The sweet Karma

"Love tastes sweeter when it's forbidden."

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Matteo stood by the window, watching the rain fall in sheets over the estate grounds. His reflection in the glass was sharp, composed, the kind of man who had never known doubt. Behind him, Alya sat in a high-backed chair, her hands folded in her lap, her posture rigid. She had learned long ago not to fidget, not to squirm, not to show weakness.

"You know why you're here," Matteo said without turning around.

"Because you told me to be, Father," Alya replied, her voice steady.

Matteo finally turned, his gaze cutting through her like a blade. "Not because I told you. Because you must learn."

He walked to his desk and picked up an old photograph. A woman with a soft smile stood beside a man with cold, calculating eyes. He placed it on the desk, facing Alya.

"Do you know who they are?"

Alya studied the photo. "The Cavellis."

"Correct." Matteo's voice was low, heavy with something that wasn't quite anger. "That man, Giovanni Cavelli, made one fatal mistake. He loved his wife."

Alya said nothing, but her hand trembled slightly. She dug her nails into her palm, hard enough to ground herself.

Matteo continued, "Love is weakness, Alya. Love makes you blind. Love makes you do stupid things. Look at what happened to Giovanni. His wife was killed because he forgot the rules. And him? He spent the rest of his life trying to get revenge, until he died too."

Even as he spoke, Matteo's eyes flicked to Alya's clenched fist. His gaze was unreadable, but what happened next made Alya flinch—he tore the photograph in half and forced her trembling hand to grip the shredded pieces.

"You haven't changed, even after all these years of training," Matteo said coldly.

Alya clenched her jaw before speaking. "I'm sorry, Father. I won't let Lucien see this."

"Even if he does, you'll pay for it with your life, Alya. But listen carefully if you don't want to lose it."

He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto hers. "You will not make the same mistake. You will marry Lucien Cavelli tonight. Not for love. For duty. And you will remember one thing: love only brings destruction"

Alya swallowed hard. Her hands clutched the shattered photograph tightly.

"I understand, Father."

Matteo smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Good. Now go prepare. Your wedding begins in two hours."

Alya nodded and stood, leaving the room without looking back.

Her room was vast, but the lights were kept low, casting long shadows across the floor. She preferred it this way. After years of being locked in small spaces, she couldn't tolerate anything that felt cramped. The darkness was safer. Predictable.

She walked to the full-length mirror in the corner and stared at her reflection. The girl staring back looked composed, calm, the perfect daughter of Matteo D'Amore.

But inside, she was screaming.

If love is really that bitter and destructive, she thought, her fingers gripping the edge of the dresser, then why does it feel so...

She stopped. The words died in her throat.

Sweet? And confusing at the same time?

The image flashed in her mind—a boy, submerged in dark water, his hand reaching up toward her. She couldn't see his face. She couldn't remember his name. But the feeling—the ache in her chest—was so real it made her gasp.

Her hands trembled. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the memory back, but it slipped away like smoke, leaving only fragments. A laugh. A touch. The sound of water.

Who was he?

She didn't know. She couldn't know. Her mind refused to let her remember, locking the memory behind a wall of shock and denial.

Alya grabbed a pillow from the bed and screamed into it, her voice muffled and raw. Then she dropped it, took a deep breath, and forced her face into a mask of calm.

She turned back to the mirror. The girl staring back was composed again. Perfect.

"If love is really like that," she whispered to her reflection, her voice cold, "then I'll destroy it before it grows, just like what Father taught me."

She didn't need makeup. This wasn't about beauty or attraction. This was about duty. About revenge. About proving Matteo right.

She walked to the closet and pulled out her wedding dress. As she slipped it on, she reached under the skirt and taped a small knife to her thigh. Just in case.

Then she walked out the door, her head held high.

Across the estate, Lucien stood by the window of his study, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The rain streaked down the glass, distorting the world outside.

There was a knock at the door.

"Boss, the chapel is ready."

Lucien didn't turn around. He took a slow sip of whiskey, letting it burn down his throat.

"Let's go."

The motorcade moved through the rain-slicked streets in silence. Lucien sat in the back of the first car, accompanied by one of his most trusted men. Three other vehicles followed, their headlights cutting through the downpour.

In the second convoy, Alya sat beside Matteo in a black sedan, flanked by five cars. The atmosphere was suffocating. No one spoke. The only sound was the rhythmic drumming of rain against the windows.

When they arrived at the chapel, the cars lined up in perfect formation. The doors opened simultaneously. Cold stares exchanged between the two families before they stepped inside.

The chapel was small, elegant, built not for faith but for deals sealed in silence. Rain hammered against the stained glass windows, casting fractured light across the marble floor. The air smelled of iron and magnolias.

Five men from The Circle stood in the shadows, their faces half-lit by candlelight. They did not witness a wedding. They witnessed a transaction.

Alya stood at the altar, her white dress too heavy on her shoulders. Her hands trembled, but she clenched them at her sides, forcing herself to breathe.

*Don't tremble. Don't look weak. Don't let him see you break. Remember what Father told you.*

Across from her, Lucien Cavelli waited. Tall, composed, a statue carved from calm fury. The silver lion pinned to his chest gleamed under the flame. His eyes, pale and sharp, studied her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

He wondered if she would recognize him.

She didn't.

The officiant spoke, his voice echoing softly: "This union binds two houses under one vow: blood for blood, trust for peace."

Lucien didn't blink. Alya pressed her lips into a thin line. The paper was placed before them. A pen followed.

She signed her name. The nib of the pen cut her finger. A bead of blood fell onto the parchment.

Lucien took the same pen, the same drop of blood, and signed his name over it.

The red stain bled between their signatures, one perfect circle.

Alya looked up, and in that brief silence, she felt it—a pulse, quiet but undeniable, like memory stirring beneath the surface of her heart.

Lucien's gaze didn't waver. "You don't remember, do you?"

Alya blinked. "What?"

Lucien didn't answer. He only studied her, as if searching for something in her face.

The officiant murmured, "You may now seal the vow."

Alya held her breath. Lucien leaned closer, close enough that she could feel his breath, but not close enough to touch. His hand brushed her cheek, his thumb resting just beside her lips.

She waited for the kiss.

It never came.

Lucien's voice was barely a whisper, meant only for her: "Learn to stand tall, Mrs. Cavelli. Even when you're trembling inside."

Alya's throat tightened. She forced herself to meet his gaze. "I'm not trembling."

Lucien smirked, almost imperceptibly. "You're a terrible liar."

He stepped back, leaving her in the hollow air he'd warmed for a second too long.

The ceremony ended. The guests rose. The applause was muted, polite, meaningless.

***

Later, when everyone was gone, Lucien remained by the altar. The last candle had melted halfway down its stem. He touched it, and the wax burned his fingertip. He looked down at the thin streak of blood where the pen had cut him earlier.

It shimmered faintly under the silver light—Alya's blood mingled with his.

"Even the sweetest vow begins with a lie," he murmured, his voice like a private confession to the empty room.

He looked once more toward the door where Alya had disappeared, her veil trailing like smoke.

"And sometimes… the lie is the only thing keeping us alive."