A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 22: Misunderstandings

James stared at her, his anger and confusion twisting his features. "What am I supposed to think, Anastasia? You were all over him!"

Anastasia recoiled in shock. She stayed silent for a moment before sighing, "Think whatever you want Potter, it doesn't matter after all."

With a swift movement, she grabbed his hand, her touch clinical as she bandaged the small wound, her actions efficient but devoid of any of the concern she'd initially shown. Without another word, she handed in their potion, which, despite the turmoil, was flawlessly brewed—a testament to their skills, if not their harmony.

Anastasia then walked off, leaving the class before it had even ended, her departure a silent but powerful rebuke to James and the assumptions he'd made. Left behind, James felt a mixture of shame and unresolved anger. Her words echoed in his mind, a painful reminder of the chasm that had opened up between them.

James's pursuit was fuelled by a desperation he couldn't contain, a need to rectify his earlier harshness, to seek understanding in the midst of the turmoil that had engulfed them both. The empty hallway echoed with the urgency of his steps until he reached Anastasia, his hand closing around her arm, a silent plea for her to stop, to listen.

"I'm sorry. You're right... I don't know anything. I don't know anything at all, so tell me... Please, tell me it isn't real. That you have no... affection towards him. That it's all a big performance and that you don't— that you don't love him," James implored, his words tumbling out in a rush, a jumble of fear, hope, and desperation.

Anastasia, taken aback by the raw emotion in his voice, by the look of sadness and despair in his eyes mingled with a sliver of hope, found herself at a loss. The intensity of his gaze, the earnestness of his plea, struck a chord within her, revealing the depth of his feelings, feelings she hadn't fully realized until this moment.

When she remained silent, lost in the tumult of her own emotions, James continued, his voice breaking with the effort to maintain composure. "I know... I know I have no right to ask you," he said, a dry laugh escaping him, a sound more heartbreaking than any words. "Especially not after how I've been acting around you. I know I've been childish but..."

He stepped closer, his touch gentle as he took her hand in his, a stark contrast to the earlier tension. "I just can't stand the thought of you being shackled to this waste of a human being." The sincerity in his gaze, as he looked up to meet her eyes, was palpable, a silent confession of the turmoil that raged within him. "I know I have no right—but I need to ask."

Anastasia, confronted with the depth of James's yearning, the raw vulnerability he displayed, felt a swell of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. His words, his plea, cut through the layers of her own defences, revealing the stark reality of her situation with Tom, the performance that had become her life.

Anastasia turned slowly, her eyes meeting his with a mixture of anger and sadness. "And what if I did love him, James? What difference would it make to you?"

James took a step closer, his breaths uneven, his hazel eyes locked on hers. The hallway felt too quiet, too still, as though the castle itself was holding its breath. His voice, low and unsteady, broke the silence.

"It would make all the difference," he said, his words carrying a rawness that struck her like a physical force.

Anastasia's carefully composed mask faltered, her lips parting slightly as if she wanted to speak but couldn't quite find the words. She had always been adept at shutting people out, at controlling the narrative with icy precision. But James's voice, thick with frustration and something deeper, was unrelenting.

"Don't you see?" he continued, taking another step closer, though his movements were slow, deliberate, as though afraid she might vanish if he moved too quickly. "I know you think I'm a fool—hell, I probably am—but I see it. I see the way he looks at you, the way he grips you like you're something to own. And I hate it. I hate that he gets to be near you, that he gets to call you his fiancée like he's won some bloody prize."

Anastasia blinked rapidly, her gaze darting away from his for the briefest moment before snapping back. Her voice, when it came, was quiet but firm. "James..." She hesitated, the sound of his name foreign on her tongue but carrying a weight that neither could ignore.

"This," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, the weight of his gaze making it difficult to articulate the storm of thoughts within her. "This is how my life is gonna play out... and there's nothing you nor I can do to change it..." The resignation in her voice, the acceptance of a future dictated by the demands and expectations of others, was a palpable blow to James. It was one thing to suspect the reality of her situation, quite another to hear it articulated so starkly, so devoid of hope.

James's heart clenched at the sound of his name, spoken with a softness he hadn't expected. It only spurred him on. "That's not true," he argued, his voice thick with determination. "You don't have to go through with this. You don't have to—"

"Stop," she said sharply, holding up a hand to cut him off. Her composure slipped further, her dark eyes flashing with frustration and something dangerously close to vulnerability. "You think this is that simple? That I can just... walk away?"

"Yes," James said immediately, his voice firm. "You can. You should."

Anastasia exhaled sharply, her hands balling into fists at her sides as she fought to maintain control. "And then what?" she snapped, her voice rising slightly before she caught herself. "Where does that leave me? Where does that leave my family? Do you have any idea what would happen if I walked away, James? What he would do to them? To me?"

James faltered, the depth of her words sinking in like a stone. "I—"

"No, you don't," she interrupted, her tone softer but still resolute. "You don't understand the stakes here. This isn't some fantasy where the hero rides in and saves the day. There's no saving, no rescuing. This is survival, James. It's not something you can fix with good intentions."

He stared at her, his mind racing to process everything she'd said. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the weight of her confession hanging heavily in the air.

"I don't care about being a hero," James said finally, his voice quiet but steady. "I just care about you."

Her breath caught, and for a fleeting moment, her guard dropped completely. She looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw the unshakable sincerity in his gaze.

"You shouldn't," she said softly, the words almost a whisper. "You're better off not caring, James. Because no matter how much you want to, you can't change what this is. You can't change what's already been decided."

James swallowed hard, his chest tightening. "And you? Is this what you want? Is this what you've decided?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her silence speaking louder than any answer she could give.

He exhaled shakily, taking a small step back. "I just... I hate seeing you like this," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "Like you're already a ghost of yourself."

Anastasia flinched at his words but quickly masked the reaction, her walls slamming back into place. "Then stop looking, James," she said coldly, though the edge in her voice lacked conviction. "It'll be easier for both of us."

She turned sharply, her gown swishing around her ankles as she walked away, leaving him standing alone in the empty hallway.

James stared after her, his heart pounding and his hands trembling at his sides. He wanted to call out to her, to say something that would make her stop, turn around, and let him in. But the words wouldn't come.

Instead, he stayed rooted in place, watching her disappear around the corner, his chest heavy with the weight of everything he couldn't say—and everything he couldn't do.