Chapter 7: A Debut in Society
The day of the Pureblood Ball arrived with a sense of inevitability, the kind of occasion that demanded its participants fall into line, playing their prescribed roles with precision. The Riddle Estate had been transformed into a glittering spectacle of opulence. Chandeliers floated above the grand ballroom, their crystals enchanted to reflect a soft, golden light. The estate's vast grounds, shrouded in evening mist, were dotted with lanterns that glowed like fireflies, casting an ethereal glow over the manicured gardens. House-elves scurried back and forth, ensuring that every detail was immaculate, every surface gleaming.
Upstairs, Anastasia stood before a tall, ornate mirror in Tom's bedroom, her reflection framed by the carved mahogany edges. She wore a gown of emerald silk that clung to her figure before cascading into soft, rippling folds at her feet. The dress caught the light with every movement, shimmering like water under moonlight. Its neckline was modest but flattering, accentuating the curve of her shoulders and the length of her neck, which she now traced absently with her fingers.
She could still feel the faint ache beneath her glamour spells—the bruises hidden beneath the fabric. The marks on her arms, her back, the faint crescent impressions of fingernails at her waist. They were invisible now, erased by Tom's deft wandwork, but their presence lingered in her mind, a sharp reminder of the night before. She had said nothing as he performed the spell, his touch surprisingly gentle as he ensured the bruises wouldn't betray their private moments. It wasn't tenderness, she knew, but control—his desire to maintain the perfection of their image.
Behind her, the bedroom door opened, and she saw Tom's reflection appear in the mirror. He was dressed in a sharply tailored black suit, his tie matching the precise shade of her gown. He looked every inch the commanding presence he always was, his dark hair immaculate, his movements deliberate. He smiled as he approached, his hands sliding to rest on her shoulders.
"You look exquisite," he murmured, his voice low and smooth. His gaze traveled over her reflection, lingering on the curve of her collarbone and the sweep of fabric around her legs.
"I imagine that was the intention," she replied, her voice measured. She met his eyes in the mirror, tilting her head slightly. "You wouldn't settle for anything less."
His smile widened, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Naturally. Appearances are everything tonight."
She resisted the urge to flinch under his hands, keeping her expression calm. "And what, precisely, are we appearing as?"
He chuckled, leaning down so his lips brushed against her ear. "The future," he whispered. "Power incarnate. The envy of everyone in that room."
Anastasia's fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the vanity. "Quite the performance."
"It's not a performance," he said, his tone cooling. "It's reality. And tonight, you will show them what it means to stand by my side."
She turned her head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze directly. "And what, exactly, am I showing them?"
Tom's expression softened, though his dark eyes remained sharp. "That you belong here," he said simply. "That you belong to me. With me."
The weight of his words settled heavily in the room, and Anastasia forced herself to hold his gaze without faltering. "Do I have a choice?"
His lips curved into a faint smirk, but there was no humor in it. "You've already made it, Anastasia."
He straightened, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve as he stepped back. "The guests will begin arriving soon. I trust you'll be ready to greet them."
"Of course," she replied, her voice steady despite the churn of unease in her chest.
Tom moved to the door, pausing to glance over his shoulder. "Remember," he said, his voice soft but firm. "Tonight, every eye will be on us. Let them see perfection."
The door closed behind him, leaving Anastasia alone in the room once more. She turned back to the mirror, her hands smoothing the fabric of her dress as she took a slow, steadying breath. The image staring back at her was flawless—poised, polished, and utterly untouchable. But beneath the surface, her mind raced with a thousand thoughts, each one more suffocating than the last.
This would be her life. A string of nights like this, paraded around like a trophy, glamoured bruises and plastic smiles. Yet, even as she told herself she had no choice, a small, defiant voice deep within her whispered otherwise.
For now, though, she silenced it. With one last glance at her reflection, she turned and made her way toward the grand staircase, the distant hum of voices already beginning to rise from below.
The grand staircase was lit with enchanted lanterns that cast a golden glow over the polished marble steps. Anastasia moved alongside Tom, their arms linked, their descent measured and deliberate. Each step echoed through the vast hall below, the sound amplifying the weight of their arrival. The ballroom unfolded before them, a spectacle of wealth and power. Crystal chandeliers floated high above, their prisms scattering light over the sea of elegantly robed guests adorned with sparkling jewels and gilded masks of poise.
