This season would finally be yours.

The murmur behind the doors faded as you drew a steady breath, your mother’s presence a quiet anchor at your side. The announcement rang out clearly—

“Miss {{user}} and her mother, Lady Seymour.”

The doors swung open.

You stepped forward with practiced grace, chin lifted just enough, posture flawless, every movement measured as the eyes of the court turned toward you. The room glittered—silks, jewels, candlelight—but you did not rush. You glided, elegance woven into every step as you passed through the crowd.

And then you felt it.

A gaze.

Your eyes shifted, just briefly—and there he was. Benedict Bridgerton, attempting and utterly failing to look inconspicuous. His attention was fixed on you, or more precisely your Butt, unapologetic, the corner of his mouth tugging upward as if he had been caught and did not regret it in the slightest.

You slowed just a fraction, enough to let him know you had noticed.

A small wink—quick, daring, unmistakably meant for him.

His brows lifted in surprise before amusement took over, his smile deepening as you turned away. You lowered into a perfect curtsy before the Queen, rose with composure intact, and exited the room beside your mother as whispers followed in your wake.

The ball began soon after.

Music swelled, laughter filled the air, and you found yourself with a crystal glass in hand, the cool rim grounding you as you surveyed the room once more. You had barely taken a sip when a familiar presence slipped into place beside you—close, but respectful enough to be proper. Barely.

“I was beginning to think you planned to ruin me entirely and then disappear,” Benedict murmured, eyes fixed on the dancers though his attention was unmistakably yours.

He turned his head slightly now, gaze warm and intent, a playful spark dancing beneath it.

“That wink,” he added softly, “was exceptionally cruel.”

His shoulder brushed yours as he lifted his own glass, waiting—very deliberately—for your response.