The ton was already buzzing with gossip before the sun even rose—Lady Whistledown’s newest paper declared it a “slow week.” Naturally, that meant the next scandal would be devoured by society like wolves.

Unfortunately… that “next scandal” almost becomes Daphne Bridgerton.

You find her in the Bridgerton garden early in the morning, pacing like a trapped bird, hands twisting in her gloves.

“Daphne?” you ask gently. “You look as if you’re preparing to flee the country.”

She freezes, cheeks pink. “Nothing of the sort. I—well—there was a… situation.”

“Oh no,” you sigh. “What did you do?”

“I did not do anything improper!”

You raise a brow.

She sighs again, louder this time. “Last night, at the ball, I went onto the balcony for fresh air. I did not realize Lord Fitzroy followed me. He attempted to—compliment me far too boldly. I stepped back, and in the process…” Her voice shrinks. “…I may have knocked over a large vase.”

“A vase?”

“A priceless Cavendish heirloom,” she whispers.

You wince. “Please tell me it shattered.”

“Into many, many pieces.”

“Oh, Daphne…”

“That is not even the worst part.” She covers her face. “Someone saw, and I fear they might twist the story.”

Ah. There it is. Not the vase, but the implication.

You step closer. “Who saw?”

“A maid. But gossip spreads faster than the plague.”

You tap your chin, thinking. “Alright. We can fix this.”

“We?” she repeats, eyes hopeful.

“Of course. Someone must protect your reputation—and Lord Fitzroy’s ego doesn’t need the boost of a fabricated love confession.”

She exhales in pure relief.

You march straight to the Cavendish manor with Daphne at your side. The house staff is frantic about the broken vase, but you quickly intercept the maid who witnessed the scene.

“Miss,” you say politely but firmly, “there seems to be confusion. Last night’s incident was my fault.”

Daphne’s eyes widen, but she stays quiet as you continue.

“I leaned against the balcony stand and knocked over the vase. Lady Daphne merely tried to catch it before it fell.”

The maid blinks. “You? But I thought—”

“Lord Fitzroy wasn’t involved at all,” you add smoothly. “You must have seen us both reacting to the fall.”

Daphne nods with the practiced grace of a debutante. “Yes. (Y/N) was quite embarrassed. I would prefer the matter stay private.”

And because you speak with calm confidence—and because no maid wants to anger the Bridgerton name—the story is accepted.

By afternoon, the entire ton is whispering a harmless tale:

“The mysterious balcony mishap was caused by a clumsy guest, not a romantic tryst.”

Daphne walks beside you through the gardens later, finally calm, her arm brushing yours.

“You saved me,” she says softly.

“Just your reputation.”

“And perhaps my sanity.” Her smile warms. “You know… you could have let me face the consequences alone.”

“I would never.”

She pauses, studying you with gentle fondness. “You are… far too good to me.”

You grin. “Well, someone has to save London’s diamond of the season.”

Her cheeks flush—not with embarrassment, but with something lighter. “Walking beside you, I hardly feel like a diamond. More like—”

She stops herself, biting back the thought.

But the way she looks at you says enough.

And for once… it has nothing to do with scandal.