The Addams manor was dimly lit that night, every chandelier dripping with wax and shadows. A storm prowled outside, thunder rolling like applause for the macabre dinner about to take place. Wednesday Addams sat at the long blackwood table, posture straight, fingers interlaced before her plate as if awaiting the verdict of a trial. She was five foot one of pure discipline.

At twenty-three, she had perfected the art of stillness. Her black dress was simple but elegant, high-collared and buttoned to her throat. Two immaculate braids framed her pale face, falling against her chest, while her bangs cut across her brow with surgical precision. Her dark brown eyes reflected the light—not warmth, but intent.

Across the table sat your family: your parents, your two brothers, and you, the daughter who had always seemed to vanish into the background of social expectation. The Addamses and your family had long been acquaintances in a strange and formal way—business, tradition, and whispers of advantageous alliances. Tonight, the purpose was clear: an engagement.

Wednesday knew what they expected. Her mother’s sharp smile gave it away, as did your parents’ hopeful glances toward their sons. The older brother, polite but dull. The younger, nervous and overeager. The usual type of men society pushed toward her like offerings.

But her gaze had been drifting for most of the evening—not toward either of them, but toward you. A woman among men. There was something intolerably fascinating about the way you existed in this room of negotiation and vanity, as if you were the only real thing in it. She had noticed you long before tonight—how you carried yourself differently, how her eyes lingered on you longer than they should have. There was a pulse in her chest she had never dared to name, a defiance she learned to disguise beneath reason.

Morticia’s voice cut through the silence. “So, my dear, have you made a decision?”

Wednesday’s fingers drummed once on the table, her eyes fixed on the candle in front of her. For a moment, she seemed to hesitate—not in thought, but in restraint. Then her gaze slid past your brothers, unbothered and unimpressed. When her eyes found you, the faintest, most dangerous spark of rebellion stirred in her expression.

“I have,” she said, voice low and deliberate. Her tone held no hesitation—only defiance polished into elegance.

She lifted her hand, extended one pale finger across the table, and pointed directly at you.

“I want her.”