Master of My Domain

"He thought he could get away with it, just because he was a hot-shot multimillionaire CEO with way too much authority and ridiculously blue eyes. It was just so unfair that a man so infuriating could be so attractive." AU Trory Future Fic

Disclaimer: Gilmore Girls was created by ASP and is property of Warner Bros Television/Hofflund Polone/Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

(Long) A/N: MOMD is a story I started many years ago. I can't recall whether I had ever actually posted any of it, but it's been on my mind again since AYITL. (More accurately, since my anticipation of AYITL, which was much more exciting than the experience itself, IMO.) I've decided to revisit, edit, and (re?)post.

You may notice some evidence that the storyline was originally inspired by a certain EL James novel. What can I say, I kind of love the idea of Tristan as a loveable, slight megalomaniac. If you're looking for BDSM, though, keep browsing - you won't find that here. Though there may be a splash of citrus here and there; mind the rating.

Anyway, enough rambling. This is a Trory Future Fic. It wasn't AU when I originally started, though now I guess it is, since we're pretending AYITL doesn't exist. Join me in this new reality, won't you?

Chapter 1 – Meet Mr. Donnel

"Three blocks from Main Street on Kellerton Blvd, more than a dozen dedicated customers patiently waited for the doors of Revampt to open for the first time, having already fallen in love with the owner's hand-crafted recycled and reclaimed furniture, previously available only to those who frequented the West End Farmers' Market before 10am every Saturday."

Not bad, but a bit wordy. Try again.

"A new store opening in the posh Kellerton corridor saw a morning rush of over a dozen dedicated customers eager to add eco-friendly furniture to their -"

"Earth to Rory! Hello?"

"Hmm?" I blinked and shook my head. "Sorry, what?"

"Where did you just go?" Dani laughed, turning her attention back to the road.

"Sorry," I repeated, still trying to anchor my attention back to reality. "Just thinking about the weekend. TGIF and all that, you know?"

Dani gave me a wry smile indicating her disbelief as she flipped on her blinker and waited to pull into the parking lot. "Uh-huh. Sure."

She knew me too well.

I let my mind drift back to fantasizing a lead for my latest story. Just a few minor tweaks and it would be wrapped, and then I could move on with the rest of my day. I had some great angles in mind for some fascinating drug research going on at Yale's med school. Of course, there was also the parent rally last night at Bristow Middle School. I knew Simpson had been covering it, but last night as I'd been trying to fall asleep, I'd filled an entire page with notes and ideas for a follow-up piece.

Dani interrupted my train of thought once again. "Speaking of TGIF, what are your plans tonight? I've got a blind date at 6, but we know there's a good chance that won't last long."

"Does the poor guy know that he's already a foregone conclusion?"

Dani was one of my best friends, but even I couldn't deny that she was a bit flighty when it came to the guys she dated. To say the least.

"Who goes on a date at 6pm?" she groused. "The Early Bird Special is so not sexy. Anyway, want to grab a drink after? Maybe go dancing?"

"I'm sorry, have we met? When have I ever wanted to go dancing?"

"Well excuse me for trying to expand your horizons. It wouldn't kill you to be exposed to a little culture now and then, you know?"

Dani could barely keep a straight face through that one, and I snorted, knowing that Dani's venue of choice was The Church, a nightclub that definitely didn't prioritize cultural sophistication.

"I'm having drinks with Paris tonight," I told her. "You're welcome to meet us there. I'm meeting her at Elliot's at 7."

"Maybe," she muttered noncommittally, then took the opportunity to climb out of the car.

I rolled my eyes as I followed her. Although she denied it, I knew Dani was still a little bit intimidated by Paris.

I shivered while we hurried across the parking lot, pulling the collar of my jacket up against the crisp fall breeze. It was the time of year when we were on the verge of transitioning to heavier coats, and this morning's chilly temps had me suspecting that the tipping point had arrived.

I called a greeting to Alex at security as we made our way past him, rushing to catch the elevator doors before they closed. Seth and Lacey, both copyeditors, made room for us as we exchanged pleasantries. I pressed the button for both my floor and Dani's, since she was preoccupied by Seth trying his hand at flirting. Again. Dani just seemed to naturally bring that out of people.