As they reached the base of the staircase and stepped into the room, a ripple of attention followed their entrance. Conversations hushed, heads turned, and the collective gaze of the room settled firmly on them. Tom, with his striking black suit and commanding presence, exuded an effortless magnetism that drew every eye. Anastasia, resplendent in her shimmering emerald gown, felt the weight of those stares as if they were a tangible force pressing against her skin.
She allowed her face to remain composed, cool, and detached, the perfect mask of Slytherin grace. Her arm looped loosely through Tom's, her chin tilted just enough to convey confidence without arrogance. But as her gaze swept across the crowd, she couldn't ignore the undercurrent of whispers that followed them, the murmurs of admiration, curiosity, and, in some cases, thinly veiled envy.
"See how they watch," Tom murmured under his breath, leaning close enough that only she could hear. "They know they're witnessing something extraordinary."
"Do they?" she replied evenly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Or are they simply waiting for us to stumble?"
Tom chuckled, the sound low and rich. "Let them wait. They'll find nothing but perfection."
Her lips twitched faintly at the comment, though her thoughts were less amused. As Tom began to guide her through the crowd, pausing here and there to exchange greetings with prominent figures, Anastasia's gaze remained sharp, scanning the room. She cataloged every familiar face—the Malfoys, the Parkinsons, the Rosiers—all gathered in tight-knit clusters, their conversations calculated and practiced.
It was a scene she had grown up in, one she was well-versed in navigating. But tonight, something felt different. The air was thicker with expectation, heavier with the weight of unspoken alliances and ambitions. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was not simply a guest at this event but a carefully displayed piece on a chessboard she didn't entirely understand.
Her gaze shifted again, sweeping across the ballroom until it landed on two figures standing near the edge of the room. Her breath caught, and her composure slipped for the briefest moment, her brow furrowing before she caught herself.
James Potter and Sirius Black.
The two of them stood slightly apart from the crowd, James's unruly hair unmistakable even in the refined setting, and Sirius, dressed impeccably as always, exuded a devil-may-care charm that clashed with the rigid formality of the event. They weren't speaking at the moment, but the shared glance between them spoke volumes, a silent exchange that made her stomach twist with unease.
"Something wrong?" Tom asked, his tone casual but edged with curiosity. He hadn't missed her brief lapse.
"Nothing," she said quickly, smoothing her expression into one of indifference. "Just... an unexpected guest or two."
Tom followed her gaze, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as they landed on James and Sirius. A faint smile curved his lips, but it lacked warmth. "How charming. The Potters never fail to surprise, do they? And young Sirius... still pretending to be something he's not."
"Is it wise to invite those who so openly oppose everything this gathering represents?" she asked lightly, though her words carried an edge.
Tom's smile deepened, his hand tightening slightly on her arm. "Even dissenters have their uses," he said smoothly. "Sometimes, it's better to keep them close where you can see them."
"Or remind them of what they're up against?" she suggested, her tone sharp but faintly amused.
Tom chuckled softly. "Precisely."
Anastasia's gaze flicked back to the two Gryffindors, her mind racing. What were they doing here? James stood with his arms crossed, his posture exuding skepticism and irritation. Sirius, by contrast, appeared relaxed, though she could see the faint tension in his jaw, the way his sharp eyes scanned the crowd with practiced ease. They were up to something—she could feel it.
Before she could dwell further, Tom began to guide her toward another cluster of guests, his voice shifting into the smooth cadence of polite conversation as he greeted them. She followed his lead, her responses measured and polite, but her attention kept drifting back to the edges of the room, where Sirius and James lingered like a storm waiting to break.
As she sipped from a glass of champagne handed to her by a passing house-elf, her mind churned with possibilities. James's expression—watchful, scrutinising—made her stomach twist uncomfortably. And Sirius, despite his casual demeanour, hadn't looked her way once.
"Stay focused," Tom murmured, his voice cutting through her thoughts. He leaned closer, his hand brushing the small of her back. "You're not here to worry about schoolyard rivals."
She forced a faint smile, tilting her head toward him. "Of course not," she replied, though the knot in her chest refused to loosen.
