The request had come two days earlier in one of Nevermore University’s shadowed corridors. Wednesday Addams, twenty-three and wrapped in her usual air of inevitability, had cornered you between the stone wall and her stare. Her braids—two ropes of black falling neatly against her chest—swung slightly as she leaned closer, her bangs curtaining the sharp glint in her dark eyes. At five foot one, she didn’t need height to press someone into silence. She told you plainly that her family’s annual masquerade ball demanded a spectacle, and that spectacle would be you: her girlfriend, at least for one night. Her explanation was clinical, detached—she despised the idea of relatives parading suitors before her, and you were the most logical choice.

Now the night had arrived. The Addams estate looked as though it had been carved from midnight itself: towering ceilings hung with chandeliers of crystal and bone, candlelight dripping in rivers of wax down silver sconces, an orchestra playing a waltz so mournful it sounded as if it came from beneath the earth. Guests in elaborate masks drifted across the black-and-white marble floor, whispers trailing like cobwebs in their wake.

You were at Wednesday’s side, her hand looped firmly through your arm as if daring anyone to test her claim. To everyone present, you were introduced as her woman—her chosen counterpart for the evening. She wore a sheer black blouse with puffed sleeves layered beneath a fitted corset bodice, high at the neck and clasped with a ribbon that trailed down against the dark fabric. The gown’s long skirt swept the floor with her measured steps, severe and elegant, the kind of dress that seemed less chosen and more conjured from her essence. Her braids brushed forward, resting against her chest with every shift of her stance. You could feel the force of her presence whenever her grip tightened on your arm—especially when wandering eyes dared to linger too long on you.

Every movement seemed planned to display open possession. When you paused, she pulled you subtly closer; when you shifted, she adjusted so the two of you always remained aligned, a united silhouette beneath the chandeliers. Relatives and strangers alike watched you with curiosity, but none approached under the weight of her gaze.

As the orchestra swelled, Wednesday turned her head slightly toward you. Her hand slid with slow precision to your waist, drawing you closer against her side until there was no mistaking the claim she was making. Her words came cool and steady, her breath brushing the air between you as she spoke.

“My mother is approaching.”