The Witch’s Vow

The event was held at a luxury estate just outside the city, a place where the wealthy and powerful gathered like kings and queens at a royal court.

The moment Elira stepped out of the car, she felt it—the weight of eyes on her, the quiet assessments, the silent calculations.

Everyone here was looking for an advantage.

And as Damien's new wife, she was an unknown factor.

Perfect.

Damien's hand rested on the small of her back, guiding her forward with the quiet confidence of a man who owned every space he entered.

Heads turned as they moved through the crowd, whispers trailing behind them like shadows.

"Elira Rothwell," someone murmured.

"So this is the wife…"

"She's beautiful—but does she belong here?"

Elira smiled. Let them wonder.

They entered the grand ballroom, where champagne flowed and business deals were made with a single glance. It was a battlefield disguised as luxury, and Damien navigated it like a king among lesser men.

Elira had spent years learning how to read people. It was a skill that had kept her alive, that had helped her hide what she was.

And tonight, she could feel the tension simmering beneath the polished surface of smiles and handshakes.

Something was shifting.

Something dangerous.

The Rival AppearsShe saw him before Damien did.

A tall figure in a midnight-black suit, moving through the crowd with effortless confidence. He had the air of a predator, sharp and calculating.

Edgar Blackwood.

The man Damien considered his greatest rival.

Elira had seen his name before, had read about his ruthless strategies, his near-takedown of Rothwell Industries years ago.

Now, he stood before them, a smirk playing at his lips.

"Rothwell." His voice was smooth, almost amused. "You look well."

Damien's expression barely changed, but Elira felt the shift in his energy—subtle, controlled, but undeniably sharp.

"Blackwood."

Edgar's gaze flicked to her, curiosity flashing in his dark eyes. "And this must be the new wife."

Elira smiled, tilting her head just slightly. "Elira Rothwell."

Something in the way she said it made his smirk widen.

"You chose an interesting one," Edgar remarked to Damien. "She doesn't look like the usual women in your orbit."

Damien's hand on Elira's waist tightened slightly. Protective. Possessive.

"She's exactly where she belongs," he said coolly.

Elira chuckled. "Funny. I was just thinking the same thing."

Edgar's gaze lingered on her for a second longer than necessary before he turned back to Damien.

"I hear you've been making moves in the East Coast markets," he said. "Bold, considering how easily things can… collapse."

A veiled threat.

Damien smiled, but there was steel behind it.

"Be careful, Blackwood," he said, voice smooth as silk. "I don't believe in collapse. Only demolition."

The tension between them crackled like a live wire.

Elira observed quietly, filing away every glance, every shift in tone.

This wasn't just business.

It was a war.

And she had just stepped into the middle of it.

A Witch Among MenHours later, when the event had died down and the last guests had departed, Elira stood on the balcony of their bedroom, staring at the city skyline.

Damien was in his study, likely pouring over the consequences of the night's conversations.

She exhaled slowly, letting the cool night air brush against her skin.

She should have felt out of place here.

But she didn't.

Because despite the wealth, despite the power games, despite the humans who thought they were kings—she was the most dangerous thing in this house.

She lifted her hand, watching as golden light flickered at her fingertips.

Magic. Ancient. Unyielding. Hers.

She had hidden it well. Played the perfect wife, the obedient bride.

But soon, the balance of power would shift.

And when it did, she would remind everyone—Damien Rothwell, Edgar Blackwood, and the world itself—

A witch does not bow.