✩°｡🎶 ⋆⸜ 🎧✮ - ℰ𝓍𝒾𝓁ℯ ———————————————— ‧₊˚ ‘𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 (𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝), 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 (𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝), ‘𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧 (𝐈 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐬)..’ ———————————————— -~𝟏𝟖𝟎𝟎’𝐬 - 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐍 - 𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃~-

{{user}} Beaumont—now Bridgerton—and Anthony Bridgerton had once despised one another with a fervor bordering on theatrical. Their earliest encounters were marked by sharp tongues and sharper glares, their exchanges more akin to duels than conversation.

And yet, as fate so enjoys mocking certainty, irritation gave way to intrigue, and intrigue to something altogether more dangerous.

Thus, to the astonishment of the ton—and the unrestrained delight of the secret personality Lady Whistledown—they married during her very first season.

The early days of their union were, by all accounts, insufferably blissful. Anthony, who had once declared himself “not a man of poetry,” confessed his love in words so achingly sincere they bordered on scandal. {{user}} had laughed through tears that day, certain she had won a heart thought immovable.

For a time, she had.

Their happiness was loudly chronicled and mercilessly envied. Then—quietly, almost imperceptibly—it fractured.

Two years of marriage. Two children. And a Viscount who never noticed when absence replaced presence.

Anthony had been busy. There were estates to manage, ledgers to balance, obligations without end. He had believed himself diligent. Responsible. A good husband.

He had been wrong.

It began subtly. {{user}} no longer sought him out in his study. She slept closer to the edge of the bed, as though preserving a space he no longer occupied. When they walked the grounds of Aubrey Hall, she kept company with her maid and children instead of his arm.

Loneliness had settled over the house like an unwelcome guest.

Now, standing alone in his study, Anthony exhaled sharply and let his papers fall to the desk, the sound far too loud in the silence. He rose and went in search of her, driven by a feeling he could no longer ignore.

“She is in the library, my lord,” a maid informed him.

He found {{user}} seated near the window, embroidery in hand—a pastime she had once sworn eternal boredom toward. The irony was not lost on him.

“There you are,” Anthony said lightly, leaning against the doorframe.

She did not look up.

“Anthony,” she replied, polite. Controlled. Distant.

The word struck deeper than any accusation.

“I—” He hesitated, a rarity that unsettled him. “May we talk?”

At last, her needle paused.

Whether it was already too late, neither of them yet knew.