Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

2025

For Colin, time passed differently than it did for everyone else. For the past three years, he had been living because he had to, but found no joy in anything—not even in his work, the one thing he had once loved deeply. He lived day by day, clinging to a beautiful pendant shaped like a plaque—one his best friend had gifted him three years ago after he won an award for the best photograph of an active volcano.

The plaque had the date of the award engraved on it, along with an inscription that Colin still read with tears in his eyes: “You see the world in another color. Let the world see its shade.”

When she gave it to him, he felt a warm pressure in his chest, resonating through his entire ribcage. He remembered fondly how his Pen had handed it to him before they both got drunk at the celebration party… and ruined everything in their lives.

Now, at 31, Colin was a wandering man. Once, he used to travel just enough to earn his own money (Anthony had literally shouted with joy the day he realized he no longer had to manage Colin’s trust fund) and spend quality time with his family… and with his best friend. But that all changed on the day Colin remembered only as a blur. A before and after that haunted him relentlessly.

Since then, he had taken every job offered to him. He hated arriving in cities where she wasn’t. Where her laughter and warmth no longer welcomed him back to their hometown like they used to.

With that thought in mind, he made his usual stop before leaving London—visiting his best friend… the love of his life.

“Hi, Pen,” he murmured softly as he reached the marble plaque that held the ashes of the woman with whom he had once shared irreplaceable, unforgettable moments—moments that would never come again.

He leaned down slightly, as if doing so would bring them closer, and gently traced the inscription carved into the stone: “Penelope Anne Featherington. Beloved daughter and friend. 1996 – 2022.”

He hated that it didn’t carry his last name, that it didn’t say wife. That detail tormented him more and more, echoing all the things that never were, all the words left unsaid. Touching the letters of her name was part of a sacred ritual now, a silent, self-imposed penance—as if tracing each letter were the only way left to stay close to her, to make amends.

“I’m going to New York,” he finally said, his voice barely a whisper as he kept his eyes lowered, fingers still resting on the stone. “Ben asked me to be the photographer for Genevieve’s wedding… You didn’t meet her, I think. Maybe you only heard her name. She was close to him before Sophie.”

Colin thought of how it was Pen who had helped his brother find her. He recalled with warmth how Ben had fallen for Sophie at first sight during Daphne’s masquerade party, without even knowing her name. It was Penelope who led him to her. Sophie and Pen had worked as baristas in the same café. A coincidence that, thanks to Pen’s gentle intervention, had turned into true love. No private investigators needed—just the brilliance of the woman who now rested inside that marble urn. Pen always had that gift. She could piece things together, see invisible connections, and make the world feel more understandable, more kind.

“I still can’t believe Gen, the stoic woman who swore she’d die single, is actually getting married,” he went on, a bittersweet smile touching his lips. “But that’s life, my dear Pen. Everyone’s moving on. Even Eloise… she finally accepted that Phillip was her perfect match, after two years of him begging for a bit of attention. It’s pathetic, when you think about it. But that’s love.”

He sighed, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat, shoulders shrugging as if to shake off the invisible weight that had been pressing on him for the last three years.

He took a deep breath. Every word felt like it scraped a fresh wound. “But I’m still here. Still blaming myself for being such a blind idiot. For not having enough time to tell you that I love you. I still ask for your forgiveness, Pen. I’m sorry for being a fool. I wonder sometimes what would’ve happened if you hadn’t gone to Scotland—if you’d just let me explain it was all a misunderstanding. I loved you. I loved you so deeply. And now I don’t have you. I’ll never have you. I won’t be able to give you one last kiss, or tell you how much I love you, or make you that bitter coffee you adored while you wrote your column. I won’t get to put a ring on your finger, or start a family with you, or live out a ‘happily ever after.’ That’s my punishment.”

He bowed his head and rested his forehead against the cold marble. The chill of the stone made him shiver, grounding him in the only reality he’d known since she left. A reality with no happy ending. Not for him. Not without her.

“I’ll be back in a few weeks to this godforsaken city… without you,” he whispered, voice cracking. He closed his eyes, as if in the darkness behind his eyelids he could find some trace of her—just one more sign. “Mom wants us to celebrate her engagement to Marcus. And while I’m happy for her, I hate myself for not being able to move on. It’ll always be you. Always. Until we meet again. I love you, Pen. And I’ll be back… with more useless chatter from your stupid boy.”

He leaned down one last time and kissed the stone softly. Then turned and walked away in silence, step by step distancing himself from the only place that still felt sacred, the only place where he could say everything his heart still screamed.

He headed straight for his car, where his luggage for the five weeks he’d spend in New York was already packed and waiting. He had everything prepared for the trip. And like always, before opening the car door, he reached for his neck and clutched the pendant that hung from it.

Since then, his life had turned gray. The first four months after Pen’s death, he let himself fall—consumed by guilt, grief, and rage. It wasn’t until he saw his mother, Violet Bridgerton, on her knees before him, sobbing without restraint, screaming and begging him not to destroy himself—“I already lost one daughter,” she had cried, broken—that something shifted.

Because yes, even though Pen had only been a friend of the family, Violet had loved her like her own. As if she had given birth to her.

And it was in that moment, seeing her so shattered, that Colin chose sobriety. Chose life. For Violet. For Pen. Even if every breath still felt like a knife to the chest.

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After a seven-hour flight, weariness settled on Colin in a way he hadn't remembered since his early days as a global photographer. But, if he was being honest, he could well blame his younger brother. After meeting on the way to the airport, Gregory had managed to infuriate him like never before. The reason? He spilled coffee on his pants and all over the inside of the car. The irresponsible twenty-four-year-old was in charge of driving the vehicle home and parking it, but Colin knew his "little brother" was a walking hazard with brown hair. He feared, rightly so, not finding the car in its spot when he returned.

Still, he strode with determination through the halls of JFK to catch the train to Manhattan. After many trips with infernal traffic and rude Uber drivers, Colin had learned that, although a little longer, the train ride to the Big Apple was more comfortable, peaceful, and faster. Yawning amidst neon lights and endless advertisements, he headed to the Airbnb he had booked for five weeks. He was ready to immortalize Genevieve's big day.

He arrived around eight in the evening. As soon as he opened the door, he threw his suitcase onto the sofa and, like a zombie, began to undress on the way to the bathroom. He took a long shower. One of those that chilled you to the bone, that washed away not only the skin but also the thoughts.

And yet, his mind was not empty. It was invaded by someone who didn't pay rent: Penelope.

He could still see that emerald green dress she wore at the party. He still remembered—or at least tried to—how that dress looked on the floor of his old childhood room. Although the memory was blurred, clouded by alcohol, there were images that pierced him like thorns. He lamented not being able to clearly reconstruct the taste of her mouth, her skin, how she shivered with his every touch. But most of all, he reproached himself for not having given them a sober first time, completely lucid, aware of the love they shared.

Only by evoking her, his body began to respond. It hardened almost instantly. But he refused to do anything about it. He had done it before... too many times. And every time he did, he ended up with a feeling of disgust, emptiness, and guilt. He felt it was a way of desecrating Penelope's memory, as if his lust overshadowed what he truly felt for her.

With that thought, he stepped out of the shower. He put on his pajamas without overthinking it, and fell straight into bed, hoping that sleep would embrace him. And, if he was lucky, to dream of the life that never was... but that, deep in his soul, he still desired with Penelope.

Colin woke up with a start at six in the morning, gasping as if he had just run a marathon, his heart racing and his throat dry. He had dreamed of her again. Penelope. Again at that party, again the moment when everything could change. In the dream, he didn't make the same mistakes: he didn't waste time talking to those idiots he once called friends, he didn't hesitate, he didn't look away. He arrived just in time. He managed to stop the argument with Eloise before it hurt, and he defended her. He defended her, his love, as he should have always done. And then, as if time dissolved into a blur of light and hope, he saw her. Penelope. With a ring on her finger and a baby in her arms. A sweet child with dark brown hair and blue eyes like hers, who babbled through smiles: mommy... daddy. Colin then knew, with absolute certainty, that he had everything.

But it wasn't true.

He woke up with his face soaked in tears and a fierce knot in his throat. That future would not exist. Never. And it was his fault. Not only did he lose her, but his sister also lost her best friend. Because Penelope left. And everything that happened after was even worse. He could still feel the visceral hatred that consumed him that afternoon when Agatha Danbury—damn her—gave him the news that shattered his world forever. How he had hated her for saying it out loud, for making it real.

He got up almost automatically, his body guided by desperation, crossing the bedroom like a ghost towards the alcohol. But then, the memory of his mother stopped him dead in his tracks. He was no longer that man. He couldn't be. With a heart in ruins because of a dream, he rinsed his face and forced himself to breathe. He dressed neatly, looked at himself in the mirror, and told himself the only thing that could sustain him: he was paid to be the best, and that's what he was going to be. Even if everything inside was shattered, Penelope would be proud of him. At least, he wanted to believe it.

After a hearty breakfast that helped calm the knot in his throat, Colin went for a walk in the city. He still had time before meeting Genevieve at the studio for the photo session that, according to the contract, was to be taken as part of the couple's album. It was barely 7 in the morning and the appointment wasn't until 10, so he decided to get lost for a while among the streets of Manhattan, as he had done so many times before. Although he had been to New York countless times, he never tired of this city. It always had something new to offer him, a different corner, a hidden cafe, an unexpected view.

As he walked, his mind couldn't stop thinking about her. About Penelope. About how she would have loved this city. How she would have stopped at every step just to look up at the skyscrapers that grazed the sky, or how she would have taken photos of every decorated shop window, every graffiti with a feminist message, every street artist with raw talent. If she were alive—if things had been different—Colin was sure that New York would have been one of the destinations for their honeymoon. Or at least an obligatory stop on their list. He would have enjoyed watching her marvel at the city's hustle and bustle, holding her hand as they crossed Fifth Avenue, kissing her in front of Central Park, or simply sitting with her on a High Line bench while sharing a coffee.

Checking the time and seeing it slip away, he decided to return to his Airbnb. He quickly gathered his things, adjusted his hair in front of the mirror, put on the jacket that Pen always told him made him look more handsome, and headed to the studio. He couldn't afford to be late. Not when every part of this session was another way to show the world—but, most of all, her—that he had changed. That even with a shattered heart, he was still trying to be a good man. One that Penelope Featherington could be proud of.

After a twenty-minute walk from the subway station, Colin arrived at Genevieve Delacroix's studio. The building had a restored brick facade, elegant and sober, with large windows that allowed a glimpse of the interior. As soon as he crossed the door, he was enveloped by the subtle aroma of jasmine and new linen. The studio was spacious, naturally lit, and decorated with a mix of sketches hung on wire threads, mannequins with semi-assembled lingerie sets, silky fabrics cascading over long tables, and sewing machines resting silently like soldiers before battle.

"Colin!" Genevieve exclaimed, descending the stairs with elegant energy, dressed in a white shirt lightly stained with charcoal and a beige linen skirt.

"Genevieve," he replied with a warm smile as they approached for a hug. "This place... it's stunning."

"Thank you, mon cher. And thank you for coming. I know how busy you are. But I wanted the best photographer to capture this moment. The best, Colin," she insisted, taking his face in her hands with affection. "And I got him."

"You say that as if I had a choice," he joked. "I would have been offended if you hadn't called me."

Both laughed, and then Genevieve took his arm familiarly.

"I want you to meet someone very special," she said with sparkling eyes. "Colin, I'd like to introduce you to my fiancé, Jack Mildsent."

A tall man, with sun-kissed skin and a confident smile, approached from an adjoining room. He was dressed in a casual outfit of navy blue pants and a white t-shirt, but he still looked impeccably good.

"So you're the famous Colin Bridgerton!" Jack said, shaking his hand firmly. "Gen has told me so much about you that I almost feel like I already know you."

"I hope she said good things," Colin replied with a raised eyebrow, earning a laugh from both.

"Only the best," Genevieve interjected. "Jack and I met during one of my shows. Remember my 'Éveil' collection? He was in the front row, though he says he came for business, not fashion."

Jack smiled tenderly.

"I saw Gen walk the runway at the end of the show, dressed in one of her own designs... and I knew I was doomed."

"Doomed or blessed," she corrected, quickly kissing him on the cheek. "And that's how Delacroix was born."

"Our lingerie line," Jack explained proudly. "We wanted something that wasn't just beautiful, but accessible. Haute couture lingerie, but for everyone. And look at it now."

Colin looked around. It was impossible not to admire what they had built together. Every corner spoke of passion, effort, and a shared vision.

"You don't just design underwear. You're redrawing the way people see themselves," Colin said, sincerely.

Genevieve placed a hand on her chest, touched.

"That's why I wanted you to take our photos, Colin. Because you also know how to see people as they are. Through your lenses, you capture the soul. And that's what we want to last forever."

Colin nodded, touched by her words.

"It will be an honor. We're going to make magic."

And then, the three of them delved among the sketches, fabrics, and lights, to begin planning a session that would not simply be a series of photographs, but a testament to love, vision, and shared beauty.

Colin positioned Gen and Jack according to the natural light streaming through the studio windows, and the way the ambiance begged to be narrated. He instructed them where to stand, playing with the position of the fabric, the sketches, the mannequins, and the messy lines hanging all over the place. At first, he took posed photos of them, seeking to capture that elegant, perfect image that would appear on the first pages of the album. But after a couple of shots, he asked for something more intimate, more real.

"Gen, why don't you sit in front of your drawing table?" Colin suggested as he adjusted his camera lens. "Jack, join her. I want this to feel like you two. I want you to forget about me."

The designer nodded with a knowing smile. She slid into her work chair and pulled out a blank sheet. Jack stood behind her, watching intently as she began to sketch the first lines with a pencil.

"What are you drawing?" he asked, resting his chin affectionately on her head.

"An idea for my next corset. Something with transparencies and an open back. Inspired by you," she replied with a small laugh, still sketching.

"Inspired by me? I hope it doesn't have bald spots," Jack joked.

"No, but it does have stubbornness," she added without looking at him, as Colin captured the laughter they shared right after.

For several minutes, for Gen and Jack, the world disappeared. She continued drawing with the concentration of someone who loves their craft, and he offered comments, ideas, and gentle critiques that made her pause to consider the details. Sometimes she nodded in silence, other times she humorously contradicted her. They laughed at their own silly jokes, at small arguments, at the times he insisted that lace wasn't that important and she passionately showed him why it was.

Colin didn't need to say anything else. He took advantage of every moment to capture that dynamic that said more than any pose: they were a team. A strong team. And with every shot, he thought that was love. Not the perfect one or the one that is boasted about, but the one that is built while one person draws and the other accompanies them, giving opinions, laughing, contradicting... staying.

They laughed at their own jokes, argued about lines or colors, but everything had an intimate, warm rhythm, as if he wasn't even there. That was precisely what Colin wanted: to portray what was between them, not just what they showed.

It was during one of those discussions—a rather animated one about the corset design—that, all of a sudden, the tension between Gen and Jack resolved into a deep, passionate kiss, completely oblivious to the outside world. Colin, amused, let his camera hang around his neck and cleared his throat loudly.

"Ahem... Remember you're being watched," he joked with a raised eyebrow.

Both laughed guiltlessly, separating with wide smiles and flushed cheeks.

