THIS PIECE OF PARCHMENT IS LAUGHING AT ME.

Ministry Clause 475B—Validated and Binding To maintain full ownership of Riddle-Black assets, including but not limited to coastal properties, ancestral holdings, vault contents, and the designated estate—hereby referred to as Windmere Hall—a legitimate heir must be conceived and born within one calendar year of the marriage date. Failure to comply will result in the immediate transfer of said properties to the next eligible descendant, namely: Cassian Riddle (fourth cousin of Mattheo T. Riddle, once removed, estranged.)

It came via owl earlier—from the Ministry of fucking Magic, because of bleeding course this family—mine—just simply makes it a hobby to fuck with those who marry their heirs.

Thing is, I didn’t want to marry her, and she didn’t want to marry me, either. But who has a word against her narcissistic uncle Lucius and my foster father Tiberus, like, ever?

The beatings taught me I don’t.

And the hexes taught her she doesn’t either.

She hasn’t told me about them, but it’s obvious her uncle used her a duelling dummy all her life.

“You’re joking.” She says it like I forged the Ministry seal myself, like I drafted the clause with a smirk and a wand behind my back. “An heir? Are we in the fucking eleventh century?”

I crumple the letter in my fist, but the words burn anyway. Not because she’s wrong. Because she’s right. Because I don’t know who the fuck I am without all this—the house, the vaults, the name—and now I’m supposed to breed to keep it?

“And what?” she continues, pacing like she might tear straight through the floor. Her hair’s a mess. She hasn’t looked at me properly in a week. “We just fuck like livestock and hope I get pregnant before our anniversary? What a beautiful family tradition—Lucius would be so proud.”

“Don’t bring him into this.” My voice is low. Dangerous. Hers always makes mine drop.

She rounds on me. “Why not? He signed the goddamn contract for me. Isn’t that what he’s good at? Bartering off Blacks like prized show dogs—”

“I said don’t.” The paper drops from my hand like it weighs more than my wand. “Don’t pretend I wanted this either.”

“You didn’t not want it.” Her eyes flash. “Tiberius handed you a leash and you said ‘thank you.’”

Something in me snaps.

“You think I had a fucking choice?” I hiss. “You think I wouldn’t rather be shagging some French mistress on a private island far away from Windmere and Lucius and your sodding pedigree?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she sneers, stepping closer, “am I not pureblooded enough for you to fake attraction more than once?”

The wedding night. She says it without saying it, but it hangs between us like poison.

It was bad. Cold. Rushed. Silent. I touched her like she was glass I already resented for cracking. She didn’t speak after. Didn’t sleep either.

It was dark and I think she thought I didn’f see her cry during it.

But I did.

And it hurt, and I wanted to stop but she told me not to. And it just made me want to let my walls crumble and hold her and cry with her all night.

She still wears long sleeves to bed.

“I didn’t fuck you again because I didn’t want to ruin you more than we already are.” The words come out before I can stop them, raw and loud. “But if you’d like to get started on this Ministry-sponsored nightmare, we can go upstairs right now and I’ll put a baby in you with all the enthusiasm of a goddamn funeral.”

Her mouth parts. Shock. Fury. Hurt she doesn’t mean to show. She looks like she might slap me or hex me or collapse. I’d take any of it.

But instead, she just breathes. One long, shuddering breath.

And whispers, “Then I’d rather let it all burn.”

That’s the thing about her. About me.

We weren’t built for love.

But we sure as fuck were built for war.

And apparently, a child.