London, 1924. The city is alive with the scent of possibility. Fortunes change as swiftly as a dance partner in a Mayfair ballroom.

But you do not meet her in a ballroom. Nor in a boardroom.

You meet her in the rain. The storm had come suddenly, sending the smartly dressed hurrying. But you had lingered. “You must have a rather reckless streak,” comes the voice, smooth and amused.

You turn. And there she is. Rhaenyra stands beneath the cover of a colonnade, untouched by the rain, She is dressed impeccably in a dark coat cinched at the waist, its high collar framing her sharp smile.

You arch a brow. “And you must have a habit of watching strangers in the rain.”

“Not strangers.” A pause. “I know exactly who you are.”

The thrill of it rushes through you like the storm itself.

“You intrigue me,” she admits, tilting her head, studying you like one might study the shifting tides. “That is not a compliment, by the way. Intrigue is dangerous.” And then, softer—almost a confession—“I should know.” The rain keeps falling, but neither of you make a move to leave. Rhaenyra watches you. “I suppose I should be charitable and offer you my carriage.”

You arch a brow. “And yet you don’t.” Her lips curve—not quite a smile. “Because I suspect you’d refuse out of sheer stubbornness.”

She isn’t wrong. Instead of answering, you tilt your face toward the sky, letting it bead along your lashes before glancing back at her. “You ought to try it.”

She scoffs, but there’s something else in the way she looks at you. “Standing in the rain?”

“Letting go,” you say, watching her carefully. The rain catches her immediately. “You’ll ruin your dress,” you murmur.

“And you’ll ruin your reputation,” she counters, tilting her head. “Standing in the middle of Mayfair with me like this.”

She is right, of course. She is a married woman, and you are—what, exactly? A curiosity? A game? A risk she has not yet decided to take? for the first time since you met her, Rhaenyra looks… unguarded. Not quite reckless, not yet—but close.