The Witch’s Vow

Morning arrived with golden sunlight spilling through the bedroom windows, but Elira felt none of its warmth.

She stood on the balcony, hands resting on the marble railing, eyes focused on the distant skyline.

The visit last night had been a warning.

The witches had not forgotten her.

They had allowed her to marry Damien, to slip into this world of wealth and power, but they were waiting—watching—for the moment when she would either return to them or be destroyed for betraying them.

The choice she had claimed to make… was not truly hers to make at all.

Behind her, she heard the soft rustle of sheets, then the steady footsteps of Damien as he joined her outside.

She did not turn.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—

"You're thinking too loudly," Damien murmured.

Elira smirked. "I didn't realize my thoughts had volume."

He leaned beside her, his sharp gaze studying her carefully. "They do. Especially when you wake up looking like you've fought a battle in your sleep."

She arched a brow. "And what do I look like now?"

His eyes darkened slightly. "Like a woman with secrets."

Her heart skipped, just for a second.

Damien was perceptive. Too perceptive.

She needed to be careful.

She turned to him with a slow smile. "Every woman has secrets."

His lips curled, but his gaze never left hers. "And what would happen if I decided to uncover yours?"

Elira leaned in, her voice soft as silk. "You might not like what you find, Mr. Rothwell."

His grip on the railing tightened slightly, as if something in her tone had unsettled him.

Good.

Let him feel just a sliver of the truth lurking beneath her skin.

Because one day, the secrets he so desperately wanted to uncover… might just consume him whole.

The Business of Power

Later that day, Elira accompanied Damien to Rothwell Tower—the headquarters of his empire.

She had insisted on coming.

Not because she wanted to play the perfect wife, but because she needed to see who Damien was in his own kingdom.

And she was not disappointed.

He moved through the halls like a monarch inspecting his court, men and women straightening the moment he passed, their voices turning sharp and efficient.

Fear.

Respect.

Power.

Elira had always believed magic was the greatest force in the world. But watching Damien command a room with nothing but his presence, she realized something.

This was its own kind of magic.

And he was a master of it.

They entered the conference room, where his executive team was already waiting. Among them sat two men she recognized immediately.

Edgar Blackwood.

And a man she had never met in person, but whose name carried weight—Victor Langley.

Another one of Damien's rivals. Ruthless. Dangerous. A man who had torn companies apart with nothing but well-placed whispers and hostile takeovers.

She took her seat beside Damien, feeling both men's eyes on her.

Blackwood smirked. "You brought your wife to a business meeting? How domestic."

Elira smiled sweetly. "I like to know where my husband's enemies sit."

Langley let out a low chuckle, clearly amused. "And what makes you think we're his enemies?"

She tilted her head. "Because powerful men don't sit at the same table unless they're planning to share something or steal it."

Langley's gaze flickered with something—approval, perhaps.

Blackwood, however, leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Tell me, Mrs. Rothwell," he mused. "Do you plan to play a role in your husband's empire? Or are you just here to look beautiful?"

Elira held his gaze, her smile never faltering. "Would you like to find out?"

A challenge.

A warning.

Blackwood's smirk widened, but before he could respond, Damien's voice cut through the air.

"This meeting isn't about my wife," he said, his tone sharp. "Let's not waste time."

And just like that, the atmosphere shifted.

Elira said nothing more, but she noticed the way Blackwood watched her now.

Not just as Damien's wife.

But as something else.

Something dangerous.

The Shadows Whisper

That night, Elira stood in the library, running her fingers over the spines of old books.

Magic hummed beneath her skin.

She had made a mistake today.

She had drawn too much attention.

Blackwood and Langley were powerful men, but they were still human. If they ever suspected what she truly was, they would not hesitate to use it against her.

She let out a slow breath, pressing a hand against the polished wood of the bookshelf.

And then—

A whisper.

Faint. Barely there.

But unmistakable.

"Elira…"

She froze.

The scent of burning wax filled the air, the lights flickering for just a second.

She turned sharply—

And saw him.

A figure standing in the far corner of the room.

Tall. Cloaked in shadows. His face hidden beneath a hood.

Not the same figure from last night.

No.

This one was worse.

She knew who he was before he even spoke.

The High Warlock.

Leader of the witches. The one who had once sworn to burn the mortal world if she ever betrayed them.

And now, he was here.

Watching her.

Elira clenched her fists, forcing herself to remain still.

"I told them I was done," she said evenly.

The Warlock chuckled softly, stepping closer. "And yet, here you are. Wrapped in silk and wealth, pretending to be something you are not."

She said nothing.

"Does he know?" he asked, voice low.

Her breath hitched, but she didn't let it show. "Know what?"

The Warlock's smile was slow. Amused.

"That the woman he sleeps beside is the very thing men have feared for centuries."

Silence filled the room.

Elira's heartbeat was steady, controlled. But inside, something dark stirred.

She would not let them take this from her.

Not this life.

Not him.

"Leave," she said, voice quiet but firm.

The Warlock chuckled again. "Soon, Elira. Very soon."

And with that—

He vanished.

Leaving behind nothing but the scent of smoke.

And the sinking realization that her time was running out.