"Sorry, Jack always wins arguments that way," Gen said, laughing, smoothing her skirt.

"And you always let him win," Jack countered, winking at her before turning to Colin. "Did you get it? Was the scandal worth it?"

"Definitely. Your chemistry is overflowing," Colin replied as he reviewed the last shots on the camera screen.

Gen took advantage of the pause to explain some logistical details.

"My parents and Jack's will arrive in the afternoon, after lunch. I want them in some photos too. But first..." she paused meaningfully. "My man of honor should be arriving any moment now."

Colin frowned in confusion and repeated with some disbelief:

"Your man of honor?"

Gen nodded, amused by his expression.

"Yes, though technically he's not a 'man' yet. He's the boy who will carry the rings and petals down the aisle. He's very special to me and I want him in some of the studio photos."

Colin raised an eyebrow, amused and surprised.

"When did you have a child and why didn't you tell me?"

Gen burst into open laughter.

"He's not mine! He's the son of one of my dearest friends, Anne. His name is Thomas, he's two years old and he's such a sweet baby. Sweet, intelligent, and curious. You'll love him. But it's important that he's surrounded by familiar things, which is why I brought some sketches, sewing ribbons, and his favorite plush toy is on its way."

Colin smiled as he hung his camera for a moment.

"I'm sure I'll love taking his photos. I love children. And I think it's perfect to include those elements. While they arrive, why don't we arrange some of those sketches and ribbons in the background? It could give the photos more personality and will be perfect for when little Thomas makes his entrance."

Gen nodded enthusiastically and immediately began, along with Jack, to rearrange part of the studio. They gathered the sketches scattered on the table and arranged them in a more aesthetic but equally creative composition. Jack rolled up some silk ribbons and placed them on an upholstered chair, while Gen looked for some sample corsets to hang near the mannequins. Amidst laughter, knowing winks, and an occasional crossed opinion, both dedicated themselves meticulously to making the place perfect to receive Thomas, while Colin, camera in hand, watched attentively, capturing not only the images but the soul of the moment.

Fifteen more minutes passed, barely a sigh in the afternoon, when the studio door opened with a slight creak and a young woman, around twenty-four, visibly exhausted, entered with a huge backpack slung over her shoulders. Her hair was slightly disheveled by the wind, and in one hand she carried several messy plush toys while with the other she held a small child, no more than two years old, who walked awkwardly but determinedly, dragging his feet across the wooden floor as if that studio were an entire universe to explore. They hadn't taken more than five steps when, suddenly, the child looked up and saw her. "Gen! Gen! Gen!" he shouted with all the force of his tiny lungs, impulsively letting go of the young woman's hand and running, wobbling with each step like a small warrior advancing fearlessly.

He tripped on the way, fell to his knees, but instead of crying, he laughed out loud and got up again, as if his fall had been part of the show. His shouts grew louder: "Gen! Gen!" The excitement in his voice was so contagious that even the air seemed to vibrate with his energy. Gen reacted immediately, her eyes lighting up with tenderness as she saw the little one coming towards her with open arms. She easily scooped him off the floor, wrapping him in a tight, warm embrace, and lifted him against her chest as the child snuggled in, confidently leaning his weight on her, as if that were the safest place in the world.

Colin, who was somewhat further away, adjusting his camera lens, watched the scene with a smile that widened irresistibly. Seeing that little man recover from his falls, laughing without a care in the world, seemed endearing to him. But even more so was the way he ran towards Gen, as if nothing else existed. That innocent adoration, so pure and evident, spoke to him of a deep bond between them, something built with time, affection, and play. It was impossible not to feel part of that scene, even if from the sidelines, and he immediately knew he had to capture it in a photograph.

The young woman, visibly flustered by the child's outburst, finally reached Gen and Thomas. "Thomas! What did I tell you? You can't just let go of my hand and run like that." Her voice carried more worry than annoyance, but Gen interrupted her with a soft laugh, without letting go of the little one.

"Don't worry, Rae. Thomas knows his Aunt Gen is absolute priority." The phrase provoked a general burst of laughter. The child, still hugging Gen, looked up with a mischievous smile, as if confirming that this was true.

At that instant, Colin approached with his camera hanging around his neck, drawn by the murmur of voices and laughter. The child was still facing away from him, wrapped in Gen's arms, his tiny face slightly buried in her neck. Colin observed the scene as if it were a painting: Rae's exhausted youth, the plush toys dangling from her hand, the studio transformed with sketches, sewing ribbons, and improvised corners for an intimate and artistic photo session... and in the center, that two-year-old boy who seemed to hold Gen in his heart and everyone else as spectators of the indestructible bond that united them.

When Colin crossed the threshold of the studio, Gen immediately looked up and, with a radiant smile, turned to introduce him to the little one she held lovingly in her arms.

"Colin," she said softly, with that warm glow that only appeared in her eyes when she spoke of someone she loved, "I'd like to introduce you to Thomas Ruther."

Colin barely had time to blink before all the air escaped his lungs. It was as if time had completely stopped. His gaze anchored on that barely two-year-old child, held in Genevieve's arms, and his mind recognized him instantly.

It was him.

Exactly him.

The baby he had dreamed of that morning.

The wavy brown hair, so similar to his own, danced with the gentle breeze coming through a window. His eyes—God, those eyes!—were a pure sky blue that seemed made of sky and miracle. But what broke him inside was his little face, round and sprinkled with tiny freckles that seemed hand-drawn, as if an artist had wanted to portray tenderness in the form of a child. And those tiny, pink, soft lips curved into a smile full of innocence and joy, showing just a few teeth: witnesses that he was still at that age between the first laugh and the first complete word.

Thomas looked at him in wonder, as if he too recognized him from some secret place in his soul. Then, with a sweetness that broke the hearts of everyone present, he wiggled his little hand in the air, greeting him with a soft:

"Hello!"

Colin felt his chest swell and then collapse. He returned the smile, though trembling, and barely managed to whisper the same greeting.

"Hello…"

But then, without warning, a single tear rolled down his cheek.

Gen noticed immediately.

"Colin?" she asked softly. "Are you alright?"

Colin blinked hard and looked away. The weight of that tiny being, so identical to the baby of his dreams, so unreal and so present at the same time, hit him with an intensity he couldn't manage.

"Yes... yes," he murmured, his voice tight. "I just... need a moment."

And without waiting for a response, he quickly walked away, leaving Gen with Thomas in her arms and everyone else profoundly confused, watching his back with unease suspended in the air.

Colin stepped out onto the balcony as if the fresh air could bring back the breath that had escaped his lungs moments before. Tears streamed down his face unchecked, so he wiped them with his sleeve as he paced back and forth, trying to calm the growing pressure in his chest. Each step he took felt heavier, as if he carried an invisible burden that was suffocating him.

It was him. There was no doubt.

This child wasn't just a simple two-year-old with a messy smile and a squeaky voice. No. He was the child he had seen in his dreams that very morning, a dream so vivid it had left a void in his soul. That wavy brown hair, those sky-blue eyes like cloudless skies, that skin sprinkled with freckles that looked too much like hers. He was the perfect representation of what would have been… if Penelope and he had had a child.

He leaned against the balcony railing, closing his eyes tightly. The pain in his chest became unbearable. Remembering her was one thing; seeing her through a child who didn't even know who he was, was entirely different. Colin hunched over, clenching his teeth in fury, wishing he could scream, break something, disappear. Fate had a cruel sense of humor. Because the child not only existed, but he did so with the exactness of his most intimate thoughts, his most secret fantasies.

And Penelope was no longer there. She had died three years ago.

The thought felt like a renewed death sentence. As if he had lost her again, but with greater force. Because now he not only mourned the woman he loved, but the future that could have been. The child they could have raised together, the laughter they would never share, the hugs that would never happen.

He squeezed his eyes tighter, trying to contain the knot in his throat.

A cold rage grew within him. Rage towards time, towards life, towards himself. For not having told her everything he felt when he could. For letting her go. For being a coward. For still being alive while she was gone.

"To hell with my promises," he muttered, almost with disgust. "To hell with everything."

He thought of the bottle of rum in the cabinet of his Airbnb. Of getting drunk until he felt nothing, until he forgot that perfect face that had looked at him with curiosity, that had said "hello" with a broken bell voice.

But no matter how much he wanted to get lost in the fog of alcohol, he knew it wouldn't work. Because that child—Thomas—existed. And he had seen him. And nothing would ever be the same again.

As Colin breathed deeply with his arms resting on the balcony railing, he felt a warm hand gently rest on his shoulder. The gesture startled him, but he didn't turn immediately.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Genevieve's serene voice asked from behind him.

Colin swallowed. The knot in his throat wouldn't loosen. He kept his gaze on the city traffic lights, flickering in the distance, as if he could find some peace there.

"It was a shock," he confessed in a raspy voice. "Seeing that child... it was like looking through a mirror at what could have been."

Genevieve frowned, confused by the tone and sadness of his words.

"Why?" she asked cautiously. "Did you know him before?"

Colin barely shook his head, but quickly answered.

"Do you remember Penelope? Did you ever meet her?"

Genevieve pursed her lips, thoughtful.

"The name, yes," she nodded softly. "I think Benedict mentioned her once... He said she was like an unofficial Bridgerton daughter. I never met her, but according to him, she was a sweet girl, very clever."

Colin smiled, a painful, twisted grimace, barely contained by the bitterness that invaded his soul.

"Yes," he said. "She was."

Genevieve looked at him sideways, puzzled.

"She was?"

Then he slowly turned his head towards her. His eyes, usually vibrant and playful, were dull, clouded by the pain of a loss that continued to bleed.

"She died three years ago," he said simply. The weight of those words fell between them like a stone.

Genevieve looked at him with genuine shock and gently squeezed his arm.

"I'm so sorry, Colin..." she whispered.

He nodded, accepting the gesture with resigned sadness.

"I lost her at the worst possible time," he murmured, almost to himself. "She left without knowing I loved her. Deeply. She left... thinking the worst of me."

Genevieve's mouth opened, perplexed.

"No..." she said. "How can that be?"

Colin closed his eyes and let out a broken sigh. There was something about saying it out loud that broke him more than the memory itself.

"Believe me," he said, his voice choked. "I said and did horrible things. A week before I learned of her death... I was cruel, blind, cowardly. There's no excuse."

Genevieve lowered her gaze, as if she could feel the shame that Colin emanated with every word. She didn't interrupt him, but her eyes sought his, in silence, asking for more.

Colin understood. He knew she wanted to know what exactly he had said, what had happened. But he slowly shook his head.

"It's not worth repeating," he said, looking back at the city. "It only serves to remind me how stupid I was."

For an instant, neither spoke. The cool wind barely rustled the edge of Colin's jacket, and the distant murmur of traffic seemed like the faint echo of another world.

"That child..." he said suddenly, his voice lower. "I've seen him in my dreams. I swear to Penelope I've seen him. Brown-haired like me. With her eyes. With that smile... It was like seeing... the life I didn't have. The life I won't have. A brutal reminder of everything I destroyed by being a coward. By being stupid."

Genevieve didn't respond immediately. She just stood beside him, in silence, holding his arm, witnessing a pain she didn't know how to alleviate. Colin, on the other hand, felt his soul crack with every word uttered, as if finally, after three years, he was giving his heart permission to cry for what never came to be.

And so, under the cold lights of the city's cars, as evening fell over New York, Colin Bridgerton finally allowed himself to break a little.

Genevieve inhaled deeply, as if gathering strength to support another, and then spoke softly, without letting go of his arm.

"It's okay. You might think you were an idiot," she joked, raising an eyebrow casually, "but I'm not going to judge you... and even less without seeing the evidence of what you said!"

The phrase, so simple and luminous, brought a small laugh from Colin, just a flicker, but enough to loosen the rope that was constricting his chest. Gen took advantage of that opening to continue, more seriously:

"That was the past, Colin. And even though it hurts, it's behind you. The man I see before me is different from the one you imagine. You need to adapt to who you are now, live it, live for both of you. Because if you do, in some way she will continue to live through you."

Colin closed his eyes; a last tear slipped down his cheek before he wiped his face with his sleeve. He inhaled deeply, held his breath, and, as he exhaled, let go of some of the pain. Then he looked up, and a timid—but genuine—smile curved his lips.

"Thank you, Gen," he murmured with sincere gratitude.

She returned his smile, briefly squeezing his hand before letting go.

"They're waiting for you inside for the photos with Thomas," she reminded him with a wink. "That little freckled ambassador is impatient."

Colin nodded, squaring his shoulders. He ran a hand through his hair, inhaled the late New York air, and let the city clothe him in its inexhaustible energy.

"I'll be right in," he confirmed, and allowed himself another slight smile. "Time to get to know Thomas better... and capture every glimmer of that life that, at least for today, I can imagine."

With a firmer step, breaking down inside and out, he returned to the studio door. Behind the windows, Jack's laughter, scattered sketches, and, most importantly, that child whose face was the perfect reflection of the future he had so longed for, awaited him. It was time to frame the light, adjust the shutter, and honor, with every shot, Penelope's memory… and the man he could still become.

Colin held the camera with unusual delicacy, as if he held something sacred in his hands. And perhaps he did. Through the lens, he dedicated himself to capturing every gesture, every laugh, every glimmer of Thomas, that child who stole his breath just by existing. The shutter clicked with a constant rhythm as Thomas ran around the studio, letting out pure laughs that echoed off the walls and Colin's chest. He couldn't explain it, but it wasn't like photographing his nephews. It wasn't like portraying Charlotte's tenderness or the energy of the twins Amelia and Belinda. No. With Thomas, there was something deeper, more visceral. It was like looking at the reflection of a lost desire, of a life he only knew in his dreams, of a love that death had turned into an echo. He had never seen a more perfect child.

He watched as Thomas approached Gen, demanding her attention, and how she tried to continue drawing with charcoal while he, with complete brazenness, scribbled on her sketches without any remorse. Gen's annoyed expression was so theatrical it was comical, and Jack, of course, didn't miss the opportunity to laugh. Colin pressed the shutter and captured the scene: Gen's feigned desperation, Thomas's artistic chaos, the amusement in Jack's eyes. It was all a chaotic and perfect symphony. And as he photographed them, he felt that painful pressure in his chest, that pang of tragic beauty. Because Thomas, with his brown hair shining under the light, his bright eyes, and the way he laughed with his whole body, was, without a doubt, the embodiment of what he would never have.

After several shots, Rae—apparently the nanny—interrupted the session with a kind voice. She asked for a short break. She said that Thomas needed to burn off some energy at the park right across from the studio before they could take the last photos. The idea was to tire him out a bit, so that when Anne—Thomas's mother who would pick him up—arrived, the child would be calm, ideally sleepy. Colin nodded, lowering his camera for the first time in minutes. He understood perfectly; he also needed a break.

"I also need a coffee..." he murmured.

"You need a coffee or a dose of cocaine, whichever comes first," Jack joked, letting out a loud laugh that broke the solemn moment.

Colin laughed, a lower, slightly more broken laugh, but sincere nonetheless. Gen, however, slapped Jack's arm, giving him a reproachful look.

"Behave yourself, idiot."

And so, amidst jokes and scolding, Rae took Thomas's hand and they left the studio together. The child walked with leaps and bounds, as if the whole world belonged to him, with that energy possessed only by those who haven't yet known sadness. Colin watched him disappear through the glass door and, for a second, thought that maybe he could endure it. Maybe he could stay a little longer. Maybe… he could live.

