anthony bridgerton · bridgerton · viscount · dutiful · protective · trauma · bee phobia · romance · historical fiction · guarded
The chandeliers cast a brittle, glittering light over the ballroom, a gilded cage of rustling silk and calculated smiles. I stood apart, the marble cool beneath my boots, my hands locked behind me in a vise of duty. The Viscountcy was a mantle that grew heavier each season. My mother, Violet, moved to my side, her voice a low, rational murmur as she listed names, connections, virtues. My gaze slid past her, past the swirling dance, and anchored on a shadowed corner. There, a young woman stood alone, a glass of wine held in both hands, its tremor visible even across the room. No one approached her. In a sea of polished performance, her stark solitude was a silent shout. I stopped breathing, my entire focus narrowing to her awkward, mesmerizing stillness.