It had been a few weeks since Elena Rosaria arrived at the Matteo estate.
Rumors spread like wildfire across Puerto Cuidad and throughout the manor halls. Whispers drifted from market stalls to servants' quarters, noble drawing rooms to dockside pubs. They all said the same thing, in one form or another:
The Viscount has taken a witch for a bride.
Some said she'd cast a spell on him.
Others insisted it was lust—raw, unholy, intoxicating.
And a few dared to believe it was love.
But no one could deny the truth:
Nothing and no one was going to come between the Viscount of Puerto Cuidad and his chosen woman—not even the Church.
Inside the study, a storm grumbled low in the sky.
Thunder cracked as Seamus Matteo leaned forward at his desk, his fingers drumming restlessly against the thick envelope marked with a wax seal: the Church's insignia. Kenneth had quietly slid it in his desk, eyes burning.
Inside, Elena's confidential dossier. Official. Unholy. Undeniable.
He exhaled slowly.
The parchment had been sitting there for days now, its contents already burned into his mind. Still, he couldn't resist the urge to reopen it, trace the ink, weigh the words.
Her own mother had turned her in.
Accused her of witchcraft.
He stared down at the report. The cruelty of it. Elena had been questioned. Tortured. Isolated. And yet—somehow—she had survived it all. Hidden her magic. Escaped with her life.
How?
He thought back to their long talks over wine and firelight. They had spoken about everything—childhood dreams, strange coincidences, regrets. She spoke of her mother only in riddles or bitter jokes, never with detail. Never of this.
He turned toward the tall, narrow windows, rain now splattering across the panes.
Thunder shook the glass again.
"She really survived the Inquisition…" he murmured aloud, almost in awe. His voice sounded strange in the stillness.
People didn't survive the Inquisition. Not really. Those taken in for "questioning" rarely returned. And when they did, they were shattered.
But not Elena.
The door burst open.
Lady Aurora swept in, a storm of red silk and indignation, her silver curls pinned in a formal twist. A sealed letter trembled in her gloved hand.
"Seamus, darling, you need to see this." Her voice was sharp with anger.
He took the letter and broke the seal. A fresh wave of irritation flared in his chest as he read. "Because our engagement leaked before we registered it with the Church…" he muttered darkly.
Lady Aurora paced. "They're calling your union an affront to the Saintess herself. Can you believe the gall?"
"They say we've committed a sin by uniting before the ecclesiastical authorities," Seamus growled, crumpling the letter in one fist. "Utter nonsense."
His mother's hand slammed against the desk.
"I say—to hell with them."
He raised an eyebrow.
She folded her arms, defiant. "I mean it. The Church has meddled too long in matters of love, land, and lineage. We've always resisted their reach. Your father didn't bow to them, and neither will we."
A slow, wicked grin spread across Seamus's face.
"Like anyone could stop me anyway."
He leaned back in his chair, raking a hand through his damp auburn hair. His voice dropped, thoughtful now.
"I can't explain it, Mother. It feels like I've known Elena my entire life—not just a few days. Like something… ancient, almost."
Lady Aurora tilted her head. "Was it like this with my father?" he asked her.
She laughed, rich and unrestrained. "Not at all. Your father was an even bigger rake than you, my darling." She couldn't help but scoff. "Wherever the bastard is."
Seamus chuckled, though his eyes were distant.
Something in his bones whispered that this wasn't chance. Fate had stirred. The storm had chosen its shape.