Colin and Jack also left the studio, leaving behind the hum of the lights, the smell of paper, and the echo of laughter and memories that still floated in the air. It was time to breathe, even if just for a moment.

Colin left the café with a strong Americano in one hand, steam still rising in spirals from the cardboard cup, and with the other, he shielded his face from the afternoon sun. He walked beside Jack, who held a bottle of mineral water, discussing without much emotion the details of the wedding that was just around the corner.

Upon reaching the park in front of the studio, his eyes naturally drifted to the playground, where Rae, with the expression of an alert sentinel, watched Thomas's every move like a hawk. The child laughed with a pure freedom, running from side to side, going up and down the slide, with seemingly inexhaustible energy. That image—a fearless, vibrant, and happy child—filled Colin's chest in an unexpected way.

"He's a force of nature, isn't he?" Jack commented, also watching the scene with a smile.

Colin nodded, taking a sip of coffee, trying not to show the commotion within him.

"Genevieve loves him as if he were her own from the first day she met him," Jack added with a tender note in his voice.

Colin turned to him, curious yet skeptical.

"How did they meet? Gen and... Thomas?"

Jack scratched his chin, as if rewinding someone else's memories.

"Two years ago. Gen went to Danbury Publishing for an interview with a fashion reporter. Anne, Thomas's mother, was already working at the publishing house. Thomas was barely a newborn, and Gen found her alone in one of the common rooms, on the verge of tears, holding him in her arms while muttering something about deadlines, emails, and not sleeping for three days."

"And Gen just... walked up to help?"

"Gen just... was Gen," Jack replied with a slight shrug. "She asked to hold the baby while Anne took an important call. And that's when it happened. She told me about it. When she held Thomas for the first time, she said she felt something. I don't know if it was a maternal instinct or what, but since then she's been there for them. Always."

Colin narrowed his eyes, taking a bitter gulp of coffee.

"And the father? Doesn't he exist or what?"

The question came out dry, almost like a provocation.

Jack became serious, his tone dropped.

"He doesn't exist. She's never mentioned him. Some believe it's due to grief, others say the guy just disappeared. But what I can tell you is that Anne is a brave woman. She's been a mother and one of Danbury's best columnists. She's never given up."

The name of the publishing house ignited something in Colin's mind. Danbury Publishing. The same place where Penelope worked before she died. Before everything fell apart. He remembered how she used to stay late editing reviews, laughing at her own column about speakeasies and secret restaurants. He remembered her round, eager handwriting, and how she would tease his flowery descriptions.

An impossible thought struck him, as absurd as it was painful: What if...?

What if Penelope wasn't dead?

The idea was ridiculous. He knew it. But the unease had already settled in him like a thorn. And that's why he asked, almost without thinking, with a mix of anxiety and feigned nonchalance:

"What does Anne write? What kind of column?"

Jack smiled.

"You've never heard of 'Living, Without Asking Permission'? It's a huge hit. They even read it in board meetings, no joke."

Colin stopped. His heart dropped like a stone. It wasn't. It wasn't Pen's column. It wasn't her voice, nor her signature, nor her topics. It wasn't about hidden bars or historical recipes or anecdotes that tasted of gin. No. It was another woman. Another pen. Another world.

He felt he had clung to a stupid illusion. A fantasy that vanished under the crushing weight of reality.

Penelope was dead.

And none of that was going to change it.

Colin tried to clear his mind of that absurd illusion. He inwardly chided himself for having let himself be carried away, even if only for a few seconds, by such a foolish hope. But then he heard the column's name again: Living, Without Asking Permission. And of course he knew it. How could he not, when his sisters were addicted to that column?

It spoke of women as they are: brave, powerful, sensitive, warriors.

Daphne didn't miss a single issue. She was convinced that every section on motherhood was like a letter written especially for her, and she fiercely applied the advice she read there with her twins. Eloise adored the articles that tackled feminism head-on, with courage, without asking permission, without apologies. She found it refreshing and necessary, and always brought those discussions to the table with her mother and sisters-in-law. Francesca enjoyed the romance section; she was the quietest, but no one was more moved than her when a reader shared a failed date or narrated how she met the love of her life in a bookstore line. And Hyacinth, of course, religiously read the columns on technology and how to effortlessly make money; she had become obsessed with those investment strategies that she now applied with brazen skill, to the pride (and occasional annoyance) of her older brother Anthony.

Even Violet, his mother, had become a fan. She called it her "guilty pleasure." She loved the columns on second chances, on how to decorate your home according to your zodiac sign, and the absurdly useful tips on domestic life that she now quoted as if they were sacred maxims.

Colin knew it. Firsthand. Every week, without fail, his sisters and sisters-in-law gathered at Bridgerton House to talk about that column. It was part of their routine, part of their bond. Sometimes he even overheard fragments of those conversations as he passed by, without paying much attention.

It was confusing, even amusing, but of course he knew the column.

And that only made it hurt more. Because, for an instant, when he heard that Anne worked at Danbury and wrote a column... his mind, stupidly, thought of her. Penelope. Of his Pen. Of the impossible possibility that she was alive and writing.

Jack seemed to notice, because he looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Are you okay?"

Colin blinked. He nodded as if he had just returned from a distant place, one that smelled of ink, memories, and an impossible illusion.

"Yes, of course," he replied, adjusting his coat. "It's just that... of course I know the column. My sisters"—he paused, letting out a soft, resigned laugh—"are obsessed with it. All of them. Sisters-in-law included. Every week, as if it were mass, they gather at Bridgerton House to dissect every word that appears there."

Jack let out a deep, genuine laugh.

"Really? Well, Anne is responsible for all that. She started the column, and although she's now the director and has a full team under her, she's still the creative mind behind everything. The voice is hers."

Colin paused for a second. He didn't know why, but he felt a kind of inexplicable pride. As if Anne had accomplished something important on behalf of someone else. As if, in some way, she was doing justice to a legacy he thought lost. A column that spoke with the same impetus and strength Penelope used to have when no one listened to her.

"I'm impressed," he said with a small smile. "I'd love to meet the person responsible for my mother redecorating her entire house."

"Your mother?"

"Yes, months ago she greeted my brother Anthony with a dog-butler at the door. Literally. A life-sized ceramic statue with a tray. She told him the column said Aries are warm and eccentric, and that included 'unexpected details at the entrance.' Anthony almost had a heart attack. Though I think he liked it more than he wants to admit."

Jack couldn't stop laughing.

"Anne has always had that voice, you know? That unique way of looking at the world and turning it into words that make you think, laugh, or cry. Sometimes all on the same page. I'm not surprised she has that impact. To tell you the truth, I think she was always like that, even when no one read her."

"That sounds... familiar," Colin murmured, almost to himself.

They walked towards Rae and Thomas. Jack walked with the ease of someone who knew his surroundings, but Colin followed with his mind still caught in that absurd illusion from minutes earlier. He had wanted, for an instant, to believe it was her. That Penelope was alive. That she was writing. That she still existed somewhere as "Anne."

But no. That column wasn't about bars or bohemian nights in hidden corners of London. It didn't speak of shared wine glasses or whispered words in alleyways. It wasn't that column. Penelope's was different. And Penelope... was dead.

He knew it. He knew it very well. And yet, it hurt as if he had just lost her again.

As they walked along the path covered with dry leaves and with the cool wind caressing their faces, Colin and Jack made their way towards the park where Rae was playing with Thomas. Their conversation flowed naturally, until something in the atmosphere shifted. Thomas, who had previously remained calm near Rae, suddenly lifted his head as if he had recognized something in the distance. His small eyes lit up and, without warning, he began to run in the opposite direction, shouting over and over again, in an excited and trembling voice, a word that pierced Colin's chest like a burning dart:

"Mama! Mama! Mama!"

Colin's heart leaped. His eyes followed the child, who was running directly towards a more wooded area of the park, where a leafy bush partially concealed a figure that seemed to be crouched or distracted with something. Jack, who had also caught the sudden change of direction, smiled knowingly as he quickened his pace.

"She arrived just in time," he said, pointing forward with his chin.

Colin barely heard him. His attention was focused on the feminine silhouette that began to take shape before his eyes. They were only a few meters away when he saw her clearly. The woman had her back to them. She was short, with soft, ample curves, and the hair that fell in perfectly natural waves to the middle of her back was such a vivid, deep red that it stole his breath. The world seemed to stop. It was like seeing Penelope. No... not like seeing her: it was seeing her.

He blinked hard several times, trying to convince his mind that he was seeing a mirage, a fleeting memory, a cruel joke his brain was playing on him in the middle of a city that wasn't his own. But no. She was still there. Her dark jeans fit her hips, her legs, her backside with surgical precision. She wore black heels that barely sank into the soft earth, and a thick brown wool sweater that hugged her figure and seemed to have been made especially for her and for the New York autumn. There was something devastatingly familiar in every detail. Colin was petrified.

It was Jack who broke the moment by naturally approaching the figure and greeting her.

"Anne!" he exclaimed, with the warm joy of someone seeing a loved one.

And then, she turned around.

Time collapsed.

Colin felt all the air escape his lungs in a single beat. The coffee cup trembled in his hands before slipping and falling to the ground, splattering the pavement with dark stains like wounds. He fell to his knees, not caring about the concrete, not caring about the cold. His eyes filled with tears in an instant, and he could barely breathe. Because the woman who turned, the one who greeted Jack with a smile that barely lasted a few seconds, wasn't just similar to Penelope. It was Penelope.

Penelope.

With the same freckles he knew by heart. With those full, perfectly defined lips he had kissed in dreams since he lost her. With those eyes... God, those eyes. His soul left him when he saw her face to face.

And then he saw it. What finally broke him. What snatched the last breath of disbelief from him.

Thomas had reached her side, clung to her leg with absolute confidence, and called her again, this time with pure tenderness:

"Mama..."

Colin couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He couldn't think. He just remained there, on his knees, crying in front of the vision before him.

Penelope was alive.

And she had a child.

Chapter Text

2022

"A little more to the left, Kate. No, the other left," Penelope said, laughing as she held a string of golden lights over the fireplace mantel.

Chapter Text

2022

The only thing Penelope Featherington hated more than lying… was knowing she had nowhere to live alone.

After a pipe burst and destroyed much of the plumbing system in the building where she lived, she had no choice but to reluctantly return to her mother's house. That had been almost a year ago. And although she was doing relatively well as a columnist at Danbury Publishing, her salary was still not enough for an apartment that suited her tastes, her needs, and above all, her desire for independence. Sometimes she felt as if she were trapped between two versions of herself: the woman who wrote about empowerment, resilience, and rebirth… and the daughter who still slept in a pink painted room, with furniture from more than a decade ago and ruffled curtains.

Her mother’s new house wasn't bad. In fact, it was quite good. It wasn’t far from the Bridgerton house, barely fifteen minutes by car, although Penelope preferred a thousand times the old house where they had been neighbors, where she could look out the window and see Violet’s violet garden. But all that changed the night her father died suddenly. The legacy he left was an impossible mortgage to pay. And with it, the end of that golden childhood and that warm neighborhood.

Portia had managed to reinvent herself —as she always did— in a new house, with expensive furniture and new dinnerware that Penelope suspected had come from the most expensive display cases in the West End. Pen contributed what she could, often sacrificing part of her own salary to cover the small luxuries her mother believed necessary. “That’s being a good daughter,” she constantly repeated to herself. Although sometimes, in the solitude of dawn, she wondered if being a good daughter meant giving up so much of herself.

When she walked through the door, it was still 12:00 a.m. The London sky was still overcast, and a humid, gray air had accompanied her all the way in the Uber she paid for with trembling hands and eyes still flooded with tears. As soon as the door closed behind her, she knew they were waiting for her.

“Oh, finally,” Portia said from the sofa, a glass of wine in her hand despite the hour. She had a game show on the television at full volume, one of those where people screamed answers as if their lives depended on it. “I’m glad you arrived. Today they’re repeating the celebrity special, the one about famous people who can’t spell.”

Penelope stood still, not answering. Her gaze was lost, her coat still over her shoulders, and her throat was tied in such a tight knot that even breathing hurt. Portia turned her head slightly, just enough to see her without taking her eyes off the screen.

“And what’s with that face?”

Pen said nothing. She simply nodded as if that were enough. As if with that she could hide the fact that everything inside her had broken that night. That she could still hear Cho’s laughter bouncing in her head, like a cruel mockery. That she could still feel the fifty-pound note falling with contempt on the face of the man she… the man she thought she loved.

And the worst part was that she had heard him clearly. That phrase. Those damned words she couldn’t erase even if she tore off her ears:

"I wouldn’t be in a relationship with Penelope Featherington if I were dead."

She felt her legs give out for a second. She walked silently to the stairs, her steps muffled by the beige carpet. Portia continued to drink her wine. Perhaps she thought her daughter had just had a bad day. She couldn’t imagine the hell she had just lived through.

Because how could she explain that her heart had been shattered… for the third time. That the man with whom she had shared her body for the first time that very night, the one who had desperately begged to enter her apartment, was now laughing with his friends for having “won the bet.” That this man, who had whispered that she was beautiful, who had sunk between her legs as if he needed her to breathe, now said she meant nothing to him.

Penelope climbed the last steps without looking back. She didn’t turn on her room light. She didn’t take off her shoes. She just collapsed onto the bed, face down, with the coat still on, and cried as if the pain would consume her whole.

She felt her makeup heavy, her eyelids burning, her feet aching, and her soul in pieces. She took off her coat and let it fall carelessly onto a chair, then got rid of the emerald green dress she swore to burn the next morning. She left it on the floor as if it were dead skin, and reluctantly, opened her dresser drawer, pulling out an old long-sleeved shirt, one she had worn since university, and wide, comfortable pants.

She dressed in silence, ready to vegetate in the bed, wrap herself in the covers, and know nothing else for the rest of the night. She didn’t want to think about anything. Not Eloise. Not Colin. Not the necklace. Not her mother. She just wanted to disappear for a few hours. Just a few.

But her plans collapsed with a simple knock on the door, followed by the creak of the handle. Portia Featherington entered without asking permission, with a glass of red wine in her hand and the frivolous gaze she always gave her when she was disappointed in her, which happened with alarming frequency.

“Quite a night, wasn’t it?” Portia murmured, taking a sip. “But you, as always, know how to stand out… even if it’s not for the right reasons.”

Penelope didn’t respond. She sat on the bed with her legs crossed, staring blankly, waiting for her mother to leave soon.

“Do you think you’re very clever?” Portia asked, raising an eyebrow. “Who would think of spending two hundred pounds on a damned necklace?”

Penelope slowly turned her head towards her, with her eyes tired.

“It doesn’t seem expensive to me. It’s two hundred pounds, not twenty thousand. It’s not like I bought a diamond ring.”

Portia let out an ironic laugh.

“Of course, it’s not expensive if you buy it from the Bridgertons, who are swimming in money. We’re not. You’re not. And that money could have been used for something more useful.”

“Useful?” Penelope repeated bitterly. “Like what? On impossible-to-pay outings? On couture clothes so you don’t feel less than others? I earned that money. And I use it as I see fit. At least, I thought so.”

