Chapter 7 Dominic
Trust has never come easily to me.
As the cool evening air drifts through the open balcony doors of my penthouse, I survey the meticulously arranged table before me. The setting is intimate yet calculated—linen napkins, gleaming silverware, crystal wine glasses. A meal befitting royal expectations, without the suffocating grandeur.
The idea had seemed logical. Give Amelia a glimpse into my world. Show her the weight I carry.
But now, staring at it, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.
I glance at my watch. She’ll be here any minute. The thought makes my pulse quicken—a sensation I haven’t felt in years. I tell myself it’s irritation. It’s not.
A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. I stride forward, exhaling sharply before I pull it open.
Amelia stands in the hallway, her dark coat draped over one arm, her dress shimmering beneath the soft glow of the hallway light. Her hair is pulled back loosely, as if she’d put little thought into it, yet she still looks effortlessly captivating.
She arches a brow, glancing past me. "I take it you don’t do casual dinners."
I smirk, stepping aside. "Not when there’s protocol involved."
She walks in, surveying the setting before shaking her head. "Dominic, this isn’t a dinner. This is a dress rehearsal for a monarchy that doesn’t exist here."
I shrug, motioning toward the table. "Humor me."
She lets out a soft laugh before slipping her coat onto a chair. "Alright, Your Highness. What’s on the agenda? Do I need to curtsy before I take my seat?"
I level her with a look. "Mocking me already? We haven’t even had the first course."
She grins, and for the first time tonight, the tension sitting on my chest eases.
Dinner begins with an awkward silence that I should have anticipated.
Amelia studies the polished silverware like she’s assessing a surgical tool, while I try not to notice the way candlelight flickers in her eyes.
"I know you set this up to prove a point," she finally says, swirling her wine glass. "But I don’t think you needed to."
I lift a brow. "Oh?"
She leans forward slightly. "Dominic, you don’t belong in that world. Not really. You’ve spent your life building an empire outside of it. Yet, you let it control you."
I stiffen at her words. "You don’t understand?—"
"You’re right, I don’t," she interrupts, her voice steady. "But I want to."
The statement disarms me more than I expect. She’s not prying for gossip. She’s not digging for information.
She genuinely wants to understand.
I exhale slowly, pushing my plate aside. "My father had expectations—plans for me that I never wanted. But the burden of my name has always followed me. It’s dictated decisions I never wanted to make."
She watches me, silent for a beat, then tilts her head. "So why invite me into it? What do you expect me to do?"
I hesitate, my fingers grazing the stem of my glass. "I don’t know. Maybe I just wanted to see what it’s like to let someone in."
Her lips part slightly, as if my admission caught her off guard. And maybe it did.
The meal progresses with lighter conversation, the air no longer as heavy.
By the time dessert is served, Amelia is teasing me about the overly formal plating, and I find myself smiling—actually smiling.
Then, on impulse, I stand and extend my hand toward her. "Dance with me."
She blinks, surprised. "What?"
I gesture toward the space near the fireplace, where soft instrumental music hums in the background. "One dance. Consider it part of the full experience."
She hesitates before placing her hand in mine. "Fine. But if you try any 19th-century waltzing, I’m out."
I chuckle, pulling her closer.
The moment her body aligns with mine, something shifts. The teasing vanishes. In its place, something far more dangerous.
We move slowly, the world outside the penthouse fading. I hadn’t anticipated how right she would feel in my arms, how easily her breath would sync with mine.
Her fingers graze my shoulder, and when I glance down, our eyes lock.
I don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, we’re not dancing.
We’re standing impossibly close, her lips inches from mine. My pulse pounds as I lower my head, our breaths mingling.
Then, just as our lips brush?—
The shrill ring of my phone shatters the moment.
I pull back sharply, cursing under my breath. The spell is broken.
Amelia takes a step back, her expression unreadable as I check the caller ID.
A number I can’t ignore.
She clears her throat. "You should get that."
I hesitate before nodding. "Amelia, I?—"
But she’s already reaching for her coat.
"Thanks for dinner, Dominic."
And just like that—she’s gone.
And I don’t stop her.
I stand frozen, phone still vibrating in my palm.
The moment should feel familiar—business pulling me away, duty forcing me to act.
But this time, it feels different.
Wrong.
By the time I answer, my voice is rough. "Yes?"
"Your Highness." Eleanor’s voice is crisp, efficient. "It’s time."
My jaw clenches. "For what?"
"The council wants an update on your transition. You’ve put off the formalities long enough."
A long silence stretches between us.
I glance at the space where Amelia stood just moments ago, my mind already torn between obligation and something else entirely.
"I’ll handle it," I say finally.
But as I hang up, a heavy realization settles over me.
For the first time in my life, I don’t want to handle it alone.
I pour myself a drink, swirling the amber liquid in my glass as I stare at the empty space where she had been.
The city skyline stretches infinitely beyond the windows.
But for the first time, it feels suffocating rather than freeing.
The whiskey burns down my throat as I swallow, my mind replaying the way Amelia had looked at me—curious, open, unguarded.
The way I had nearly closed the distance between us, drawn to her in a way that made no sense.
A part of me wants to chase after her.
Another part knows that doing so would only entangle her further in my world.
And I can’t be certain it’s a world she’d want to stay in.
But as I set my glass down, one truth lingers.
Amelia Grant is becoming impossible to ignore.
And maybe, just maybe?—
That terrifies me more than anything else ever has.
No, I realize.
It’s not terror.
It’s something far more dangerous.
Hope.