"I Do"

Chapter 3

The mansion was steeped in silence, the walls bearing witness to an inheritance Vasco never wanted: his father's ferocity and indifference.

This home had long lost its warmth, echoing only with the ghosts of betrayal and abandonment.

Vasco's mother had vanished years ago, leaving a gaping wound in him that never healed.

His father's second wife, a stranger desperate to belong, had also fled, unable to endure the unforgiving shadow of Vasco's father.

It was a cycle of rejection, one he had tried to escape- yet the weight of it had pulled him under.

The dawn light filtered through the curtains of Vasco's room, casting a soft glow over his well-organized space.

Two small hands gently pressed against his chest, unaware that he was a light sleeper.

As the boy approached him, Vasco's gaze sharpened, his eyes dark and unyielding. He didn't see the boy; he saw a trespasser, an unwanted reminder of weakness.

Without a word, Vasco's arm shot forward, grabbing the boy's collar with such force that the fabric strained, nearly tearing under his grip.

With a cold, dismissive shove, he threw him to the floor, the impact reverberating across the room like a clap of thunder.

The 12 year old boy crumpled, the fear in his wide eyes reflecting the depth of Vasco's wrath.

"On whose permission are you here?"

Vasco's voice was cold and authoritative, his grip tightening around the boy's wrist.

The boy, terrified and shivering, couldn't utter a single word.

Scrambling to his feet, the boy staggered, desperation guiding him toward the door.

He could feel Vasco's gaze burning into his back, an invisible weight pressing him forward as he fled.

The boy didn't dare look back, didn't dare slow down; he knew that if he faltered, he would face a darkness from which there was no escape.

He could only feel the excruciating pain in his wrist from Vasco's powerful hold. Vasco's stern expression did not waver.

He despised showing any form of weakness, especially in front of his half-brothers from his father's second marriage.

The disappearance of Vasco's mother had left a void, one that his father's second wife could not fill, and she too eventually left, unable to tolerate the harshness of Vasco's father.

With a sudden and forceful shove, Vasco threw the boy to the floor. "Leave," he commanded.

The boy scrambled to his feet and ran out of the room as fast as he could, fear propelling him forward. Vasco watched him go, his heart a fortress of ice, his face betraying no emotion.

Now, at 31, Vasco had become a man sculpted by suffering. He stood at an imposing 6'7", his body hardened like granite, his soul forged in fire.

His fashion was meticulously classic- double-breasted suits and crisp, white collars-but his aura was anything but refined.

Vasco's presence filled the room like a storm front, dense with unspoken threats.

His face ched with the lines of unrelenting hardship resemblance to the man he loathed the most.

He wore formal attire like a second skin, his fashion sense old school yet impeccably maintained. His face, weathered by the brutal seasons of life, mirrored the man he had despised all these years—his father.