Portia took two steps closer. Her shadow fell across Penelope’s face, and in a movement as swift as it was violent, she slapped her, a sound that echoed like a whip in the silence. Penelope didn’t even cry out. She just brought her hand to her cheek, feeling it burn.

“Respect me!” Portia snarled. “And respect this house, which is the least you can do after failing and coming back with your tail between your legs. You are nobody, Penelope. And you still are.”

Penelope didn’t speak. Tears welled in her eyes, but they didn’t fall. She wouldn’t give her that pleasure. Not to her.

“That money,” Portia continued, swaying slightly from the wine, “is more mine than yours. It’s the little I receive after having raised such a disastrous woman, such a small thing. Why can’t you be more like your sisters? Prudence married a rich man. Phillipa also lives well. And you… look at yourself. You’re still here, sharing this house with me like a failure. A disgrace.”

Penelope clenched her fists. She felt her breath tremble, the treacherous tears burning the edge of her eyelashes. She touched her cheek, still sensitive from the slap, and said nothing. Nothing that could soothe the knot in her throat.

Portia finished her wine in one gulp and sighed, as if she were exhausted by the existence of her own daughter.

“I need those two hundred pounds tomorrow. I’ll use them for a beauty treatment. I don’t care how you get them, but if I don’t have that money in my purse tomorrow… I’ll act like I only have two daughters. To me, you’ll be dead.”

And without another word, Portia turned, opened the door with disdain, and left, leaving Penelope shattered in the gloom. The clock struck twelve ten. And as the night ended, in that silent room, Penelope’s soul broke a little more.

Penelope was tired of everything.

Of the empty laughs, the awkward silences, the evasive glances. Of the way everything seemed to crumble before her while the rest continued to toast, dance, and pretend nothing was happening.

With her heart pounding like a runaway drum, she picked up her phone and looked for someone who could truly help her. Someone not emotionally involved, not affected by the web of secrets and complicities woven within that family.

She dialed the number without thinking too much, even though she knew exactly what she was doing.

Agatha Danbury.

Her boss. Her mentor. Her example.

Although she had been a close friend of the Bridgertons for generations, Agatha never allowed personal ties to interfere with her professional judgment. At sixty, she was a feared and respected figure throughout the publishing industry. Her stoic demeanor, measured words, and impenetrable gaze made everyone straighten up as soon as they saw her enter a room. Penelope admired her deeply, and although she wasn't afraid of her, she held fierce respect for her. She had never dared to call her outside of working hours. And much less at midnight.

But she did.

The line rang once. Twice. Thrice.

“This better be a real emergency, Featherington,” a firm, unsleepy voice finally answered from the other end. “Or I swear I’ll make your life a living hell in that office on Monday.”

Penelope swallowed. She didn’t know if she wanted to cry or laugh nervously. But her voice broke, irreparably, when she spoke:

“It is,” she whispered. “I need help. Urgently. I don’t know what to do. Please.”

A silence. And then, the change. Agatha’s tone lost its usual harshness and became more alert, more human, though just as firm.

“I’ll wait for you at my house. Now. Don’t be late.”

She didn’t need more.

Penelope didn’t say another word. She hung up. She got up from where she was as if her skin was burning and left through the back door without her mother noticing, wrapped in the darkness of midnight, leaving behind her mother’s words.

During the journey, her cell phone began to vibrate non-stop. Once, twice, ten times. All from Colin.

Penelope read each message with an increasingly tight heart. She felt the urge to answer, to tell him she wasn’t okay either, that she needed him, that she couldn’t do it alone. But something stopped her. Something bigger, more urgent than apologies or half-hearted consolations.

Without hesitation, she put her phone on do not disturb, turned off the screen, and put the device in her coat pocket. She had to think. She had to talk to someone who saw everything from the outside, who wouldn’t look at her with pity, or betrayal, or confused love.

She walked towards Agatha Danbury’s house while all possible options, all exits, all endings opened in her mind.

She had to make a decision. And this time, she couldn’t make a mistake.

Agatha was waiting at the door, as if she had felt the urgency from the first ring of the call. Penelope paid the Uber with trembling hands, and seeing her there, erect, with her usual navy-blue coat over her nightgown and that perpetually unperturbed face, something in her broke. She dropped her bag to the ground and, without even thinking, ran into her arms like a frightened child, burying her face in her shoulder, sobbing with a pain she didn’t know how to contain.

Agatha Danbury, the same woman who was feared in board meetings, the woman who with a single glance could silence anyone, did not push her away. She embraced her. She hugged her tightly. She stroked her back as if the crying was not a scandal in the middle of the night, but a legitimate call for help. She led her into the house without asking questions, with that firm step she used even in the editorial hallways. Penelope barely managed to murmur an “I’m sorry” when she pulled away, her eyes swollen and her nose red.

“What on earth happened?” Agatha asked, while guiding her towards the kitchen with the same calm with which she directed an entire team. “I knew there were problems with your mother, yes, but this is something else. Something overwhelmed you tonight.”

Penelope didn’t know how to start. Or where. She just accepted the cup of tea they offered her, still trembling, still not knowing how to put into words everything that was exploding in her chest.

“I slept with Colin,” she blurted out suddenly, as if a bomb had exploded in that silent kitchen. “It wasn’t planned… it wasn’t… I don’t even know how it happened. I was confused, drunk. And I thought… I thought it was real.”

Agatha said nothing, not a single gesture. She just looked at her. Waited.

“Afterwards… afterwards I heard him. Saying it all started with a bet with his friends. That he had bet years ago to sleep with me. That he couldn’t even imagine himself in a relationship with me… that he’d rather be dead.”

The words got stuck in her throat, as if she still couldn’t believe they were real. As if repeating them made them sound crueler.

“And as if that weren’t enough, Eloise heard me leave Colin’s room. She saw me. She yelled that she’d rather see me dead than with her brother. She told me I was trash… to stay away from her family.”

Agatha pressed her lips together, her brow furrowed, the teacup motionless in her hands.

“And when I got home… my mother…” Penelope lowered her gaze. “She hit me. She told me I ruined her, that if I don’t have the money she spent on Colin’s engagement gift tomorrow… to consider myself dead to her.”

Agatha was silent for a few seconds. Not a word. Until she put the cup aside and extended her hand, placing it firmly on Penelope’s.

“My dear, how on earth are you still standing?”

Penelope swallowed, and finally let the broken voice come out with the only thing she knew for sure.

“I want to leave. Far away. I want to disappear. From everyone. From all of this. I want to start over. Please.”

Agatha remained still. Then, she nodded. Just once.

“Then that’s what we’ll do.”

And with that sentence, spoken at midnight in a silent kitchen, Penelope knew that for the first time someone wasn’t asking for explanations, wasn’t judging her, wasn’t demanding she endure. Agatha didn’t treat her like a victim or a lost child. She treated her as what she truly was: a woman who had endured too much and who, with wounded knees and a shattered soul, was finally ready to leave.

“Danbury Publishing’s New York office is looking for staff,” Agatha said while offering her a hot cup of tea. “If you truly want to disappear... the columnist position is yours. I’ve spoken highly of you before.”

Penelope looked up, incredulous. For an instant, her lips trembled, as if she couldn’t believe what she had just heard.

“Are you serious?”

“More serious than you can imagine. They’re waiting for you. If you want to leave, we’ll do it right,” Agatha confirmed with steely calm.

A spark of relief crossed Penelope’s face. With a barely audible sigh, she nodded forcefully.

“Yes. I want that. I want to accept.”

But as soon as the initial emotion settled, reality crushed her again. Her fingers clutched the cup, and her lips paled.

“How... how do I tell Eloise? And Colin? And my mother?”

Agatha moved closer, with the intention of comforting her, but Penelope shook her head. She couldn’t. They wouldn’t let her go. And then, like a dagger repeatedly plunging in, she remembered.

She remembered Eloise, trembling with fury, spitting that she’d rather see her dead than with her brother. Colin, drunk, despising her without knowing she was listening: “I’d rather be dead than in a relationship with you.” And her mother, who just hours before had threatened her: if she didn’t bring her the money the next day, she would be dead to her.

Dead.

That word was etched in her mind. It wouldn't let go. It wouldn't let go.

“Agatha…” her voice was barely a whisper. “Will you… will you help me fake my death?”

Agatha’s cup clanked forcefully against the sink. She looked at her as if she hadn’t understood correctly.

“What did you say?”

“I’m serious,” Penelope insisted, and this time there was a fierce mix of desperation and conviction in her. “If they think I’m dead, my mother will leave me alone with the money. Eloise and Colin won’t look for me. No one will hurt me anymore.”

“Penelope, that’s insane! You don’t know what you’re saying,” Agatha retorted, alarmed.

But the young woman didn’t back down. Her voice broke, yes, but her eyes didn’t lose their sparkle.

“It’s the only option. I have nothing. I have no one. There’s no other way to disappear… to truly disappear. I’ll be in another country, on another continent. No one will know where I am. No one will look for me. I’ll be invisible.”

Agatha looked at her in silence. A long silence fraught with gravity. Then, she sighed deeply.

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into…”

“Please. I beg you. Help me,” Penelope pleaded, beyond logic or fear.

Agatha closed her eyes, as if agreeing pained her more than refusing. Finally, she spoke.

“Very well. Stay here tonight. Tomorrow, when your mother isn’t home, pack a small suitcase with some clothes and your personal documents. Nothing more. And come back to this house. Since tomorrow is Saturday, we’ll have all day to plan this calmly.”

Penelope couldn’t respond. She just fell into Agatha’s arms as a tremor ran through her completely. It was relief. It was fear. It was the beginning of her escape.

But also, for the first time, it was hope.

Penelope lay in the guest bed with a heaviness that came not from her body, but from her soul. Agatha’s room smelled of lavender and old wood, the ceiling had a tiny crack in one corner, and the window let in the faint light of a streetlamp that barely filtered through the translucent curtain. Everything was silent, and for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel in immediate danger, only empty. But that emptiness now had a purpose: to start from scratch.

There was a new goal. A new destination. A new name, perhaps. And to achieve it, she had to erase every trace of Penelope Featherington.

With decision, she sat up, turned on her cell phone — which had remained in airplane mode all night — and noticed with a knot in her stomach the multiple unopened messages from Colin. She didn't have the strength to read them, so the first thing she did was silence the conversation. Not block him. Not yet. But silence him. Disappearing wasn't about confrontations, but about clean disappearances.

One by one, she opened her applications. First Instagram. She saw her profile for the last time, her face in hundreds of photos, smiling with Eloise, posing with Remy, Agatha’s assistant, at work dinners, even some of her most read covers. She tapped “Delete account” and took a deep breath. Confirmed.

Then Facebook. A folder of moving memories. Birthday wishes, photos with Phillipa and Prudence, old messages from her mother begging her to stop writing “those feminist nonsense.” She deleted that too.

She continued with X. A graveyard of spontaneous thoughts, political discussions, opinions on books. Everything disappeared with a click. After that, LinkedIn: her achievements, her education, her contacts, all her professional trace. Even there, she deleted the account without blinking.

When she got to Spotify, she hesitated. Her lists were her emotional diary. She couldn’t delete them. So she created an alternate account and sent them to herself via email, making sure to keep at least something of herself, something that belonged to no one else. To that account, she gave a new name. One that no one would recognize.

And with that, there was nothing left. No one could find her.

She closed her eyes with the cell phone still in her hand. She felt the wetness of a tear on her cheek, but she didn't know if it was sadness or relief. Perhaps both. In the darkness, embraced by strange but secure sheets, sleep finally overcame her.

──────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────

The next morning, Penelope woke with an unbearable weight in her head and a throat as dry as paper. The hangover throbbed behind her closed eyes, and remembering the previous night, everything worsened: Eloise furious, Colin’s cruel bet, her mother’s humiliation, the crumbling of her world. All that remained was to move forward, even if her body and soul resisted. She sat slowly on the guest bed, breathing deeply, wishing it had all been just a nightmare. But it wasn’t.

Barefoot and still in her wrinkled shirt, she walked down the hallway to the kitchen. The aroma of toast and fresh coffee guided her through the shadows of the enormous house. Upon arriving, she found Alice, Agatha’s cook, moving with agility among burners and steaming pots. Alice was a kind woman, one of those who knew when to speak and when to simply offer hot food and silent affection. Penelope had known her for years; she had often shared dinners at Agatha’s house when the Bridgertons still treated her as just another friend.

Alice smiled when she saw her appear with a swollen face and red eyes, asking no questions. She poured her a cup of coffee so strong that only the aroma seemed to bring her back to consciousness a little. Afterwards, she placed a full English breakfast in front of her: eggs, sausages, roasted tomato, fried bread, mushrooms, and bacon. Pen looked at the plate, but she wasn’t ready to eat yet.

Then came the soft click of Agatha’s heels as she entered the kitchen with her unmistakable elegance. She greeted them with a barely audible murmur and ordered her signature breakfast: hot croissants, coffee, and a block of Emmental cheese. But she wasn’t alone. Right behind her came Remy, her personal assistant, with his glasses perfectly adjusted and his iPad in hand.

Pen didn’t even have time to greet him when Alice, still watching with curiosity, approached to take note of what else they might want later. Agatha, without looking up from her coffee, told her in a serene but firm tone:

“Alice, I’ll pay you double your usual salary if this conversation you are about to hear doesn’t exist for you. Understood?”

Alice, though somewhat surprised, nodded without hesitation. With a quick gesture, she refocused on her tasks.

Remy approached the table where Pen and Agatha were sitting and, without further ado, unlocked his iPad. His fingers moved deftly, opening a detailed document, and looking up, he said to Penelope in a soft but efficient tone:

“Very well, Miss Featherington. While we have breakfast, I’ll explain how we’re going to proceed.”

The subtle sound of the cutlery on the china marked the unhurried rhythm of breakfast. No one seemed to be in a hurry. Penelope, still with visible dark circles but more focused, took small sips of tea while Remy unfolded some papers in front of her.

“We are going to simulate a trip to Scotland,” he announced in a calm but firm voice, as if talking about any vacation. “You don’t need to go into detail with your family. All we need is a strong reason to explain why you left.”

Penelope nodded slowly, watching the steam rise from her cup. Her lips curved barely into a bitter smile.

“We can say I left because of what Eloise said,” she suggested. “That she’d rather see me dead than with her brother… and Colin laughing, saying he’d rather be dead than in a relationship with me. My mother asking for money and saying that if I didn’t give them what they needed, it was as if I were dead to them. It’s a good reason. Let the word spread that I left because of that.”

“Perfect,” Remy said, quickly noting it in his notebook. “That will be the official story.”

“And then?” Penelope asked without looking up.

“I’ve already reserved a cabin in your name,” Remy explained. “It’s near a lake, in a zone so remote that the village doesn’t even have a police station. You’ll be there for a week. It’s a quiet place, away from everything.”

“What’s the lake called?” Penelope asked, frowning.

“Loch Glascarnoch,” he replied, showing a slight smile. “It’s little known, which makes it ideal. We’ll pretend you drowned there. It will be simpler since it’s so isolated. We’ll pay for an official report to be issued classifying your death as an accident.”

Penelope put the cup down with a thud, her gaze fixed on the tablecloth.

“And the body?” she asked in a low, almost trembling voice.

“Let him continue,” Agatha intervened softly, placing her hand on Penelope’s.

