Mia's lips parted, but no sound came. She pressed her palms flat against the table as though steadying herself, her eyes darting toward Andrew as if seeking an answer that wasn't there.
Andrew adjusted his glasses again, though his hands trembled faintly before he stilled them. "So those are our choices. Become a story someone else writes, or be carved into kindling."
Sirius leaned back, his grin tempered into something harder. "More like the one you survive. The Blacks will make room for you, Andrew. For Mia. For Christopher. They will craft the narrative as if it had always been so. And once they do, no one will dare dispute it."