Tom was in his element, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease, his every gesture calculated, every smile measured. Anastasia moved beside him, the perfect picture of elegance and composure, her arm looped lightly through his. Together, they greeted guests one by one, their names a roll call of the most influential pureblood families: Malfoy, Parkinson, Rosier, Lestrange.
The conversations were a tedious mix of pleasantries and veiled politicking, but Anastasia knew her role well. She offered just enough charm to be memorable, just enough wit to leave an impression. They moved on, one guest to the other, and as they passed through the room, Anastasia's gaze caught a flicker of messy black hair and horn-rimmed glasses at the edge of the crowd. James Potter. He was standing with a drink in his hand, his expression sharp and entirely too focused on her.
That idiot, she thought, her brow furrowing slightly before she caught herself and smoothed her expression. What was he even doing here? Sirius was nowhere to be seen—undoubtedly hiding from his parents, which, for once, seemed like the smarter choice. James's presence, however, was infuriating. Did he think he could glean some hidden truth from watching her?
Her irritation only grew when she caught him raising a glass slightly in her direction, the faintest smirk on his lips. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes and turned her attention back to the task at hand.
"Smile," Tom murmured beside her, his voice low enough that only she could hear. His hand rested lightly on the small of her back, guiding her toward another group of guests. "You look like you're thinking too much."
"I'm always thinking," she replied smoothly, tilting her head slightly to meet his gaze. "It's what keeps me from being bored."
His lips curved into a faint smile. "Well, do try to look like you're enjoying yourself. Perception is everything. Although, I'm sure I don't need to remind you."
As they moved through the room, Anastasia's sharp eyes caught sight of Regulus standing near Walburga and Orion. The younger Black was impeccably dressed in deep green robes, his face carrying the faintly serious expression he always wore at such events. Walburga's haughty gaze flitted over the crowd as if assessing each person's worth, while Orion stood with his usual stoic detachment. Anastasia's chest tightened slightly at the sight of them, though she allowed no sign of it to reach her face.
"Let's say hello," she murmured to Tom, nodding toward her family.
"Of course," Tom replied, his expression unreadable. He adjusted his grip on her arm and led her toward the Blacks.
"Anastasia," Walburga said as they approached, her tone cool but approving. Her dark eyes swept over the couple before landing on her niece. "You look lovely tonight."
"Thank you," Anastasia replied with a slight incline of her head. "You look as elegant as ever."
Walburga's lips twitched faintly, though it was hardly a smile. "Tom," she said, turning her attention to him. "We were just discussing how well the estate looks tonight. You've truly outdone yourself."
"I aim to please," Tom said smoothly, his tone laced with charm. "It's important to remind everyone of the traditions we hold dear."
Orion gave a faint nod of approval. "Indeed. Tonight is a testament to the strength of our heritage."
Regulus, standing slightly apart from his parents, caught Anastasia's eye. He gave her a small, hesitant smile, and she returned it with a subtle nod. He stepped forward slightly, his voice quiet but clear. "You look good, Ana."
"Thank you, Reg," she said softly. "You clean up well yourself."
Anastasia leaned down and whispered into her cousin's ear. "Will you be staying long tonight, Regulus?" she asked softly, her tone almost teasing. "Or will your mother have you by her side the entire evening?"
Regulus's lips twitched into a faint smirk. "I haven't decided yet. Depends on how insufferable everyone gets."
Tom's hand tightened ever so slightly on her arm, a barely perceptible movement that only she would have noticed. "Regulus," he said, his tone warm but measured. "How are you finding the evening?"
"It's... impressive," Regulus said carefully. "Though perhaps a bit overwhelming."
"Overwhelming?" Walburga said sharply, her gaze narrowing. "A Black doesn't find themselves overwhelmed, Regulus. You should know that by now."
Regulus flushed slightly but nodded. "Of course, Mother."
Walburga stepped forward, her eyes narrowing at Anastasia. "You're representing the family tonight," she said coldly. "See that you don't embarrass us."
"Of course," Anastasia replied, her voice as sharp as Walburga's but wrapped in a veneer of politeness. "I wouldn't dream of it."
Orion, who had been silent until now, finally turned his gaze to Tom. "Anastasia reflects well on you," he said, his voice heavy with implication. "You've made a... fortunate choice."
