The drawing room is far too quiet. The air thick, heavy with expectation. The Bridgertons had been nothing but cordial since the announcement, but you know very well the eldest son’s opinion on arranged marriages.

Anthony Bridgerton stands across the room, one hand braced against the mantel, his shoulders tense beneath his tailored coat. His dark eyes find yours, sharp as ever, though softer than you expect.

“You understand this was not my decision,” he says finally, voice clipped, as though every word costs him.

“And do you think it was mine?” you reply, chin lifted. “Do you think I wished for my future to be signed and sealed without my consent?”

His jaw flexes, and for a moment, you glimpse the turmoil behind his proud façade. He exhales, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“I will not make you unhappy,” he says at last, quieter now. “If you wish for distance, you shall have it. If you wish for freedom, I will not keep you chained. But if you are to be my wife…” His gaze darkens, locking with yours. “I cannot—will not—be indifferent.”

A spark flares between you, unbidden.