CHAPTER 106: THE STRANGER AT THE DOOR

CHAPTER 106: THE STRANGER AT THE DOOR
CHAPTER 106: THE STRANGER AT THE DOOR

The door clicks shut behind him with a finality that reverberates through his chest. Dominic exhales sharply, his back pressing against the solid wood as if he needs its weight to hold him upright. His head tips back, eyes closing, the rough grain pressing into his skull. No. Hell no. The words roar inside him, not just a thought but a vow, a line drawn in fire.

His hand is already in his pocket before the next breath, pulling out his phone with a speed that makes the device slip slightly in his grip. His thumb flies across the screen, tapping her name—Vera. The dial tone hums once in his ear, and then she answers, her voice sliding through the line with that smooth, smug cadence that coils around him like smoke.

“Have you come up with a place?” he asks, not bothering with pleasantries, his tone clipped and sharp, urgency scraping the edge of every syllable.

A pause stretches across the line, followed by her laughter, low and amused, as if she knows she already has the upper hand. “Yeah. Let’s meet at the Ferradian Hotel. High class, of course.”

Dominic nods, the decision locking into place as if it had been waiting there all along. He’s already moving, pacing toward his wardrobe, voice firm. “Great. I’ll see you there in the next few hours.”

Before she can add anything, before that laugh can slide deeper under his skin, he ends the call with a clean tap. Silence returns, broken only by the rush of his breath, and he strides toward the wardrobe. His hands seize the handles and yank the doors open with force. The interior bursts into view—rows of order, suits pressed into perfect lines, shirts folded with precision. His fingers are already tugging garments free, fabric swishing against fabric, buttons clattering softly as he strips away the layers he wears, tossing them aside in a practiced rhythm. Each movement is swift, mechanical, almost violent, as if shedding more than clothes, as if tearing himself out of one moment and stitching himself into the next.

Across the house, Aria drifts like a restless shadow, her steps carrying her from one room to the next in a haze of thought. Her body moves, but her mind is tangled, looping in circles she can’t untangle. She had left her room with the intention of breathing, of finding some ground in the chaos of the day, but the walls themselves seem to close in with her nerves. She retreats, then perches on the edge of her bed again, eyes falling to the book resting there. The one he had given her.

Her fingers graze the cover as if the texture might hold answers. That simple gesture from him—buying it, thinking of her enough to bring it—gnaws at her insides with unexpected weight. He had no idea what it meant, what it stirred, how it made her feel like the biggest fool alive. God, I’ve really messed things up so badly, she thinks, her chest tightening with every word.

The book sits untouched, but it anchors her, mocking her with its quiet presence. Frustration claws at her, pushing her to her feet. She paces, moving through the house with increasing urgency. She checks the hallways, the corners, the rooms, each one echoing with silence. Too long. He said he would come back to finish their conversation. He had promised. Yet the minutes have bled into hours, and the emptiness stretches. Her frown deepens with every step.

The sitting room greets her with its polished stillness, the air heavy, the hush almost oppressive. She scans it, her gaze flicking from furniture to shadows, the silence confirming what she already knows. Her father is at work, as always. The maids, she realizes with a glance at her watch, would be in their quarters by now. Their off-time. The house, grand as it is, feels abandoned. Hollow.

But Dominic—he is supposed to be here. He is supposed to be her bodyguard. His presence is not optional, not negotiable. He cannot just vanish. He cannot just leave. So why does it feel like he has?

Her hand slips into her pocket, fingers curling around her phone. She scrolls quickly through her contacts, thumb hovering over his number, ready to demand an explanation. But before she can press, a sound slices through the silence—a shift, a click, a movement at the main entrance. Her head snaps toward it, her brows furrowing.

The door swings open.

Dominic steps inside. But he is not alone.

A woman follows him, and the sight of her is like a strike to the chest. Aria freezes where she stands, her breath snagging in her throat. This woman is… impossible. A vision carved with ruthless precision, the very embodiment of perfection in motion. Her beauty hits like a blow, so sharp it feels unfair. Every detail catches the light—the sculpt of her curves, the flawless symmetry of her face, the almond cut of her eyes glinting a fierce, dazzling brown. They seem to seize the air itself, commanding attention with no effort at all.

Aria’s pulse stumbles, a jolt of heat and discomfort spreading through her. This woman isn’t just beautiful; she is devastating. The kind of beauty that demands reaction, that bends the air around her, that makes it impossible for anyone with blood in their veins not to notice. For the first time, Aria feels something sharp twist inside her, something raw.

The woman’s gaze sweeps the room, cool and assessing, and when her eyes finally land on Aria, it feels like being pinned beneath a blade.

“Well, hello there, beautiful,” the woman says. Her voice carries a teasing edge, silk wrapped around steel, and it forces Aria’s frown to deepen.

Her gaze shifts to Dominic, who enters behind her, his expression unreadable. Aria can’t tear her eyes from the woman long enough to process fully, but then she notices—what she wears. Not some careless elegance, but something deliberate. A suit. The same kind Dominic wears on duty, tailored sharply for a woman’s frame. It hugs her, accentuates her shape without apology. The trousers fit like a second skin, flowing only slightly at the ankle to kiss the top of sharp heels that click decisively against the marble with every step.

Aria’s eyes catch the subtle movement of the woman’s hand adjusting something beneath the jacket, and realization slams into her. A vest. A weapon tucked neatly into it.

The air in Aria’s lungs feels heavy. A bodyguard. She’s a bodyguard.

Her mind races. What is going on? Who is this woman? What is she doing here?

Dominic gestures toward the space with a sweep of his hand, his voice cutting through the tension. “Well, here we are. This is your new post.”

Aria’s frown sharpens into something closer to disbelief. New post? What the hell does that even mean?

Her eyes narrow, suspicion flashing hot. “Dominic,” she says, her tone sharp, layered with authority that she knows carries weight here, authority rooted in her father’s power.

Dominic tilts his head as if just noticing her presence, his casualness almost mocking. “Oh, Aria,” he says lightly, the syllables rolling from his tongue as if they mean nothing.

Then he turns back to the woman at his side, his hand coming up to rest against her shoulder with a familiarity that cuts deeper than she wants to admit. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs to her. “I’ll get back to you later.”

The words sting, dismissed so easily. And then he crosses the distance toward Aria, slow, deliberate. There’s a smile on his face she doesn’t recognize—easy, self-assured, almost smug. His hands slide into his pockets as his eyes lock onto hers, studying her with unnerving focus.

“What’s the problem?” he asks.