The Witch’s Vow

The scent of roses and sandalwood filled the grand hall, their fragrance mixing with the subtle perfume of wealth. Candles flickered in crystal chandeliers, casting golden light over tables adorned with silk and silver. A string quartet played softly in the background, their melody weaving through the murmurs of high society guests—billionaires, politicians, and aristocrats, all gathered to witness the union of two worlds.

At the center of it all stood Damien Alden Rothwell, a man who had conquered industries with nothing but his ambition and iron will. He had built empires, crushed rivals, and turned his name into a legacy that would outlive him. And now, at thirty-five, he was finally taking a wife.

A blessing, as he called her.

Elira stood at the far end of the aisle, veiled in delicate lace, her gown cascading down like moonlight woven into silk. The dress was not of her choosing, nor were the pearls that encircled her throat like a collar. Every piece of this day had been orchestrated for her—by her husband-to-be, by her family, by the world that had decided she would be something she was not.

A symbol of purity. A devoted, obedient wife.

Her fingers curled around the bouquet in her hands, nails pressing into her palm. If only they knew.

The moment the doors swung open, all eyes turned to her. Gasps rippled through the crowd, admiration flashing in the eyes of men and envy glinting in the eyes of women. Even Damien, for all his self-control, let his gaze linger as she stepped forward, his jaw tightening as if in silent appreciation.

Elira had seen that look before. She knew what men like him thought when they saw something untouched, something untamed.

She walked down the aisle with measured grace, her heart a steady drum in her chest. Each step brought her closer to the man who believed he had found a rare jewel—one untainted by the world, untouched by other men, unburdened by secrets.

He knew nothing.

Her father's voice echoed in her head from the night before. Do not ruin this for us.

Her mother's, softer but no less desperate. This is your chance to escape the life we had. To give us a future.

Elira knew what they wanted. They had spent years fearing her, shunning her, yet when the opportunity arose, they dressed her in gold and gave her away like an offering at an altar.

And she had let them.

The priest's voice barely registered in her mind as the ceremony began. She felt Damien's eyes on her—watching, studying. He was a man who read people like open books, who saw weakness and strength in equal measure.

But Elira had spent a lifetime learning to be unreadable.

Her lips parted only when necessary, murmuring the words she had been taught to say. Promises of love, devotion, obedience. Her magic pulsed beneath her skin, coiling like a restless serpent, but she kept it buried deep where no one could see.

Then came the final vow.

"For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, until death do us part."

Her breath caught for the briefest moment.

Until death.

She had seen death. Touched it. Walked its edges.

But Damien, standing before her with unwavering certainty, knew nothing of such things.

When he slipped the ring onto her finger, it was not just a symbol of love—it was a claim.

And when she slipped one onto his, she wondered if he could feel it—the invisible chain that now bound them together.

As the priest declared them husband and wife, Damien lifted her veil.

For a single heartbeat, silence stretched between them.

Then he leaned in, pressing his lips to hers.

It was not a tender kiss. It was firm, claiming, a declaration to the world that she belonged to him now.

Applause erupted around them. Champagne glasses clinked.

Elira smiled.

A perfect, practiced smile.

And not a single soul in the room knew it was a lie.

Later That Night

The reception lasted for hours—dancing, speeches, the clinking of fine china. Damien was the perfect groom, charming and attentive, but his eyes never left her for long.

When they finally arrived at his private estate, she was exhausted.

The house was a modern palace—tall glass walls, marble floors, a breathtaking view of the city skyline. Wealth dripped from every surface.

She had never belonged in places like this.

Yet here she was.

Damien guided her inside, his hand warm against the small of her back.

"I hope the night wasn't too overwhelming," he said, his voice smooth, deep. "It will take time to adjust to this life."

Elira turned to him, tilting her head slightly. "You think I need adjusting?"

A small smirk played on his lips. "I know you do. You've never been around this kind of wealth before."

It wasn't a question. It was a fact.

She nodded, playing the part he expected. "You're right. It's… a lot."

He studied her for a long moment, then reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. The touch was gentle, but there was something possessive in it.

"I chose you for a reason, Elira," he murmured. "You're unlike any woman I've ever met."

Her stomach twisted, but she forced herself to hold his gaze. "And why is that?"

His thumb grazed her cheek, his touch lingering. "Because you're pure."

The word sent a shiver down her spine.

Pure. Innocent. Untouched.

The lie had wrapped around her so tightly that even he, a man who saw through deception in the business world, believed it.

But what would he say if he knew the truth?

That his wife was not pure at all.

That the woman standing before him had power beyond his comprehension.

That if she wished, she could end him with a flick of her fingers.

Elira swallowed the thought down and smiled. "I hope I live up to your expectations."

His smirk deepened, and something unreadable flickered in his gaze. "You already have."

He turned away, unbuttoning his cufflinks, unaware of the storm that brewed beneath his own roof.

And Elira?

She stood there, staring at the golden wedding band on her finger.

A ring. A promise. A vow.

But vows could be broken.

And if Damien ever discovered who she truly was…

He might regret making her his wife.