Chapter 5 Dominic
The Seattle skyline stretches before me, an endless expanse of steel and glass, shimmering against the deep indigo night. From my office window, the world looks smaller—manageable.
Yet within me, chaos simmers.
I rake a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply as the weight of my dual existence presses down on me.
The city sees me as the gruff, no-nonsense billionaire who built Hawthorne Industries from the ground up.
But behind closed doors, I am bound by obligations far older than any modern empire I’ve constructed.
My royal lineage—the one secret I refuse to let define me—tethers me to a world I have no interest in serving. A world of tradition, expectation, and suffocating duty.
And then there’s Amelia.
Somehow, she’s wedged herself into the chasm between these two identities, challenging the rigid walls I’ve spent years fortifying.
And I hate that it’s working.
The memory of last night lingers—the storm casting flickering light across her face, the unspoken words between us, her pulse quickening beneath my fingertips as I brushed against her wrist.
I should have walked away without hesitation.
But I didn’t.
A knock at my office door pulls me from my thoughts. Eleanor Whitfield, my father’s ever-diligent liaison, steps inside, her expression as unreadable as ever. She doesn’t bother with pleasantries.
"The Council expects your presence at the Petrovian Summit next month. It’s time to prepare."
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "I have a company to run, Eleanor. My schedule isn’t exactly flexible."
"You knew this was coming," she replies, tone clipped. "You can’t ignore your responsibilities forever."
"Watch me."
She purses her lips, unimpressed. "Your defiance won’t change your birthright, Dominic. Whether you like it or not, you will be expected to?—"
"To what? Stand in a gilded cage while they dictate my every move?" I let out a dry laugh. "No, thanks."
Eleanor studies me for a long moment before placing a folder on my desk. "At least read through the expectations before dismissing them entirely."
I don’t touch the folder. Instead, I push away from my desk and turn back toward the window. "I have a meeting."
"Of course," she murmurs before leaving as quietly as she came.
I exhale slowly, trying to shake the weight of her words. The weight of two worlds colliding.
And for some reason, the only thing that might clear my mind—is Amelia Grant.
Thirty minutes later, I pull up outside a warehouse-turned-community-center, one of my lesser-known charity projects. Inside, volunteers assemble care packages, the scent of fresh paint clinging to the walls.
And in the center of it all—Amelia.
Sleeves rolled up, clipboard in hand, issuing instructions with the kind of quiet authority that commands attention. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, stray curls escaping.
She looks completely at ease here, a stark contrast to the high-stakes world she works in.
She doesn’t notice me right away, too focused on helping a teenager load medical supplies into bins.
Then, she turns.
Her expression shifts—guarded, skeptical.
"Dominic?" she asks, setting the clipboard down. "What are you doing here?"
"Making sure my funding isn’t being misused," I say, arching a brow.
She rolls her eyes. "Because I’m clearly embezzling Band-Aids."
I smirk. "You never know."
She sighs, crossing her arms. "Seriously, what are you doing here? This isn’t exactly your scene."
I step closer, lowering my voice. "Maybe I’m trying to understand why it’s yours."
Her gaze flickers with something unreadable, but before she can respond, a volunteer calls her name, pulling her away.
I watch as she seamlessly transitions back into work mode—organizing supplies, calming nervous teenagers.
For a woman who thrives in high-pressure environments, she seems most at peace in the chaos of service.
And I shouldn’t find that as appealing as I do.
By the time the event wraps up, the tension between us has softened—just slightly.
We linger near the supply station, the last volunteers filtering out.
"I have to admit," Amelia says, leaning against the table, "I’m surprised to see you still here."
I shrug. "I’m full of surprises."
She huffs a quiet laugh. "I highly doubt that."
I tilt my head. "You think you have me figured out?"
She meets my gaze, unwavering. "I think you like pretending you’re impossible to understand. But deep down, you’re not as complicated as you think."
My jaw tightens. "That’s a bold assumption."
"It’s an observation."
Something about her certainty unsettles me. Before I can respond, my bag slips from the table, papers spilling onto the floor.
Amelia kneels instinctively to help—then freezes.
She picks up a set of crisp blueprints, her expression shifting.
"What is this?" she asks, scanning the royal crest stamped in the corner.
I reach for the papers, but she pulls them back just out of reach. "Blueprints for an upcoming event. Nothing important."
Her brow furrows as she skims them. "This isn’t just an event. This is something official, something… regal."
I say nothing.
She looks up at me, realization dawning. "Dominic, what exactly are you keeping from me?"
A storm brews in her gaze, and for the first time in a long time, I’m not sure how to control the narrative.
Her fingers tighten around the blueprints, her knuckles whitening as she searches my face. I see the moment the pieces click into place.
She swallows. "You’ve been keeping this from me all along. Haven’t you?"
I exhale. "It’s not that simple."
"It is," she insists, stepping closer. "You talk about control, about forging your own path, but this—this is something you’ve never let go of."
I glance at the blueprints still in her hands, the weight of my choices pressing down on me. "You don’t understand."
She shakes her head. "Then make me understand, Dominic. Because right now, all I see is a man running from something he refuses to face."
I inhale, steadying myself, but Amelia’s eyes remain locked on mine, waiting—demanding an answer.
The longer I hesitate, the more the distance between us stretches.
The woman who challenges me at every turn, who sees through my armor, stands before me, unrelenting.
And I realize something that shakes me to my core.
The truth isn’t what scares me.
It’s the possibility of losing her when she learns it.