his fingers through his hair before letting his hand fall to his side. Then, with deliberate slowness, he turned his gaze back to Mr. Flamont.
"And what do you suggest I do now," Dominic murmured, "now that it's been proven that you're obviously incapable?"
Mr. Flamont didn't flinch. He had served Dominic long enough to know that silence was sometimes the best response.
Dominic exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He was running out of patience. With his mother. With who had just walked into his territory. With everyone.
"Leave," he said finally, voice clipped. "Now."
Mr. Flamont gave a short nod and exited without another word.
Dominic remained frozen for a moment, staring at the door as if his glare alone could make the problem disappear. But it wouldn't. This wasn't something he could ignore. His mother had forced his hand.
With a bitter chuckle, he pushed himself up from his chair, the weight of the situation pressing against his shoulders. The moment he stood, a wave of frustration crashed over him, and before he could think twice, he grabbed the whiskey glass and sent it smashing against the table.
Shards of glass rained onto the floor, but he didn't care. He was already making his way to the bar, pouring himself another drink. He took a long, burning sip before dropping into the leather armchair, his head tilting back.
Smoke. He needed smoke.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a flick of his wrist. The first drag filled his lungs, and he exhaled slowly, watching the tendrils curl in the dim light.
He stayed like that for a while—drinking, smoking, his mind spiraling deeper into the mess his mother had created.
Then, finally, he let out a slow, bitter laugh.
"So," he muttered to himself, tapping the cigarette against the ashtray, "you finally decided to show up."
---
The door creaked open, revealing the dimly lit chamber.
Dominic stepped inside, his expression carved from stone. He had no patience left. Not for her.
Isadora was waiting for him. Of course, she was. Reclined in her chair, a silk robe draped over her shoulders, she held a glass of wine between her fingers, swirling it idly as if his fury was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
"Come in, Dominic," she murmured, barely sparing him a glance. "No need to hover like a restless child."
Dominic's jaw tightened. He took a slow step forward, the weight of his presence pressing against the room.
"You should have stayed out of it." His voice was quiet, but the words struck like a blade.
Isadora let out a soft hum, tilting her head as if considering his statement. "Stayed out of what, exactly?"
Dominic scoffed, a bitter smirk tugging at his lips. "Don't do that."
She finally looked at him. "Do what?"
"Act like you don't know exactly what I'm talking about." He took another step closer, his presence suffocating. "You just had to interfere. You had to dig your claws into things that had nothing to do with you." His gaze burned into hers. "And now, you'll pay for it."
A flicker of amusement danced in her eyes. "Pay?" she echoed. "Dominic, is that a threat?"
He didn't blink. "It's a promise."
Isadora sighed dramatically and took a slow sip of her wine before setting the glass down. "You're being emotional."
"Emotional?" He let out a cold laugh. "You think this is about emotion? No, Mother—" The word dripped with poison. He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering. "And stop calling me your son. You've never been a mother to me."
Isadora's fingers twitched.
"You were never interested in raising me," he continued, his tone sharp, unwavering. "You only wanted to control me. That's all I've ever been to you—something to mold, to use, to own."
Silence.
Then, she let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. "Oh, Dominic," she mused, "I wonder when you'll realize that everything I do is for your own good."
His smirk vanished. His fists curled.
"Since when," he murmured, "did you start caring about my good?"
For the first time, something shifted.
The amusement in her eyes dimmed.
The room felt colder.
Dominic knew that look. The moment when the mask slipped, just for a second.
Then—
A voice. Smooth. Familiar. Unwanted.
"How dramatic."
Dominic turned instantly, his body going rigid.
Leaning against the doorway, draped in shadow, was a figure he had no interest in seeing.
Unlike Isadora—who looked entirely at ease—Dominic's expression darkened.