Lacey hovered in the corner of the elevator, her cheeks turning red. I didn't know how Seth could miss the fact that she'd harbored a crush on him since they both started work at the paper together over two years ago.

"I'll let you know how La Luz is," he was promising Dani after she'd rebuked his invitation. Again. "If it's good, maybe you can join me next time."

"Yeah, maybe," Dani agreed.

I recognize that 'maybe'. It's not going to happen, Seth.

Seth and Lacy departed at the third floor, and I turned to Dani once the doors closed. "I thought you were dying to try La Luz."

"I tried it last week. It's decent, but the enchiladas at Café Mex are way better and half the price. And I already dated Seth three months ago."

"What?" I demanded. "I don't remember that. Where was I?"

"It was during the Ralston protests."

"Ah." That explained it. I'd spent every waking minute, and even some of the non-waking ones, either on the scene at the complex or at the office. Damn, that was a good couple of weeks. That protest had fueled a feature series about corruption within the local prison, and had ended with five fairly high-profile arrests.

With a little effort, I turned my attention back to my Dani. "I can't believe you already went out with Seth, and that I didn't know anything about it. I thought you said he wore too much argyle?"

"He does! Did you not see his sweater vest?" The elevator opened to the 5th floor, and she shrugged as she stepped out. "But hey, a girl's gotta eat."

"Amen to that, I guess. See you after!" I called.

The rest of my journey to the 7th and final floor was spent sipping coffee and contemplating my strategy for the day. I took a deep breath and smiled as the doors opened and I stepped out into the organized chaos that I loved so much.

I hadn't taken three steps out of the elevator before being accosted by a fellow reporter. "Rory!"

I was proud that I only jumped a little when he popped up in front of me, and didn't spill a drop of coffee. A true pro.

"Hi Kevin, what's up?"

"A five-car pile-up on 95, a two-alarm fire on 75th, and don't forget we only have three hours until the 411."

I blinked at him. "That's a lot of numbers."

"What?"

"Nevermind," I assured him. Kevin didn't have a sarcastic bone in his body, but sic him on a reluctant source and he'd dig until he got the good stuff. "Do you have something for me?"

A shout came from across the floor. "The two-alarm on Grant was upgraded, who do we have out there?"

"Kassner!" Kevin called over his shoulder, then turned back to me. I didn't have any free hands, so he slapped a lime green sticky note on top of the file I carried. The voice that had called out made another inquiry, and he sighed irritably. "Hang on!"

I squinted and tried to make out the writing on the post-it he'd given me. "What's this?"

"The note says it all. Thought you might be interested." He didn't spare another second, turning around and shouting directives to help coordinate additional resources, dispatching a photog to meet Kassner at the fire.

The energy in the newsroom was high this morning, and I sighed in contentment as I made my way through the controlled chaos to my own little corner of paradise.

I found my desk in its usual state, overrun with documents that were overflowing from the file organizer I used as an inbox and threatening to overtake my keyboard. As soon as I left every night, this place became a dumping ground for everyone's leads that they didn't have time to follow up with. Of course, most of the time it was only the ones they thought were duds. And usually they were right.

"Rory!"

I looked up to see Jamie Gonzalez striding toward me. Speak of the devil. She tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder, and behind her I could see several pairs of male eyes follow her down the aisle between desks. As she approached I could hear the tell-tale jingling that always accompanied Jamie's imminent arrival thanks to her penchant for dangly jewelry. Usually it was useful as a warning so that I could busy myself with work and prepare my best 'leave me alone' vibe. Unfortunately, I doubted that would work this time; I gave a mournful gaze to my computer, which was still in the early stages of booting up.

"Rory!" Jamie called again. She stopped as she reached my desk and smiled down at me.

"Oh, hi, Jamie."

That's it. Pretend like you didn't notice her. That'll help.

I plastered on a fake smile, albeit not a very enthusiastic one.

"I'm so glad I caught you! You're not busy, are you?"

Who, me? Busy?

I glanced down at the papers in my hands and still covering most of the surface area of my workspace. My computer had finally started and Outlook was still synchronizing my new mail. 48 new messages so far.

I sighed. "Nope. Not busy at all. What's up?"

