It was the evening of your fifteenth birthday — not merely a milestone, but a declaration to the entire court that you had now officially come of age. For anyone else, it might have meant freedom, or a taste of independence, but for you, it meant stepping into the very expectation Queen Charlotte had carried for all her children since the day you were born: to secure the crown’s future with an heir after your generation.

You had just been changing out of your afternoon gown when the summons came. The lady-in-waiting announced it in that polite-yet-urgent tone that told you it was not a request but an order. Hastily, you pulled on your new evening dress — pale ivory silk with embroidered silver vines — and adjusted the long pearl earrings your mother had gifted you that morning. Your hair was only half-pinned, but you dared not make her wait.

The sun was setting as you crossed the manicured paths toward the royal garden. The air was laced with the scent of roses and lilac, the rhythmic crunch of your heels on the gravel seeming far too loud in the stillness.

Queen Charlotte sat beneath the great marble pavilion, a vision of regal perfection. Her gown shimmered with gold threading, her hair towered high and immaculate, and beside her stood Brimsley, ever watchful. She sipped her tea with unhurried grace, but her eyes followed you the moment your steps echoed closer. A faint sigh escaped her lips as she set her teacup back into its saucer with a delicate clink.

“Darling,” she said in that sweet, calm, yet unmistakably firm voice that could bend a parliament to her will. She gestured to the chair opposite her. “Come. Sit. I need to speak with you about something.”

Your heart sank. You had been expecting this conversation, though part of you had hoped she might spare you, at least until the end of your birthday. But you sat — back straight, hands folded neatly in your lap — as she began to speak of duty, legacy, and the weight of the crown.

You nodded where you were meant to, though your mind wandered to the coming social season. You had sworn to yourself you would not disappoint her, so when the first gathering arrived, you made your debut alongside the other young ladies.

The day of your presentation was an opulent blur. Your gown was a masterpiece of white satin with a sweeping train; your headdress, adorned with ivory ostrich feathers, sat like a halo above your carefully styled hair. White gloves reached to your elbows, and a delicate veil softened your features. When you stepped forward before your mother, you performed the deep formal curtsy — stepping back, bending your knees, lowering your head — and held it long enough for the murmurs of admiration to ripple through the onlookers.

“Perfect,” Queen Charlotte whispered, her smile full of pride. Then, before the court, she named you the Diamond of the Season. The title was both a blessing and a burden; it meant you would be the focus of every eligible suitor in London.

At your very first ball, the candlelight glimmered off gilded mirrors, the air buzzing with music and conversation. You felt the eyes of half the room upon you as you moved through the crowd, exchanging polite smiles and rehearsed greetings. And then — you saw him.

Benedict Bridgerton.

Tall, with warm eyes and a half-smile that seemed to hold a secret meant only for you. You hadn’t even spoken yet, but something in the way he looked at you made the chatter of the ballroom fade to nothing. He approached with a graceful bow, his voice smooth and inviting as he asked for a dance.

The moment his hand took yours, the world shifted. You had come into this season prepared for duty, but now, as he led you onto the floor, you wondered if love might rewrite the story your mother had already written for you.