The sweet Karma [first draft]

The room smelled of old mahogany, rain lashing against the tall glass windows, and something darker. Something like cold iron.

Alya stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, her fingers trembling as she pulled back the heavy maroon velvet curtains. Outside, the storm battered the backyard, highlighting a row of magnolia trees blooming wildly in the downpour. White. Pale. Too perfect.

She hated it. She didn’t know why, but every time she looked at those flowers, her chest tightened. A faint, fragmented shadow crossed her mind the sound of laughter, the splash of lake water, and a boy sinking beneath the surface.

Stop.

Alya squeezed her eyes shut, pressing the heels of her hands against her temples. Matteo was right. Emotion is a weakness. Love is a destroyer. But then why did her chest still ache with a confusing mix of warmth and pain?

Clink.

The soft sound of metal striking metal broke the silence behind her. Not a clock. A chain.

Alya looked down. Fastened to her left wrist was an elegant silver bracelet, connected to a thin but unbreakable chain that stretched across the Persian rug, leading to the man sitting on the black leather sofa in the corner of the room.

Lucien Cavelli. Her husband.

He wasn’t looking at her. Lucien sat with one leg crossed over the other, writing something in a small, worn leather notebook. His black shirt was rolled up to his elbows, the top button undone, exposing a sliver of his neck. He looked entirely at peace, stoic, as if chaining his own wife’s wrist to his was the most normal thing in the world.

"Are you not tired of writing in that damn book?"

Alya’s voice sliced through the quiet. Blunt. Unfiltered. Just like her.

Lucien didn’t look up immediately. The pen in his hand paused for a fraction of a second, then resumed its steady glide across the paper. "And are you not tired of pulling those curtains, Alya?"

His voice was deep, low, and calm. Too calm.

Alya scoffed, letting go of the curtain. She turned around, her iconic wavy red hair falling messily over her shoulders. She was wearing a dark, long-sleeved nightgown—she always wore long sleeves. Her skin was too sensitive to the cold, or perhaps she just needed an extra layer between herself and the world.

She began to walk toward him. The silver chain dragged lightly over the carpet, emitting a soft clink that made Alya’s nerves hum with tension.

When she stood right in front of him, the dim corner light caught something on Lucien’s right ear. A silver earring. Its shape was unmistakable. Tightly layered petals.

A magnolia flower.

Alya’s breath hitched. Her eyes darted from the earring to the window she had just closed. The flower outside. The earring on this man’s ear.

The confusion she always carried—a thick fog that Matteo constantly called a 'disease'—began to boil in her chest.

"Why?" Alya asked. Her voice trembled slightly, but she lifted her chin in defiance.

Lucien finally looked up. His gaze was dark, as deep and bottomless as a cliff edge. He didn’t blink, staring at her as if he could read every frantic heartbeat pulsing in her neck.

"Why what?" he replied flatly.

"Your earring. And the flowers outside." Alya poked his chest with her index finger, an impulsive habit she couldn’t suppress. "You let that flower grow in the garden, and you wear its shape on your ear. Even though you know I don’t like wild things. You know Matteo says—"

"Matteo is not in this room, Alya."

The interruption was smooth, but his tone was sharp as a razor.

Alya froze for a split second, but frustration quickly took over. She hated being silenced. She hated when the men in her life—whether it was the manipulative Matteo or this cold, enigmatic husband—played riddles with her.

"You confuse me!" Alya burst out.

Without thinking, she shoved Lucien’s broad chest with both hands. "Answer me! Why is your earring shaped like that flower? Are you trying to mess with me? Is this one of Matteo’s games?!"

Lucien didn’t flinch. He didn’t push her away. He simply let her hands press against his chest. Beneath his black shirt, his muscles locked tight. His jaw clenched. It was the only sign that the man was holding back something massive.

Calm yourself, Lucien, his mind whispered, a mantra he had repeated hundreds of times since this red-haired girl was forced into his room three weeks ago. Don’t be a fool. She is confused. She is Matteo’s pawn. Keep your distance.

But as she shoved him, the scent of rain and vanilla shampoo from her hair invaded his senses. The distance between them was now zero. Lucien could see her pupils dilate, could watch her chest rise and fall with rapid, shallow breaths.

His body reacted. His blood ran hot. A primal, aching pull crawled up from his gut, ignoring all logic and the revenge plot he had meticulously built for years. This girl was an anomaly. She was supposed to be afraid of him, yet here she was, pushing against his chest.

Slowly, Lucien raised his hand.

Alya thought he was going to strike her, or at least shove her off. Instead, his large, calloused hand—the same hand that had ended lives without a second thought—wrapped gently around the wrist of the hand pressing against his chest.

His thumb brushed the delicate skin on the inside of her wrist, right above the silver bracelet that bound them. The touch was burning. Too hot.

"You always move, Alya," Lucien murmured. His voice was now a rough whisper, falling into the heavy air between their faces. "You always ask. You always push."

Alya swallowed hard. Her body trembled, not from fear, but from a confusion far more dangerous. Why did his touch make her feel safe? Matteo said love was destruction. But why did her stomach flutter, and why did her breath catch when he looked at her like that?

"You... you still haven’t answered my question," Alya stammered, trying to sound fierce, but her voice came out as a mere whisper.

Lucien leaned in slightly. His lips were now only inches from her ear. He could see her eyelashes trembling.

"This earring," Lucien whispered, his breath ghosting over the skin of her neck, sending a shiver down her spine, "is not to mess with you. And the flower outside... is not for you."

Lucien pulled her wrist slightly, drawing her a fraction closer until the silver chain pulled taut. His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. There was a darkness there, an obsession forced into a box, rusting and ready to explode.

"But if you keep pushing me, Alya..." Lucien released her wrist, and with a slow, deliberate movement, he closed his notebook. "...you will find that this chain is not the only thing keeping you from running away from me."

Alya stood frozen. Her heart hammered so hard it hurt. She wanted to hit him again. She wanted to scream. But her legs felt like lead.

Lucien stood up, towering over her, looking down at her with that impenetrable stoic mask back in place.

"Now," he said flatly, "go to sleep. Tomorrow we have dinner with *The Circle*, and I don’t want my wife looking like a sleep-deprived girl."

Alya remained rooted to the spot, watching Lucien walk past her toward the bathroom. The silver chain clinked softly once more.

She stared at his retreating back, then down at her own wrist, which still burned from the ghost of his thumb.

Love is destruction, Alya thought, repeating Matteo’s doctrine.

But as she stared at the closed bathroom door, one foolish, dangerous question echoed in her mind:

Then why do I feel like I’ve only just started living?