Anastasia hid her amusement behind a sip of champagne, but Tom's grip on her arm tightened slightly, his patience clearly thinning. "Anastasia," he murmured, "perhaps we should circulate."
"Of course," she said, offering a polite nod to her aunt and uncle before turning back to Regulus. "Be good," she said softly, squeezing his arm once more before allowing Tom to guide her away.
The exchange ended with strained smiles and faint nods before Tom guided Anastasia away, his hand resting lightly on her back. She felt the tension in his touch, the irritation simmering beneath his composed exterior.
"Charming as ever," she muttered under her breath, earning a faint chuckle from Tom.
As they moved toward another cluster of guests, a familiar drawl reached her ears.
"Anastasia," Lucius Malfoy said smoothly, his pale blond hair gleaming under the ballroom's enchanted lights. He was impeccably dressed, as always, his silver-trimmed robes giving him the air of effortless confidence.
"Lucius," she said warmly, catching his attention. "I was beginning to think you'd skipped the evening entirely."
Lucius turned to Anastasia, a genuine smile breaking across his face. "Well," he said, his tone light. "As if I'd miss a chance to see you outshine everyone here."
"Flatterer," she replied, though the faint smile on her lips betrayed her amusement.
"I only speak the truth," he said, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
She rolled her eyes lightly, though her smile lingered. "Still the same charm, I see."
"Always," he replied, his tone laced with humor. His pale eyes flicked to Tom, his expression shifting just enough to acknowledge the presence of the man at her side. "Riddle."
Tom inclined his head, his lips curving into a polite smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Malfoy. I trust you're enjoying the evening?"
Lucius's smirk didn't waver. "Of course. The Riddle Estate never disappoints."
Anastasia noted the slight tightness in Tom's jaw as he responded, his tone smooth but with an edge of control. "I do my best to ensure it."
Lucius shifted his attention back to Anastasia, his demeanour relaxing slightly. "You're stunning tonight," he said, his voice casual but warm. "Though I suppose that's no surprise. Emerald suits you."
"Thank you," Anastasia replied lightly, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "You're not looking too dreadful yourself, though I suspect Narcissa deserves some credit for that."
Lucius chuckled softly, his expression one of practiced amusement. "She does keep me in line, I'll admit."
As they spoke, Tom's hand slid to the small of Anastasia's back, the touch subtle but unmistakable. His grip tightened slightly, and she felt the weight of his gaze, even as he remained silent.
Lucius's eyes flicked briefly to Tom's hand, his smirk sharpening imperceptibly before he turned his attention back to Anastasia. "Will you both be staying long after the ball, or has Riddle's new position at the Ministry made even leisure impossible?"
"Tom's quite busy these days," Anastasia replied smoothly, her tone carefully neutral. "But I imagine we'll find a way to manage."
"How diligent," Lucius said, his voice carrying a faint hint of teasing. "The Ministry is lucky to have someone so committed."
"Diligence," Tom said, his voice cutting through the conversation like a blade, "is a necessity for those of us with vision."
The tension in the air thickened, though Lucius's expression remained effortlessly composed. "Of course," he said, inclining his head slightly. "Your vision has always been... ambitious."
"And yours?" Tom countered, his smile razor-sharp. "I trust it aligns with the broader interests of our kind."
Lucius's smirk faltered slightly, and for a brief moment, the two men seemed locked in an unspoken battle of wills. Anastasia stepped in smoothly, her voice light as she said, "Lucius has always been supportive. Haven't you?"
"Always," Lucius replied, his smirk returning as his gaze flicked back to her. "Though I suspect your company tonight is far more compelling than any talk of politics."
Tom's hand pressed more firmly against Anastasia's back, and she felt the tension radiating from him like heat. His polite smile didn't falter as he said, "Anastasia and I do make a compelling team."
"Indeed," Lucius said, his tone unreadable. "Well, I won't keep you from your admirers any longer. But do save me a dance later, Anastasia."
Before she could respond, Tom spoke, his tone light but pointed. "Her schedule is rather full tonight. Perhaps another time."
Lucius inclined his head slightly, his smirk lingering as he said, "Of course. Enjoy the evening." He turned and disappeared into the crowd, his pale hair vanishing like a wisp of smoke.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Tom's hand fell from Anastasia's back, though the tension in his posture remained. "Overfamiliar," he said quietly, his tone clipped.
