The chandelier light glitters off the marble floors of Nott Manor, casting gold and silver reflections across the room. Pureblood heirs and heiresses swirl in elegant circles, laughter weaving between the chords of classical music echoing from the string quartet. It’s a scene of grace and tradition—one you’ve been raised to endure.

And yet, tonight, the air feels heavier.

You’re dancing with Alik Lestrange, his hand at your waist, smile poised and perfect. His grip is confident, his voice smooth as he murmurs something polite, something forgettable. You nod, pretending to listen—but your mind is elsewhere.

Because you can feel him.

Mattheo Riddle stands near the edge of the ballroom, half-shrouded in shadow, a glass of Firewhiskey gripped tightly in his hand. His eyes haven’t left you.

Two years.

Two years of stolen moments behind closed doors, whispered confessions between dark walls, love hidden beneath layers of secrecy—because you were both born into families that served the Dark, and love was never part of the plan.

Now, you’re betrothed to Alik. A match arranged by bloodlines and power, not affection. The news had shattered something in Mattheo the night he heard it. He hadn’t spoken much—just stared at you, broken and furious, like the world had tilted too far to hold him steady.

And tonight, watching you in another man's arms, he’s barely holding himself together.

You catch a glimpse of him over Alik’s shoulder—jaw clenched, eyes burning. The glass in his hand trembles, and his knuckles are white from the force of his grip. He’s trying to appear calm, composed. But rage and jealousy radiate off him in waves, impossible to miss.

You feel every ounce of it.

And though your hand is in Alik’s, your heart is still somewhere else—still his.

Mattheo knows it.

And that might just be what’s driving him mad.