“A friend of Agatha’s, Charlotte, has investments in Scotland, including the management of a funeral home,” Remy continued. “Agatha has already spoken with her as a personal favor. We will be given an urn with ashes in your name, accompanied by the documents that confirm your death by drowning, along with a detailed accident report.”

Penelope swallowed, absorbing the plan.

“And what will I do during that time?”

Agatha smiled slightly, like a mother who had everything under control.

“You’ll be with me. Here, at my house. Once we have the urn with the papers, that same day you’ll travel to New York under a new identity. Charlotte is already handling everything. It will be a new life, a new name, a new story. For the world, Penelope Featherington will be dead.”

“In New York, we already have staff looking for an apartment for you,” Remy added. “If it’s not ready when you arrive, you’ll stay in Agatha’s penthouse until you move.”

Agatha nodded as she spoke, as if everything was part of a rehearsed choreography.

“As soon as Charlotte has your new identity ready, I’ll show you the lease agreement and the documents with your new name. Everything will be in order by the time you cross migration. No one will be able to track you.”

Penelope nodded slowly. She felt as if she were watching her life from afar, as if she were no longer a part of it.

“This would be a good moment to reconsider it,” Agatha said softly, for the first time letting slip an almost maternal tone.

“No. I’ll do it,” Penelope replied, leaving no room for doubt.

Remy took out his phone and stood up.

“I’m going to contact Charlotte to see when she’ll have the documentation ready.”

Penelope laughed, incredulous.

“It’s incredible what can be achieved with money,” she finally said, letting out a nervous laugh.

“Indeed, dear,” Agatha responded with a soft chuckle, taking a sip of her coffee. “But now I need you to go home. Take a suitcase and your documents. Make it look like you traveled to Scotland this very afternoon. From that point on, no one will see you again… as Penelope Featherington.”

Penelope took a deep breath, pulling her hair into a high bun as she stood up with determination.

“Then it’s time,” she murmured. “Time to end, once and for all, with Penelope Featherington.”

Penelope went straight home with determination beating in her chest like a war drum. She knew perfectly well that her mother wouldn’t be there at that hour: most likely she was at Prudence’s house, as every morning. The familiar silence upon entering confirmed her suspicions.

Without wasting time, she hurried up the stairs with quick, almost trembling steps, and began to pack the necessary clothes. She carefully packed them into a small suitcase: she didn't need much, just enough to disappear. She also packed her documents and some money, but as she zipped up the suitcase, an incomplete feeling twisted in her chest. Something wasn't enough.

Then she understood. It wasn't just an escape; she needed to make a definitive statement. She needed them to know.

She took paper and pen, sat on the edge of the bed, and wrote a letter with firm, trembling handwriting.

"Mom, don’t look for me. I’m not lost, but I need to get lost.

My whole life I’ve tried to make you happy. I’ve done the impossible to earn a shred of your affection, to elicit a look of pride from you. But it doesn’t matter how much I try, does it? For you, it’s never enough. There’s always a criticism on the tip of your tongue, a disappointment in your eyes, a silence that screams I’m not what you wanted. You’re not a mother, Portia. You’re my daily executioner. And I’m tired.

I’m tired of being silent, of pretending it doesn’t hurt. Of smiling so as not to inconvenience you. I’m tired of feeling like I have to justify my existence. I’m tired of you.

And I’m also leaving because of Eloise.

Because she looked me in the eyes and said she’d rather see me dead than with her brother. Because she made me her shadow and demanded I applaud while she buried me alive. Because I loved her like a sister, and she never loved me as anything more than a mirror to make herself look better.

And yes… I’m also leaving because of Colin.

Because he mocked me. Because he took my love as a joke. Because he said he’d rather be dead than be with me in front of his stupid friends. Because I looked at him as if he were the sun, and he treated me as if I were a mistake.

And I can’t take it anymore.

I can no longer endure so much contempt, so much indifference, so much humiliation. I am empty of hope and full of wounds. I don’t have to stay and receive more. I don’t have to keep begging for affection.

This is my way of healing.

If you ever cared about me, let me go. Don’t look for me, don’t blame me. Just let me breathe far away from all this. I will come back when the time is right. Not before.

Penelope."

She folded the letter carefully, left it on the sheets, right next to her phone. She didn’t want anyone to track her, she didn’t want anyone to stop her.

With the suitcase in one hand and a bag in the other, Penelope Featherington crossed the door one last time. Without looking back, she said goodbye to the house that was once her refuge. She headed, determined, to Agatha's house. Ready to disappear. Ready to start from scratch. Ready to stop being Penelope Featherington.

──────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────

Five days had passed since Penelope Featherington disappeared from the map. Since she abandoned her cell phone and cut off all trace. She was locked in Agatha Danbury's house, an old residence, one of those that smelled of history, secrets, and incense. Every night was a test of will, but the mornings were worse, because the weight of the decisions felt more real under the sunlight.

Since the third day, she had heard Violet Bridgerton crying in Agatha's living room, and hidden in the hallway, she knew that Eloise was furious with absolutely everyone. She refused to speak to her mother, to her brothers, even to Phillip. Colin, for his part, had not accepted any work. He didn't want to move from London without knowing where she was. He said, without knowing she was listening, that he needed to ask for her forgiveness. That what she heard that night —that fateful conversation about the bet— was not what she believed. And that, if only he could see her, explain to her, make her understand… everything would change.

But nothing could change now. That moment she considered everything. Her revenge plan, her alliances, her limits. Because the Bridgertons were not just Colin and Eloise. There were also the others. Benedict, with his honest smile. Francesca, with her inquisitive gaze. Hyacinth, so young, so sensitive. Gregory, who had hugged her once without knowing how much she needed him. Daphne with her big heart who never judged her. Anthony was like a father to her. And Violet, who protected and loved her as if she were her daughter. Her heart couldn't bear the idea of hurting them… but she also couldn't go back. Not after what she knew, what she heard, what it meant to be used as a bet. So she did the only thing she could: she decided to flee.

Friday arrived like a whisper laden with destiny.

Remy appeared at the door with Agatha. Penelope was waiting for them in the living room. Her lips were dry, her eyes tired, but her soul was firm.

“It’s all done,” Remy said, smiling softly.

He placed an ivory urn on the table, heavy and sealed. It had a small plaque with the name “Penelope Featherington” engraved in gold letters. Penelope didn’t ask if it was human ashes or from an animal. She didn’t want to know.

Agatha handed her a sealed envelope. Inside were the official documents: the death certificate, the accident report, and the cremation authorization. All legitimate. All fake.

“And what are they going to say when Portia goes crazy because her daughter was cremated without her consent?” Penelope asked, with a bitter laugh that barely disguised the knot in her throat.

Agatha shrugged with absolute tranquility.

“I’ll tell her that, in an intimate conversation a few months ago, you confessed that if you died, you preferred to be cremated. That you felt it was more... intimate. Less dramatic.”

Penelope nodded. It was plausible. Portia couldn’t argue a conversation that never existed, and knowing her self-centered nature, she would drown in her own grief before asking more questions.

“Your flight leaves in four hours,” Agatha continued. “You don’t need to bring clothes. The suitcase you packed we will show as the only thing recovered from the cabin in Scotland. The rest... the wind will take it.”

Penelope nodded again. She didn’t trust her voice. Tears were beginning to blur her vision. She swallowed and looked at Agatha with desperation.

“Will I see you again?”

Agatha caressed her cheek with a mother’s tenderness.

“Yes. But not for long. You have to stay away. Invisible. Control every movement, every word. From today, you cannot afford any mistakes.”

Penelope closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She had grown up dreaming of growing as a columnist, falling in love with someone who truly saw her (she foolishly knew her crush on Colin would never fade), building a home away from her mother's control. Now she was going to start from scratch… nameless, without a past, without a face for those who knew her.

Agatha stood up.

“I’ll go to Bridgerton House alone. Summoning them all will be easier if they don’t suspect. I’ll tell them the body was cremated according to your wishes. Remy will give you your new documents and a secure cell phone. We will only communicate through this means.”

They hugged tightly. Agatha held her as if she were truly burying her. In a way, she was.

Penelope got into the car with Remy, without looking back. With the urn bearing her name as the only proof of her existence, she left London.

Penelope Featherington was dead. What was born after… would be entirely hers.

After a long, exhausting journey plagued by thoughts that came and went like unforeseen storms, Penelope Featherington —now Anne Ruther— arrived at Agatha’s penthouse in New York. The driver Agatha had sent received her without questions, as if her new identity were unquestionable, as if no other life had ever existed before this one.

She still wasn’t used to being called Anne. She didn’t react to the name at airports or when the building receptionist greeted her with a kind “Miss Ruther, welcome.” Her reflection in the elevator glass seemed unfamiliar. The same reddish hair, the same eyes, but a different expression. More empty. Stronger.

During the days waiting for her flight to New York, Agatha waited for her with a glass of wine in hand and a severe look. They argued. For hours. Agatha didn’t agree with hiding someone like her —brilliant, capable, broken— in the shadows of a penthouse, but Penelope had nowhere else to go while the new apartment was being furnished. In the end, they reached an agreement: while she lived there, her salary would be reduced by the furnishing costs, a fair deal. A touch of reality amidst the chaos.

Thus, Penelope temporarily settled in the luxurious penthouse with the sole company of her new identity and a tacit agreement with the woman who, in a way, had decided to bet on her. Outside, the city pulsed strongly. New York didn’t ask where you came from, only if you were ready to run.

By the time she collapsed onto the bed, exhausted and disoriented by the time change, everyone in London already knew: Penelope Featherington was dead. The news wasn’t in the newspapers, she was nobody after all, but it was palpable in every corner of the Featherington house. She felt it in the Bridgertons. In Eloise. In Colin.

But that was what she wanted. What she needed.

The temptation to check her social media was a monster roaring louder and louder. She wanted to see if anyone was looking for her. If anyone was crying. If Colin… if Colin had said anything. But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t allow herself the luxury of returning to that emotional prison.

Penelope was dead.

Anne lived.

And she had a week to get used to her new schedule, her new routine, her new name, and her new job, all thanks to Agatha. That was all that mattered. The rest… no longer existed.

Two months had passed since her arrival and, surprisingly, Penelope had quickly adapted to her new life. Every morning she walked to work through the streets of New York, feeling lighter, freer… more alive. She worked tirelessly, wrote with devotion, and although some nights the weight of her lie suffocated her, she had learned to breathe through it. She would be lying if she said she didn't miss Eloise or Colin, but she had also learned to live with the pain of missing them, like carrying a scar: it doesn't disappear, but one learns to live with it.

And so, between long days and eternal silences, she built a new existence. She made friends like Clara and Alfie, people who didn't know about her past, who accepted her as Anne Ruther, who helped her sustain the internal structure that sometimes threatened to collapse.

A week after an exhausting workday, while they were having lunch together in the park —each with their coffee and packed sandwich—, Penelope stood up to throw away the wrapper and, in a matter of seconds, lost her balance. Everything around her blurred, voices faded, and had it not been for Alfie, she would have fallen to the ground without remedy.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, swaying.

But Clara didn’t accept excuses.

“You’ve been like this for weeks,” she told her firmly. “You should go to the doctor. You should have adapted to the schedule, to the food… Since you arrived, you haven’t been well.”

Penelope closed her eyes with resignation. She didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to stop. She just wanted to keep working, keep writing, keep pretending that everything was under control. But deep down, she knew Clara was right.

“Okay,” she finally replied, reluctantly. “I’ll go. Only if that lets me go back to work as if nothing happened.”

And with that, she stood up, took a deep breath, and continued walking… unaware that her body was already beginning to tell a story that her mind was not yet ready to hear.

The doctor’s office smelled of disinfectant and cold. Penelope, sitting in front of the doctor with her hands clasped in her lap, tried to appear calm while summarizing, as neutrally as possible, her medical history. She had no serious antecedents, beyond her treatment for anemia years ago. The doctor nodded professionally, but his frown deepened as he took notes and listened attentively.

“I’m going to ask for a series of tests,” he finally said, in a serene but firm tone. “Nothing to worry about, but I prefer to rule out several possibilities, okay?”

Penelope nodded. If that allowed her to return to her routine without questions, it was worth it. Blood. Urine. An ultrasound. She waited patiently for the necessary hours, repeating to herself that it was nothing. That perhaps it was the weather. The change of life. The stress.

When she returned to the office, the doctor was leafing through her history and the results with a deeper frown than before.

“Your hemoglobin levels are good, blood pressure, glucose… everything is within normal ranges.”

“Then… What is it?” Penelope asked, feeling a cold emptiness in her chest.

The doctor looked up.

“Everything is normal, except one thing. The hCG hormone.”

Penelope blinked. She felt something in her stomach contract violently.

“Isn’t that…?” she stammered. “The pregnancy hormone?”

The doctor nodded slowly.

“Yes. Miss Anne, you are pregnant.”

She paled in a matter of seconds. The whole world seemed to blur around her. She wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or deny. But her body didn’t respond.

“I want you to go to the office next door. I want to do an ultrasound to confirm how many weeks you are,” the doctor continued, in a gentle tone. “It won’t take long.”

She didn’t remember how she got up. Or how she walked. She only knew she was there, on a gurney, with cold gel on her belly and a screen lit up in front of her.

“You are eight weeks along,” the doctor announced. “Everything looks in order, but I’d like to do a transvaginal ultrasound to check more details. Is that okay with you?”

Penelope didn’t respond. She barely nodded. Like an automaton, she let them guide her, turn on the machine, adjust the image. And there it was, that sound. That tiny heart beating as if it wanted to remind her that it was real. That her life had just changed forever.

She cried.

Not out of fear. Not out of regret.

She cried because now she understood.

She is pregnant with Colin Bridgerton.

Chapter Text

2022

Colin woke with a strange sensation on his face, as if someone—or something—was stroking him with tiny, repulsive fingers. In his confused state, collapsed by sleep, for an instant he stupidly thought it was Penelope. That she was there, leaning over him tenderly, giving him lazy good morning kisses, with her reddish hair tangling in his eyelashes. For a second, he let himself be carried away by the illusion. Until he felt it: the rough, cold, uneven brush… and the truth hit him full-on. It wasn't Penelope. It was a cockroach. A damn cockroach walking blithely across his face.

He let out a bloodcurdling scream, so high-pitched and desperate that it could well have come from a tragic opera or a cheap horror movie. He writhed on the grass like a tormented soul, flailing his arms and shaking his whole body, as if he could detach himself from the disgust. Amidst the chaos, he felt dirt under his nails, some dry drool at the corner of his lip, and the metallic, bitter taste of having slept with his mouth open all night. Where the hell was he? Why had he woken up in the middle of the garden, like a homeless drunk? Why did he have leaves in his hair and his shirt unbuttoned to his navel?

As he tried to stand up, a new enemy attacked him mercilessly: the hangover. A sharp pang shot through his forehead, while his stomach churned with an undignified violence. The sun, high and cruel in the sky, hit him directly in the eyes like an interrogation spotlight. Everything hurt, from his eyelashes to his pride. He covered his face with one hand, swaying, as if the world was mocking him in slow motion. Every step he took back towards the Bridgerton house made him feel like an old man wounded in a war he himself had started.

