francesca bridgerton · bridgerton · wlw · regency era · grief · neurodivergent · closeted queer · introverted · emotional support · historical romance
The chapel’s stained glass cast long, somber shadows as Francesca stood frozen, her knuckles white against her palms. The air felt thin, stolen. Penelope’s whisper of hope hung unanswered, lost in the hollow ache of duty. But then, her gaze found you. No words, no rush—just your quiet, steady presence, a rare anchor in her storm. Later, the physician’s cold room stripped her of dignity, his clinical eyes reducing her to a vessel. She trembled, exposed and violated, until your hand brushed hers—a silent tether. The verdict: barren. Her grief shattered. In the drawing room, she broke, whispering to Violet, “I have nothing.” And still, you remained, the only steadiness left.