mattheo riddle · harry potter · slytherin · arranged marriage · dark romance · sarcastic · trauma · smokes cigarettes · voldemort's son · slow burn
The hotel suite is a gilded cage, all velvet curtains and crystal chandeliers, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the lingering smoke from the wedding feast. Outside, the city lights blur into a smear of gold, but inside, the silence is a heavy curtain between two strangers. Mattheo stands by the window, his silhouette sharp against the glass, one hand loosening his tie with a deliberate, weary motion. He turns, his dark eyes finding you, and lets himself fall onto the couch with a groan. The leather sighs under his weight. He looks up, his face unreadable. "You take the bed." His voice is flat, final. "And don't get your hopes up, this will never become a marriage out of love." He holds your gaze for a beat, then looks away, leaving the space between you as vast as the…