His Vows

Chapter Three

AUTHOR.

_______________

Ananya was running late.

Not the soft, harmless kind of late where one simply apologizes and everyone moves on.

No, this was the sprinting-around-the-flat-with-wet-hair kind of late.

She'd come all way from Mumbai for this. Not for love. Not for Entertaiment. Not for limelight. For work. For money. For a chance to prove that a girl from a cramped flat with peeling paint could build something extraordinary-and help her parents finally retire without counting every rupee.

That was why, despite the panic rising in her throat, she repeated under her breath like a mantra:

"This is business. This is my chance. I can't screw it up."

Ananya was half-dressed, hair dripping, one shoe missing, when her phone buzzed.

Pia's voice blared through the speaker. "So, madam Milan-imported-designer, have you fainted yet or are you still breathing?"

"I'm fine," Ananya snapped, wrestling her hair into a bun. "I just can't find my other shoe. And the water went cold. And I'm ninety percent sure my landlord's ghost is watching me pack my bag."

"So a normal day," Pia said sweetly. "Except today you're meeting Mr. Tall, Dark, and Possibly a Robot."

Ananya nearly dropped her hairbrush. "He's not a robot. He's my client. This is business. I left Mumbai for this, remember? I'm not here for men or fancy cars. I'm here for my career."

Pia made a scandalized gasp. "You're not even slightly going to drool over his billionaire cheekbones?"

"No!" Ananya shouted. Then softer, "Well. Maybe a tiny bit. But only for scientific observation."

Piya's voice crackled through. "Calm down, woman. You're acting like they're sending you into a gladiator arena instead of a meeting."

Ananya huffed. "It feels like a gladiator arena. Except the lions wear thousand-euro suits and judge your curtain choices."

Piya laughed. "Please. You're brilliant. You're talented. I'd trust you to design my coffin after I die."

Ananya rolled her eyes. "That's... morbid."

"I'm serious!" Piya declared. "You'd make it look classy. Like—rose gold handles, velvet interior, soft spotlight. People would queue up just to compliment my final resting place."

Ananya snorted. "Glad to know my career plan includes death décor."

Piya lowered her voice dramatically. "Promise me if I die before you, you'll design something Instagrammable. No boring white marble."

"Goodbye, Piya," Ananya groaned, pressing end call as Piya cackled in her ear.

______

Ananya jammed her phone into her bag and rushed outside.

The Maserati gleamed at the curb, black and sleek under the Milan sun.

She barely spared it a glance. Instead, she exhaled hard and whispered:

This is it. This is why I left home. Don't mess this up, Ananya.

She climbed in, clutching her folder like a shield

The driver nodded politely. "Buongiorno, Signorina Kapoor."

"Buongiorno," Ananya replied, her accent mangling the word. She cleared her throat and stared out the window as the car pulled away.

The streets of Milan streamed past in a blur of terracotta buildings, elegant boutiques, and impossibly well-dressed people striding by as though the cobblestones were runways.

When they reached the glass-and-steel tower of Castellano Industries, the Maserati slid into a private parking bay.

The driver escorted her to a private elevator, pressing the button with the discreet air of someone used to secrets.

The lift glided upward with a soft hum, carrying Ananya past twenty, thirty, forty floors. She tried to steady her breathing.

Okay. You're calm. You're professional. You're not going to trip over anything or insult anyone's suit.

The elevator doors opened onto the executive floor.

⸻

Ananya stepped out into a world of muted luxury.

Pale marble gleamed beneath her flats. Sunlight poured in through soaring windows, spilling over modern sculptures and minimalist furniture. The silence was near perfect, broken only by the soft clicking of a receptionist's keyboard.

"Good morning, Miss Kapoor," the receptionist said. "Mr. Castellano will see you shortly. Please wait here."

Ananya sat on a pale leather sofa, knees bouncing. She checked her reflection in her phone camera and grimaced at a smudge of eyeliner. She was just trying to wipe it away when she heard footsteps.

_____

The door to a nearby office swung open.

And there he was.

Luca di Castellano.

He stepped into the sunlit space, and for one moment, the world seemed to tilt.

He was tall and impeccably built, the dark charcoal suit fitting his lean frame like it was stitched onto him by angels. His black hair was slicked back, revealing a sharp widow's peak and high cheekbones. His skin was pale olive, lips unsmiling, and his eyes—good God, his eyes—were a startling pale grey, like storm clouds caught behind glass.

He glanced at her without blinking.

"Miss Kapoor."

His voice was deep and precise, every syllable clipped, like he didn't waste words.

For a split second, the silence between them felt as thick as velvet, pressing against her ribs.

Ananya forced herself to breathe, to stand tall, and said, almost as if reciting a line, "Well... I suppose there's a first time for everything."

"Mr. Castellano," she added, voice steady but quiet, "thank you for taking the time to meet with me."

Luca's pale grey eyes shifted to the clock high on the opposite wall, then back to her without a flicker of warmth.

"You are five minutes late."

His words dropped like stones into water.

Ananya swallowed. "Technically... yes. But Milan traffic—"

"—is not my concern." His voice cut across hers, low and edged with quiet menace. "If you intend to work for me, Miss Kapoor, you will learn that precision is not optional. Neither is respect."

