His Vows

Chapter One

Dedication-

To the ones who understand that sometimes love sounds like "mine". And sometimes... like "kneel.”

ANANYA KAPOOR: -

Some morning felt like they belonged to me.

This was one of them.

The sun has barely lifted above Milan rooftops, painting the city in soft peach light. I was already settled at my favorite table in Cafe Fiorella, my elbows smudged with pencil dust, a half-drunk cappuccino cooling beside my sketchbook.

Outside, the street bustled with the beginnings of weekday life. Bicycle bells. Car horns. A dog barking somewhere far off.

I sketched the curve of an armchair, imagining it upholstered in deep moss-green velvet. I traced the lines of narrow windows draped in sheer linen, picturing brass fixtures catching the light like soft promises.

None of it was for a real client. Yet.

But that's how it worked. I designed dreams first. Then tried to convince people they wanted to live inside them.

"Jesus, Ananya, it's way too early for you to be turned on by furniture."

A shadow fell across my sketchbook as Pia dropped into the chair across from me. Her hair was piled into a messy bun that looked both effortless and expensive. we'd met by chance in college, two completely different worlds colliding, and somehow, we'd been inseparable ever since. She might tease me mercilessly, but beneath all her drama, Pia cared a lot about me more fiercely than anyone I'd ever known.

"It's a reading nook," I said, lifting my chin.

"You and your reading nooks. Milan doesn't have time for reading nooks. Milan's too busy screaming into the void."

"Milan desperately needs reading nooks," I insisted. "It needs corners where people can breathe and not have a meltdown over the price of leather loafers."

Pia leaned closer. "Okay, you have a meltdown if there's a scratch on your leather samples."

"Professional meltdown," I corrected.

Pia gave me funky look then waved at the barista, ordered a double espresso, then dropped her voice to a scandalous whisper.

"So. Spill. Any hot dates?"

"Zero," I said, snapping my sketchbook shut. "I've been working. And saving. And not dating."

"Boring." Pia pulled her phone from her purse and started scrolling, as if my love life was the perfect problem to solve. "I'm telling you, you need a man to distract you. Or at least a fling. A healthy fling."

"I don't have time for a fling. I can barely afford my groceries."

"Then sleep with someone rich! Problem solved."

I nearly choked on my cappuccino. "Pia."

She held up her spoon. "Look. A man buys you dinner, maybe some cashmere. You get some action. Everybody wins."

"I don't want cashmere," I said. "I want to keep my dignity and my bank account separate."

Pia sighed dramatically. "You're no fun."

"I'm plenty of fun."

"You're fun in the way a scented candle is fun," Pia said. "Calm. Pretty. Zero chaos. You need a man who's like... an earthquake."

I shuddered. "No earthquakes, thanks."

"Oh, honey." Pia leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Earthquakes are exactly what you need."

My name is Ananya Kapoor.

Twenty-five years old.

Interior designer.

Middle-class girl from Mumbai, currently pretending she belongs in a city carved out of marble and old money.

My mother worked in a bank back home and sent me w******p voice notes every morning.

"Beta, drink warm water. Eat something green. Don't trust strange men."

I always texted back a thumbs-up emoji. Even on days I skipped lunch to afford rent. Even on nights I lay awake, wondering if I'd made the biggest mistake of my life moving to Milan six months ago.

I'd dreamed of this city since I was fifteen. Fashion. Art. Design. Places that looked like movie sets. Clients who could spend my entire college tuition on a single chandelier.

But Milan wasn't built for girls like me.

I still counted coins before ordering coffee. Still sewed my own curtains in the tiny studio I rented in the Navigli district. Still felt invisible in showrooms where clients barely looked at me.

Except for moments like this.

When sunlight streamed through the café windows.

When my pencil danced across the page.

When possibility felt close enough to taste.

"Anyway," Pia said, pulling out her phone instead of her yogurt this time, "please tell me you're going on that villa job interview."

"It's not an interview yet," I said. "Their assistant called yesterday. No details. Just said the owner wants to renovate. Said the job is... complicated."

Pia's eyes went wide. "Complicated how?"

