The CEO's pet wife is a witch

Chapter One: The Woman in the Storm The storm came from nothing. No warning, no wind. One second the sky above Dante Gray’s penthouse was as black and still as ink—the next, a thunderclap cracked the heavens in two. Then came the fall. Glass shattered above the marble hallway. A shape dropped through the skylight, trailing rain and smoke, hitting the floor with the soft thud of flesh against stone. A woman. Unmoving. Dante barely heard his guards crash in behind him. His gaze was locked on her. She lay curled on her side, soaked, barefoot, wearing tattered cloth that looked hand-stitched. Something glinted at her throat—an old chain, tarnished with time. And her hair— Brown at first glance. But under the flickering lights, it shimmered white, then red, like a flame remembering its color. The room fell silent. “She fell,” one of the guards whispered. “From the sky. There’s no—” “She’s breathing,” Dante cut in. Then she stirred. A soft gasp escaped her lips, and her hands curled inwards, as if trying to grasp something long lost. Her voice came, broken, tremulous: “Have I crossed the veil? Is this the realm of iron and glass?” Dante froze. “What?” She opened her eyes. Gray as storms. Luminous. “I sought passage... only to flee the pyres. What trick of fate is this?” He took a cautious step forward, his voice low. “You’re in New York. Midtown. Do you know your name?” Her gaze flickered toward him but didn’t quite meet his eyes. Her lips parted, the words lingering like a quiet storm before they escaped her. “Names are chains... but you may call me Celeste.” That voice—like a hymn wrapped in ash. Her expression was unreadable. She looked around, scanning the room with a strange intensity, as if seeing beyond the walls, beyond the glass and steel. Her eyes seemed to pierce through time itself. “I feel the weight of this place,” she murmured, barely audible. “The pulse of metal, the pulse of iron, the things that are not... mine.” Dante shifted, a knot forming in his stomach. Her words didn’t make sense, yet they stirred something in him. Something dark and ancient. Her gaze never quite settled on him, as if something inside her was holding back. Guarded. Unwilling to reveal too much. “Do you understand me?” he pressed, cautious, but intrigued. She didn’t answer at first. She was still listening to the hum of the city, her fingers curling as if grasping at air. Finally, she spoke again, but her voice was softer now, almost as if she were speaking to herself. “Time is but a thread, spun from one end to the other... and yet it unravels at the strangest of moments.” Dante’s breath caught in his chest. “Where did you come from?” She didn’t answer, not in the way he hoped. Instead, her lips curled into the faintest of smiles—sad, distant, and filled with an unfathomable loss. “I... escaped.” She paused. “The pyres. And the chains that bound me.” Her words hung in the air like a riddle. “Escape?” Dante’s voice was sharp, confusion edging through. “From what?” She looked at him then, eyes glinting like silver shards in the dim light. “From death. From the past. From... what was.” --