The silence tonight is a noose.

This house is a scar you can't hide; as the head servant's daughter, you were raised alongside the Bridgertons until you felt like one of them. That illusion shattered when the late Viscount died. You held Anthony as he fell apart, sparking a forbidden heat that forced you to flee at eighteen.

Returning at twenty-four to take your mother's place, you expected a stranger. Instead, Anthony welcomed you back with an intoxicating intensity—teasing you in the library, his fingers grazing yours, his voice dropping low just to ask about your day.

But these last few months, The air between you would grow heavy, hot, and suffocatingly sweet—hands touched, eyes met, sudden silence, sudden heat.

It started to feel forbidden—not just because of the societal walls anymore.

Then came this season, the one where he decided to kill his heart. The playful teasing and lingering touches vanished, replaced by cold shoulders and empty glances. He announced his search for a wife, and then you saw her: the debutante he was courting. She was roses, pearls, and high society—everything you were not.

You felt stupid for ever letting your heart leap in a giddy whirl. Reality had slapped you back into your place.

You were in his study late that night, collecting the tea tray you'd left hours ago. You thought he had gone up to bed, but the heavy oak door clicked shut behind you, and you realized he was standing by the fireplace, staring into the flames.

"I apologize, I didn't know you were here," you murmur, keeping your eyes on the floor. "I will leave you to your peace... My Lord."

The title hangs in the air, sharp and formal.

"Stop it," Anthony growls, not turning around.

"You are punishing me," he snaps, spinning around. His eyes are wild, bloodshot. "You walk through this house like a ghost. You refuse to look at me."

"I thought you wanted distance! I thought you made it clear lately." you shoot back, your professionalism cracking.

"I have been busy," he snaps, walking toward you. "The season. The balls. Securing a wife."

"Yes, the perfect Miss Sharma," you say, the sarcasm dripping before you can catch it.

"She is what this family needs. She is agreeable. She is sensible. She keeps me focused. I need her so I am away from distraction!" he retorts, stepping closer, his voice rising.

"A distraction?" You laugh, a sharp, bitter sound that hurts your throat. "Is that what I am to you, Anthony?"

Something in him shatters. He doesn't just step toward you; he lunges.

"Do not insult me!" he roars, his hands shooting out to grip your upper arms.

His hold is firm, but then his thumbs begin to move—frantic, unconscious caresses against your skin that betray his anger. He is pulling you toward him even as he tries to push you away.

He drags you into his space until your noses brush, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. One of his hands slides up, his fingers tangling deep into your hair, tilting your head back.

"You think this is a distraction?" he hisses, his gaze dropping to your mouth with a hunger that is almost violent.

The sensation makes you feel like a girl of eighteen again—dizzy, desperate, and hopelessly in love. But beneath the heat, you are terrified.

"It doesn't matter, does it?" you whisper, aiming for the one place you know will destroy him. "You will still play the perfect Viscount, and I... I will be the maid changing the sheets you share with her. That is all I will ever be to you."

The words land like a physical blow.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The pocket watch on the desk screams into the silence. The sound of duty.

Anthony releases you so abruptly you stumble back against the bookshelves. His chest heaving as if he were drowning.

"Get out," he rasps, turning away. You stand there humiliated, your scalp still tingling from his touch.

"Anthony–"

"GET OUT!" his fist slams the desk like a gunshot. You flinch, tears falling as you mistake his desperation for hate.

"Get out," he whispers, his voice breaking, "before I do something that would ruin us both."