A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 26: Yes, Tom

Chapter 26: Yes, Tom

Anastasia felt as though she existed in a haze. Days, nights, and the hours in between bled into a single feverish moment. Each morning, she drifted through Tom's corridors, a ghost in her own life. By evening, her body was so weak that she could barely bring herself to stand. The meals set before her on gilded plates remained untouched; she didn't have the will to lift her fork for more than a few mechanical bites. Sleep was fitful. Nightmares crawled into her thoughts like venomous serpents, hissing accusations she no longer had the strength to refute.

She lived by one rule: yield.
"Yes, Tom."
"Of course, Tom."
"As you wish, Tom."

It was a quiet surrender, the final aftermath of his punishments and her own resigned acceptance that resistance led nowhere but pain. Her once sharp tongue lay silent behind her lips, and the eyes that had once burned with rebellious wit now stared dully ahead, reflecting only flickers of candlelight.

One night at dinner, the tension in the dining hall was as thick as the velvet drapes. Golden cutlery gleamed under the enchanted overhead lights. A footman hovered in the corner, afraid to meet Tom's eye, for fear of inciting that dark temper.

Anastasia sat with her hands folded in her lap, shoulders drooping. The food before her—a well-prepared roast, fresh bread, and delicately steamed vegetables—remained virtually untouched. She heard Tom's soft, measured breathing break.

"Aren't you going to eat?" he asked, voice cold but composed.

"Yes, Tom," she answered automatically, picking up her fork in a display of obedience. She managed one meagre bite before setting it down again.

A brittle silence fell between them. She felt his scrutiny cut through the air, sharp as a dagger. Then came the scrape of his chair on the floor, the way he leaned forward. Something about his posture screamed dissatisfaction, anger.

"You need to pull yourself together" he hissed, voice suddenly taut with anger. "I won't have you wasting away under this roof— it's pathetic."

"You've become too...passive," he continued, voice dangerously low. "A far cry from the girl who once spoke out of turn and tried to curse me in a ballroom."

The words barely registered. Anastasia stared at the plate, eyelids heavy. She felt the heat of his gaze, but it could no longer rouse any spark in her; fear lingered, yes, but it was dull and subdued, like a faint pulse.

She only lifted her gaze when Tom slammed his hand on the table, the impact rattling her silverware. The force rocked her whole world for an instant, shattering her apathy into shards of panic. Her heart jumped, and she forced herself to look at him.

He was breathing heavily, trying to temper his frustration. His black eyes flickered with something that might have been concern if it hadn't been overshadowed by cruelty. For a moment, she could almost taste the tension—like thick smoke in her throat.

"Well?" he demanded. "Have you lost your tongue entirely?"

A bitter laugh nearly surfaced in Anastasia's chest, but she swallowed it. The corners of her lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. When she finally spoke, her tone was eerily calm, hollow.
"Isn't this what you wanted from me?" Her voice was just above a whisper, yet each syllable sliced the strained atmosphere. "You wanted my compliance, my obedience. You told me not to fight back."

He studied her, crossing his arms. "I didn't want..." Tom bit back his words, as if reconsidering. His expression grew guarded. "This," he gestured to her with a sneer, "is too much. There's no challenge in you now."

"You don't like it when I talk back," Anastasia said simply. "You didn't appreciate my wit or my 'barbs'. Every time I spoke out of turn, you reminded me...who holds the upper hand." Her eyes fluttered closed, just for a moment, as she tried to steady her voice. "Well—here I am."