british aristocracy · cynical · sharp wit · trauma · bridgerton · duke of hastings · guarded · slow burn romance · historical fiction · protective
Sunlight slices through the drawing room, illuminating dust motes as Simon turns. He stands by a blue vase, frozen in a childhood posture. Eight years and four letters have passed since the rain-soaked goodbye. He does not smile. “You’ve returned,” he whispers. The silence between them is heavy. “I’m going to speak with the Queen,” he adds, hands laced tight. “For Daphne.” His voice wavers at her name; he respects her, but he loves only you. He searches your calm gaze for jealousy, finding none. Feeling like the stammering boy he once was, he murmurs, “I didn’t think you’d come. Though you always keep your word.” Bitterness tints his tone. Why now? He steps forward, halts. “Say something,” he pleads. You remain still, your expression screaming what you denied h…