A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 77: With All Due Ceremony

Chapter 77: With All Due Ceremony

The morning light spilled in cold and filtered through the tall windows of the Riddle Estate's east breakfast room. The rain had finally stopped. The light cut pale angles across the white linen tablecloth, glinting off the silver like it had been summoned there for ceremony rather than sunlight.

Anastasia sat at the far end of the table, her teacup untouched.

The air smelled faintly of bergamot and poached eggs. A dish of preserved oranges sat in front of her, glistening in their syrup like candied jewels. A lace napkin, folded in thirds, perched beside her fork. It was the kind of breakfast one might have read about in an etiquette guide for Pureblood brides. Composed. Dignified. Almost absurd.

Across from her, Tom was reading the paper.

He didn't glance up when she entered earlier—just turned the page, slow and deliberate, like the news of the world required his signature to be real. The Daily Prophet lay flat before him, folded crisply in quarters, ink still fresh from the press. A small silver butter dish hovered near his left hand, untouched.

He looked... calm.

Not the clipped, brittle calm of forced grace. Not even the regal stillness he adopted when working. Just—unbothered. Composed in a way that made her wary.

It had been days since the night at Malfoy Manor.

Days since the shadows had twisted at her command.

Days since she'd pressed blood to his palm and shown him something raw and divine and terrifying.

She'd expected his grip to tighten.

But he hadn't tightened anything.

Quite the opposite.

He gave her space. He let her sleep alone, unbothered. He dined with her. Spoke to her softly. Walked with her through the south conservatory like they were a married couple of ten years' peace. He even laughed once, over breakfast, when she told him one of the peacocks had tried to attack Regulus last summer.

That was what unnerved her most.

Not the distance.

Not the suspicion.

The affection.

As if something in him had finally clicked into place. As if he'd seen her magic, seen the darkness she carried, and decided: yes. That belongs to me.

He hadn't needed to chain her up.

He knew she wouldn't run.

Not anymore.

"Still not eating?" Tom said without looking up.

Anastasia blinked.

"I had tea."

Tom folded the paper once and set it aside. "You've barely touched it."

She offered a thin smile. "Nerves."

He looked up at that.

"Nerves?" His brow arched faintly, the corner of his mouth curving. "You?"

She didn't answer.

Tom leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin.

"I suppose it's natural. A wedding is a stressful affair."

She didn't correct him. It wasn't the wedding. It was him.

And he knew that.

"The ceremony won't take long," he continued, voice smooth. "There will be a few speeches, mostly empty. Eurydice has chosen a dreadful gown. Pearls everywhere. Looks like she drowned in them."