Smoke Before the Vows

By the time the official announcement broke, the country was already burning with curiosity.

**"Virell Group Heir to Wed Elion Commander's Daughter — Ceremony Set in Three Days"**

**"From Childhood Engagement to Sudden Marriage: The Power Union Everyone's Talking About"**

**"Everyone is Invited?"**

News spread like wildfire—Callum's stern profile beside Seraphine's icy beauty. The headlines were carefully crafted. There was no mention of the rooftop proposal. No trace of Dahlia. No hint of the truth.

Exactly as Seraphine requested.

She stood beside Callum's father in the press room, dressed in a pale ivory suit, her hair pulled back in a braid that showed the hard line of her jaw. When the reporters asked why there was no comment from the groom, she simply answered:

"My fiancée is busy arranging the wedding. But let this wedding be known in every home, from this country to the borders beyond. Not because it is a spectacle. But because it is real. This is a legacy marriage between two families who have shed blood and built empires. We honor those before us… and those who will come after."

No one questioned her after that.

The media complied. The announcement hit every channel: billboards, business columns, and military forums. The wedding trended within the hour.

By evening, the world knew.

And Callum hadn't said a word.

---

He buried himself in the high-rise office of Virell Holdings, drowning beneath numbers and silence.

The corner of his desk was littered with whiskey bottles he didn't bother to hide.

Cigarette smoke curled through the windows like ghosts. He hadn't smoked in years—not since Dahlia first wrinkled her nose at the habit.

But that part of him was long buried now.

The good parts were gone.

Buried with Dahlia's goodbye.

He stared at the untouched glass in front of him, the whiskey burning behind his eyes more than his throat.

"Three days," he muttered. "They built a kingdom in less time."

Behind his lashes, he saw Sera's face again—so calm, so still, like she had already accepted the weight of the storm.

He hated her for it.

He hated that she walked through the fire without flinching while he clawed for air.

Somehow, there's a part of him hoping that she didn't want this either, that she might run away again, for love.

Thus, he dialed his assistant's number.

Three beeps and someone answered, "Sir?"

"Vernon, can you look for Lior Damare. Before the wedding, you must find him, and if ever, he needs help, give it."

"Yes, sir."

Callum stood after the call and drank his whiskey slowly, attempting to burn the pain in his throat.

---

By the time the second night fell, Callum didn't make it home.

He left the office in a haze of liquor and unfinished thoughts, drifting through the streets like a ghost in tailored clothes, lost in a city built on his name.

The streets were wet from earlier rain, the pavement catching the low hum of neon lights.

He wasn't sure how far he had walked. Or why.

His tie hung loose against his chest, his shirt collar unfastened, and a spent cigarette lay dormant between his fingers. His head pounded, and his mouth felt as dry as the desert. He leaned against a cold stone wall, breathing hard as fragments of memory tried to piece together how he'd ended up here.

That's when he heard her.

Boots.

Not the click of Seraphine Elion's usual battlefield stilettos—this was something different: clean, unadorned black boots that marched slowly and purposefully toward him.

He looked up.

There, in the dim light, she stood. Her hair drawn into a low, practical knot; a long coat draped around her like a suit of armor; rain pooling in her lashes, testament to the unyielding downpour.

"You were scaring people," she said, her tone clipped yet inexplicably warm.

Callum laughed bitterly as he tried to push himself off the wall, but his legs betrayed him, buckling beneath the weight of his shattered composure. As she reached out to steady him, he recoiled, shoving her hand away with trembling defiance.

"Don't touch me, Sera."

Her voice remained low and steady, an anchor in the storm of his disarray. "Then don't fall."

He stumbled regardless—and she caught him anyway.

He couldn't fathom how she held him upright. She wasn't tall, but her strength seemed to be built to carry a man broken to the core. 

He looked at her as she helped without complaint, as if her strength had always been meant for moments like this. Gently, she slung his arm over her shoulder and began to walk.

Maybe, he needed her, her unspoken comfort. Thus, he let himself hang onto her, anger leaving its space.

They exchanged no words as she half-dragged him toward the waiting car. The driver offered no questions—only a silent acknowledgment as he opened the door.

Callum slumped into the seat, his hand pressed over his eyes as if to stifle the surge of emotion. Sera slid into the seat beside him in silence.

The car moved away, the only sounds were the soft hum of tires on rain-slicked roads and the strangled rhythm of his restrained, broken breathing.

Later, when they reached the estate, she helped him out again. This time, he made no protest. At the doorstep—just before the door opened—his voice broke the silence, barely above a whisper:

"Why are you doing this?"

She met his gaze—steady, clear—and replied, "Because my father and I made a vow. And I intend to keep it."

"I also made a vow with her. And I also intend to keep it." He nearly laughed, but the sound died in his throat. "But you win, as unlike you, I cannot save her mother. You get the marriage. The legacy and power. But not a child. NEVER."

A long pause followed. In that stillness, something fragile passed over her face—not anger, not pride, but something delicate and unspoken.

"I never wanted to win, Callum," she murmured. "I just stopped waiting to lose."

Then, as if the weight of the vow had been lifted entirely from her, she turned and walked away into the dark, leaving him standing in the doorway—alone, with nothing but the echo of her resolve.

Then, in the midst of the heavy silence, he murmured, "Sera, I can help you find Lior." His words, barely audible over the muted hum of the departing night, carried a fragile desperation.

But by that time, every spark of hope had already withered into ash.

The promise—once a lifeline—now lay dormant in the stale air, a bargain that no longer resonated with her. Without a backward glance, she turned away, leaving his earnest bargain suspended in the darkness, as if it were nothing more than a broken promise fading into oblivion.