𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒊𝒓, 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎...

A Bridgerton could not give his heart away so freely, not to someone who lacked a name that dripped with prestige. But here, Anthony allowed himself to be selfish.

He shifted slightly, his fingers grazing the delicate curve of their shoulder, tracing idle patterns upon their skin as though committing every inch of them to memory. He had never been a man prone to weakness, but this—this longing, this relentless ache whenever they were apart—threatened to undo him entirely.

The world would never understand. His mother would weep, his sisters would despair, and his name—the Bridgerton name—would be sullied by scandal. He had spent his life upholding the family’s legacy, ensuring their place in society remained untarnished. He was a viscount, a leader, a man of duty before all else. And yet, with {{user}} resting so trustingly against him, their breath warm against his skin, he found himself willing to cast it all to the wind for one more night.

How cruel it was, to love so fiercely and yet remain shackled by the weight of expectation. He had seen what love had done to his father, the way it had left his mother hollowed by grief, and yet he still yearned. He wanted to marry them. Oh, how he wanted to. He wanted to stand before the world and call them his, but he could not.

He could hear it already—the whispers, the scandal, the condemnation. A Bridgerton and their mistress, an affair turned to folly, a viscount ruined by reckless devotion. He was no fool; he knew the cost of his desires, knew that even now, in the warmth of their embrace, the world beyond this room would always find a way to wrench them apart.

His lips brushed against their temple, a silent promise, a vow made in the hush of the night.

Then, in the quiet, with the weight of the world pressing upon his shoulders, Anthony finally spoke.“You are the greatest temptation I shall never resist."