Shadows Of Vows

Chapter 3: Goodbyes and Glances

The morning light poured softly through the curtains, but nothing about this day felt warm. My room was silent, yet every corner echoed with memories I wasn’t ready to let go of.

I stood by the window, watching the black car idling in the driveway—waiting to take them away. My chest ached. My limbs felt heavy. This goodbye wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Not in fear. Not like a surrender.

“Emily?” Beniah’s soft voice broke the silence.

I turned around.

She stood by the doorway, holding Jason’s tiny hand. His eyes were sleepy and confused, clinging to the little backpack slung over his shoulder. Beniah's face looked older than fifteen—too serious, too tired. She had grown up too fast in this house.

I dropped to my knees and opened my arms. Jason ran into me without hesitation, wrapping his arms around my neck so tightly I could hardly breathe.

“You’re going on a little trip,” I said gently, stroking his hair. “Auntie’s going to take good care of you. There’s a big yard, and she said she’ll let you help her plant strawberries.”

He nodded, burying his face in my shoulder. “Will you come too?”

I hesitated, my throat tightening. “Not yet. But soon. I promise.”

Beniah knelt beside us, her lip trembling as she placed a hand on my arm. “Emily... what if he hurts you again?”

I met her eyes, forcing strength into my voice. “He won’t get the chance. Things are going to change now.”

She looked at me like she knew something I hadn’t said out loud—that this was more than a trip. That this goodbye might be the last time we were together as just sisters. As children.

I pulled them both close, breathing them in—memorizing them. “Be safe. Listen to Auntie. And no matter what, don’t let this house define you. You hear me?”

Beniah nodded as tears ran down her cheeks.

The horn outside gave a soft, impatient honk.

It was time.

I kissed Jason’s forehead and hugged Beniah so tightly I could feel her heartbeat. She whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

And then they walked away.

With every step they took down that hallway, I felt a piece of myself being pulled away with them.

When the door finally shut, I stood there alone.

But I stood tall.

Because that was the last thing I could do for them—let them leave with the image of their big sister unbroken.

Scene 2:The First Meeting

The black car pulled up to the private estate nestled deep within the hills—far from the world I once knew. A place where power breathed in whispers and bloodlines decided fate. I sat stiffly in the backseat, hands clutched tightly in my lap, trying to calm the hurricane inside me.

I wore a black dress clung to my body like a second skin—black, sleek, and impossibly tight. A slit climbed high up my leg, revealing skin I normally kept hidden but it was the only thing my father insisted I wear—"You’re going to meet a man of power," he’d said, "so dress like a woman, not a child." The fabric shimmered subtly under the chandelier lights, complimenting my deep brown complexion with an elegance I didn't feel.My hair was slicked back into a soft, elegant bun, strands delicately framing my face. I’d painted on a calm expression, but inside I was unraveling.

Beside me, my father sat smugly, a cigar between his fingers and that same young woman on his arm—the same one I’d seen him with in Mom’s room. Her perfume clung to the air like poison.

“Smile,” he muttered, as the car door opened. “Don’t embarrass me.”

I took one last glance in the mirror.

I didn’t recognize the girl staring back.

She looked like she belonged at a mafia gathering—polished, poised, perfect.

But inside, I was unraveling.

The car had dropped me off at a sprawling estate, where security men in black suits lined the gates like statues. I stepped inside the grand ballroom, the sound of violins echoing through gold-paneled walls, crystal chandeliers casting light over a crowd too dangerous to be beautiful.

Eyes turned toward me.

Men stared. Women whispered.

I wasn’t from this world, and it showed.

But all of that faded the moment he entered the room.

Saint Leonardo Rossi.

The room shifted as he stepped in—like the air itself bent to his presence. Conversations hushed. Even the guards straightened, their gazes dropping respectfully.Tall, broad-shouldered, and devastatingly composed, Saint moved like a predator that never needed to run—he only ever had to look. His sharp Italian-cut suit was jet black, paired with a dark gray shirt buttoned neatly to the collar. No tie. No flash. Just raw, dangerous precision.

His eyes—stormy gray with a hint of frost—swept the room like a blade. His jaw was clean-shaven, the edges sharp like his name. There was a thin scar that cut across his left brow, barely noticeable, but it only made him look more untouchable. Power radiated off him in waves.

He didn’t need to raise his voice or announce his arrival. His presence did the talking.

He was young—mid-to-late twenties—but something about him felt ancient. Carved from stone. Deadly and unreadable.

Then his eyes met mine.

And the world narrowed.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just watched me like a hawk studying its prey. Something unreadable flickered in his gaze—curiosity, calculation... and something darker.

I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t.

For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

His gaze moved slowly, deliberately—taking in the slit of my dress, the stiffness of my stance, the way my hands trembled slightly even as I tried to hide them behind my back. But there was no smirk, no vulgar hunger in his eyes like my father’s friends often carried. No. Saint’s expression was unreadable. Cold. Calculating. Curious.

But I felt it—that pull. That he saw me.

Not just what I wore.

Me.

My hands trembled slightly, and I clasped them in front of me to hide it. My heels clicked against the marble as I was led toward him.

He stood still, arms behind his back, the weight of a thousand reputations hanging in the space between us.

Rossi,” my father said, stepping forward with that irritating bravado, the woman on his arm giggling as if she belonged in the moment.

Saint’s eyes flicked to him. Then to her.

And something shifted.

It was so slight—barely a twitch in his brow, a small shift of his jaw—but I saw it.

Disdain.

Saint’s gaze lingered on the woman for a beat longer than necessary. Then turned back to my father with that same glacial stillness.

“You bring your mistress to offer your daughter to a Rossi?” he said flatly.

The room went silent again.

My father’s smirk faded. “She’s just company for the night.”

Saint stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate. “Next time, bring respect instead.”

His voice was deep, rich like smoked velvet—but laced with steel. The kind of voice that didn’t need to yell to be obeyed.

My father clenched his jaw, but nodded.

Saint turned to me.

I stood my ground. Swallowed the fear clawing at my throat. He stared at me for a long, long moment—like he was reading every scar I ever tried to hide.

Finally, he extended a hand.

“Emily,” he said, his voice low and smooth like black velvet over a knife’s edge.

Hearing him say my name sent a chill down my spine.

I swallowed hard . “Mr. Rossi.”

His gaze swept over me once—subtle, yet thorough. He wasn’t leering. He was assessing. Like I was a move on a chessboard he had already played ten steps ahead.

“You look... different than I imagined.”

I wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or a warning.

He didn’t smile.

And somehow, that made it more terrifying.

More real.

“Welcome to the family,” Saint added.

And that was it my fate was sealed.

He offered his hand.

I took it, expecting coldness.

But his hand was warm.

Firm.

Alive.

Yet something in his eyes made my stomach twist. There was a storm in him, tightly leashed, and everyone in this room could feel it.

Saint wasn’t the loudest man here.

He didn’t have to be.

He was the kind of man silence obeyed.

As he turned to guide me deeper into the crowd, people stepped out of his way without question.

And I followed, heart pounding like a drum in a war I hadn’t asked to fight.