"Well, here's the thing." As she spoke, she perched herself on the edge of my desk. "I got this amazing opportunity for an exclusive interview with Tuck Draper, which as I'm sure you know is really a fantastic coup…"

I tuned out just a little as Jamie went on, waiting for her to get to the point. She was using her hands to animatedly tell her tale and as she shifted on my desk, I eyed the wrinkled papers she sat upon with dismay.

"So, I guess what I was hoping," she continued, "Is that you wouldn't mind following up on that restaurant opening for me? I mean, usually we wouldn't even bother covering it, but Sam figured that since it's apparently a big deal in some circles, it couldn't hurt to have the story in the can. Just in case, you know?"

"Um, wow," I mumbled. A subject line of one of my new emails had caught my eye and I was trying not to be distracted. "A restaurant opening? When is it?"

"Well they open the doors at 8, but it doesn't really start until 10."

I found it slightly insulting that she assumed I wouldn't have other plans on a Friday night.

Usually Jamie's leads weren't incredibly fascinating, but what could it hurt? I was sure Paris wouldn't mind joining for some free food after our drink. And besides, as Dani pointed out, a girl's got to eat.

"Sure," I conceded. "Just send me the details, okay?"

"Oh Rory, thanks! I knew I could count on you!"

Happy to be able to turn my thoughts to more interesting matters, I clicked on the email that had caught my eye. As I skimmed, my spirits lifted, and I couldn't suppress the smile that broke out on my face.

"And just what are you grinning about?"

I looked up as Angela sat down at her desk, across the aisle from mine.

"The New York Times picked up my article from yesterday!"

"Oh my God, congrats!" she exclaimed. Angela was a columnist, one of my favorite people in editorial, and a close friend. "That's amazing, Rory, I'm so proud of you!"

I couldn't contain the giddy laugh that bubbled up my throat. "Thanks! Wow, I can't believe it."

"How many is that now? Four?"

"I think so."

That's a lie. I know so. I've been keeping track, and I may or may not have all the clippings in a drawer at home.

"Four stories in… how long has it been? A year and a half?"

Had it only been that long since the Hartford Courant had been on the Times' radar?

"They must be pretty desperate for content over there," I joked.

"Shut up." Angela wasn't having any of my self-criticizing sarcasm. "It's awesome, and don't you forget it. I bet now they're really wishing you'd gone to work for them when they gave you the chance, huh?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, and if I'd gone to them I'd have four published articles, rather than who-knows-how-many here at the Courant."

After I'd wrapped up on Obama's campaign trail, I'd been approached to come work for the NY Times as a copyeditor, but I'd turned them down to come to the Hartford Courant as a features reporter. It was a scary decision, and one that I occasionally second-guessed, but I didn't regret it. Reporting was what I loved, and I figured I'd get to do more of it with a medium-sized daily like the Courant than with a gargantuan machine like the Times.

My phone rang and I picked it up immediately. "Hartford Courant, Features, this is Rory Gilmore."

And so it began. Four phone calls over the next two hours led to one lead that was maybe, possibly, worth following up on - if it were a slow news day. I managed to sort through and deal with my inbox, sidetracked only briefly by an email from my mom with a link to a YouTube clip of last week's SNL. She was consistently about a week behind, but still felt the need to forward me the skits that she thought were particularly hilarious. At least she usually wasn't wrong.

After replying to or filing away all of my new emails, I happily settled further into my desk chair and queued up the story I'd been working on. I easily filtered out the noise of the bustling newsroom as I sunk into writing mode, testing out some of the leads I'd been testing out during the morning commute.

Forty-five minutes later, I saved the article and closed the window, planning to come back later for editing. I glanced at the time in the corner of my desktop. Less than an hour until the 411, the weekly departmental meeting for brainstorming, pitching ideas, and general collaboration with colleagues. Plus, there were donuts. My stomach growled in anticipation.

My computer dinged and an instant message window appeared.

DavidFamlin: Got a minute?

Why, yes, as a matter of fact I did have a minute. I would always have a minute for the features editor. That was aside from the fact that I truly did always enjoy talking to David. The features department was lucky to have a fantastic boss.

RoryGilmore: Sure. How can I help?

DavidFamlin: Let's chat in my office. I'll brief you.

Oooh, intrigue.

I unhooked my laptop from the monitor and stood from my desk, stretching a bit before I turned to Angela. "Off to see David."

