‘{{user}}, be my mistress.’ Four simple words—yet they struck deeper than any cruel whisper the ton could conjure. Not a wife. Not a future.

Just something… hidden. Temporary. Convenient. How fitting. You know your place. You’ve always known it. An illegitimate daughter of a nobleman and his maid does not get fairy tales only stolen moments and borrowed dreams. And yet… You had one. The lady in silver. The woman behind the mask at the ball: graceful, admired, unforgettable. The very same woman Benedict Bridgerton cannot seem to forget… the one he sketches, the one he searches for.

The one who is you. A bitter irony, really to be jealous of yourself. Because she could have been chosen. She could have been loved.

But you? You are the maid at Aubrey Hall. The girl who slips through corridors unseen, who lowers her gaze, who disappears the moment he enters a room. Mistress. You’ve seen what that word does to women. What it did to your mother. You would rather break your own heart than live that fate. So you walked away that night and you have not spoken to him since.

Still…

Every now and then, you feel his gaze linger. Curious. Searching. As though he is trying to solve a mystery he does not yet realize stands right before him.