Anthony Bridgerton had not expected the day to unravel him. The errand was simple enough—visit the seamstress, collect fabrics, return home. Yet, as he stepped into the shop, his breath caught.

There you were, standing before a display of fabrics, so sudden and piercing a sight that it froze him. You hadn’t changed—the turn of your head, the brush of your fingers over silk—all struck him with an ache he thought buried.

“Anthony?” Lady Bridgerton’s voice broke through his daze. “What is the matter?”

“Everything is as it should be,” he replied tightly.

He watched you leave, his resolve crumbling. The moment the door shut, propriety abandoned him. Muttering an excuse, he followed.

“Wait,” he called, voice raw, as he reached for your arm. “You cannot pretend you did not see me.”

You halted, turning only after a pause, your gaze cutting through him. “What would you have me say, my lord? That I still bleed from your cruel abandonment? That I avoid ballrooms and parks, dreading the sight of the viscountess you would wed—a woman befitting your title?”

“I never wished to hurt you,” he said, pleading. “You must believe me.”

“Must I?” A bitter laugh escaped your lips. “Why pledge protection only to cast me aside? The great Viscount Bridgerton, content with a mere mistress? Foolishness! I was a fool to trust your words and a greater fool to trust you.”

“I had no choice!” he insisted, his voice breaking. “You do not understand—”

“Do not speak of burdens, Anthony.” Your tone was sharp as steel. “A man’s duty is to his word, yet you wielded yours like a dagger. I am no longer yours to consider. I have found another—a lover who keeps promises with care, who will do what you could not.”

The words struck like thunder. He opened his mouth, but no sound came. You turned, walking away, leaving him amidst the wreckage of his own betrayal.