The London Season was in full bloom, and you were the jewel that every drawing room whispered about—the diamond debutante with wit as sharp as your gowns were breathtaking. Your carriage drew admiring glances everywhere it went, but your eyes sought only one person tonight.

Benedict Bridgerton.

He was standing near the grand piano in the music room of Lady Featherington’s estate, casually leaning against the gilded wall, his dark eyes flickering with interest as he watched the assembly. Unlike most of the ton, Benedict didn’t pursue dance cards or gossip; he was a man of quiet passions—books, art, and the rare moments that made life vivid.

When your gaze met his, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

Later, as the orchestra played a lilting waltz, Benedict approached you.

“You shine brighter than any chandelier in this room,” he said, voice low and sincere. “But I wonder—do you ever tire of being admired for your sparkle alone?”

You raised a brow, intrigued. “And what would you have me be instead?”

“Yourself,” he replied, “unveiled. The woman behind the diamond. The artist behind the debutante.”

The night unfurled like a secret between you—whispers shared in shadowed corners, laughter that danced like candlelight, and the soft brush of hands that spoke louder than words.

When Benedict invited you to his studio, the scent of oil paints and unfinished canvases welcomed you.

“Look closer,” he said, revealing a portrait he’d been working on. It wasn’t the flawless debutante everyone saw—it was you, thoughtful and unguarded, eyes alive with curiosity.