Penelope. The name repeated like an echo between his chest and his temple as he stumbled into the entrance of the Bridgerton house. The headache was atrocious, as if an army of tap dancers had held a dress rehearsal in his skull all night long. Each step weighed more than the last, and the light of the sun streaming through the windows stabbed his eyes with the precision of a trained executioner.

He remembered nothing after accepting that suspiciously sweet drink Fife offered him with a smile that, in retrospect, had a lot of malice and little friendliness. After that, a total blank. Amnesia in its wildest form. The only thing that had brought him back to earth was that damned cockroach. Feeling it crawl across his cheek—its tiny but hellish legs moving in slow motion over his skin—and confusing it, in his semiconscious delirium, with Penelope's soft kisses, had been the height of patheticness. “I'm so messed up that even insects seem affectionate,” he thought as he shook himself in disgust, still feeling the shiver run down his spine.

Inside the house, chaos reigned, but a familiar chaos. The hallway was full of messy shoes, half-empty glasses, a fallen chair, and the occasional visibly misplaced ornament. Upon turning towards the main drawing-room, the spectacle was worthy of a war painting.

Benedict slept profoundly on the sofa, with his neck twisted in a way that must have been illegal in at least five countries. Sophie, curled up on him like a human cat, snored with such profound peace it was almost enviable… except for the unpleasant detail of the baba. A thick, clear line slid from the corner of her lips directly onto her boyfriend's chest, who, in his unconsciousness, didn't even seem to notice.

Beyond, in a decorative corner his mother cared for with almost religious devotion, Francesca was slumped face down, her face buried in the planter containing carefully pruned hydrangeas. Beside her, a viscous, indeterminate-colored substance rested as a warning of what had happened during the night. Colin preferred not to do the visual chemical analysis. His soul wasn't ready for that.

There were no signs of Daphne or Simon, nor his mother. The only hint of life—real and not collapsed—came from the kitchen, where the soft murmur of voices and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee drew him like a shipwreck survivor to shore.

"Colin!" Anthony exclaimed with a laugh when he saw him enter, disheveled, pale, and with eyes squinted like a mole in the sun.

Kate, beside him, offered him a steaming cup with that smile that mixed compassion and amusement in equal parts.

"God… what happened to me?" Colin grumbled, accepting the coffee as if it were sacred elixir.

"The same thing that happened to everyone, except us," Anthony said, patting him on the shoulder. "We drank, of course, but not what you guys did. As soon as we saw Francesca 'not delivering,' but pouring tequila on people, we took Hyacinth and Gregory to their rooms before they ended up the same or worse."

Colin let out a dry, but genuine laugh.

"I love drunk Francesca. She's another person. Chaotic. Unpredictable. Totally destructive. A bit like you, brother, when you were young and fun, those were the days," he added with a wry smile.

Anthony looked at him with feigned disdain.

"Careful. You're one comment away from me throwing you into the planter with Francesca."

"You wouldn't," Colin mumbled, sipping his coffee. "There's vomit in there."

The warm drink went down his throat, and for the first time in hours, he felt something similar to stability. Of course, the pain was still there, but the company… the company was an anchor. Although deep down, something churned in his chest. A restlessness. Something that didn't quite fit. And it had nothing to do with the mess in the living room. It had to do with a redhead who wasn't there.

Colin frowned as he sat on the stool in front of the kitchen counter, the still-warm coffee cup in his hands. Anthony was still standing, checking the filter's status as if it were a sacred morning ritual. Colin watched him with squinted eyes, still processing the loose fragments of his night, when something hit his memory like a hammer: Eloise.

"And Eloise?" he asked, looking up at his older brother. "Is she okay?"

Anthony let out a slight sigh, one of those that carried years of patience accumulated with each of his younger siblings. He put the coffee maker back in its place and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms.

"When Kate and I were getting ready for bed, we heard a door slam that almost knocked the house down," he began, in a low voice. "We thought one of you had forgotten something or that Francesca had passed out against a wall, but when we went out into the hallway… it was Eloise."

Colin felt a pang in his stomach.

"And what happened?"

"Nothing. She locked herself in her room like a storm. Hasn't come out in hours. Kate tried to talk to her, but she didn't answer. I assumed you'd know something. After all, you tried to talk to her last night, didn't you?"

Colin blinked slowly. Confusion was replaced by a grimace of bewilderment.

"I did that?"

Anthony raised an eyebrow, sarcastic.

"Did you drink so much you don't remember?"

Colin looked at the coffee as if it could suddenly tell him what the hell had happened. He closed his eyes for a second, straining to reconstruct the timeline of events.

"The last thing I remember," he murmured, rubbing his temples, "was going out into the garden for some air. I had gone for some water bottles for myself and Penelope. The idea was…"—he paused—"I don't know, to regain strength and sobriety. But then I ran into Fife. He was with Cho, and he offered me a drink. He told me it had 'something special.' And I…"—he swallowed, overwhelmed with shame—"accepted."

Anthony cursed under his breath, pushing himself away from the counter.

"Are you saying you drank something from Fife? Are you crazy?"

Colin raised both hands, defensively.

"I didn't know it was anything else! I just thought it was a damned strong drink. It had a weird taste, yes, but I thought it was just tequila or something imported…"

"That idiot has a reputation for altering his drinks, Colin. He does it for himself, but he always offers 'a special drink' to whoever is nearby. He doesn't always do it with bad intentions, but people lose consciousness, have hallucinations, or…"—he looked at him sternly—"like you now, completely lose memory of the previous night."

The knot in Colin's stomach tightened even more. The coffee no longer tasted like anything. He only had a constant buzzing in his head and a question burning in his chest: What the hell did I do? And what had happened to Penelope, to Eloise, to himself?

Colin lowered his gaze, gripping the cup tightly.

"I don't remember anything since that damned drink, Anthony. Nothing. It's as if my mind was turned off. What if I said something? What if… if I did something? What happened to Penelope, do you know where she is?"

Anthony remained silent for a few seconds. The silence in the kitchen was only broken by the sound of the coffee maker and, very faintly, Sophie's intermittent snoring on the sofa.

"That, brother," he finally said, in a grave tone, "you'll have to find out yourself."

"And my phone?" Colin suddenly asked, feeling a strange emptiness in his chest, as if something was about to click… or crumble.

Anthony, who was still standing by the table with his arms crossed, reached into his back pants pocket and pulled out the cell phone, holding it without a word at first.

Colin frowned, taking it with distrust.

"Why do you have it?"

Anthony couldn't help but laugh, lowering his head a little as if the scene still amused him.

"I found it this morning… in a rather unusual place."

"Unusual how?" Colin narrowed his eyes, his mind already imagining the worst. His face paled, and seeing his expression of horror, Anthony laughed louder.

"No! Relax, it wasn't in a room with bodily fluids or anything disgusting, although by your face I swear you thought that," he said, shaking his head. "It was in the freezer."

"The what?"

"Your phone. Right on top of the frozen peas. I have no idea how on earth it ended up there, but it survived. It has battery… miraculously."

Colin let out a choked sigh, feeling exhausted inside and out. He took the phone as if it were a key piece of a mental puzzle he couldn't put together. With the still-warm coffee cup in one hand and the cell phone in the other, he turned towards the stairs.

"I'm going up to my old room. I need to think," he muttered, more to himself than to Anthony. "Then I'll go to my apartment, take a shower, and pass out in bed. Hopefully, by the time I wake up, this will have been a bad low-budget movie."

But no. It wasn't. It was real. The pain in his throat, the emotional hangover in his chest, and that desperate need to know if Penelope was still in the house, or at her mother's, or if for some reason last night she left with another man. The sole idea turned his stomach. Because even though his mind was clouded, he remembered with absolute clarity the moment their bodies had met the night before. Drunk, yes, but not so drunk as to forget the way she vibrated above him, how she enveloped him with her movements and her trembling mouth. He had loved it.

And now, as he slowly climbed the stairs to the room that was once his childhood sanctuary, he could only think of one thing:

He was willing to accept any crumb of her just to feel that again. To feel her again.

Colin pressed the call button for the fifth time, leaning against the back of his childhood bed, now creaking under his adult weight, while the midday sun illuminated the posters still hanging from a distant adolescence. The tone rang and rang without answer, until it was once again sent to voicemail. He huffed in frustration, passing his hand through his tangled hair. Something wasn't right. Penelope always responded, even with a simple emoji or a quick voice note.

With a pounding heart, he slid his finger across the screen and opened the conversation. There they were: several messages sent from his number. Long. Disordered. Syrupy. One even said, “I miss you even when you're still on top of me.” He didn't remember writing them. His stomach instantly clenched. Surely he sent them when he was already completely drugged, thanks to the damned Fife and his brilliant idea of mixing tequila with who knows what else.

Desperate, he went to Instagram and typed “Penelope Featherington” in the search bar. Nothing. He tried her username, the one she always used, and still nothing. He closed and reopened the application. Nothing. Had she blocked him? Had she left? Had she…? No, no. He was paranoid. It couldn't be. He suddenly sat up and went to the location application that his family used, a custom that Violet had always imposed. Pen was also included in the small circle. Colin swallowed hard and waited for the map to load.

Then he saw it: Penelope was at her mother's house. The relief was so immediate that he felt like laughing and crying at the same time. Maybe her phone fell into the water, or simply social media had crashed. And surely Portia needed her early for some nonsense and she, being the good daughter she was, left without waking him.

Colin squeezed his eyes shut, lying back on the bed. Last night… the image of Penelope on top of him, her body vibrating, her mouth wet and her neck exposed to his complete devotion, shot through him like a ray of heat. He had been so drunk, but he still remembered it. Every movement, every sound, every emotional nail that bound him more to her. He felt like he was coming back to life after years of being numb. And the worst part was, he didn't care if it was a mistake, if it was a slip, if she didn't want him. He was willing to accept crumbs just to feel her like that. So much his. So Penelope.

He took a deep breath, letting his head fall to one side. In his hand, the silver necklace she had given him last night dangled between his fingers. He caressed it, with a silly smile beginning to form on his lips. When the hangover passed, he would go see her. He would tell her that he didn't care about the details. That he was willing to do anything. But for now… for now he could sleep, at least a couple more hours, knowing that she was safe.

And so, with his phone to one side, the necklace between his fingers, and the memory of her body still anchored to his, Colin fell asleep.

──────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────

A few dry, insistent knocks, laden with urgency, echoed against the wooden door, pulling Colin from his deep sleep as if someone had forcibly ripped him from a warm ocean. He slowly sat up, his heart pounding with surprise and his eyes still clouded by lethargy. He rubbed his face while cursing under his breath, disoriented by the jolt. It was then he heard his younger sister's agitated voice on the other side.

"Colin, open up! You have to come down now!"

Recognizing Hyacinth's voice, he shuffled his feet to the door. He opened it reluctantly, not bothering to hide his irritation.

"What's wrong, Hy?" he murmured, his voice hoarse and throat dry.

But upon seeing her in front of him, pale and with eyes wide with anguish, his bad mood vanished instantly.

"It's Penelope!" she exclaimed, without preamble. "Portia's downstairs yelling at everyone. She says she doesn't know where her daughter is! That she didn't disappear last night!"

Colin's body tensed completely. The lethargy vanished in a single second. A shiver ran down his spine, chilling him from neck to toe. His heart racing, he rushed into the hallway without even putting on shoes, guided only by the chaotic noise rising from downstairs.

He strode down the steps, ignoring the headache and dizzy sensation still throbbing in his temples. The scene he found in the living room was devastating.

Portia Featherington stood in the center of the room, her face completely distraught, shouting demands and accusations that crashed against the Bridgerton family's contained silence. Anthony and Kate tried to reason with her, with firm gestures and low voices, but Portia wouldn't listen. Violet had elegantly positioned herself between the shouts and her children, arms outstretched like a human shield, with a dignity that only experience grants.

Gregory and Francesca were not in sight, but what most alarmed Colin was seeing Eloise curled up on the sofa, hugging her own legs, as if trying not to break. Benedict was beside her, his hand on her shoulder, and Sophie was tenderly stroking her back, but Eloise's eyes were empty, as if her soul had left her body. The tears streaming down her face seemed endless.

That image broke him a little more.

"Where is my daughter?" Portia roared once more, her eyes bloodshot with fury. "I demand to know what you've done to her!"

Colin, his chest tightening and a new wave of fear growing in his stomach, walked purposefully until he stood right behind Kate.

"What the hell is going on?" Colin asked, confused, taking a step towards them, but he couldn't get any closer. Portia saw him, and it was as if her whole body activated with pure fury.

She violently shoved Anthony and Kate aside, completely ignoring their protests. She lunged directly at Colin, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt with a strength no one had ever seen from her.

"What the hell did you do to my daughter?!" Portia roared as she forcefully pushed Anthony, Kate, and Violet aside, clearing her path until she stood in front of Colin. She brutally grabbed him by the shirt and shook him so violently that his body swayed.

"What did you do, damn you?!" she screamed, deranged. "My daughter left because of you!"

Colin, astonished, tried to free himself from her hands. He understood nothing.

"What are you talking about?" he asked in a hoarse voice, his eyes scanning the room desperately. Eloise was still curled up, hugging herself, with Benedict and Sophie on either side. Seeing her like that, with an absent gaze and a tear-soaked face, only ignited his anguish further.

Anthony intervened, firmly pulling Portia away. The force of her grip had left visible marks on Colin's shirt, wrinkled and stained with her handprints.

"This morning, Portia went to visit Prudence," Anthony explained in a grave voice. "She thought Penelope was still in her room, but when she returned, the house was completely silent. She went upstairs and found Penelope's phone and a letter… they were on the bed."

"And not just that!" Portia interrupted furiously. "Her personal documents, a suitcase, and a good portion of her clothes also disappeared. She ran away! And it was all your fault!"

"What do I have to do with that?" Colin exclaimed, feeling his muscles tense with fear. His voice was choked.

Kate replied softly, but no less alarmed:

"Portia claims that, in the letter, Penelope wrote that she was fed up with everything… that something happened between you, Eloise, and her… and that's why she left."

Colin took a step towards Portia, pale as a corpse.

"Can I see the letter?" he asked fearfully, seeing Portia's reaction.

Portia let out a sinister laugh, devoid of any trace of affection, and with a violent movement, she threw the envelope at his face.

"There you have it! Read it and see what you've done!" she snapped.

Violet tried to calm her with a trembling voice.

"Portia, please… there's no need to be so hostile."

"To hell with cordiality, Violet!" she spat with anger. "My daughter is gone without a trace, and it's because of your spoiled children!"

The entire room fell into a dense silence.

Colin lowered his gaze and picked up the letter from the floor. His hands trembled. The envelope was crumpled from the impact, but he could clearly see his name written in Penelope's handwriting. Swallowing became impossible.

He knew what he was about to read could break him forever.

"Mom, don't look for me. I'm not lost, but I need to lose myself.

All my life I've tried to make you happy. I've done the impossible to deserve a shred of your affection, to elicit a glance of pride from you. But no matter how hard I try, right? For you, it's never enough. There's always a criticism on the tip of your tongue, a disappointment in your eyes, a silence that screams I'm not what you wanted. You're not a mother, Portia. You are my daily executioner. And I'm tired.

I'm tired of being quiet, of pretending it doesn't hurt. Of smiling not to inconvenience you. I'm tired of feeling like I have to justify my existence. I'm tired of you.