She nodded dismissively. She was like me when she wrote. One time a fire alarm went off in the building and I ignored it until I finished the thought I was trying to convey. Turned out, it had been an actual fire, down on the fourth floor. Someone left their Eggo in the toaster too long.

My curiosity was already burning as I arrived at David's office. I knocked quickly before I stuck my head in.

"Hey, come on in." He gestured to one of the chairs opposite his desk without looking up from his computer. "Shut the door behind you, please."

I raised my eyebrows but followed direction. David almost never closed his door.

I took a seat while his fingers continued to fly across his keyboard. Single-minded focus was pretty common around here. Maybe it was something in the water. I waited patiently for him to finish his task.

My eyes fell on a framed picture on his desk, and it was one I hadn't seen before. His daughter, Kayla, was the focus of the shot, blowing dandelion seeds at the camera. The background featured David's wife June most prominently, but other people could be seen milling about. I leaned closer for a better look, realizing that it must've been taken at the paper's family picnic a couple months ago.

"Sorry, Rory." David turned his attention to me and followed my gaze to the picture. He smiled with fatherly pride. "Nice, isn't it?"

"She's adorable."

"Dani took it, you know."

"It's beautiful."

"She's a talent," he agreed. He placed his elbows on his desk and leaned toward me. That was his 'let's get down to business' look.

"Do you have a lead for me?" I asked eagerly.

"Oh, more than that. It's all set up. I'm handing you the best story of the month on a silver platter." His green eyes sparkled.

Damn him. He was trying to bait me, and it was working.

"Oh?" I feigned mild intrigue. It wasn't often that David played it close to the vest; he was usually brisk and straightforward. This time he was savoring it. It must be good.

He smiled. "This morning I got an email from a contact at Donnel Enterprises. You've heard of it?"

"I've heard of it, but don't know much," I admitted. I wracked my brain for some background facts. "Privately-owned company, started off as a small service provider before it blew up. They acquired Within Media, which started their expansion into that market, and then they diversified from there. From what I understand, the bulk of the business today stems from the media market, mainly online."

David shook his head at me in amusement. "Your definition of not knowing much is pretty loose. I'd say that's enough to get you through. They're aware that you'll be going in with no background research, since this is so last-minute."

"I'm 'going in'?"

He shared a conspiratorial smile. "Do you remember the story we ran about six months ago, about the alternative fuels research project that Yale's School of Engineering had to scrap because of budget cuts?"

"Of course. They were looking into alternative fuels and renewable energy, and the program was in its infancy but signs were pointing to progress."

"Monday at noon, Donnel Enterprises will be having a press conference to announce that they'll be funding a $10 million research project to continue what had been started."

I blinked. It took a minute longer for my mind to catch up with David's hints, and my jaw dropped. "Monday. The press conference will be Monday… but I'm going in today?"

He nodded, grinning. "The story will be embargoed until Monday, but either way, your story will be published hours before the rest of the world would even have a chance."

Breaking news. An exclusive scoop. This was the type of story I lived for.

I took a deep breath, feeling a surge of adrenaline. "Who's my contact? What's the format?"

"That's the best part."

He had me hanging on his every word, and he was loving it. If I didn't like him so much, I'd kill him. "Tell me!"

David: 1, Rory: 0. I'm practically begging him.

"You've got a personal interview with the CEO in an hour."

It took me thirty minutes once I left David's office for me to get out the door. I was going to miss the 411, so I typed up a summary of my stories on deck to send to the meeting with Angela. Then there were the couple of urgent emails to answer, and a brief fire to put out regarding a quote for a story I was working on. I'd had to swing by 5 to see Dani and pick up her keys so that I could actually get to my interview.

By the time I was on my way, I was cursing every red light I encountered. If I was lucky, it would take about 20 minutes to get from the Hartford Courant to Donnel Enterprises' Connecticut office.

I knew David said it was fine that I had no background, but there was no way I could go into an interview with the company's CEO that unprepared, so I'd stolen a quick ten minutes for research.

The CEO in question was Tristan Donnel, a self-made multimillionaire and, I noted, a Yale alum. Hopefully that commonality would earn me some points in his book. I did love a cooperative interview.

