Chapter 56

Eva’s POV

It soon started to rain outside the penthouse. Not a drizzle.

A full-on, heavy, wild downpour that came out of nowhere just after noon, turning the city into a gray blur behind streaked glass. Thunder rolled across the sky, low and distant, like a reminder that nature could still interrupt even the most structured life. It felt sweet and interesting. One of the dags I'd just love to stay indoors and do nothing at all.

I stood by the living room window, holding a warm cup of tea, watching the clouds swallow the sunlight. Dominic was gone for the afternoon, something about a private Alpha council session on the upcoming power transition. The penthouse felt unusually quiet without him, though I would never admit that out loud.

The rain continued, thick and steady, like it had no plans to stop. It didn't even show any signs of stoping anytime soon.

I wasn’t planning on going anywhere. Not in this weather. But boredom had its way of creeping in when things were calm. So I wandered around the penthouse looking for something to do.

That was when I found the storage room.

To be fair, it wasn’t really a storage room. It was more like a spare office that Dominic never used. The door was always shut, and I had assumed it was empty—until I opened it on a whim and stepped inside.

The light flickered on overhead, revealing a quiet space filled with boxes, sealed containers, and scattered items that clearly hadn’t been touched in a long time. Most of them were labeled in Dominic’s neat handwriting. Others had no labels at all.

Curiosity tugged at me.

I set my tea down on a low shelf and started going through the nearest box.

Old files. Paperwork from years ago. Some faded photos. A few worn-out books. Nothing dramatic.

The next box had something else, memorabilia from the club. Flyers from its grand opening. Early budget plans. Even receipts from the first DJ they ever hired. I smiled as I flipped through them, imagining a younger Dominic scribbling notes, figuring things out as he went.

The third box, though, made me pause.

It was full of old vinyl records.

And a record player.

I didn’t even know he had one.

I carried it all to the living room, carefully placing the record player on the low table in front of the couch. It was heavy and slightly dusty but intact. I found the plug, cleaned off the surface, and looked through the vinyl collection.

Mostly jazz. Some soft rock. A few classical records.

My fingers paused on one that looked different. No title on the front. Just a smooth black cover.

I placed it on the turntable, dropped the needle, and waited.

A soft crackle. Then music.

Slow piano. Gentle saxophone. A melody that melted right into the sound of rain outside.

I sat back and let it wrap around me, warm and old and full of something I couldn’t name.

I didn’t know how long I stayed there, curled up on the couch, letting song after song play. I imagined this was something Dominic’s mother might have liked, if she had ever been part of his life. Or maybe it was just something he kept for himself. A quiet escape. A memory.

I laid down, letting one hand dangle over the couch’s edge. The city outside continued to blur with rain. The apartment smelled like tea, old paper, and something nostalgic I couldn’t quite place.

Eventually, I got up, grabbed the rest of the boxes, and brought them out one by one.

If I was going to get caught snooping, I might as well go all in.

Most of what I found was harmless school notebooks, some sports medals, old tech gadgets, and photos of people I didn’t recognize. There was one album, though, with pictures of Dominic as a child.

I sat cross-legged on the rug, flipping through them slowly.

There he was, younger, smaller, with the same sharp eyes but a much softer expression. One photo showed him standing next to a man I recognized immediately his father, Hector Vaughan, in a tailored suit even then. Dominic wore a smaller version of the same suit. Neither of them was smiling.

I closed the album gently.

Dominic didn’t talk about his past much. Not unless you asked. And even then, he gave short, measured answers like he was choosing which memories were safe to share.

I returned the album to the box and sat still for a while.

The rain had slowed, though the sky remained heavy.

I looked around at the living room, now full of half-open boxes, loose papers, and a record softly spinning.

A mess, maybe.

But a good one. I didn't know how he would react if he gets back and I could tell it'd be outta shock.