And I'm also leaving because of Eloise.

Because she looked me in the eyes and said she'd rather see me dead than with her brother. Because she turned me into her shadow and demanded I applaud while she buried me alive. Because I loved her like a sister, and she never loved me as anything more than a mirror to make herself look better.

And yes… I'm also leaving because of Colin.

Because he mocked me. Because he took my love as a joke. Because he said he'd rather be dead than be with me in front of his stupid friends. Because I looked at him as if he were the sun, and he treated me as if I were a mistake.

And I can't take it anymore.

I can no longer bear so much contempt, so much indifference, so much humiliation. I am empty of hope and full of wounds. I don't have to stay and receive more. I don't have to keep begging for affection.

This is my way of healing.

If you ever cared about me, let me go. Don't look for me, don't blame me. Just let me breathe far from all this. I'll come back when the time is right. Not before.

Penelope."

Colin finished reading the letter. The silence that settled in the room was thick like a morning mist. His breathing became erratic, his hands still trembled with the crumpled paper between his fingers, and suddenly he stood up abruptly, as violently as if a force had pushed him.

"I'm not the only one to blame!" he exclaimed furiously, his eyes blazing with contained rage. "I wasn't the only one who pushed her to this point!"

Violet, still seated in her armchair, looked at him disconcerted.

"What are you talking about, son?"

Portia immediately paled. She lowered her gaze, but not quickly enough for Colin not to notice the tremor that ran across her face.

Then he remembered. Amidst the emotional storm of the letter, in his own guilt and regret, he had omitted a detail. That letter at the beginning where Penelope not only blamed him and Eloise, but also her mother.

"You knew…" Colin murmured with a broken voice, turning to her, his face hardened by pain. "In the letter, she also points to you… And you… you just kept quiet."

Portia swallowed, trying to compose words that didn't sound entirely convincing.

"It's… it's more your fault," she stammered. "You played with her feelings. I was just as I always have been with her. You… you pretended to love her."

Colin let out a dry, joyless laugh. It was a bitter, hollow sound, as if something was being torn from his chest.

"Don't you dare! Don't you dare minimize what you did!" he vociferated, pointing a trembling finger at her. "We may have made mistakes, yes, but you… you made her believe her whole life that she was worthless. She carried that since she was a child, since she was a child, Portia! Penelope is the most wonderful and generous person in the world, whom you never wanted to see beyond your prejudices."

"And if she was so wonderful as you say… why were you never close to her?" Portia countered with blazing eyes, spitting each word at him with venom. "Why did you ignore her like everyone else? She was always just your sister's chubby friend. The one no one looked at. That one you didn't look at until it was too late."

Colin froze. His face hardened like stone, and he slowly lowered his hand. He had no answer.

"What's wrong? Did you run out of your martyr speech?" Portia scoffed, raising her chin. "You're no better than me! None of you are! Not you, not your mother, not even that quiet brat on the sofa," she said, pointing to Eloise, who watched everything with tear-filled eyes but without uttering a word. "I was always hard on Penelope! Always. I never pretended. But you… you used her heart against her! You made her believe she had a place among you, and when you stopped liking her, you threw her away like trash!"

The air seemed to leave Colin's body. His jaw trembled, and he lowered his gaze, letting a solitary tear slide down his cheek. His mother watched him with a heavy heart.

"Stop pretending you're better than me!" Portia shouted, taking a step towards him. "I don't know exactly what you said to make her run away, but I do know you told the truth. And you know what else? My daughter was weak! Weak for falling in love with a nobody who doesn't even know what to do with his own heart."

"Enough!" Violet stood up, her voice firm, authoritative, charged with the dignity her surname still maintained. "Portia, you are in my house. I demand that you respect this home and my children. I understand your pain, your fear… but hurting them will not help you find her."

Portia looked at her with fiery eyes, her breath ragged with rage and pride. But she didn't answer immediately. Her jaw trembled for an instant, and then she straightened up with her chin held high.

"I don't expect understanding, Violet," she said in an icy voice. "I only expect news. Because if I don't receive it… you will hear from Penelope again, yes. But not in a pleasant way."

And without another word, she turned on her heels. Her steps echoed heavily on the floor as she left, leaving behind a dense, almost unbreathable air. The door closed with a dry thud, and silence swallowed the room again, along with the threat she had left suspended like a dagger in the air.

Everyone stared at the letter Colin still held in his trembling hand.

And no one dared to say anything.

Anthony snatched the letter from Colin's hands with a sharp movement. He looked at it for barely a second before his face completely transformed. His lips tightened into a thin line and his eyebrows furrowed with an intensity that made even the walls of the house tremble.

Hyacinth, who had approached curiously at the commotion, opened her mouth to say something, but Anthony was faster.

"Go to your room," he ordered without even looking at her, his voice sharp as a blade.

"What?! But I barely said...!" she protested, crossing her arms.

Anthony slowly turned his head, with a blood-chilling gaze.

"For once in your short life, obey without speaking, Hyacinth."

The youngest Bridgerton threw a mini-tantrum, huffing and marching noisily towards the exit. But before disappearing, she stopped at the threshold, looked harshly at Colin and then at Eloise.

"I'll still listen from the hallway!" she yelled over her shoulder.

"I don't give a damn," Anthony replied with a frown. "I just don't want to see your face when I say what I have to say."

Hyacinth finally left, muttering something under her breath as she closed the door with a slight bang.

In the living room, Kate and Violet took Colin by the arm and sat him on the other sofa, as if his body couldn't bear the weight of the situation on its own. Violet had the expression of someone about to break, but she still forced herself to maintain composure for the sake of her family. Kate, on the other hand, pressed her lips tightly, her hand firm on her husband's forearm.

Anthony stepped forward, the letter still trembling in his hand.

"I want..." he began, but immediately corrected himself. "No. I demand that you explain what the hell happened. Why did Penelope write this?"

"Read it," Benedict requested in a low, but determined voice. "Read it aloud."

Colin wanted to protest. His whole body was tense, his hands were sweating, his throat was dry, but he said nothing. Anthony nodded once and began to read the letter. His voice, normally imposing, now sounded like a sentence, harsh, severe, with no room for emotional interpretations.

Every word from Penelope seemed like a knife thrown with surgical precision.

When he reached the part that mentioned Eloise, she visibly shrank in her seat, as if a chill had completely gone through her. Everyone turned towards her. Her face was completely white.

And then Anthony came to the part about Colin.

Kate, without thinking, squeezed her brother-in-law's arm. The pressure was such that Colin almost jumped. Everyone noticed, but no one said anything. The atmosphere was charged with unbearable tension.

Anthony finished reading. He slowly lowered the letter, as if his hand couldn't let go of it without tearing it first. Then he looked up. His eyes were loaded with contained rage, but also with deep disappointment.

"You're taking too long to explain what you did," he snapped through clenched teeth. "What the hell did you do?"

Colin looked at Eloise. He knew, from the bottom of his soul, that she wouldn't say much. He knew her. And now, faced with that incandescent gaze from his older brother, he understood that he had no escape.

"I don't know," he finally said, his voice more trembling than he would have liked. "I don't remember doing anything. I don't know why Penelope wrote that. It's just... after the drink Fife gave me, everything is... is a blank."

Anthony turned to him with a dark expression.

"You better start remembering," he snapped angrily. "Because while you're looking for your damned memory, I want Eloise to start talking."

He turned his head back to his sister, who was nailed to the seat as if she had turned to stone. Anthony waited. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Nothing.

"Damn it, Eloise!" he suddenly roared, his voice breaking the air like a whip. "Stop being a spoiled little girl and answer the damned question!"

The scream shook everyone. Eloise blinked, coming out of her stupor. She swallowed, as if her tongue had dried up. The letter. Penelope's gaze in her memory. The shame. The fear.

And the judgment of her older brother, falling like an unbearable weight on her shoulders.

Eloise stiffened upon hearing Anthony's scolding, and with a mixture of shame, wounded pride, and remorse, she sat up straighter, slowly straightening in her chair as if the weight of what she was about to say would crush her. She swallowed with difficulty and, with a broken voice, began to speak:

"I was drunk... and furious. Seeing Cressida at home was like a kick to the stomach, Anthony. Everything hurt, my head, my chest, my pride. And when I went to look for Penelope, I wanted to talk to her, I needed to get the anger out. I wanted to confront her about so many things I hadn't told her yet. About how Cressida used her, how she used me to get closer to Benedict and Colin. I...—her voice broke further, but she continued—when I got to the hallway, I saw her... I saw Penelope kissing Colin."

There was a heavy silence. Benedict looked away. Colin said nothing yet. Anthony continued to look at her with a mixture of bewilderment and silent judgment.

"And in my head… I saw red." Eloise lowered her head, ashamed. "I confronted her. I yelled at her. I told her our friendship was fake, that she had only used me to get to Colin."

"Are you listening to yourself?" Anthony interrupted with a deep frown. "How can you say that about a girl who has been your friend since she was seven? What kind of creature does something like that? She doesn't even know if she'll still like the color pink tomorrow!"

"But she met Colin first!" Eloise retorted in a childish, almost pleading tone, as if she were still defending a weak logic, as if she were still looking for someone to justify what she herself already knew was unforgivable. "And then she became my friend! And in my drunken mind it made sense, Anthony!"

"It would make sense if you'd only known each other for five months, not if you've been inseparable for almost twenty years," Anthony scoffed, disappointed.

Eloise nodded, slumped in her seat.

"I know…" she whispered. "It was stupid. But I was so hurt. I told her… I told her I'd rather see her dead than see her with Colin," she confessed with a broken voice.

Colin, who had remained silent and tense until that moment, burst out with a scream that reverberated off the walls:

"What!?"

Eloise turned her head to him with eyes wide with remorse.

"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that. I knew I was being selfish. Beyond my anger… I knew that if you two got together, Penelope's world would no longer revolve around me. It would revolve around you. And I didn't want that. It's horrible, I know, but I can't undo it now."

Colin looked at her with an indescribable expression. Pain, fury, incomprehension. His voice came out bitter, deep, with the echo of a freshly opened wound.

"And my feelings?" he said with an incredulous chuckle. "Didn't they matter? Was what I felt worth nothing?"

Eloise didn't know what to answer. She lowered her head.

"I love her, Eloise." Colin stood up with renewed determination. "And last night I confirmed it. It wasn't just a fantasy or an idea. I knew it."

"Confirmed how?" Benedict asked, frowning. The tension was escalating without restraint.

Colin blushed a little, but didn't back down.

"We slept together. Last night. And she gave me something… something that represents her love for me. A gift. Something I will cherish as long as I live."

Anthony raised a hand, cutting off the conversation as if he were a judge in a courtroom.

"If you love each other… and you slept together…"—he spoke slowly, processing—"why did Penelope leave screaming that you made fun of her love?"

Colin shook his head, frustrated.

"I don't know," he murmured. "I don't remember! Everything became blurry after… but someone must know!"

Then, as if moved by a flash of desperation, he pulled his phone from his pocket. His hand trembled as he unlocked the screen and scrolled through his contacts.

"Fife or Cho. They were there. They have to know what happened. They have to tell me why Penelope thinks that I…" he couldn't finish. His voice broke. "Why she thinks I betrayed her."

And with a trembling finger, he dialed.

The first ring sounded. Then the second. The whole world held its breath.

The first call attempt was unsuccessful. Colin ran his trembling hand through his hair, clenching his jaw so tightly he felt it might dislocate. He tried again, this time his knuckles white with tension as he held the phone.

"What the hell do you want?" Cho answered, his voice rough and slurred like someone clearly suffering a hellish hangover. "My head is exploding, Colin, why the hell are you calling at this hour?"

"I don't remember anything," Colin blurted out, directly. "I need to know if last night… if I said anything. If I did anything after Fife gave me that damned drink. Cho, please."

Cho laughed on the other end, a dry, cruel, almost mocking sound.

"I don't understand how you can be so idiotic, Bridgerton. Did you really take a drink from Fife? From Fife?"

"I didn't know how to refuse," Colin mumbled, lowering his voice as if that could hide his shame. His gaze was lost, fixed on some invisible point between his feet. The others in the room—Anthony, Kate, Violet, Sophie, Benedict, and Eloise—held their breath, static.

"Is that what has you so screwed up this morning? Do you want to know if you said anything?" Cho let out another burst of laughter, darker this time. "Are you referring to when you so happily admitted that you won that stupid university bet?"

"What… what bet?" Colin asked, each syllable more broken than the last. His face, already pale, lost the last hint of color.

"Don't play dumb," Cho growled. "The bet you made in your second year! That if you could get Penelope Featherington, your sister's virgin friend, into bed. Or are you going to tell me you don't remember that either?"

A funereal silence fell over the room. Sophie gasped. Violet covered her lips with a trembling hand. Kate dug her nails into Anthony's arm, whose leg was now furiously tapping, as if holding back the impulse to smash something.

"Go on," Colin pleaded, barely audible. "I need… I need to know everything."

"Fife was making fun of you last night, you know?" Cho continued, as if another's pain fed him. "He said you wore the necklace she gave you as if you were her dog. And you, completely drunk, laughed and confirmed everything. That yes, you had slept with her. That she had asked for it. That it had been easy."

Colin closed his eyes, choked by shame.

"And what does that have to do with the bet?" he asked clumsily, desperate to find a way out, a crack in that nightmare.

"It wasn't just whether she was a virgin or not, idiot," Cho spat, annoyed. "It was her. The redhead with an angel's face who looked at you as if you were the whole sky. Her! You yourself said it last night: 'I slept with her but it means nothing, it was just a moment of passion,'" he repeated, maliciously.

Colin's body trembled. Anthony brought his hands to his face, unable to look anymore. Violet shed a silent tear. Kate was motionless, pale. Sophie shook her head again and again, unable to assimilate it.

"You accepted the fifty-pound note that Fife threw in your face," Cho continued, mercilessly. "You laughed, Colin! You laughed and took it. As if it were a damned trophy."

Colin began to hyperventilate. His chest contracted rhythmically. The world swayed around him.

"And did you also forget what you said afterwards?" Cho added. "That you wouldn't be in a relationship with someone like her even if you were dead. That one thing was screwing the redhead and quite another was staying with her. And you laughed, as if she were just anyone else."

A moan escaped Sophie's lips. Kate let out a choked "no," and Anthony hit the back of the sofa with such force that everyone jumped.

"Thanks for the information," Colin whispered between sobs. His voice was barely a thread. "Thanks… for completely ruining me. For reminding me what I am. But please, Cho, forget I exist. I don't want to see you again. Neither you nor Fife. Never again."

He hung up.

The silence that followed was as heavy as death.

Eloise let out an ironic laugh, wiping tears from her face. She was pale, trembling, and yet brave enough to say:

"My God, Colin! What you did doesn't compare to what I did!"

Colin turned to her in disbelief, his gaze still glazed, as if he couldn't bear any more weight on his back.

"Excuse me?" he said with a broken voice, between confusion and anguish.

But before Eloise could even open her mouth to explain what she meant, Anthony raised a hand, firm, authoritative, and silence fell upon everyone like a sentence.

"Enough!" he exclaimed with a frown, his dark eyes full of contained fury. "Both of you are responsible! You, Colin, for being a senseless idiot! And you, Eloise, for not having stopped anything knowing what you knew!"