He'd apparently started his company during undergrad at Northwestern, and by the time he graduated with his MBA from Yale, the firm had a net worth of over $100 million. Over the past five years, that net worth had grown exponentially.

What had started out as a simple services business, focused on matching unneeded resources with buyers, had apparently turned into a gazillion dollar mega-corporation.

Yes, a 'gazillion dollar' corporation. Very professional, Rory.

I couldn't recall as I pulled off the highway the exact revenue, but I knew I'd definitely widened my eyes at the number when I'd skimmed my research before leaving the office. Donnel Enterprises was based in Connecticut, with large offices in New York City and London and several satellite offices around the globe.

As I pulled up to the building, I wondered how on earth I could've gone years without noticing it in downtown Hartford. It wasn't an exceptionally tall or large building, but it certainly made an impression. The afternoon sun highlighted the light stone, steel, and glass, making the building look almost ethereal, and certainly pristine.

I pulled into a Visitor spot, silently thanking the Parking Gods that I hadn't had to spend time searching. I quickly closed the GPS on my phone, shoved it into my bag, and strode to the front entrance as quickly as my heels would allow.

The first floor of the building was constructed of wall-to-wall windows, and the upper levels were polished white stone with steel accents. Shiny, and slightly intimidating.

The theme of vague intimidation continued into the lobby. My heels clicked on the white marble floors as I made my way from the door to the reception desk on the opposite side of the room. The woman staffing the desk fit in perfectly with the décor of the room in her sharp, grey suit and platinum blond hair. She had a smile on her face that didn't waver as I approached, and the longer it remained frozen, the more unsettling it became.

"Um… hi."

Wow, I'm eloquent today. I hope this continues into the interview.

"Welcome to Donnel Enterprises," she announced. "How may I help you?"

"My name's Rory Gilmore. I'm here for an interview with Mr. Donnel."

"May I see your identification, please?" the woman asked with her ever-present smile.

I pulled my press badge from my bag and handed it over, then waited while she picked up the phone, her eyes never leaving me. I shifted my weight, somewhat disconcerted, and also wishing that she would hurry it up. After concluding that I was, indeed, expected, she handed me back my badge.

"Welcome, Miss Gilmore. You may proceed to the 10th floor and check in with Charlene." She handed me what appeared to be a visitor's badge. "You'll need that for the elevator."

I pressed the button for the elevator and waited for it to arrive, glancing back and smiling awkwardly at the receptionist. The ding of the arrival seemed to echo in the empty lobby.

I saw what she meant about the badge when the silver doors closed and I pressed the button for 10, and nothing happened. My eyes searched the panel for the reader and I swiped my handy badge, then tried the button again. To my relief, it worked this time.

A glance at my watch revealed that it was 1:55. I typically preferred to arrive at least 15 minutes early, but this would do. It had been short notice, after all. I rummaged in my purse until my hand clamped on my notepad, then groped for my digital recorder, just to reassure myself that they were there.

The doors opened with a ding and I stepped out onto the 10th floor. More white marble. Just like the bottom, the top of the building featured wall-to-wall windows, offering a panoramic view of downtown.

It was almost like a mini version of the lobby downstairs, with the extra touches of a few modern-looking plants. The only piece of artwork in the room was a large, unframed abstract painting hanging above the reception desk.

I approached the desk and before I could introduce myself to the woman I assumed was Charlene, she smiled and greeted me. "Welcome to Donnel Enterprises, Miss Gilmore. Mr. Donnel is currently busy, but would you please have a seat?"

"Thank you," I replied quietly, fearing that my voice would echo in the otherwise empty room.

"Can I get you anything to drink? Water, coffee?"

"Coffee would be great, thank you." I took a seat in a white leather Barcelona chair. Charlene disappeared through one of two doorways behind her desk and appeared moments later with my coffee in a white mug. I accepted it with a smile and she returned to her post behind the desk.

I surveyed the foyer from my seat. Charlene's jet black hair was an almost shocking contrast to the whites and grays that filled the room. Her skirt and blazer were a crisp heather grey that matched that of the lobby receptionist. Perhaps it was some kind of uniform. Regardless, they were both very well-kempt with an air of sophistication. Very corporate.

