Chapter 80: Chapter 80
Music Recommendation: The night we met by Lord Huron
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Dominic let out a soft sigh as he closed the study room door behind him.
The faint click of the lock was too final, and was too loud for the silence that followed. His shoulders dropped under a weight only he could feel, but he kept his back straight, and his facade intact as if pretending to himself could make the truth less real.
He crossed the room without hurry, his polished shoes sinking slightly into the thick Persian rug. The lamplight cast long, golden shadows across the shelves that lined the walls, the hundreds of books and files standing in rigid order.
Everything here was neat, and controlled, exactly as he liked it. Everything was controlled, except the chaos that lived behind his ribs at the moment.
Dominic reached his desk and lowered himself into the leather chair. His hand rested on the cold mahogany for a moment before sliding toward the stack of papers waiting for him. There were contracts, reports, and other things waiting for his attention for days now. Things he usually consumed in seconds.
Tonight, the words blurred before his eyes.
He blinked hard, once, twice, until the text sharpened. It was easier to stare at figures on paper than the memories that kept trying to claw their way to the surface.
The truth was simple, and brutal. His mother was gone. But his mind refused to speak it in those exact words.
Gone, passed away, or dead, none of them fit. None of them belonged anywhere near her name. It was like trying to staple shadow to light — impossible.
He believed this was just another usual day of his, where he ignored her.
Dominic leaned back in his chair, his jaw tightening. The muscles in his forearm flexed as his fingers curled into a fist. He had faced rivals in boardrooms who wanted his empire. He had stared down enemies who would have gutted him if given the chance. He had buried threats before they could breathe his air. He had survived fates worse than death, but not this.
Nothing, not wealth, not power, not the cold armor he’d worn for decades. had prepared him for this.
He could buy anything, he could rebuild anything, and he could replace anything. But not her.
And so he simply... refused.
He refused to think about the funeral that had already been made. He buried it under his heart, believing it was just another business arrangement.
He refused to picture the hospital room, the stillness, and the beeping that stopped. He refused to replay the last conversation they’d had. Or the ones where he had been too busy to linger.
His gaze drifted to the corner of the desk where her favorite fountain pen sat. It was small, silver, with a delicate engraving along the clip. She had left it here months ago after signing something for him. He had never moved it.
Now, it felt like a relic.
The air in the room thickened, pressing against his lungs. He inhaled sharply, forcing the breath to steady before exhaling through clenched teeth.
There was work to do. Always work.
Work was the one thing that didn’t leave him. The one thing that didn’t die, or could never die. Even when he faced his worse days on earth, he had his work by his side, always waiting for him.
Dominic straightened the papers in front of him, aligning the edges until they were perfect. His hands moved automatically, a practiced precision that didn’t require thought. He turned pages without thinking, made notes, and signed his name in places that needed it.
Minutes passed. Or hours. He couldn’t tell.
Somewhere in the middle of reading a report, his vision wavered again. This time it wasn’t the blur of exhaustion, it was a moisture threatening to spill.
He slammed the file shut.
Not now.
He would not fall apart. Not here. Not ever.
Dominic rose from his seat, walked to the bar cabinet in the corner, and poured himself a drink. The amber liquid caught the lamplight as he tilted the glass in his hand. He swallowed it in one long pull, the burn in his throat grounding him, anchoring him to something tangible.
Another drink followed, and before he could realize what was going on, another followed.
Eventually, he set the empty glass down and stared at the polished surface of the desk. His reflection looked back at him. In his sharp suit, steady eyes, and his mask perfectly in place, he looked like his usual self.
Anyone else would think he was fine.
That was the point.
The only sign of fracture was his left hand, the one resting beside the silver pen. His fingers trembled almost imperceptibly.
Dominic curled them into a fist and turned away.
He had work to do. And if he kept working, maybe he could pretend — just a little longer — that she was still here.
Before he could touch the next file, there was a knock on the door.
"Dominic?" Celeste’s voice filtered through his foggy mind, steadying him.
He froze. Not because he didn’t want to answer, but because he couldn’t risk letting her see him like this.
"I’m fine," he called, his voice smooth, and practiced. His mask slipped seamlessly back into place.
There was a pause on the other side. Then, just when he thought she had already left, she said. "Alright. I’ll... leave you to it."
Her footsteps retreated, soft against the carpeted hallway, until the silence folded over him again.
Dominic exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping to the silver pen.
He could still hear his mother’s voice in his head. Not the frail one from her final days, but the clear, steady one from years ago. The one that scolded him for staying out too late. The one that told him to eat when he was too consumed by work. The one that, no matter how many mistakes he made, had never stopped calling him in that quiet, unshakable way.