The sweet Karma

“Love tastes sweeter when it’s forbidden.”

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In a world built on blood and oaths, love is not a blessing but a curse. Under candlelight and rotten prayers, loyalty is paid with betrayal, and forgiveness is merely a tale that never comes true.

That night, rain fell like reluctant mercy over sinful ground, washing marble and glass until even sin looked polished. In the heart of the Cavelli estate, a chapel stood small, elegant, and built not for faith, but for deals sealed in silence.

The air inside smelled of iron, magnolia, and secrets.

Five men from the Circle watched from the shadows, their faces half-lit by candlelight. They did not witness a wedding; they witnessed a transaction.

Alya D’Amore stood at the altar, veiled in white that felt too pure for a world this dark. Her hands were steady now, though she could still feel the faint tremor beneath her skin a reminder of the years she spent learning not to tremble, not to cry, not to be seen as weak.

She was the daughter of Matteo D’Amore. The only woman raised to be both weapon and witness. And tonight, she was both.

Across from her, Lucien Cavelli waited a tall, composed, a statue carved in calm fury. The silver lion pinned to his chest gleamed like a warning under the flame. His eyes, pale and sharp, moved once, only once to study the girl he had known years ago under another name.

He wondered if she would recognize him.

She did not.

When the officiant spoke, his voice echoed softly:

“This union binds two houses under one vow: blood for blood, trust for peace.”

Lucien didn’t blink. Alya’s lips pressed into a calm line. The paper was placed before them. A pen followed.

She signed her name Alya D’Amore and the nib of the pen cut her finger. A bead of blood fell onto the parchment like a reluctant seal.

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 between oaths, she felt it a pulse, quiet but undeniable, like memory stirring beneath the surface of her heart.

She met his eyes, and for the first time in years, she forgot how to breathe.

Lucien lowered his gaze, not out of shame, but control. His voice was calm when he spoke, smooth as glass but sharp underneath:

“You don’t know half my truth, Mrs. Cavelli.”

The title fell heavy between them, and Alya felt it settle inside her like a sentence she didn’t choose.

Mrs. Cavelli. Not a name but a chain.

Her reply was quiet, almost lost beneath the thunder:

“Nor you mine.”

The officiant’s final words faded. The vow was done.

And when the circle of candles flickered out one by one, the sound of rain grew louder as if the world itself wept for what had just been bound.

The officiant stepped back.

Silence settled, thick and almost sacred. The rain softened, leaving only the sound of breath hers, uneven; his, restrained.

Alya felt the weight of a thousand unseen eyes.

Every step she took toward Lucien sounded louder than thunder. Her heart tried to whisper something run, maybe but her body obeyed another master: duty.

Lucien stood still, unflinching. He could see the pulse at her throat, fragile yet defiant. When his hand reached for her veil, the air trembled. He lifted it slowly, as if unveiling a ghost.

Her face was calm. Too calm.

But her eyes, God, her eyes still carried the light of the girl he once knew.

He didn’t let his expression change. He couldn’t.

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, thumb resting just beside her lips. The world narrowed to that single touch.

His gaze didn’t move, didn’t waver just studied her like she was a secret written in a language only he remembered.

She waited for the kiss.

It never came.

Lucien’s voice was barely a whisper, meant only for her:

“Not every vow deserves a kiss, Mrs. Cavelli.”

Alya’s throat tightened. Something twisted in her chest a strange mix of humiliation and relief.

Her hands trembled slightly, but she refused to lower her eyes. She met his gaze with quiet defiance.

He smirked, almost imperceptibly, the kind that hides pain behind discipline.

“Learn to stand tall,” he added softly, “even when you don’t understand why you’re trembling.”

The candles flickered violently as if reacting to their proximity. And then, just like that, 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, veil trailing like smoke.

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

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Lucien Cavelli -

He wore silence like a tailored suit elegant, precise, and meant to hide the war within. Beneath the calm veneer, his eyes carried the weight of every prayer he never said aloud. There was something sacred in his sorrow,

something almost holy in the way he refused to let it break him.

“The moment he forgot how to hide his loneliness.”