The ballroom is suffocating—golden light, music, laughter, but none of it registers. Not when Anthony Bridgerton stands before you, dark eyes burning with something unspoken, his dark eyes burning with something you cannot name.

You had been avoiding this—avoiding him—for weeks. Every stolen glance, every lingering touch had led to this moment

He had followed you out onto the terrace, the cool night air a stark contrast to the heat of the ballroom. You turn away from him, hands gripping the stone railing as if it might steady you.

On the terrace, the cool night air does nothing to steady you. You grip the railing, voice barely a whisper. “You cannot be here.”

“I could say the same of you.” His tone is soft, yet firm, as if he is holding something back.

Silence stretches between you, tense and fragile. Then, suddenly, he moves. A step closer. Another. Until he is right behind you, his breath warm against your exposed skin.

“You are running from me,” he says, his voice low.

Your hands tighten on the railing. “I am being sensible.”

“Sensible?” He huffs a quiet laugh, though there is no humor in it. “Tell me, then. When has anything about us ever been sensible?”

You turn, and his gaze steals your breath. His jaw is tight, fists curled, as if warring with himself.

“I have spent my entire life doing what is expected of me,” he murmurs, and there is an ache in his voice, one you have never heard before. “For duty. For my family. For the sake of society.” He exhales sharply, as if bracing himself.

“But this—” he steps closer, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face to his “—this is not duty. This is not obligation.”

“Then what is it?”

His lips part, as if he means to speak, for a moment, he simply looks at you—like a man on the edge of a cliff, ready to fall

Then, finally, he says it.

“Marry me.”

The words are barely above a whisper, yet they crash over you like a tidal wave.

“Not for duty. Not for society.” His voice is barely a whisper. “But because I am utterly ruined without you.”