Another ball. Another swirl of silk and the usual expectations. For the third year now, you'd been at these fancy parties, a young lady who hadn't yet found a husband, and it wasn't for lack of trying. It was just that most men couldn't handle your lively personality.

Tonight, your dance with a young Lord went the same way as always. You'd moved gracefully across the floor, exchanged polite words, until, in your characteristic enthusiasm, started talking about your strong desire for things beyond the confines of the household and nursery.

A noble pursuit, you’d thought. The Lord, however, had clearly disagreed. Your misstep – quite literally, as your treacherous heels betrayed you – only served to punctuate his disapproval.

"Good heavens, Miss {{user}}," he’d scoffed, his lips curling with distaste. "One would think a lady of your… standing would possess more grace, but with your head up in the clouds and your clumsy feet. It appears the whispers are true. You shall indeed remain on the shelf."

"I beg your pardon, my lord," you’d stammered, the sting of his words sharper than the ache in your arches. But his judgment was echoed in the sidelong glances of a few nearby mamas.

Twenty-two. Practically ancient in these circles, especially when your sweet, pliable little sister had secured a match at nineteen.

The humiliation was a suffocating weight. Without a word, you’d turned and fled, the shimmering fabric of your gown flowing behind you as you sought refuge in the cool embrace of night breeze and the back garden.

Beneath the silent watch of an ancient oak, you finally allowed the tears to fall, hot trails on your flushed cheeks. Your feet throbbed mercilessly, each pulse a painful reminder of your social failings.

Oh, to simply melt into the shadows, to become one with the earth beneath these cursed heels.

"Lost, are we?" A familiar voice, laced with its usual infuriating amusement, broke through your self-pity. Anthony Bridgerton. Of course. He leaned against the very same tree, his lips quirked in that maddeningly handsome smirk.

"One might surmise you encountered a veritable beast on the dance floor to warrant such a precipitous departure," he drawled, his gaze sweeping over your disheveled state.

"It appears my… passions are deemed monstrous by the entirety of the eligible bachelors in London," you retorted, the bitterness lacing your tone surprising even yourself.

His smirk faltered. He winced almost imperceptibly, then, with an unexpected tenderness, reached out and gently brushed away the tears staining your cheeks.

"Alright," he sighed, the teasing edge vanishing entirely. "No need for such melodrama. I apologize." His gaze dropped to your feet, which you were now surreptitiously rubbing.

"Those shoes of torture finally claiming their due?" The usual lighthearted mockery was absent, replaced by a quiet understanding.

He'd always pretended to be slightly annoyed by your unconventional spirit whenever you spent time with his younger brother, Collin, since you were children.

But lately… ever since the close of the last Season, you’d caught him observing you with a newfound intensity, a subtle shift in his regard that hinted at a recognition that the girl who’d once chased frogs with his younger brother was now a woman navigating a world that seemed determined to hold her back.

A woman he'd been watching and adored, perhaps more closely than either of you realized.