"He's an old friend," Anastasia replied, turning to face him. "That's all."
Tom's gaze darkened, though his expression remained calm. "See that it stays that way."
Anastasia resisted the urge to roll her eyes, her voice carefully even as she said, "Are you always this territorial, or is it just tonight?"
His lips curved into a faint smile, but it didn't soften the steel in his eyes. "You'll find I'm always protective of what's mine."
Her chest tightened at the implication, but she kept her expression neutral, her voice light as she replied, "Duly noted."
The clink of glasses and the hum of refined conversation filled the air as Anastasia made her way toward the refreshment table. She moved with the practiced grace that years of navigating pureblood society had instilled in her, her emerald gown catching the light with every step. The tension of the evening clung to her like the faint perfume she wore—something subtle, lingering, and impossible to ignore.
Tom had been occupied with a group of older wizards near the fireplace, their conversation hushed but intense. Anastasia seized the moment to slip away, her composure unshaken, though the weight of the evening pressed against her like a vice.
As she reached the refreshment table, she poured herself a glass of champagne, her fingers brushing against the cool crystal stem. She savoured the brief moment of solitude, her gaze fixed on the delicate bubbles rising in the glass. The air felt lighter here, away from the crowd, though she knew it was only an illusion. She took a sip, the faint bitterness lingering on her tongue.
"I wouldn't have pegged this as your kind of crowd, Potter," she said without turning, her voice sharp enough to cut through the din.
Behind her, James Potter chuckled, low and dry. "Don't remind me," he replied, stepping closer. "I think I'm breaking out in hives just being here. Might have to bathe soon."
She turned to face him, one brow arching as she took in his slightly disheveled appearance. He had made an effort, she noted grudgingly, but the messy hair and glint of mischief in his hazel eyes clashed spectacularly with the pristine, calculating atmosphere of the room. "And yet, here you are," she said coolly. "Why?"
James shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets and glancing around with mock interest. "Couldn't resist the allure of free champagne and unbearable company."
She snorted softly, though her expression remained aloof. "Where's Sirius? Hiding from his parents, or simply from responsibility?"
A flicker of irritation crossed James's face, but it was quickly replaced by a sardonic smirk. "He's around," he said vaguely. "We both are. Funny how that works, isn't it?"
Anastasia's eyes narrowed. "Funny isn't the word I'd use. Let me guess—you're here to keep tabs? Observe? Or have you graduated to outright stalking?"
James's smirk widened, though there was a sharpness to it now. "Maybe I'm just here to enjoy the show."
Her lips curved into a faint, cold smile. "How cryptic. Maybe this is your crowd after all."
He wrinkled his nose, feigning horror. "Don't even joke about that."
Anastasia rolled her eyes and took another sip of champagne. "Well, whatever your reason for gracing us with your presence, I really couldn't care less. But do us both a favour and scram before anyone mistakes this interaction for association."
James opened his mouth to reply, but another voice interrupted.
"How peculiar," Lucius drawled, his voice carrying an edge of mockery. "You seem to have a knack for attracting the riffraff, Anastasia."
James turned to face Lucius, his smirk hardening into something more forced. "Malfoy. Never a pleasure."
"Potter," Lucius replied smoothly, his pale eyes gleaming with disdain. "Do try not to spill anything on the furniture. Some of us have standards."
Anastasia hid a small smile behind the rim of her glass. "Be kind, Lucius. Not everyone is fortunate enough to have learned proper decorum."
James looked as though he might argue, but Anastasia cut in sharply. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Potter," she said, her tone final.
James glanced between the two of them, his jaw working as though he were holding back a retort. Finally, he exhaled sharply, his glare burning into Lucius for a moment before he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Once he was gone, Lucius stepped closer, his hand resting lightly on Anastasia's waist. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Tell me, Ana, does he follow you everywhere, or is tonight a special occasion?"
Lucius tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "You'd think he'd at least have the good sense to stay hidden. Not everyone is so forgiving when it comes to blood traitors."
"Forgiving?" Anastasia echoed, raising a brow. "I'd hardly call your open disdain as forgiving."
