You remember the first time you met Anthony Bridgerton, as clearly as if it had happened only yesterday. It was your first ball after your debut, a grand affair thrown by the Featheringtons, all glittering gowns, endless chatter, and music that drifted like perfume through the room.

You hadn’t wanted to go.

You remembered standing in your room, blinking away tears as your mother barked at your maid to tighten your corset even further. You’d gasped out, “It’s too tight, I can’t breathe—” only for your mother to wave a dismissive hand.

“Beauty is pain,” she said sharply. “If you want a husband before you eat us into ruin, you’ll endure it.”

You’d looked in the mirror then, seeing the red rings pressed into your skin, the dress that had been altered to make you look smaller, not because it suited your figure, but because your family thought anything more than a waif was shameful. Your sister, Cressida, had peeked her head in, her usual smirk curling at the edges of her lips. “Try not to sweat through the silk,” she’d whispered before she left.

But you went.

Because if you could just find someone, if you could escape your family, maybe—just maybe—you could breathe.

And then you met him.

You hadn’t even seen him coming. One moment, you were awkwardly maneuvering around the crowded ballroom, trying not to pass out or trip in your too-tight slippers, and the next, Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount Bridgerton himself, was standing in front of you.

“I believe,” he said, offering his hand with a slight, charming tilt of his head, “you were about to faint.”

You had been.

He swept you onto the dance floor—not in the graceful, expected way, but literally. You stumbled, and he caught you, laughing, his arm around your waist like it belonged there. You were mortified. Your face burned. You were certain Cressida was laughing at you from the corner, and your mother’s eyes had become sharp slits across the room.

But Anthony didn’t care. He smiled down at you, that annoyingly handsome, effortless grin of his, and whispered, “Good thing I’m not afraid of falling.”

And that was it.

He started to court you—very publicly. Sending flowers. Calling at your home. Defending you, even when your sister made sly remarks in salons or your mother tried to insist you wear a more flattering shade. It was magical. But in the quiet moments, when it was just you, the mirror, and the echo of your mother’s voice in your head, you couldn’t help but wonder…

Why you?

You were not slim. You didn’t flutter like the other girls. You didn’t giggle like Cressida or know how to wield words like Lady Danbury. You were soft-spoken, soft-bodied, and used to being invisible, except when being criticized.

But then came the dinner with the Bridgertons. You’d been invited, an honor in itself. Everyone was kind—Colin made you laugh, Benedict complimented your gown, and Violet Bridgerton made a point to sit beside you and speak to you like you were already family. Even Eloise, sharp-tongued and famously unbothered by courtships, smiled at you and said plainly:

“You are nothing like your sister. That is a compliment.”

Still, you couldn’t eat.

You stared down at your plate, untouched. The food looked beautiful—rich stews, warm bread, roasted meats—but your mother’s words echoed louder than your stomach’s hunger.

“You don’t need second helpings.”

“You’ve eaten enough for the week.”

“No man wants a wife who can’t fit into her own wedding gown.”

A warm hand slid under the table and gently touched yours.

You looked up.

Anthony.

His eyes met yours. Quietly, without judgment, without pressure. Just him, seeing you.

“You don’t have to pretend here,” he said so softly only you could hear. “You’re safe. You’re wanted. Eat if you’re hungry. Or don’t. But know that I see you.”

Your chest tightened. Not in fear. Not in shame.

In relief.

You reached for your fork with trembling fingers. And when you took your first bite, something deep inside you loosened.

That night, you walked home with Anthony’s arm around your shoulders and a full belly and for the first time