A thin chill snaked down her spine. She felt as though his gaze could peel the layers off her skin. But she lifted her chin an inch higher. "Understood. It won't happen again."

Luca watched her a second longer, his face as still as sculpted marble.

Then he turned sharply. "This way."

⸻

She fell into step behind him. The click of his polished shoes echoed down the corridor, each step measured, absolute.

He pushed open a door, and the sudden shift in atmosphere hit her like a wall.

Inside, his office was a cavern of shadows and glass. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in narrow blades of silver light that slashed across a dark marble floor.

The walls were painted a deep, nearly black charcoal, making the room feel like a vault. Along one wall hung abstract art in shades of iron grey and midnight blue, harsh and geometric, all sharp angles and jagged shapes.

A single sculpture sat on a plinth near his massive black desk—twisted steel, stark and cold, like it might cut you if you touched it.

The silence inside was so heavy it felt alive.

Luca rounded the desk and stood behind it, hands braced against the glossy black surface, the muscles in his forearms tightening slightly. His eyes never left hers.

He nodded toward the chair across from him. "Sit."

Ananya eased into the chair, setting her folder carefully in her lap, fingers trembling just enough to betray her.

Luca spoke without preamble. "I have reviewed your designs. Your aesthetic is... unconventional."

Ananya drew a small breath, gathering the courage that was trying to hide somewhere behind her spine. "I believe spaces should feel alive. Even quiet spaces should speak. A home is a mirror of the person who lives in it."

Luca tilted his head, studying her as though she were a puzzle piece he was considering snapping into place—or discarding altogether.

"My villa is not a mirror," he said coldly. "It is a fortress. I require silence. Discipline. Control. I do not want rooms that... 'speak.'"

⸻

Ananya swallowed the dryness in her throat. "With respect, even a fortress needs balance. Otherwise it's not a home. It's a... very expensive prison."

For a moment, the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.

Luca's eyes narrowed, and something glimmered there—steel and calculation.

"Interesting choice of words."

⸻

The silence pulsed between them, dark and electric.

Then, abruptly, he leaned forward, voice dropping even lower. "Tell me, Miss Kapoor... are you the kind of person who survives pressure... or breaks beneath it?"

Ananya's breath caught, but she held his gaze. "I suppose you'll find out."

A faint flicker passed over Luca's mouth—almost a smile. Almost. But then it was gone, replaced by a ruthless calm.

"Tomorrow. Nine a.m. Ravello. My driver will collect you. Do not be late again."

She froze. "I—I thought this was an interview?"

Luca folded his arms. "I do not waste time with interviews. I've researched you for months."

Ananya swallowed. "Months?"

Luca stepped closer, so close she could smell expensive cologne, citrus layered over something darker, like vetiver and danger.

"You have... a peculiar talent for finding beauty in ruin," he murmured. "I find that interesting."

________

Minutes after Ananya departed, the private elevator dinged open.

The first man who stepped out was Dante di Castellano, Luca's eldest younger brother.

He was tall and slender, hair black as ink and eyes sharp as broken glass. His suit was perfect, each crease and button precisely arranged. Even the way he carried himself suggested hidden blades under polished surfaces. Dante was the family's strategist—a man who could dismantle enemies with five words rather than five bullets.

⸻

Trailing behind him was Rico di Castellano, the youngest brother.

Rico was broader, with shoulders built like stone and dark curls perpetually half-tamed. A faint scar sliced through one eyebrow, a souvenir from a teenage brawl that probably ended with him laughing. Unlike Dante, Rico often grinned, and even when he didn't, his brown eyes sparkled with restless humor. He was the one people underestimated. Usually, they regretted it.

⸻

And then came Adrian Volkov.

Adrian practically bounded off the elevator, a streak of sun and mischief in an otherwise dark hallway. Blond hair, a charming grin, tie a cheerful shade of blue. He carried a coffee cup like a trophy and exuded an air of reckless confidence that screamed rich playboy—except he was far too clever to dismiss as a fool.

⸻

Adrian took one look at Luca and grinned. "So. I hear we've finally hired your new designer."

Luca didn't so much as blink. His eyes remained fixed on some distant point, as though measuring invisible threats.

Dante folded his arms, speaking in his low, exacting voice. "She seemed professional enough. Slightly rattled. That's good. Keeps her humble."

Rico leaned closer, smirking. "Tell me she's not boring. Because if I have to stare at grey walls for six months, I might die."

Adrian tilted his head, eyes sparkling. "You've got that look on your face, my friend. The one you get when you're deciding whether to kill something... or keep it."

Luca's jaw tensed, voice dropping like a blade. "It's a business transaction."

⸻

Adrian waved his coffee cup. "Sure it is. Which is why you look like someone who just tasted chocolate for the first time and can't admit he likes it."

Rico chuckled. "Or someone who's planning a funeral while picking out the flowers."

⸻

Dante's dark eyes narrowed as he studied Luca. "Do you want us to keep an eye on her?"

Luca hesitated. His grey gaze turned sharp, cold. "No. She's just... a designer."

Rico arched a brow. "Famous last words."

Luca turned slightly, his voice soft but deadly.

_________

"Until she proves otherwise."