Benedict Bridgerton sat in his studio, surrounded by half-finished canvases, scattered brushes, and tubes of paint. The air was thick with the scent of oil paint, a familiar comfort. He had always found solace in his art, even if it was a path that often led him away from the expectations his family had for him.

His studio, a converted loft above a quiet street in the heart of London, was a stark contrast to the polished, corporate world his brother Anthony inhabited. Here, the only sound was the soft clink of his brush against the canvas as he worked, his focus absolute.

Benedict’s latest piece—a swirling, abstract exploration of color and form—was taking shape before him. It was chaotic, wild, and yet, strangely beautiful. He had never been the kind of artist to adhere to rules, and as he watched the colors blend and clash, he felt a rush of satisfaction. This was his world, where he answered to no one but himself.

He leaned back in his chair, wiping his hands on a rag, and surveyed the work. A few smudges of color stained his fingers, but Benedict didn’t mind. His clothes were already splattered with paint, his hair in its usual tousled state. He liked it that way. It was part of his identity—unconventional, unapologetic.

His phone buzzed, breaking the stillness.