"She wouldn't say."

"Ananya, a villa in Brera is not 'just a job.' That's your name on the map. That's the fancy magazines. That's the earthquake you actually need."

"I don't even know who the client is yet," I said. "People like that... they have designers on retainer. They're not hiring girls from Mumbai who still buy shoes on sale."

Pia jabbed her phone at me like a weapon. "Hello? The call came from Castellano Holdings. Do you even realize what that means? They're one of the biggest private companies in Italy. Real estate. Luxury brands. God knows what else. And the Castellano family—old money doesn't even begin to cover it. They're practically royalty. Some people say they're one of the richest families in the entire country."

I blinked. "I... didn't know that."

"Of course you didn't. You've been living under a pile of velvet swatches. Ananya, if they're considering you for this villa, you have to fight for it. Make them see you. You're better than half the snobs in this city. Show them."

The café door swung open, letting in a rush of cold morning air. I looked up instinctively—

And saw the man standing outside the window.

⸻

He wasn't facing me. He stood with his back to the street, talking quietly into a phone. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a dark overcoat that looked criminally expensive. His hair was black, swept back from a high forehead, but a few strands fell over his brow.

There was something about the way he stood. Perfectly still. Like a lion deciding whether to pounce.

Even through glass, I felt a shiver slide across my skin.

I blinked—and he was gone. Swallowed into the Milan crowd like he'd never been there.

"Earth to Ananya." Pia snapped her fingers in front of my face. "Did that sofa you're in love with just walk by on two legs?"

I forced a laugh. "I'm fine. Just... tired."

Pia eyed me. "Honey, that wasn't a tired face. That was a 'holy s**t, who was that man?' face."

I said nothing. Because she wasn't wrong.

⸻

The rest of the morning blurred into sketches, emails, and frantic phone calls about sourcing marble tiles that didn't cost as much as my rent.

By noon, Pia had vanished to a photoshoot, and I packed up my things, slipped into my battered trench coat, and stepped out into the bright streets of Milan.

The city glittered beneath a pale winter sun. Designer boutiques. Women in towering heels. The sharp scent of roasted chestnuts wafting from street vendors.

I moved fast, weaving through tourists and businessmen, my heart still beating far too hard for reasons I couldn't name.

⸻

My studio was a cramped space above a bakery, the walls covered in paint samples and magazine clippings of rooms I wanted to create someday.

I kicked off my shoes, sat cross-legged on my tiny sofa, and stared at my phone.

One unread voicemail blinked on the screen.

⸻

"Miss Kapoor, this is Elena. From the Castellano estate. Mr. Castellano reviewed your portfolio. He wishes to discuss a possible commission at his villa. Please confirm an appointment at your earliest convenience."

Castellano.

The name echoed in my head, sharp and electric.

I hadn't known who they were until Pia spelled it out for me. But now I couldn't stop thinking about it—one of the wealthiest families in Italy. Old money, older secrets. Whispers of power that reached far beyond marble villas and designer brands.

A villa job in Brera could change my entire life. My career. Everything.

But something deep in my gut whispered that nothing about this job was ordinary.

Still, I pressed the number.

Elena speaking."

"Hi. This is Ananya Kapoor. I'd... like to confirm the appointment."

"Excellent, Miss Kapoor. Mr. Castellano will see you tomorrow. Ten a.m. sharp. The driver will collect you. Dress professionally."

"Of course."

"And Miss Kapoor?"

"Yes?"

"Mr. Castellano prefers discretion."

Click.

⸻

I lowered my phone slowly.

My sketchbook lay open on the coffee table, velvet chairs and brass fixtures blurring into meaningless lines.

Outside, the bakery's neon sign blinked pink and white against the gathering dusk.

Somewhere in the city, I could still feel the weight of the man's presence from outside the café. Even though he'd never once turned around.

I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to calm my heartbeat.

I wanted this job. I wanted it with everything I had.

But for the first time since I landed in Milan, I felt like I was about to step off the edge of something I couldn't name.

I wanted the job. But as dusk bled into night, I tasted something sweeter and far more dangerous than success- fate, circling me like a predator in the dark.