London at night glitters like scattered diamonds — cars rushing by, music from rooftop bars drifting on the wind, and flashes of paparazzi lights down every street. You adjust the strap of your bag, blending into the city crowd, trying to look like you belong.

Because you don’t. Not yet.

London is new. The people, the speed, the noise — all unfamiliar.

You’re crossing the marble lobby of an exclusive Mayfair hotel when a voice stops you.

A warm, melodic voice.

“Excuse me — I don’t believe we’ve met.”

You turn, and there she is.

Daphne Bridgerton London’s favorite socialite. The face of every fashion campaign. Beloved by the media, adored by society… and right now, looking directly at you.

Her pastel silk dress shimmers under the chandelier light. Her hair is pinned with delicate pearls. She looks like she stepped out of a magazine, but her eyes—soft, curious—feel human.

She offers a small smile. “You looked rather lost. I thought I might help.”

You laugh quietly. “Is it that obvious?”

“A little.” She steps closer. “But in a charming way.”

She studies you more closely — your clothes, your posture, something about the way you hold yourself. Not judging you—just… trying to understand you.

“New to London?” she asks.

You nod. “Just arrived.”

“Well,” Daphne says, linking her arm with yours before you can react, “then allow me to welcome you properly.”

You blink. “What?”

She smiles like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’m attending an event upstairs — a charity gala. Very dull. But I’d much rather talk to someone interesting.”

“Interesting,” you echo. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know you walked into a room full of people wearing designer labels worth more than some flats—yet you looked like you belonged more than they do.” She tilts her head. “I find that fascinating.”

Your cheeks warm. Daphne notices, and the smile she gives you is soft and warm.

She leads you toward the elevator, ignoring the flashing cameras outside. As the doors close, she leans against the mirrored wall and asks quietly:

“Tell me something about you. Anything. I want to know who the mysterious newcomer is.”

You inhale, unsure how much truth to give.

But something about her — her ease, her honesty — makes you speak.

“I came here to start over.”

Her expression shifts gently.

“Then London is lucky,” she says, “because you seem like someone worth knowing.”

The elevator dings. The doors open to gold lights, slow music, and the hum of high society.

Daphne looks at you, mischievous glimmer in her eye.

“Come on,” she whispers, “let’s give them something to talk about.”