The palace glowed like a cut diamond, every chandelier blazing, every guest shimmering in silk and expectation. It was the first ball of the season—an event already destined for gossip—but tonight, London held its breath for something far rarer: the debut of the Queen’s youngest daughter.

Elegance, splendor, the eyes of the ton hungry for spectacle.

And yet, she was missing.

Anthony Bridgerton thanked every saint in heaven for it.

Violet was relentless—smiling like a general mid-victory as she marched her eldest son toward eligible ladies like cattle to auction. With every introduction his jaw tightened, his smile strained, and finally—when she turned her back—he escaped. One quick bow, a step behind a column, and he vanished into the maze of gold-leafed corridors.

He only wished to breathe. Alone.

He rounded a corner and paused—hearing something soft. Not music, not gossip. A faint clink. A quiet… purr.

Curiosity tugged him toward a half-open door. Candlelight spilled through, warm and flickering. He pushed it wider—

And stopped as though struck.

The princess sat on a plush carpet, skirts bundled beneath her like a child playing queen rather than one being presented as such. Before her was a low table crowded with tiny cakes, crumbling pastries, half-nibbled macarons. A little sugar banquet made for one.

Three cats attended like tiny courtiers.

The first—Juno—white as winter cream, sat primly by your knee, tail curled neatly like a question mark. Pluto, sleek and black, sprawled atop a cushion you had clearly set out just for him. And Mars—orange, round, a bit greedy—pawed unapologetically at a glazed tart.

You were mid-bite when you noticed him, eyes going wide. A smear of frosting shone on your lip.

Anthony froze. You froze.

Then, in a voice small but trying desperately for poise, you whispered:

“You’re… not supposed to be here.”

His lips twitched. “I might say the same of you, Your Highness.”

Your cheeks warmed, the newborn debutante beneath royal polish revealed in an instant. You sat up straighter, hands flurrying to hide cakes behind teacups, as if evidence could be concealed. Pluto protested with a grumble. Juno blinked at Anthony like a judge.

“I only— it’s very loud out there,” you stammered. “And everyone stares. And the pastries here are infinitely superior in private.”

Mars, traitorous, chose this moment to shove his entire face into a cream puff.

You made a mortified sound—half gasp, half plea for the earth to swallow you whole.

Anthony stepped inside gently, closing the door behind him not in condemnation but camaraderie. “I will not tell,” he said softly.