The Witch’s Vow

The morning after the wedding, Elira awoke in silk sheets that smelled of expensive cologne and a life that did not belong to her.

The room was vast—larger than the entire house she had grown up in. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed everything in soft, golden light. A fireplace crackled in the corner, and an intricate chandelier hung from the ceiling like a crown of crystal.

Damien's wealth surrounded her. Enclosed her.

Trapped her.

The bed was empty beside her.

For a moment, she allowed herself to breathe, to stretch her limbs and feel the weight of the previous night settle into her bones. The ceremony. The vows. The kiss.

She had played her part perfectly.

But for how long could she keep up the act?

A knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts. Before she could answer, a woman stepped inside. She was older, maybe in her late fifties, with sharp eyes and an air of quiet authority.

"Good morning, Mrs. Rothwell."

The title sent a strange shiver down Elira's spine. She wasn't used to it.

She wasn't sure she ever would be.

"I'm Meredith, the head of the household staff," the woman continued, placing a neatly folded dress on a chair. "Mr. Rothwell has left for his morning meetings. He asked that you settle in comfortably and that I assist you with anything you need."

Elira sat up slowly, keeping her expression neutral. Damien hadn't even waited until breakfast to return to work. She wasn't surprised. A man like him thrived on control, on power.

"Thank you, Meredith," she said, sliding out of bed.

The older woman hesitated. "If I may… Mr. Rothwell is a private man. His routine is strict, and his expectations are high. I assume you're aware?"

Elira met her gaze, tilting her head slightly. "Are you warning me?"

Meredith's lips twitched in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Only advising, ma'am. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."

With that, she left, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor.

Elira exhaled. She had known from the start that marrying Damien meant stepping into a world with rules she did not create.

But she had her own secrets.

And she had no intention of letting this house, or the man who owned it, consume her.

A Billionaire's PlaygroundBy afternoon, Elira had wandered through most of the estate. The mansion was modern yet timeless, decorated in deep blues, rich golds, and sleek black marble. Art that cost more than her childhood home hung on the walls.

And yet, despite its grandeur, the house was cold.

Not in temperature, but in feeling.

There was no warmth here. No sign that Damien had built it for love, for family.

It was a fortress.

She found herself in a study lined with shelves of books and an enormous desk cluttered with files. A glass of whiskey sat on the edge, half-finished—a sign that Damien had been here before leaving.

Curious, she ran her fingers along the desk's surface. Power lived here. She could feel it in the air, in the carefully organized documents and the faint scent of leather and ink.

A newspaper lay open, the headline catching her eye:

ROTHWELL INDUSTRIES CRUSHES COMPETITION – ANOTHER WIN FOR THE BILLIONAIRE MOGUL

She smirked. Damien was relentless in business, just as he was in everything else.

As she flipped the page, her fingers stilled over another article at the bottom.

Rival CEO Edgar Blackwood Returns – The Battle for Market Dominance Continues

Elira narrowed her eyes.

Blackwood. She had heard that name before.

A man as ruthless as Damien. A businessman who had nearly taken Rothwell Industries down in the past.

Her husband had enemies.

That was useful information.

She was about to close the paper when she felt it—a shift in the air.

A presence.

She turned just in time to see Damien standing in the doorway, watching her.

He was dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, the top button of his shirt undone. A man perfectly put together, yet there was something in his stance, in the way his gaze lingered on her, that felt… unsettled.

"You're already making yourself comfortable," he mused, stepping inside.

Elira lifted a brow, unbothered. "Shouldn't I?"

A small smirk played on his lips. "I expected you to be more… timid."

She smiled. "Then you don't know me very well."

His gaze darkened slightly, but not in anger. In intrigue.

He moved closer, reaching past her to pick up the glass of whiskey he had left behind. As he took a sip, his fingers brushed against hers—just for a second.

A test.

She did not flinch.

"I assume you've been exploring," he said, watching her over the rim of his glass.

"I have." She let her fingers drift over the newspaper again. "I see your business is… competitive."

Damien chuckled, low and deep. "That's a polite way to put it."

She tilted her head. "And this Blackwood? Is he still a threat?"

Something flickered in Damien's expression—calculated, assessing. "Edgar Blackwood has tried to destroy me more than once. He's failed every time."

"But he's still trying."

Damien's smirk faded slightly. "Business is a game of power, Elira. And I don't lose."

Elira held his gaze, sensing the weight behind his words.

He was a man who thrived on dominance, on winning at all costs.

And he believed he had won her.

She let out a soft laugh, stepping away from the desk. "Then I suppose I married a very dangerous man."

Damien watched her carefully. "And you? Should I be worried about the woman I married?"

She met his gaze without hesitation. "Of course not."

A lie.

One he would believe.

For now.

NightfallThat evening, Damien had a dinner meeting, leaving Elira alone in the mansion. She wandered onto the balcony, letting the city lights stretch out before her.

The wind whispered against her skin, and with it, she felt power stirring beneath the surface.

She had not used her magic in days.

Here, in this house of steel and glass, she was expected to be normal. To be human.

But magic was not something she could ignore. It lived in her, breathed in her.

With a slow breath, she lifted her hand.

A single spark flickered at her fingertips, golden and warm.

She let it dance there for a moment before closing her palm, snuffing it out.

Not yet.

She had played her role well. But soon, she would have to decide:

Did she keep pretending?

Or did she remind the world—and her husband—that a witch did not bow?