A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 77: With All Due Ceremony

She smiled faintly, razor-thin. "He's not drinking."

Lucius chuckled. "Poor thing. Must've lost his taste for blood."

Regulus gave them a look—a last, quiet warning not to push too far—before peeling off toward the perimeter, blending neatly back into the crowd near his father. She let him go. For now.

She crossed the floor with Lucius at her side, her presence slicing clean through the din. She didn't glide. She didn't stroll. She moved with purpose, every step deliberate, every breath part of a rhythm she didn't need to rehearse. She belonged here now, whether she liked it or not. And she wore the part like silk drawn tight across iron.

Tom turned the moment she came within earshot.

"There she is," he said, smooth and theatrical, as if introducing her to the room itself.

She didn't smile. But her presence alone was enough. The Rosiers turned, the Selwyns too. And there it was—that collective pause. The silence made of politeness and fear.

Since the engagement, Anastasia had done countless public appearances. Silent ones. Posed, polished, vacuous. Her mind had always been elsewhere—calculating how to stay afloat, how to survive the Riddle Estate's atmosphere without oxygen. But now, Tom expected more. Now, he wanted theatre. Control through spectacle.

Anastasia slipped her arm through his, slow and fluid, like the movement had been choreographed. It felt practiced now, instinctive. Natural. And yet nothing about it was.

The Rosiers, she noticed, looked... wary. Especially Madame Rosier, who had once kissed both her cheeks and complimented her Latin. Her smile now was far thinner, far tighter, and she held her hands folded with an elegance that was just a little too deliberate.

Madame Rosier's smile twitched wider as Anastasia approached, but the stiffness in her posture betrayed her nerves. Her fingers tightened slightly on the stem of her glass.

"Anastasia, dear," she began, tone bright and practiced, "you look exquisite. That gown—Paris, surely?"

Anastasia's eyes flicked to her. She smiled, but it was cold—glacial, almost shocking in its exactness.

"Vienna," she said, voice silk over ice. "Paris tends to be too... soft for my liking."

A beat passed. Just long enough to sting. Tom observed her silently, faint amusement curving on his lips.

The Rosier matron's smile held, but the strain beneath it pulsed like a hairline crack in fine china. Her husband cleared his throat, gaze fixed studiously on the fire as though considering the architecture of flame.

Anastasia's gaze slid from Madame Rosier's fractured smile to the Selwyns, her tone shifting with theatrical ease.

"Lord Selwyn, Lady Selwyn," she said, inclining her head. "Allow me to offer my congratulations. Eurydice is an asset to any family. I imagine Aldaric must feel rather fortunate."

The older couple turned to her at once, visibly brightening as if she'd opened a window in a suffocating room. Lady Selwyn placed a gloved hand lightly over her heart, her features smoothing into polite delight.

"Oh, my dear Anastasia," she said, "you're too kind. What a beautiful thing to say. She'll be so pleased when she hears you were thinking of her."

"We're terribly proud," Lord Selwyn added, standing a little straighter, as though braced to be seen. "And the weather—well, it seems to have cleared just for her."

Anastasia smiled again, and this one held genuine warmth, or, at least, the illusion of it. "Quite auspicious, indeed."

Lady Selwyn leaned in, voice just a little lower. "You'll be next, of course. All anyone talks about is how radiant you look today. You'll make the most exquisite bride."

"I'm flattered," Anastasia replied. "Though I can't take credit for the dress. I only stood still and allowed the magic to work."

"Still," Lord Selwyn said, "elegance takes more than tailoring. Tom was gracious enough to host this gathering for us—such generosity—"

"I thought it the least we could do," Tom said smoothly, stepping in at last, his voice velvet-wrapped steel. "Your daughter's marriage is a fine match. Worth celebrating."

"And such a lovely crowd," Lady Selwyn added, gaze sweeping fondly toward the other end of the room. "So many familiar faces."

Anastasia followed her line of sight, to Evan Rosier, standing rigidly apart from the rest, fingers clenched too tightly around his empty glass. He wasn't looking at her. Not yet. He was looking at the carpet. Or the window. Or nothing at all.

She tilted her head.

"Evan," she said, the name like a bead of mercury rolling over glass. "Would you care for a drink?"

The question wasn't aggressive. Wasn't anything, really—just perfectly polite, edged with the soft courtesy of courtship rituals and rehearsed civility. But it landed like a knife.

Evan looked up, startled. His mouth opened, but no sound came.

His father—a tall, angular man with a mouth permanently set in what might have once been a smile—stepped forward half a beat too quickly.

"He's just pacing himself," Monsieur Rosier said, voice strained through a pleasant veneer. "Long day ahead, you understand. So many moving parts."

"Of course," Anastasia said lightly. "One wouldn't want to make another mistake."

Silence bloomed like frost over still water. A ripple passed through the circle—a subtle tension, a recalibration of posture, a flicker of widened eyes.

The words fell like ice into a shallow pool—barely a ripple, but bitterly cold. Around them, the nearest conversations faltered. Lucius, behind her, gave a faint, audible huff—half a laugh, half a sigh of satisfaction.

Lord Rosier swallowed. His fingers twitched once at his side.

"But," Anastasia added, turning her attention back to Evan, "I believe I was asking you."

A pause. Evan's mouth opened, then closed again, useless. His hand shifted near his side, as if unsure whether to reach for the goblet or his wand. She tilted her head slightly, waiting.

"Well?" she asked, voice light and lilting. "No?"

"No," Evan finally managed. His voice was thin. "No, thank you."

"A pity," she said, still smiling. "I thought you had an affinity for... what was it, Lucius?"

Lucius didn't miss a beat. "Fine whiskey."

"Right," she said, nodding once. "That."

Evan said nothing. His fingers were white where they gripped the edge of the table.

Anastasia's gaze didn't soften.

"Well, don't hold yourself back, Evan," she said smoothly. "It's a celebration, after all."

And then she turned—unhurried, unbothered—and looked to Tom.

"Shall we circulate?"

He offered his arm again. "By all means."

She rested her hand in the crook of his elbow without looking back. The conversation resumed behind them, strained and fragmented.

As they passed the Selwyns once more, she paused just long enough to offer a parting smile.

"Do enjoy the ceremony," she said warmly. "And give Eurydice my best."

Lady Selwyn beamed, a little too eagerly. "Thank you again, my dear. You've become... such a presence."

Lucius caught her eye as she stepped away. He raised his glass in a silent toast, a smirk tugging at his mouth—equal parts delight and fear.

Anastasia inclined her head just enough to acknowledge it. Then she walked on.