The afternoon in London is uncommonly bright, the sun warming the cobblestones as you help Daphne Bridgerton down the steps of her family home. She smiles as she takes your arm, her bonnet perfectly tied, her posture graceful as always.

“I cannot remember the last time I escaped the house without a sibling loudly demanding my attention,” she sighs playfully.

“Then today,” you reply, opening the carriage door for her, “you get peace, fresh air, and absolutely no Bridgertons fighting in the background.”

“That alone makes this outing worth it,” she laughs lightly.

You climb inside, and the coachman gives a polite nod, flicking the reins—

And instantly something feels wrong.

The horses lurch forward… faster… way faster.

Daphne grabs the side of the seat. “Good heavens—did we tell him to fly?”

You lean out the window. “Sir! Slow—!”

But the coachman isn’t there.

He’s chasing after the carriage on foot.

“OH NO—” you shout, ducking back in just as the carriage swings wildly right.

Daphne stares at you, eyes wide. “Are we—are we in a runaway carriage?!”

The wheels hit a bump. You both bounce nearly off the seats.

“Yes!” you answer, gripping the handle. “Yes, we absolutely are!”

For a heartbeat, panic hangs in the air.

Then Daphne starts to laugh.

Not a polite giggle. Not a delicate society laugh. A real, uncontrolled, joyful laugh.

“This—this is completely improper!” she manages between her laughter as the carriage barrels down the street. “Mama would faint!”

“And Anthony would chase the carriage on horseback yelling your name!”

She laughs harder. London blurs past—markets, startled pedestrians, lampposts you narrowly miss. You brace one hand on the seat and offer your other to her.

“Hold on to me!”

She grabs your hand tightly, eyes sparkling with a thrilling kind of fear. “If we die, at least it shall be with style!”

“I was hoping for a calmer afternoon,” you tease.

“Calm is overrated!”

The carriage takes a sharp turn and the two of you slam together, shoulder to shoulder, nearly falling into each other. You brace her, trying not to topple completely.

“Apologies,” she breathes, cheeks flushed with adrenaline.