Somewhere beyond the heavy oak doors, two hundred guests waited. Pureblood society in its finest, all sharp collars and sharper whispers. And Y/n stood frozen in the vestibule, one hand pressed flat against her stomach, trying to remember how to breathe.

(I'd tell you this gets easier, but I've been standing on this porch for three winters and I still can't feel my fingers. So. There's that.)

The lace veil fell heavy over her face. Somewhere behind her, a string quartet began the first tentative notes of the entrance march. The doors shifted. A sliver of golden light cut across the marble floor, widening slow, pulling her forward like a tide she never agreed to swim in.

Every step down the aisle felt borrowed. The train of her gown whispered against the stone. Faces blurred on either side—curious, pitying, smug. At the end of that long, terrible stretch of white silk and scattered rose petals, a figure stood beneath the tarnished silver arch, hands folded, waiting.

She lifted her eyes.

And the world bottomed out.

Mattheo Riddle stood at the altar in a tailored black suit, dark curls still resisting whatever attempt had been made to tame them. The low cathedral light caught the edge of his jaw, the shadowed exhaustion under his eyes, the slow, wickedly knowing smirk curving his lips as their gazes locked.

He didn't look surprised. He looked hungry.

(And there it is. The exact moment the ground opens up and swallows every carefully rehearsed goodbye. You can plan for a lot of things. You can't plan for the one person who already knows the way you fall apart.)