Lucius laughed softly, his hand still resting on her waist as he said, "Well, someone has to keep the standards around here."
She let out a soft laugh despite herself, the tension of her earlier exchange with James beginning to melt away. "If anyone could make arrogance sound charming, Lucius, it's you."
"Flattery will get you everywhere," he replied smoothly, his smirk widening. "Though you should be careful. Your dear fiancé might start getting jealous."
Anastasia glanced over her shoulder, her gaze briefly scanning the crowd for Tom. He was deep in conversation with a cluster of elders, his posture as sharp and controlled as ever. "Let him," she said lightly. "He thrives on attention anyway."
Lucius's laugh was low and knowing as he leaned in just enough to whisper, "Well, for what it's worth, Ana, I'll always prefer your company to his."
Anastasia leaned against the refreshment table, her glass of champagne dangling lightly from her fingers as she allowed herself a rare moment of levity. Lucius stood beside her, his smirk as permanent as ever, his pale eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and mischief. The two of them surveyed the room like seasoned predators, dissecting every movement and murmur with biting commentary.
"Did you see the Parkinsons earlier?" Lucius asked, his voice low enough to avoid carrying but laced with obvious humor. "I swear, Eliza's dress looks like it was fashioned from her grandmother's curtains. No, scratch that—her great-grandmother's."
Anastasia's lips twitched as she struggled not to laugh outright. "Stop," she murmured, though her tone betrayed no actual desire for him to do so. "If you keep that up, I won't be able to face her with a straight face later."
Lucius raised an elegant brow. "Why would you bother? You've always been better at the silent, disdainful glance. I'm certain she's still trying to decipher what you meant when you complimented her hair last Christmas."
"I was being sincere," Anastasia protested, though she couldn't keep the smirk off her face. "It looked... voluminous."
"Voluminous," Lucius repeated, his voice dripping with mockery. "You truly are a marvel. A wordsmith."
Anastasia laughed softly, shaking her head. "Careful, Lucius. You wouldn't want anyone to overhear you being so complimentary. It might ruin your reputation."
"I'll take my chances," he replied, his tone dry but affectionate. His gaze flicked across the room, and he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Look at Selwyn over there. He's already had three glasses of firewhisky, and we're not even halfway through the evening."
Anastasia followed his gaze, spotting the older man who now appeared to be cornering a younger guest with an overly animated story. She let out a soft laugh, her eyes glinting with amusement. "At least he's predictable. I'd be more concerned if he wasn't making a spectacle of himself."
"True," Lucius conceded. "Though he'll undoubtedly spend the next week complaining about how the younger generation lacks dignity."
Anastasia tilted her head, a sly smile curving her lips. "He's not entirely wrong."
Lucius gave her a pointed look. "Present company excluded, of course."
"Of course," she replied smoothly, raising her glass in a mock toast.
Their laughter was quiet, controlled, but genuine. For a moment, Anastasia allowed herself to forget the weight of the evening, the calculating eyes of the guests, and the ever-present tension that accompanied her every step. Lucius had always been adept at creating that space for her—a pocket of irreverence in an otherwise suffocating world.
"Speaking of spectacles," Lucius said, his smirk deepening, "did you notice your fiancé earlier? I believe he was mid-sentence when that poor Rosier boy spilled his drink."
Anastasia raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"And," Lucius drawled, "he didn't even flinch. Just kept talking as though the boy wasn't about to sink into the floor out of shame. It was... impressive, in a rather unnerving way."
"That sounds like Tom," Anastasia said lightly, though her tone carried an undertone of thoughtfulness. "Nothing derails him. Ever."
"Must be exhausting," Lucius remarked. "Being that... precise all the time."
Anastasia glanced at Lucius, her expression unreadable. "It's not exhaustion he feels," she said quietly. "It's control."
Lucius studied her for a moment before his smirk returned. "Well, let's hope he doesn't try to control your wit. It'd be a shame for you to lose your only redeeming quality."
Anastasia scoffed, though her lips quirked in amusement. "Careful, Malfoy. I might start thinking you actually enjoy my company."
"That," Lucius replied smoothly, "is a dangerous assumption to make. But, for tonight, I'll allow it."
She rolled her eyes but couldn't help the genuine laugh that escaped her. "You're insufferable."
