Beneath His Vows

A Glimpse of the God

Selene’s POV

Morning light spilled across the marble halls as Selene adjusted the apron Elise had given her. Her tasks for the day were simple: dust the sitting rooms, polish the glass, and stay out of the way. Simple—except nothing in the Veylor estate ever felt simple. Every corner seemed to watch her, every silence hummed with expectation.

She bent to straighten a vase when movement drew her eyes upward. He was there.

Damian Veylor.

This time, she saw him clearly—not in passing, not from a distance.

He was tall, impossibly so, his presence filling the space as though the air bent itself to him. His suit was immaculate, but it was his face that stilled her hands. Features sharp as if carved from stone, yet refined with a softness that made him unbearably human. His skin caught the morning light, flawless, almost luminous, while his eyes—dark, beautiful, and lonely like an endless ocean—landed on her.

Selene’s breath caught.

She had never believed a person could be beautiful in a way that hurt, until now. Looking at him was like staring at something not meant for mortal eyes. A god wearing a man’s shape.

“Miss Hart.” His voice broke the silence, low and steady, carrying more weight than the words themselves.

She swallowed, fumbling with her apron. “Yes, sir?”

“You’re early.” He checked the gold watch on his wrist before returning his gaze to her. His eyes lingered, as though measuring more than her time.

Selene’s lips parted, unsure if it was a criticism or a compliment. “I—yes, sir. I thought it best to begin right away.”

For a heartbeat, something flickered across his face. Almost amusement. Almost. Then it was gone, sealed behind that perfect, unreadable mask.

“Good,” he said simply, and moved past her.

But as he did, the faint trace of his cologne brushed against her senses—subtle, expensive, unforgettable. Her pulse betrayed her, racing in a way she couldn’t control.

When the echo of his footsteps finally faded, Selene realized she hadn’t moved since he appeared. Her hands trembled around the vase, her chest tight as though the air still carried him.

It was ridiculous. She was a househelp. He was her employer. Yet her heart hadn’t gotten the memo.

And somewhere deep down, she feared it never would.

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Damian’s POV

Order. That was what the house demanded, and what he had built his entire life upon. Yet the moment he saw her—standing there with wide eyes and trembling hands—the air shifted.

Damian’s gaze lingered longer than it should have. Her hair, black and wavy, framed her face in a way that drew attention to her eyes—eyes that looked too open, too honest, for a house like his. He told himself it was nothing. Just another employee. Just another presence to tolerate in a house already filled with whispers of staff.

But something in the way she looked at him unsettled the stillness he carried inside.

He saw the question in her posture, the awe she didn’t bother to hide. Most people lowered their heads, afraid to meet his eyes. She… stared. As if she could see through him. As if she noticed the silence he wore like armor.

That was dangerous.

“Good,” he had said, keeping his voice clipped, detached. He passed her, letting the distance reassert itself. Yet the scent of her—something faint, like vanilla soap and fresh air—clung to him longer than it should have.

Damian tightened his jaw. This was precisely why he avoided getting too close. People had a way of stirring what he had long buried, of making him feel the edges of a loneliness he had trained himself not to acknowledge.

She was nothing but a househelp.

And he was a man who couldn’t afford to let anyone close.

Still… for the first time in months, maybe years, he found himself distracted. Wondering, not about business, not about contracts, but about the girl with trembling hands and eyes that looked like they still believed in something.

That belief was dangerous too.

And Damian Veylor knew one thing: dangerous things never lasted long in his world.