A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 2: Moves and Countermoves

She brushed past him as if his proximity didn't unnerve her. She pursed her lips before asking in a more serious tone, "Tom, what are you doing here?"

Tom's expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed on her with an intensity that seemed to see right through her. "I thought we should talk," he said, his voice calm, "about our engagement."

Anastasia took a deep breath, finding a strength within her she didn't know she had. "What is there to talk about? Not my consent surely, since it obviously has no weight in this arrangement." Her spine stiffened slightly, but she held her ground as he continued toward her.

Tom took a step closer, his presence imposing. "Well it's not just about what you want, is it, Anastasia?" His tone was soft, yet there was an edge to it that made her wary. "This is about power, about securing a future for ourselves and our families. Together, we can be unstoppable. Don't you see the potential in that? Don't you desire it?"

Anastasia held his gaze, her resolve hardening. "Power at what cost, Tom? My freedom?"

Tom's face softened slightly, a flicker of something that might have been admiration or perhaps surprise passing through his eyes. "Power grants you freedom, Anastasia. I've always seen you as an equal, a partner. That's why I agreed to this engagement. I believe we are alike in ways others cannot understand."

Anastasia shook her head, the words feeling like a trap. "I had no idea you felt this way about me, Tom."

For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy with unspoken words and tension. As Tom advanced, his demeanour shifted, the calculated composure giving way to a more deluded conviction. "Anastasia, we have known each other since we were little. Despite your words, I know there's a part of you that desires this union as much as I do," he said, his voice carrying a disturbing certainty.

Anastasia, taken aback by his assertion, found herself momentarily at a loss. "You presume too much," she said, her voice firm as she forced herself to maintain her icy demeanour.

Tom's lips curled into a predatory smile. "Do I, now?" He took a step closer to Anastasia. "Well for my part," he said, his voice softening, his tone almost conversational, "I am pleased with this arrangement. You've always been... intriguing. Intelligent. Witty. A mind of your own. Not like the rest of them."

"I'm flattered," she replied evenly, her voice laced with just enough detachment to signal that she wasn't.

He stopped mere inches from her, his presence overwhelming as he towered over her. "Don't be modest," he said, his tone light but his gaze sharp. "You must know this union is desired. You—" he chuckled softly, almost to himself, "—and I. Who else could possibly be deserving of me? Or of you, for that matter?"

Her brow arched slightly, but she didn't reply. Instead, she stepped back, just enough to give herself space. "How generous of you," she said, her voice cutting through the charged silence.

Tom didn't seem fazed by her sharpness. If anything, he looked amused. He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of her long, dark hair behind her ear. The casual intimacy of the gesture sent a shiver down her spine, but she didn't flinch. She refused to flinch.

"You used to listen to me so well," he murmured, his voice low, almost tender. "Wide-eyed and eager to please. Hanging on every word I said. I thought you'd be happy about this."

Her breath caught, the memories unbidden. As a young girl, she had admired him, followed him like a shadow during the summers when their families convened. She had been drawn to his magnetism, his charm. Even now, the echo of that admiration lingered, tangled with the fear she couldn't quite suppress.

"Do you remember?" he pressed, his gaze boring into hers.

"I'm not a child anymore," she replied, her tone as steady as she could manage.

His eyes darkened, a shadow of something far more dangerous flickering in his gaze. "No," he agreed, his voice dipping lower. "You're not."

Before she could respond, he kissed her.

The shock of it froze her in place, his lips warm against hers, his hands settling lightly but firmly on her waist. She didn't reject him, but neither did she lean into it. She couldn't. The weight of his presence, his ambition, his darkness, was too much to parse in that moment.

But then the kiss changed. It became more urgent, more insistent. His grip on her waist tightened, and when she moved to pull away, his hold became unyielding. Her hands pressed against his chest, but it was like pushing against stone.

"Tom," she said, her voice muffled against his lips. She pushed harder, her breath quickening as her heart began to race—not with infatuation, but with something closer to fear. "Tom, stop."

He ignored her, his grip tightening, his body pressing her back against the wall. "You want this," he murmured against her lips, his breath hot and harsh. "I can see it in your eyes. Feel it on your skin."

Desperation flared within her. She twisted her head to the side, breaking the kiss. "Tom, enough," she said more firmly, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and anger.

"You're scared of me," he said finally, his tone low and almost conversational, as though the observation was a simple fact.

"Don't flatter yourself," she replied, her voice cold, though she could feel her heart hammering against her ribs.

His smile returned, sharp and knowing. "Don't worry, dear—I don't want an obedient little doll, Anastasia. I want you."

"And what exactly does that mean?" she asked, her voice laced with defiance, though her stomach churned at his words.

"It means I don't expect you to fawn over me," he said, his hand still lingering on her arm. "I want your mind, your strength. But you'll learn, in time, that we're stronger together."

Her jaw tightened, and she pulled away from him, stepping back to put some distance between them. "You've made your point."

She stepped back, her breathing uneven, her eyes narrowing as she met his gaze. "I'm not your possession," she said, her voice low and controlled, though her pulse thundered in her ears.

Tom tilted his head, watching her with an intensity that sent a chill down her spine. And then he smiled—not with warmth, but with the kind of calculated satisfaction that made her stomach twist. "No," he said finally, his voice as smooth as ever. "Not yet."

He moved to the door, unlocking it with a flick of his wand. Before he stepped out, he glanced back at her, his dark eyes glinting with something she couldn't quite name. "I'll see you soon, Anastasia."

The door closed behind him, and she was left alone, the silence of the room now suffocating. Her hands trembled slightly as she brought them to her lips, her mind racing. Tom Riddle was not a man to be trifled with. She had known that for years. But tonight, she understood the full extent of the danger she was in.

And yet, as she stood there, trying to steady her breathing, another thought emerged, sharp and unwelcome. If she was going to survive this—if she was going to navigate the treacherous path ahead—she would need to be as ruthless as he was.