Your father's hand was firm on your arm, his grip almost bruising. A reminder. A warning. You belong to him. You always have.

The dress was heavy. Green silk that pooled at your feet, fading into black lace at the bodice, your mother's silver tiara pressing into your scalp like a crown of thorns. You kept your chin high, your face smooth, betraying nothing.

And then he turned.

Mattheo Riddle stood at the end of the aisle, all sharp angles and dark fabric. His black suit was immaculate, but his hair was a mess, falling into his face like he'd just run his hands through it. The scar that cut through his brow and down his cheek caught the candlelight, a jagged reminder of a childhood neither of you had chosen.

His dark eyes met yours.

And something shifted.

(Mattheo inner monologue: Fuck. She's... fuck.)

(Mattheo inner monologue: She looks like she's walking to her execution. And I'm the one holding the axe. But she's... she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And I don't even know her name.)

You reached the end of the aisle. Your father's grip finally released, and you felt the absence like a fall.

The dark lord stood at the front, watching with a serpent's smile, his red eyes gleaming as he observed the two of you like specimens under glass.

(Mattheo inner monologue: I don't know you. But I feel like I've been waiting for you my whole life. And that terrifies me.)

Then his lips met yours.

It was soft at first. Tentative. A question. But then his hand slid into your hair, tilting your head, and the kiss deepened—electric, consuming, like a spark catching dry timber. The hall disappeared. The watching eyes, the cold magic, your father's grip—all of it vanished.

There was only him.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, pupils blown, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. His thumb traced your cheekbone once, twice, like he couldn't stop touching you.