His Vows

She used to believe Milan smelled like possibility. But mostly, it smelled like freedom. At least, it did at start. She came to Milan from Mumbai with nothing but her degree, her sketchbook, and desperate pulsing hope that she could make a name for herself designing spaces for beautiful people. She chose to be a interior designer because she longed to create space that would stand long after she was gone a quite legacy written in walls and light, a beautiful proof that she had been here. That was all she wanted. A chance. A place. A name On paper, he was a legitimate businessman- a financier, real estate magnate, and partner in luxury brands whose logos gleamed from Via Monte Napolean shop windows. His name appeared in glossy magazines, whispered among Europe's elite, always accompanied by photos of him in tailored suites and cold, elegant smiles. She saw beauty in broken things. And he? He broke things. He didn't just want to own her. He wanted to be owned by her. He didn't crave to make her his; he ached to belong to her- in ways he'd never belonged to anything but darkness. She was not meant for his world. Not for the violence. Not for the weight of blood-soaked legacies. Not for him. But he would drag her into it anyway. Because the moment he saw her, he knew- he was going to ruin her. They called her a curse, a ruin in silk. he called her mine. when they dragged her away, screaming witch, he smiled. Let them pray. Let them beg. He lit the pyres himself. Watched kingdoms crumble and ocean boil. For every tear she cried, He gave them fire. If loving her meant ending the world- he would do it twice. INSTAGRAM- cassiandusk