Chapter 8 - The Shadow of the Past
The return to the upstate estate was met with the deep, peaceful hush of late winter.
Snow had fallen heavily over the Adirondacks, blanketing the long winding driveway and the ancient oak trees in a thick layer of pristine white. Inside the mansion, the fires burned continuously in every hearth, chasing away the cold drafts that used to haunt the corridors.
Skylar had settled into her new role with remarkable grace. She worked from a sunlit office in the East Wing, managing the foundation’s outreach programs, while spending her mornings taking long, quiet walks through the conservatory with Carmela.
Yet, despite the peace, a lingering shadow remained between her and Dominic.
He was always there—protective, attentive, treating her with a reverence that made her heart ache—but he had not touched her again since the afternoon in the dressing room. He kept a respectful, agonizing distance, as if waiting for her to give a signal she didn't know how to send.
On a cold Tuesday evening in February, the house was silent. Carmela had gone to sleep early, exhausted from a physical therapy session, leaving Skylar alone in the grand library, reviewing a stack of grant applications beneath the warm glow of a green banker's lamp.
The heavy oak doors creaked open.
Dominic walked in, carrying an unsealed manila envelope. He looked exhausted; the dark circles under his eyes hinted at long, brutal meetings in the city regarding the final liquidation of the Moretti assets.
"You're still awake," he said, walking over to the desk.
"The clinic in Syracuse needs their equipment grant approved by tomorrow," Skylar said, looking up from her paperwork. She hesitated, noticing the grim tension in his shoulders. "Is something wrong, Dominic?"
He set the envelope down on the blotter in front of her.
"What is this?" she asked.
"Open it."
Skylar pulled out the contents: an official deed to a four-bedroom colonial house outside Saratoga Springs, a clear title to a new wheelchair-accessible van, and a personal trust account established under her father’s name with a balance of two million dollars.
Skylar stared at the numbers, her throat tightening with sudden, icy terror.
"Are you... are you firing me?" she whispered, her voice cracking as tears instantly flooded her eyes. "Is this my severance?"
Dominic sighed—a deep, weary sound that seemed to come from the very bottom of his soul. He walked around the desk, pulled up a heavy leather armchair, and sat down directly across from her.
"No, Skylar," he said, his voice softer than she had ever heard it. "This is your freedom."
"My freedom?"
"When you took that blow for my mother, you were a maid working for hourly wages," Dominic said, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his dark eyes searching her face with raw, unfiltered vulnerability. "You were trapped here by your father's medical bills and your family's poverty. I paid those debts, I gave you this job, and I brought you into my world. But I realized... I may have simply built you a more gilded cage."
Skylar shook her head frantically. "No, Dominic, that's not—"
"Listen to me," he commanded gently, reaching out to take both of her hands in his. His large, warm palms closed over her trembling fingers. "My world is violent, Skylar. It is full of men like Sal Moretti and women like Bianca. I am a dangerous man who does terrible things in the dark to keep this family safe. You deserve a life in the light. You deserve a home where no one will ever look at you with anything less than pure adoration. That deed, that money—it belongs to you. It gives you the power to walk out of those gates tomorrow and never look back."
Silence descended over the library, broken only by the soft hiss of the falling snow against the windowpanes.
Skylar looked down at their joined hands.
She looked at his strong, calloused fingers—hands that had ended men's careers with a signature, hands that had hoisted her heavy body off a blood-stained floor without hesitation, hands that were currently trembling slightly because he was terrified she would say yes to his offer.
"You really don't understand, do you?" Skylar whispered, a soft, tearful laugh escaping her lips.
Dominic frowned slightly. "Understand what?"
"For twenty-four years, the entire world told me I took up too much space," Skylar said, lifting her eyes to meet his, letting the tears fall freely down her cheeks, washing over the pale pink scar. "People laughed when I walked into a room. Boys in high school dared each other to ask me out as a joke. Mrs. Higgins gave me the broken carts because she thought someone like me didn't deserve anything that worked smoothly. The only place in my entire life where I have ever felt like I belonged... is right here. With Carmela. And with you."
Dominic stopped breathing.
"I don't want a colonial in Saratoga, Dominic," Skylar said, turning her hands over so her fingers laced firmly through his. "I don't want a quiet, safe little life where I sit on a porch and wonder what you're doing in the dark. I want to be here. I want to stand beside you. Scars, weight, and all."
Dominic stared at her for three long, agonizing seconds.
Then, with a low, ragged sound that was half-groan and half-sob, he pulled her out of the desk chair and into his lap, wrapping his arms around her with a fierce, possessive desperation that took the breath straight out of her lungs.
May you like
He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his broad shoulders shaking with silent, overwhelming relief.
"You stay," Dominic whispered fiercely against her skin, his lips pressing warm, lingering kisses along the curve of her jaw, moving upward until his mouth hovered directly over the pale scar on her cheek. "You stay with me, Skylar. And God help any man who ever tries to make you feel small again."