"And yet, you've been standing here with me for far too long," Lucius said, his hand lightly brushing her elbow. "Come, Ana. Let's find another victim to mock before someone notices how much fun we're having."
She shook her head but let him lead her away, their quiet laughter trailing behind them like a shared secret. For a brief moment, amidst the dazzling lights and suffocating grandeur, Anastasia almost felt like herself again.
Anastasia was mid-laugh, her hand lightly resting on Lucius's arm as they exchanged another cutting remark about the Parkinson matriarch's choice of jewelry—an oversized emerald necklace that seemed one misstep away from snapping her neck. The conversation was light, almost natural, and for a brief moment, Anastasia had forgotten the suffocating weight of the ballroom. Forgotten, that is, until a familiar shadow loomed into her periphery.
"Anastasia."
Tom's voice was calm, measured, but there was an unmistakable edge to it that immediately tightened the air around them. She turned, her laugh fading as she met his gaze. His expression was polite, his lips curved in a faint smile, but his dark eyes were sharp, simmering with something far less congenial.
"Tom," she greeted, forcing her voice to remain smooth. "I was just catching up with Lucius."
"So I see," he replied, his tone deceptively light. He turned his gaze to Lucius, his expression unreadable. "Malfoy. Enjoying yourselves I see."
Lucius, ever composed, gave a faint bow of his head. "I was just telling Anastasia how dazzling this evening has been. You've truly outdone yourself."
"How kind of you to say," Tom replied, his smile tightening. His gaze flicked back to Anastasia, and she felt the weight of his scrutiny, a heat that threatened to burn through her composure. "Though I'd hate to monopolise your time, Malfoy. Anastasia and I have matters to discuss."
Lucius's brow lifted slightly, his smirk faltering for the briefest moment before he inclined his head again. "Of course. I'll leave you to it."
As Lucius slipped away into the crowd, Tom's hand slid to Anastasia's arm, his grip firm but not harsh—yet. "Come with me," he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
Her stomach tightened, but she didn't resist as he guided her through the throng of guests, his grip like a vice steering her toward the doors at the far end of the room. The murmurs of conversation and clinking of glasses faded as they exited into one of the quieter corridors, the ornate sconces lining the walls casting flickering shadows across Tom's sharp features.
Anastasia and Tom hurried towards the library, his hand still firmly gripping her arm. He shut the door behind them, his expression dark and brooding. The moment the doors closed behind them, Tom's mask of civility slipped. He released her arm, but only so he could turn to face her fully, his expression dark and unreadable.
"Care to explain?" he asked softly, though the softness carried the threat of thunder behind it.
Anastasia arched a brow, though her chest felt tight. "Explain what?"
"Don't play coy with me," Tom said, his voice cool but laced with something volatile. "You know exactly what I mean. Laughing. Smiling. With Lucius Malfoy, of all people."
"As I've told you," Anastasia replied, her tone firm but controlled. "We've known each other since childhood. That's hardly a crime."
Tom's smile was sharp, humourless. "Friendship is not the issue. The issue, Anastasia, is your lack of regard for me. Do you think I didn't notice the way you've been avoiding me tonight? Dismissing me?"
"I haven't been avoiding you," she said, though the protest sounded weak even to her own ears. "You've been busy with your... associates."
"And you've been busy with Malfoy," he shot back, his voice growing colder. "I told you he was overstepping, didn't I? I clearly warned you to remember your boundaries."
"Boundaries?" Her voice sharpened, her composure cracking slightly. "I wasn't aware that exchanging pleasantries constituted a breach of etiquette."
"Don't be glib," Tom said sharply, stepping closer. The air between them seemed to spark with tension as he loomed over her, his dark eyes narrowing. "You humiliated me. Laughing with him, smiling like that. Do you think people didn't notice? Do you think they didn't wonder why my fiancée seemed so enamoured with someone else?"
"I wasn't—" she began, but he cut her off with a low, bitter laugh.
"Do you know what they're whispering right now?" he continued, his tone venomous. "They're questioning your loyalty. My judgment. You've made me look weak, Anastasia."
Her chest tightened, but she refused to let him see her falter. "That's not my fault, Tom. If your position is so fragile that a laugh with an old friend can damage it, perhaps you should reconsider the foundation you've built."
