Dominic Veyron left the facility the same way he always did without looking back.
The underground doors sealed behind him with a hydraulic sigh, swallowing the white corridors, the surveillance feeds, the carefully curated suffering. The air outside felt different immediately. Thicker. Warmer. Real.
His car waited, black and immaculate, engine already humming. The driver opened the door, but Dominic waved him off.
"I'll take it from here."
The man bowed slightly and stepped back.
Dominic slid into the driver's seat and pulled away, the road unfolding ahead of him like a private artery leading back to the heart of his world. The city lights blurred as he accelerated, glass towers giving way to darkness, to winding roads framed by old trees and guarded silence.
The mansion appeared gradually, not looming but commanding—stone and glass fused into something timeless, something designed to endure. The gates recognized him instantly, opening without pause.
Home.
As he stepped inside, the house responded the way it always had.
Lights brightened softly. Music—low, orchestral—filtered through the halls. The staff moved with quiet precision, heads bowed, voices hushed.
"Welcome home, sir."
"Good evening, Mr. Veyron."
"Everything has been prepared."
Dominic acknowledged them with a faint nod, shrugging off his coat as it was taken from him before it could even touch the floor. The ritual was comforting in its predictability.
Here, he was not questioned
He moved through the space with unhurried confidence, shoes clicking softly against polished marble, until he reached the master suite. The doors slid open, revealing a vast room of dark wood, muted golds, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city far below.
He didn't pause.
Straight to the bathroom.
Steam filled the air moments later as hot water cascaded down, striking his skin with near-punishing intensity. He tilted his head back under the spray, eyes closing as heat soaked into muscle and bone.
For a brief moment—just a fracture of time—he allowed himself to feel it.
The ache in his chest.
The tightness that never quite left.
He scrubbed his hands over his face, over his hair, as if he could wash something away that had rooted itself far deeper than skin.
But the pain didn't leave.
It never did.
When he finally shut off the water, the silence rushed back in. He grabbed a towel, wrapping it low around his waist, droplets still tracing paths down his torso as he stepped into the bedroom.
He poured himself a glass of wine dark, expensive, untouched by compromise and raised it lazily as he caught his reflection in the mirror.
Dominic Veyron stared back at himself.
Relaxed.
Powerful.
Dangerously composed.
He smirked.
"How do you like me now?" he murmured to the reflection. "Idiot."
The word tasted familiar.
His smile lingered, sharp and deliberate, but something flickered behind his eyes.
Something that didn't belong there.
Pain.
The glass hovered inches from his lips as memories stirred, unwanted and sharp. A different room. A different man. Voices raised, then broken. His eyes keep flicking as if the other being in him wants to break out.
"You must be furious," Dominic continued softly, addressing the mirror as though it might answer him. "And so very, very sad."
He took a slow sip of wine, savoring it, letting the warmth spread through him.
"I'm sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "I really am."
His fingers tightened around the stem of the glass.
"But I can't stop."
The words came more forcefully now, slipping past the careful control he usually maintained.
"I won't stop," he said. "Not until everything you cared about is reduced to data points and ashes."
His chest burned suddenly, sharply an unbearable pressure that made him inhale through clenched teeth. For a moment, the pain was so intense it blurred the edges of the room.
His heart.
' You'll never be able to take over, never, not in this lifetime anymore ', he thought.
He pressed a hand flat against his chest, breathing slowly, deliberately, riding the wave until it receded just enough to be manageable.
And then he smiled.
He stepped closer to the mirror, studying the man reflected there—the lines at the corners of his eyes, the scars hidden beneath tailored perfection, the calm cruelty sharpened by purpose.
He laughed softly, shaking his head.
He set the wineglass down and reached for a robe, tying it loosely as he moved toward the window. Below him, the city glittered, oblivious and fragile.
Somewhere beneath it all, Ann Jones was learning what it meant to survive without illusions.
And somewhere else, rebellion was taking its first, foolish breaths.
Dominic watched the lights and felt the familiar, unwelcome ache return not just in his chest, but deeper, quieter.
Vulnerability.
He despised it.
He turned away from the window, from the reflection, from the past that refused to stay buried.
Tomorrow, the system would tighten again.
Tomorrow, choices would be tested.
Tomorrow, someone would break.
Dominic Veyron welcomed it.
Because destruction, after all, was the only language he had ever learned to speak fluently.
A/N: it seems I'll have to move the book. My contract was rejected with no chance to try again 😭