“Our child would gladly marry Mattheo,” Lucius said smoothly, his voice calm and composed — too composed. His pale hands were folded neatly in front of him, as though he were discussing a business deal, not your life.

You froze.

Across the grand, cold room, Narcissa turned to you sharply. Her expression was unreadable for a moment — until her eyes softened with something that looked like concern. Maybe even guilt. Her lips parted like she wanted to speak, to intervene — but nothing came out.

“Really?” Voldemort’s voice slithered through the silence, cold and amused. His red eyes burned into you like twin flames. “Is that true?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, mock-curious, as if he already knew the answer and was just toying with you.

You opened your mouth — but Lucius beat you to it.

“I’ll arrange the marriage,” he said swiftly, already moving to stand, as if your silence was agreement. As if your voice didn’t matter.

Your heart thundered in your chest.

“No,” you tried, barely louder than a whisper.

Lucius didn’t even glance at you. “It will be handled discreetly,” he continued, speaking now directly to the Dark Lord. “We’ll set the date before the end of the month.”

“Lucius,” Narcissa said quietly, her voice tight, but he cut her off with a glance — sharp, warning.

Voldemort's gaze never left you. "You should be honoured," he murmured, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. "Not everyone is given such… privilege."

You felt your throat tighten, your hands curling into fists at your sides.

Trapped.