I looked down at myself and wished again that I'd had some notice. Maybe I would've worn something different. The black pencil skirt was decent enough, especially with my favorite heels, but my white button-up was a bit wrinkled beneath my black vest. I halfheartedly tugged at it, to no avail.

I have no reason to be self-conscious, I reminded myself. So what is this guy is some hot-shot CEO multimillionaire? I know better than to judge a book by its cover.

He was probably a trust fund kid who'd started his company with a hefty head start. He was probably just the face of the company, a front man with a recognizable name whom they cart out for special occasions but who really doesn't work at all. He probably partied his way through Northwestern.

Although my research did say he graduated magna cum laude from undergrad. And then he went back for his EMBA from Yale and completed the program in nearly half the time it was designed for.

"Miss Gilmore?"

I looked up at Charlene, startled out of my thoughts.

"Mr. Donnel will see you now."

How did she know? There was no phone call, no intercom.

I shook my head to clear it. That was a mystery to ponder at a later date.

Charlene led me to a frosted glass door on the far wall; the only wall not made of windows. She pulled the door open and gestured me in with a sweep of her arm.

"Mr. Donnel, Miss Gilmore for you," she announced. Then the door closed behind me and Charlene was gone.

Mr. Donnel stood at the far side of the room with his back to me, facing yet another set of floor-to-ceiling windows. "Yes, I understand, Mr. Tori."

He's on the phone? I thought Charlene said he was ready! That's what you get when you try to communicate by telepathy rather than telephone!

He continued his conversation while I hovered awkwardly near the door. He didn't even turn around. He had yet to acknowledge my presence in any way, and I bristled as I stared at his back. How dare he expect me to wait complacently for him to decide he was ready to dain to speak with me? Our appointment time had begun five minutes ago.

"But you must agree that the process and integration team has a better overall view of the situation," he said. "Wouldn't it be beneficial to take advantage of their expertise?"

He stood facing the windows, overlooking downtown. Mr. Donnel wore a sharply pressed slate gray suit. Maybe it really was a uniform. No wrinkles for him. Surely a man such as himself would never be caught dead in a wrinkled shirt. If his office space was any indication, he demanded clean lines and order in all things.

His office was as sparsely modern as the rest of the building. His desk was a glass-top behemoth, at least twice the size of my desk at the paper. It held two huge monitors and an open Macbook, and he had a neatly organized wireframe inbox of his own. None of his papers dared to be out of place. There was a bound and covered document open with a yellow highlighter sitting on top.

A large bamboo plant ornamented one corner of the room, and an artfully arranged cluster of photographs hung on the opposite wall. It was a series of city skylines, and it was the most personal touch I'd seen yet.

"We can discuss logistics later, but for now I'd like to focus on the broad strategic plan," he said.

My eyes were drawn back to the CEO himself, still gazing out over his kingdom of downtown Hartford. He shifted and placed his hand on his hip, making his grey blazer stretch tighter across his broad shoulders. The color did seem to suit blond hair. His pants fell from narrow hips and I rolled my eyes in frustration as I realized that he was most likely attractive. At least, he definitely was if his face matched his body. Of their own accord, my eyes fell south from his hips to appreciate the rest of him.

Somehow it didn't seem fair to be both rich, successful, and attractive. It made you think you could keep people waiting and they would be just tickled when you finally decided to give them the time of day. I sighed with impatience and planted my own hand on my hip.

"Right," he said definitively. "We'll continue this conversation later. I have pressing matters to attend to."

He hung up without another word of goodbye, and when Mr. Donnel finally turned to face me, and my jaw nearly dropped. And it wasn't at the realization that he really was attractive. At least not only.

It was because Tristan Donnel - the hot-shot multimillionaire CEO front man with the Ivy League EMBA - was actually Tristan DuGrey. And I'd just been checking out his ass.

While I worked to rehinge my jaw and pull myself together, I saw him give me an appraising once-over. When his eyes finally made their way back to my face, my gaze locked on his and he gave me a slow smile. "Hello, Mary."

I was too shocked to reply. In fact, I was too shocked to do anything but stand there dumbly and stare at him, blinking in confusion.

He gave me a lopsided grin that was full of cockiness and arrogance and so many other infuriating things, and yet made my skin flush and my pulse quicken. "I was so hoping they'd send you."