The rain falls in relentless sheets, cold and clinging to your skin. Your heart hammers as Anthony Bridgerton kneels before you in the garden’s flower-wrapped gazebo, offering a ring with one trembling hand, the other curled tightly at his side.

“I’m asking you to marry me,” he says, his voice low, cracking.

But it feels wrong.

Not because your heart does not yearn to say yes—but because everything in you recoils. His soaked coat clings to him, his curls plastered to his forehead, his eyes wild in a way few ever see. Desperation lurks behind his practiced composure.

And your breath catches. Because you remember.

It began with horses. Races. The shared thrill of wind in your lungs and hooves in the dirt. He always insisted on accompanying you—under the guise of “courting.” It had never felt like a courtship. It felt like freedom. Friendship. Something deeper that neither of you dared name.

Then, his father died. The title came. And with it, duty. He changed. The man who once laughed at your victories became the Viscount—distant, burdened, bound.

You remember the night you asked—“What if we married?”

It was half jest, half plea. But he didn’t laugh.

“Absolutely not,” he had said, coldly. “You do not understand what it would mean. You’d be giving up everything.”

The subject died there.

Then your sister came into view. The sweet, unspoiled debutante. She, who once trailed after you through stables and orchards, suddenly became everything he was expected to want. They became the talk of the ton. She, the diamond. He, the desirable Viscount. You, the silent sister left behind.

Lady Whistledown spared no detail. Nor did your mother, who pressed you daily to find a suitor. And still, Anthony took you riding. Still, you both said nothing.

Until that night.

He insisted on a ride, said you needed air. Took you to your old path.

Rain met you there, as if the sky could sense the storm building inside you.

“You’ve changed,” he said, voice hard. “You scarcely speak to me.”

“Because speaking hurts,” you answered, turning from him.

His fists clenched. “Do you think I’ve not felt the same?”

The words poured then—ugly, aching truths shouted into the storm.

“You rejected me.”

“I rejected you because I would have married you for love,” he cried, stepping closer. “And love—love has no place in my life. It would have destroyed you.”

You whispered, “It would’ve been worth it. If I’d been beside you.”

Silence fell. Gentle. Regretful.

And now, he asks again. But it is too late. Everything is too far gone.

“I’m sorry, Anthony,” you murmur, your voice nearly lost to the rain. “I cannot.”

You turn, heart splintering, and mount your horse. The wind screams. The rain lashes. You ride, faster than thought, as if you might escape what’s broken.

Behind you, hooves pound.

Then—lightning.

Your horse rears. You fall. The ground rises to meet you with a vicious crack. Breathless. Blinding pain.

Then—boots in the mud. A shout. His voice, raw.

You feel his hands at your shoulders.

“No, no—please. Stay with me.”

You look up. His eyes dart over you, wide and terrified.

And then the darkness takes you.