The chandeliers glittered like captured stars above you, their light refracting across the ballroom as the second season of your debut began — a season that, by all accounts, should have felt like a new beginning. Yet, as you stood beside your grandmother, Lady Danbury, her fan tapping lightly against her palm as she observed the crowd, you could not help the shadow that lingered behind your carefully polite smile.

Your first season had been full of naïve hope — hopes that had worn Colin Bridgerton’s name like a secret promise. You had grown up beside him, laughed with him, danced in the Bridgerton drawing room under Violet’s fond eye. It had seemed natural that such friendship might turn to love. Your grandmother had certainly believed it. Violet had, too. Even you had once allowed yourself to dream of a Bridgerton wedding, of laughter, and books, and long walks where you and Colin would talk of everything and nothing.

But those dreams had shattered behind a rosebush.

You could still hear it — his voice, light and careless, the laughter of his friends slicing through the air like shards of glass.

“Maria Danbury? Oh, come now. I would never dream of it. She’s far too—”

You didn’t even need to hear the rest. The laughter had filled in the cruel edges. And the words had echoed inside you long after the carriages had rolled away, long after you’d buried your face in your gloved hands and wept until dawn broke.

He had left for his travels soon after, sending you letters full of cheer and meaningless anecdotes — as though nothing had happened, as though he hadn’t torn something delicate in you. You never replied. You could not. You ignored every one, though you kept them in a drawer, tied with a ribbon, unread yet impossible to throw away.

Now, this season, the ton whispered differently. Lady Whistledown — that sharp, ever-present observer — had written:

“It seems Miss Maria Danbury, long overlooked, is this year’s unexpected jewel. Grace and gentleness are rarities indeed, and it appears the Duke of Hastings himself has taken notice.”

The Duke — Simon Basset — was everything Colin was not. Poised, magnetic, but with an easy kindness that seemed unfeigned. He had danced with you twice already, something that set the ton aflutter. His gaze didn’t flit to your waist or your figure; when he looked at you, he saw you — your wit, your hesitation, your quiet strength.

You tried, truly, not to let your heart rise. Not to believe that you could be wanted for who you were, not despite it.

Lady Danbury’s fan flicked against your arm. “Stop looking as though you’re about to be sent to the gallows, child,” she murmured with fond sternness. “You are my granddaughter. The Duke of Hastings himself is watching you — and I daresay, he looks rather taken.”

You blushed furiously, glancing away from Simon’s piercing gaze across the room. He was indeed watching you, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

But just beyond him — near the doorway — stood another figure. Colin Bridgerton. Newly returned from his travels. His expression was unreadable, his blue eyes locked on you, as though realizing for the first time that you were no longer the girl who once waited for him to notice her.