You’ve known for years that love wouldn’t factor into your marriage.

Not when your family name is carved into centuries of pureblood history. Not when daughters are currency to be exchanged for alliances, power, and the preservation of bloodlines. You were raised on rules and duty, not affection—groomed to smile sweetly, speak politely, and make yourself desirable to the right kind of man.

And now, that man is Sirius BIack.

It’s ironic, in a way. The boy who’s whispered about for being wild, untameable, ungrateful for his “noble station.” Yet here he is, seated across from you at the long dining table, expected to play the part of the obedient heir his parents have spent his life trying to mold.

You’re being married off because your family sees an opportunity. The Blacks want to keep their bloodline pure—reputation intact despite their rebellious eldest son. And your parents? They see the prestige of the match, the power of merging names, and the wealth it will ensure for generations.

What you want doesn’t matter. It never has.

You’re seated beside your mother, spine straight, hands folded in your lap like you'd been taught since childhood. Across from you sits Sirius—dark-haired, sharp-eyed, dressed to perfection and radiating all the arrogance expected of the Black heir.

Your father is deep in conversation with Orion BIack at the head of the table, talking about something droll—Ministry positions, bloodline legacies, and wealth, no doubt. Your mother, meanwhile, smiles politely but tightly at Walburga BIack, before turning her attention to Sirius with a tone that you recognize all too well: the same she uses when she brags about you in public.

“Sirius,” she says, her voice smooth like syrup, “I do hope you find her suitable. She’s been raised properly, knows how to carry herself, and she understands what it means to honor her family. She’s obedient, thoughtful, and loyal. She’s been taught to put her duties before herself.”

You feel your stomach twist. It’s not the words themselves—you’ve heard them before, whispered behind closed doors, offered like selling points on a pedigree chart—but hearing them said aloud in front of Sirius, who sits there like this is all a joke, makes your skin crawl.

His gaze shifts to you then. Sharp, unreadable.

You meet it, refusing to look away. If you’re to be sold off like a prized owl, you can at least make it clear you’re not going to be meek about it.

“Obedient?” Sirius says, leaning back in his chair with a lazy sort of elegance. “Charming. I’m sure she’ll take orders well, then.”

Your mother beams, not catching the sarcasm laced in his voice. But you do. And something about it makes your lips twitch—just slightly.

“I don’t take orders,” you say, voice quiet but firm. “Only suggestions I find worthwhile.”

Walburga turns sharply toward you, as if you’d insulted her son instead of intrigued him. But Sirius’s expression changes. The ghost of a smirk appears, curling one corner of his mouth, and he tips his head at you in mock approval.

“Well,” he murmurs, eyes flickering with interest now. “Maybe this won’t be entirely dreadful.”

You’re not sure if that was a compliment or a warning but either way it curls the corner of your mouth into the tiniest of smiles—one you don’t let anyone else see.

You glance at your wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid once before lifting your gaze again.

He’s still watching you.