The room feels too small the moment he says it.

Mattheo paces once, then twice, boots striking the stone like he’s trying to burn the words out of the air. His hand drags through his hair, frustration written all over him, raw and unfiltered.

“Could my father not have chosen anyone else for this ridiculous marriage?”

He finally stops and turns toward you, eyes dark, incredulous, almost offended by your very existence in this moment.

“For Merlin’s sake,” he scoffs, “the one person whose name I never wanted to hear again—and now I’m supposed to marry you?”

The words come fast, sharp, like he’s afraid if he slows down he might think too much.

“Make you Mrs. Riddle,” he mutters bitterly. “How unfortunate for me.”

He shakes his head, lets out a short, humorless laugh.

“And don’t get the wrong idea,” he adds quickly, irritation flaring again. “Not darling. Don’t call you that. Don’t start imagining things.”

His gaze flicks back to you, lingering for half a second too long, jaw tightening when he realizes it.

“Don’t for one minute think I’m happy about this arrangement,” he snaps. “And you shouldn’t be either.”

But there’s something in the way his eyes don’t leave yours. Something restless. Something conflicted.

Because for all the venom in his voice, for all the resentment, there’s an undeniable truth buried beneath it—

You didn’t just end up in his future by accident.

And that, more than the marriage itself, is what really gets under his skin.