The Vow at Dawn

“Dominic.”

The name scraped against Brooke’s throat, dry and thin. She forced her lips into a tremulous, breathtaking smile—the exact expression she had practiced in front of the mirror for years whenever she needed to appear vulnerable yet resilient.

“You’re back early. The private detail didn’t log your departure from Heathrow…” Her voice trailed off as she took a step forward, raising a hand to touch his damp lapel. “We weren't expecting you until Friday night.”

Dominic didn’t flinch, but he didn’t lean into the touch either. He simply looked down at her hand, then up into her eyes. It was a calculated, agonizing delay—the kind of psychological dominance he used on corporate boardrooms when he was about to gut an acquisition target.

“Clearly,” Dominic said. His voice was a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated through the small room. He hadn't raised his voice, yet Emma, standing by the sink, visibly shrank against the wall. “Your itinerary adjustment was… efficient, Brooke.”

“The meetings in London concluded ahead of schedule,” she lied smoothly, her brain working at light speed to calculate every word she had spoken in this room over the last twenty minutes. The residency agreement. The threats to Natalie. The contempt for the child. Had he heard her conversation with Emma? Had he heard the part about throwing Natalie out before breakfast?

No. Impossible. She had come down the stairs only after Julian’s text confirmed the plane was grounded in England. Dominic must have arrived via the secondary helipad on the north cliffs, bypassing the main gates entirely.

“You’re soaked,” Brooke murmured, sliding her hand down to catch his wrist. “Let me call security. Let’s go upstairs. You look exhausted.”

“I sleep when I finish auditing my assets,” Dominic replied softly. He stepped around her, his heavy boots leaving faint, wet prints across the stone. He walked over to the service counter where the leather folder containing Natalie’s waiver still lay open.

Brooke’s pulse hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her robe.

“What is this?” Dominic asked, his fingers brushing the corner of the legal document.

“Oh, that,” Brooke laughed, a light, musical sound that usually disarmed him. “Just some estate housekeeping. Natalie and I were discussing the transition. With the wedding on Saturday, we want to ensure everyone’s living arrangements are formalized so there’s no confusion. You know how disorganized Natalie can be since her husband passed.”

Dominic picked up the folder. He didn’t open it immediately. He held it in his large, calloused hand, his thumb tracing the embossed gold lettering of the Mercer family crest on the cover.

“Natalie is grieving,” Dominic said, his gaze shifting back to Brooke. “And this estate is large enough to accommodate my sister and my nephew without requiring legal contracts at five in the morning.”

“It’s not about size, Dom. It’s about boundaries.” Brooke stepped closer, her voice dropping into an intimate, persuasive register. She reached out and gently closed the folder, pressing her palm against his chest. “We’re starting a new life. Just you and me. I love Noah, of course I do, but children need stability, and Natalie needs to learn how to stand on her own two feet. Your mother would have wanted us to encourage her independence.”

It was a risky gamble—invoking Catherine Mercer’s name. Catherine had been notoriously protective of Natalie, a fact Dominic knew better than anyone.

For a terrifying second, Dominic’s eyes narrowed into twin slits of obsidian.

“My mother,” Dominic said slowly, every word measured like poison, “left explicit instructions that this property would be a sanctuary for my sister. She didn’t build this estate to house conditional relatives.”

“And she didn’t build it to be a boarding house for freeloaders,” Brooke blurted out before she could stop herself.

The moment the words left her mouth, she wanted to bite her tongue off. The mask slipped—just an inch, but enough.

Dominic went completely still. The silence in the pantry became absolute, heavier than the rain outside.

Emma kept her head down, staring fixedly at the drainpipe.

Dominic lowered the folder back onto the counter. He reached out, his long fingers gently catching a strand of Brooke’s honey-blond hair, winding it slowly around his index finger. It wasn't an affectionate gesture; it felt like a hunter measuring the tension of a bowstring.