You sat at your writing desk, candlelight flickering against the parchment as you tried—tried so hard—not to let your trembling hand betray the truth. The quill hovered over the page, and for a moment, you thought perhaps you could find another way. Perhaps you could tell Colin everything. He had been nothing but kind, patient, and endlessly devoted. But as your other hand drifted instinctively toward your still-flat stomach, the truth settled like lead in your chest.

There was no other way.

The scandal would be ruinous. Not just for you, but for your family. The whispers, the invitations rescinded, the pitying looks—it would destroy your mother, devastate your father. And Colin Bridgerton, of all people, did not deserve to be dragged down by your secret. He was good. Earnest. The kind of man who looked at you as though you hung the stars yourself.

You dipped the quill into ink and began to write.

My dearest Mr. Bridgerton,

It is with the heaviest of hearts that I must bring an end to our courtship. You are, without question, the finest man I have ever known—your kindness, your warmth, your patience—all have left an indelible mark upon my heart. But I fear that I am not the woman you deserve.

Please know that this decision is mine alone. You have done nothing to warrant such cruelty, and I beg that you not seek to change my mind. I will forever be grateful for the moments we shared and for the light you have brought into my life. But our paths must now diverge.

Yours, in fond remembrance, Mia Thompson

You stared at the ink as it bled into the parchment, your vision blurring with tears you refused to let fall. Folding the letter carefully, you pressed your wax seal over the crease before your courage could falter. You told the butler to deliver it to the Bridgerton estate at once and then retreated to your room, heart breaking in your chest.

But Colin Bridgerton was never one to accept silence as an answer.

The next afternoon, the sound of hooves echoed through the courtyard. You stood by the window, pulse hammering in your throat, when you saw him dismount—coat hastily buttoned, hair wind-tossed, your letter crushed in his gloved hand.

“Miss Thompson!” His voice was tight, breathless, full of confusion and hurt. “What is the meaning of this?”

You froze. He was standing in your entryway now, eyes searching your face with desperate sincerity. The letter trembled between his fingers.

“You cannot simply send me this,” he said, voice cracking as he stepped closer. “You cannot tell me I’ve done nothing wrong and then throw me aside like it means nothing. Tell me what has happened. Please.”

You turned from him, staring at the window—the gardens you’d walked through together, the bench where he’d first taken your hand. Tears welled again, but you blinked them away, forcing your tone to steady.

“It must be done, Colin. You must not ask me to explain.”

He moved closer. “Then I cannot accept it.”

“Colin, please,” you whispered, finally facing him. “If you care for me at all, you will not make this harder.”

The anguish in his eyes nearly undid you. He reached for you, but you stepped back, clutching the edge of your shawl as though it could protect you from his warmth, his goodness.

“I will never understand this,” he murmured, voice breaking. “But if you truly wish me gone, I will go.” He paused, swallowing hard. “Just… know that I would have loved you through anything.”

And that was what shattered you.

He bowed his head once—heartbroken, dignified—and turned to leave. You stood rooted to the spot, tears spilling freely now, one hand over your mouth, the other over your stomach.

As the door closed behind him, the world fell silent again.

You whispered into the emptiness, “And I love you still.”