His expression darkened, and for a moment, she thought he might lash out. But instead, he reached for her, his hand cupping her chin with a deceptively gentle touch. "You're bold tonight," he murmured, his voice low but dangerous. "It's almost admirable."
Her heart hammered in her chest as his thumb brushed against her jaw, a calculated gesture that felt more like a warning than an act of affection. "But let me make one thing clear," he continued, his grip tightening slightly. "You are mine. Not his. Not anyone else's. And I will not tolerate being made a fool."
Anastasia forced herself to meet his gaze, her voice steady despite the churn of emotion in her chest. "I've done nothing to make you a fool, Tom. If you feel insecure, that's your burden to carry—not mine."
His lips curved into a slow, predatory smile. "Insecure?" he echoed, his tone mocking. "How quaint. You think this is about insecurity?"
Anastasia's eyes narrowed at Tom's mocking tone, her composure splintering beneath the weight of her anger. She knew the risks of speaking rashly to him, of letting her sharp tongue slip past the carefully constructed mask she always wore in his presence. But tonight, something inside her refused to remain silent.
"Then what is it about, Tom?" she snapped, her voice cool but biting. "Because from where I stand, it seems like insecurity is precisely the issue. Or is this how you assert your so-called power? By dragging me out of a room every time someone else so much as looks my way?"
Tom's smile remained fixed, but his eyes darkened, the glint of amusement giving way to something colder, more dangerous. He took a deliberate step closer, the air between them charged with a tension that seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room.
"Careful, Anastasia," he murmured, his voice deceptively soft. "You're treading on thin ice."
"Am I?" she shot back, the words spilling out before she could stop them. "Because it seems to me that you're the one losing control."
Tom's smile faltered, just for a moment, and she knew she had hit a nerve. His jaw tightened, the carefully crafted veneer of charm cracking under the weight of her defiance. "You're mistaken," he said, his voice low and clipped. "I'm very much in control."
"Of yourself? Or just everyone around you?" she retorted, her voice sharp enough to cut. "Because the latter is a poor substitute for the former."
His expression darkened further, the line of his mouth hardening into a thin slash. The silence that followed was deafening, and Anastasia's pulse raced as she realised she had crossed an invisible line. But before she could take a step back, before she could prepare herself for the inevitable, Tom struck her.
The sound of the impact echoed in the room, sharp and startling. Her head snapped to the side, the sting blooming hot across her cheek. For a moment, she stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat, her mind reeling from the shock of it.
She stumbled slightly, her knees buckling as she instinctively raised a hand to her face. The sensation was foreign, almost surreal, and yet the pain was all too real.
For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. Her vision swam slightly, the sting of the blow radiating from her cheekbone as she pressed her trembling fingers against the skin. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think—her mind was a blur of shock and disbelief.
Tom stood before her, his posture relaxed, his expression calm as though nothing had happened. But the intensity in his gaze was searing, the veneer of his charm stripped away to reveal the cold ruthlessness beneath.
Tom's shadow loomed over her as she crumpled to the floor, the cold marble pressing against her palms as she tried to steady herself. She didn't cry out, didn't make a sound, though her chest heaved with the effort of keeping her composure intact.
The sound of his footsteps was unnervingly calm as he crouched beside her, his presence overwhelming. He didn't reach for her, didn't offer a hand to help her up. Instead, he tilted his head, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her stomach twist.
"It seems I've been too lax with you," he said quietly, his tone almost conversational, as though they were discussing the weather. His voice was steady, but the menace beneath it was unmistakable. "You've forgotten your place."
Anastasia's hands clenched into fists against the marble, her nails biting into her palms. She refused to look away, refused to let him see the flicker of fear that threatened to surface. Instead, she met his gaze head-on, her silence her only act of defiance.
Tom's lips curved into a faint smile, though it lacked any warmth. "Good," he murmured, his voice low and smooth. "At least you're learning when to hold your tongue."
He reached out then, his hand brushing against her chin with a gentleness that felt like mockery, tilting her face up so he could inspect his handiwork. The contrast between his soft touch and the sharp sting of his earlier strike made her skin crawl.
"Such a beautiful face," he said softly, his thumb grazing her cheek where the redness was beginning to rise. "It would be a shame to ruin it."