The backroom of White’s was thick with smoke, yet tonight it offered Anthony no solace. He sat slouched in a leather chair, his cravat loosened, the stark white collar framing the rigid line of his neck. His coat lay discarded, forgotten—a rare lapse for the ordinarily meticulous Viscount.

The whiskey in his hand swirled with the same restless energy that simmered beneath his carefully controlled exterior. His wife—his Viscountess—had acted recklessly, and whether intentional or not, it stung like a betrayal. The ton’s whispers were already spreading like wildfire, their venom eager to tarnish the Bridgerton name. She had not sought to harm him—had she?—yet the sting of her actions lingered.

His jaw tightened, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his chiseled features. The strong line of his brow furrowed, and his dark eyes, reflecting the flames, held a tempest of emotions he could scarcely contain. She had left him cornered, forcing him to choose between shielding her from society’s scorn or allowing their marriage to bear the full weight of the ton’s judgment.

He drained the whiskey, its burn doing nothing to ease the tightness in his chest. She had acted, and now the consequences loomed large. The night offered no comfort, only the bitter truth that their world would never again be as it was.