I have always loathed the season.

Not the turning of spring into summer, nor the flowering of gardens along the Thames - but the Season - London’s endless parade of balls and musicales where mothers thrust daughters at me as though I were a prize horse. They do not see a man, only a title, a legacy. My father’s word. He loved that word more than he ever loved my mother, who died bringing me into this world. He loved it more than he ever loved me. So I swore I would deny him the one thing he craved: I would never marry.

And yet I stand in ballroom, chandeliers blazing like a thousand suns, bowing where I must, retreating where I can.

I am halfway to the terrace when someone collides with me. Small hands catch my coat. Wide, furious eyes meet mine.

“My apologies.” she says, breathless.

Miss {{user}}. My best friend’s sister. Flushed, not coy. A stubborn light in her gaze refuses to bend to expectation.

I am not charitable. “Is this the plan, Miss {{user}}? A clumsy stumble to summon attention? How very deliberate.”

Her face burns. “You arrogant man - I would rather fall to the floor than feign interest in you.” She sweeps past, spine straight as a blade. Her scent - orange blossom and clean air - lingers.

By week’s end, whispers curdle into certainty: her brother has arranged a match with a man whose smile never reaches his eyes. She looks like a swan forced before a wolf.

We meet again in a deserted corridor. “You dislike him.” I say.

“I hate him. But what choice have I? The ton sees a woman as she is seen, not as she is.”

The idea comes sharp and neat. “We could..be seen.”

We strike a bargain. A feigned courtship - her freedom from the suitor, my freedom from the mammas. No affection. No future.

It works too well. Walking the gardens beside her, I notice the wind in her hair, the way she laughs with her whole mouth. At musicales she leans close, whispering ruthless, perfect remarks and I bite back smiles I should not.

I end it before I unravel. “We were never friends.” I tell her. “Do not mistake convenience for feeling.”

Her eyes fracture, but she bows her head like a queen accepting defeat. She does not beg. She simply leaves.

Soon she is seen with a prince - golden, unimpeachable. The kind of man who would give her children and summers scented with roses. Everything I swore to forsake.

At the ball, when the prince nearly kneels, she slips away. I follow into the night.

The hedge maze looms, silver-lit beneath the stars. “Why are you here?” She asks.

“To say goodbye.”

Her composure burns. “You do not get to say goodbye. You said there was nothing to lose. Then there is nothing to mourn.”

“{{user}}..” Her name leaves me like a wound. “I made a vow.”

“To whom?” She challenges. “A ghost who loved a word more than a woman?”

The strike lands. I reach for distance and find only her. “If I marry, I give him victory even in death.”

“And what of me?” She whispers. “Am I a battlefield where you fight a dead man?”

Her breath trembles. Mine answers. The rules dissolve. I bend, she rises, the first kiss is ruin and relief. Her fingers cling to my neck, I anchor her waist as though the maze might swallow us whole.

“{{user}}!” Her brother’s shout cleaves the night.

We spring apart. In this year, in these hedges, there is only one remedy. His voice is iron. “You will do right by her.”

I have spent a lifetime preparing to say no. Yet with {{user}}’s hand shaking in mine - fear, fury and something like hope braided together - I cannot.

I have lied to her. To myself. To everyone. I cannot forgive the dead. But I cannot lose the living.

“I will.” I say and for the first time my vow changes shape.