The Woman in White
546 Words
The villa glowed with golden light.
Lanterns hung between olive branches. Tables overflowed with figs and warm bread, bottles of wine opened and shared without measure. Music drifted from a string quartet near the fountain—sweet, old-world notes that curled like ivy through the dusk.
It was the annual Harvest Celebration, and the vineyard had not shone this brightly in years.
Workers wore their finest. Laughter spilled freely. Wine darkened lips and loosened hearts. And still, no one was watching the stars.
Because the stars had descended.
And she… was one of them.
⸻
Anindya stepped out from the villa like a breath of forgotten summer.
She wore white. Simple, sleeveless, flowing to her ankles. Not pure like innocence—but pure like clarity. The dress clung gently to her waist, her collarbones glowing in the lantern light, her hair half-up, soft tendrils brushing her cheeks. No jewels. No shoes. Only grace.
And the entire vineyard paused.
She wasn’t trying to be seen.
But she was unforgettable.
⸻
Maximilian saw her from across the courtyard—and the glass in his hand nearly slipped.
For a man trained never to react, never to show hunger or softness, the look in his eyes at that moment said everything.
He didn’t see a worker.
He didn’t see a guest.
He saw a goddess in the wrong century.
She walked through the celebration unaware that every eye followed her. That the music shifted for her. That even the wind quieted.
And then their eyes met.
Across the crowd.
Across the lights and wine and laughter.
And the air between them… stopped.
⸻
Later, when the music slowed, and couples drifted to the center stone circle to dance, Maximilian approached her.
He didn’t ask.
He held out his hand.
“Dance with me,” he said.
She hesitated for half a breath—just long enough to make his heart stumble—then placed her hand in his.
They moved to the center. And the world faded.
He pulled her gently into his arms, one hand resting against her back, the other guiding her with impossible softness. They didn’t speak.
They didn’t need to.
They moved like they had danced before—somewhere, in another life. Her body fit against his like a poem he hadn’t known he’d memorized. He leaned in, just enough for his breath to graze her temple.
And he whispered:
“Don’t ever wear white again… unless it’s for me.”
Her breath caught.
“What?”
He pulled back to look at her, just barely.
“You heard me.”
A thousand answers bloomed behind her lips—but she said nothing.
Because nothing could have matched what she felt in that moment.
Not fear.
Not hope.
Only fire—wrapped in silence and silk.
⸻
As the dance ended, he let her go gently, as if releasing something sacred. She stepped away, dizzy in a way that had nothing to do with the wine.
And as she disappeared back into the crowd, he stood motionless, still tasting the feel of her body in his arms.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew:
She wasn’t just under his skin now.
She was in his blood.
And she would never leave it again.
- Writer