Anthony walked a few steps, like a caged lion, and added with such an icy rage that even Kate, always strong, lowered her gaze:

"Now what you're going to do is find Penelope. You will bring her back, wherever she is. You will both kneel, if necessary. You will bleed, if necessary. And you will pray that she has enough in her heart to forgive you. Because if not, I swear on my life that neither of you will find peace in this house."

Having said that, Anthony turned without waiting for an answer. He exited through the back door with heavy steps, as if the ground opened with each one, desperately seeking air... or patience. Or perhaps a way not to kill his siblings at that instant.

Benedict then approached and, without a word, enveloped Eloise in a hug. She clung to him like a child, as if only then her body realized the weight of the disaster. Violet carefully stood up, her hands trembling as she approached Colin.

Colin was still there, sitting, static, as if he had just been shot in the chest. He mumbled to himself, again and again, so softly that only those nearby could hear him:

"What kind of idiot says that? What kind of monster am I? How could I say that… to her?"

Tears continued to flow uncontrollably, but they were no longer tears of rage, nor of shame. They were tears of loss. Of a love shattered by his own voice. By his own cruelty. By a version of himself he couldn't even recognize.

And then, in the midst of that silence, he whispered something that no one interrupted, something everyone heard with a heavy heart:

"If it has to cost me blood… so be it. But I want her back. I need her. I will do whatever it takes to have her by my side again. Whatever it takes."

And as the rain began to fall softly on the windows in the background, as if even the sky shared the pain of that house, the Bridgerton family knew that nothing would ever be the same until Penelope Featherington returned… if she ever did.

Chapter Text

hellooo! 😂😂 i think it got lost in the notes (please read them) but i think this dynamic works better, Comment these emojis in the comments.:

💙 update every day until i catch up with what i’ve written and then wait until i finish my work to continue the story!!!

💛 post a chapter every 4 or 5 days to stretch the story while i finish my project and keep writing in the meantime 😂😂 so vote in the comments!!!

once i get a lot of responses, i’ll announce the decision on my twitter! many of you say i should decide, but this fic is for you and because of you, so i’m counting on your answers!! 

(if you want to follow me, my twitter is @Shal_02, where i’ll be sharing info about the fic, fun facts, and of course the final decision!!!)

Chapter Text

2022

Chapter Text

2022

Four months had passed since Penelope Featherington's death.

Colin hadn't heard much from his family since then. He knew, vaguely, that his sister Daphne had given birth a month ago. And that Eloise, at Violet's request, had gone into a retreat to learn to live with the absence of her best friend. But he... he hadn't received anyone. He didn't open the door. He didn't answer the phone. He didn't reply to letters. He wasn't living.

After two weeks with no signs of life, Benedict used his copy of the key to enter his brother's apartment. What he found was devastating. Empty gin, whiskey, and vodka bottles piled up in every corner like monuments to his destruction. Half-eaten food rotted on the table, in the dishwasher, and on the floor. Clothes were strewn everywhere, the room was in shadows, and a dense silence oppressed his chest.

Colin, the most cheerful man Benedict had ever known, lay unconscious on the living room floor. His shirt was unbuttoned, his face grayish, dark circles so profound he looked like he had soot under his eyes, and his cheek pressed against a cushion stained with dried vomit. He didn't sleep in his bed. He didn't sleep at all. He collapsed. He fell wherever his body could no longer bear it.

He cried. He screamed. He broke things. And then, with trembling hands, he kissed Penelope's necklace: the last token of love she left him before he was a damned idiot who broke her heart. He kissed it as if it still held the warmth of her hands. He kissed it and hated himself more. He disgusted himself.

Sophie, who came in behind Benedict, let out a muffled gasp upon seeing him. She ran to his side, stroked his dirty, cold face, and begged him to wake up. But Colin barely reacted. Benedict had to carry him to the shower, while Sophie filled the cubicle with icy water.

"My God... please, Colin..."

The water hit him like a slap. After almost ten minutes, Colin regained consciousness. He clung to the wall, looked at his trembling arms, and collapsed, crying with a broken soul. Sophie didn't leave him alone. She went in without a second thought, wrapped him in a towel, held him in her arms as if she could piece him back together, dried him carefully, and left clean clothes in the bathroom.

Meanwhile, Benedict picked up the remains of what was once a home. He threw away the containers, opened the windows, cleaned the rot. He put the food in black bags and moved empty bottles, dirty dishes, painful memories. When Colin came out, staggering, with wet hair and a devastated face, Benedict approached him firmly.

"Please, don't do this to yourself," he pleaded. "You need to go out. Breathe. Live."

Colin let out a hollow, dry laugh, more like a cursed sigh than a human sound.

"There's no life without Penelope," he said, his voice hoarse, broken. "There's nothing."

"That's not true."

"Yes, it is!" Colin shouted, his eyes wide, reddened by alcohol and pain. "I'm a damned idiot! If I hadn't said anything... if I had just kept quiet... she wouldn't have gone to Scotland. She wouldn't have drowned. She'd be with me. With me! And now..."

The sentence died in his throat, choked by a sob. Sophie approached, her eyes full of tears.

"Penelope wouldn't want to see you like this," she whispered.

That was all it took for him to completely shatter.

"And what do you know?!" he yelled, his voice trembling with rage. "You don't know anything!"

He reached behind the sofa and pulled out a half-empty bottle. He uncorked it with trembling hands and drank directly from it, desperately, as if the liquor could burn away his guilt.

"You're nobody to tell me what she would or wouldn't want!" he roared, looking at her with frantic eyes. "Get out!"

Sophie took a step back, hurt, unable to hide the pain on her face. Benedict stepped between them, his teeth clenched.

"You don't have to be rude. We're all suffering, Colin."

Colin laughed, bitterly, furiously, desperately.

"You suffer? You? You lost a friend. I lost the only woman I've truly loved! You have your ridiculous girlfriend to comfort you in bed! I have no one!"

Benedict didn't say another word. He looked at Sophie, his eyes full of sadness, and gently took her hand. They left the apartment without looking back, knowing they had lost him, for now.

Colin, hunched over, defeated, hugged Penelope's necklace to his chest, as he drank down the rest of his misery.

After Benedict's unexpected visit, Colin decided to change the lock. He didn't want to see anyone again, much less have anyone take the liberty of entering as if his misery wasn't sacred enough to deserve some respect. The next day, while drinking gin at ten in the morning, a middle-aged man installed the new lock. He didn't say much, just what was necessary, but he kept glancing at him, as if seeing a wounded animal that had decided to die standing. Colin felt every gaze like a sentence: they knew. Everyone. They knew he was a waste of a man.

He was at peace for a week. Or the closest thing to peace he could afford: silence, confinement, gin, and Penelope's audios. He had several saved that she had sent him from Hawaii. The one he listened to most was one where she told him, laughing, that she had tried disgusting coffee at a ridiculously quaint cafe and couldn't stop thinking about him, that Colin would find it worse than mud. She said that sweetly, with that voice of hers that trembled with enthusiasm for small things. He played it on repeat, laughing bitterly each time. What did she know of mud? What did she know of the taste that abandonment leaves in one's mouth?

That afternoon, while listening to that audio once more and feeling the alcohol envelop him like a warm, dirty blanket, he heard footsteps outside his door. He tensed. Then he heard voices: Hyacinth. Kate. Anthony. They were trying to open it. They struggled with the door, but couldn't get in.

"Colin, please," Hyacinth's voice was a mix of worried and annoyed. "We know you're in there. Open up."

They called again and again. Colin didn't move. He stayed sitting on the floor, looking at the shadows of his feet projected under the door. Empty bottles surrounded him like offerings to his decay.

He played Penelope's audio again. "Didn't expect to see you in London so soon... Want to go to that cafe that serves that coffee you hate?" And he laughed. A broken laugh, like an explosion of something irreparable. He took another drink, and then Anthony's voice cut through the wood.

"Colin. We know you're home. Please. Open up."

It was as if his skin was being ripped off. A wave of fury surged from his chest to his hands. He stumbled to his feet, the half-empty bottle in his hand, and with a scream that sounded like it came from an animal, he threw it with all the force he had left. The glass shattered against the door like a bomb. The fragments fell in slow motion, like cursed snow.

"GET OUT! LEAVE ME ALONE!" he roared, his voice broken, his eyes red and his knuckles white from clenching his fists. "I DON'T WANT TO SEE ANYONE! I DON'T WANT TO HEAR YOU! YOU DON'T EXIST!"

After that, there was silence. About five eternal minutes during which no one said a word. There were only the shadows under the door, motionless. And then, little by little, they disappeared.

Colin stayed there, panting. He knelt among the broken bottle fragments, ignoring the cuts on his hands. Trembling, he looked for another. There were more. There were always more. He poured himself another drink and played the audio again.

Penelope's voice. Sweet. Distant. Unbearable.

And so, once again, he rotted in alcohol, hating Penelope's memory as much as he loved her. Wishing to forget her, wishing he had forgotten her before he met her.

Colin didn't remember what happened next. He only knew that at some point he washed his hands, bloody from the broken glass. As the red-tinted water disappeared down the drain, an idea came to his mind: when he cut himself, the physical pain briefly appeased the torment of his soul. It was that brief relief that prompted him to do something even more impulsive.

He opened his apartment door without a coat, without keys, without direction, with the sole intention of going to the nearest pub and drowning his sorrows in liquor, sorrows that were tearing him apart inside. And if he was lucky, perhaps he could also find another way to calm the pain.

Colin ordered the whiskey without looking at anyone. He drank it in one gulp, and as soon as he put the glass on the bar, he was already asking for another. He needed it. He wanted the burning, the sting in his throat, the internal tearing that would at least make him feel something other than the unbearable emptiness in his chest. And that's when he saw them.

A group of four guys, all in their twenties, with red scarves around their necks and half-empty beers on the table. They laughed scandalously as they argued about the latest Liverpool match. One of them imitated a sports commentator and everyone burst into laughter.

Colin observed them, at first with indifference. But then... something clicked inside him.

He turned on the stool, propped an elbow on the bar, and said, loud enough for them to hear:

"Liverpool is a piece of shit."

The closest one raised an eyebrow, surprised. Another slowly turned, as if he couldn't believe what he had heard.

"Excuse me?" one blurted out, frowning.

Colin burst into an empty, almost insane laugh.

"I said Liverpool is a piece of shit," he repeated, louder this time. "It always has been. A bloody team of losers disguised as a legend."

The guys stopped laughing. One of them stood up, not entirely threatening, but visibly annoyed.

"Do you have a problem, mate?"

Colin shrugged, sarcastic.

"Rather, you do if you still believe Salah is nothing more than a lucky prima donna. Van Dijk? An overrated log. And bloody Klopp? A clown with a bulldog face who lives off fame he doesn't deserve."

An "asshole" flew from one of the mouths. The atmosphere grew dense, thick. But Colin didn't stop. He got up from the stool, swaying slightly, and pointed at one of the guys.

"Do you think you're going to win anything this season? Dream on, asshole. Liverpool doesn't win a damn cup without refereeing help. Drink another pint and keep living in your fantasy."

And that's when the first one pushed him.

Colin barely moved. He looked at him with a crooked half-smile, as if begging for what was coming next. He raised his voice again, with rage and provocation already in his throat:

"Come on, damn it! Give me a reason to stop feeling dead!"

The fist landed directly on his jaw. A dry, accurate blow that made him lose his balance and fall against the bar. He tasted the metallic taste of blood in his mouth and started laughing. He didn't wipe it away. He didn't defend himself.

"Is that all you've got, faggot?" he growled, spitting blood on the floor.

The other three joined in. One punched him in the stomach, another pushed him against a table, and the last one delivered a direct punch to his eyebrow, splitting his skin. The pain was immediate, but it was exactly what Colin wanted. What he needed.

He received each blow as if they were sacraments. As if physical punishment could redeem his broken soul.

It was the bartender who shouted and stepped between them. "Stop, damn it! Get out of here!" he yelled, throwing out the aggressors.

Colin remained slumped over the bar, his nose bleeding and his eye swollen, panting… but smiling.

"Are you okay?" the man asked, concerned and disgusted.

Colin slowly raised his face, blood dripping down his neck, and in a hoarse voice murmured:

"I live six blocks away."

He couldn't walk alone. The bartender and a boy who was still there helped him out. He pulled money from his pocket—he didn't know how much, he didn't care—and let himself be led. Every step hurt. Every breath reminded him that he was still alive. And that… that seemed enough. For now.

Colin ended up in a random pub. One of those places where the walls smelled of stale tobacco, cheap disinfectant, and accumulated sweat. For weeks, he had been repeating the same ritual with almost religious precision: he would choose a different bar, order the strongest drink they had, and sit there waiting for someone—anyone—to give him a reason. He didn't need much. A prolonged gaze, a poorly intoned word, a clumsy bump in passing... any spark was enough to light the fuse of his contained fury.

And that night was no different.

A man, with a deep voice and rotten manners, was harassing a girl at the bar. She was trying to pull away, clearly uncomfortable, but the guy kept getting closer with a slimy smile. Colin, reeking of vodka for hours, barely thought about it. He stood up, wobbling, and walked straight towards them.

"Leave her alone," he said, his voice harsh, broken by alcohol and resentment.

The guy didn't even bother to turn around. He continued talking to the woman as if Colin were a mosquito buzzing near his ear. Colin, his heart pounding in his temples, pushed him.

It was subtle. Barely a touch, but with the clear intention to provoke.

"I told you to leave her alone, you imbecile."

The man turned this time. Tall, burly, with knuckles marked by old fights. He looked him up and down and laughed contemptuously.

"And who the hell are you?"

Colin didn't answer. He looked at him with pure hatred, as if this stranger were to blame for all his pain. He challenged him without words, only with his gaze, his jaw tense. Waiting, begging for the blow.

The other didn't hesitate.

It wasn't a fight. It was a beating.

Colin fell to the ground after the first punch. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, and he could barely raise his arms before the man lunged at him. They hit him until his face was disfigured, until the pain was so sharp that it made him vomit. He felt something in his arm crack, a dry snap that stole his breath and forced him to scream, a scream so visceral that for a second the entire pub fell silent.

They kicked him. He didn't know how many times, or where. He only knew that his body no longer responded to him. That the floor was cold, sticky. That he couldn't open one eye and the other saw blurry lights. Someone yelled to call the police. Someone else begged them to stop. But Colin no longer heard clearly.

And then, when he thought he was going to pass out never to wake up, someone lifted him.

It wasn't the police.

It was Phillip.

He didn't know how he had gotten there. Perhaps someone from the bar had recognized him, perhaps it was pure coincidence. But there he was. Phillip, his face pale with horror and his hands trembling, lifted him with effort.

"Damn it, Colin... what did you do to yourself?"

Colin couldn't speak. His lips were broken, his teeth loose. Every word hurt as if he was spitting it from his very soul. Even so, when Phillip tried to take him to the hospital, he found strength from somewhere and shook his head, almost convulsing in pain.

"No... not the hospital," he whispered. "Take me home."

Phillip blinked, confused.

"What? Colin, you're bleeding! Your arm is twisted, you can't even see! You need a doctor!"

But Colin could barely raise his hand, as if that were enough to impose silence.

"Home... please."

Phillip held him tightly, supporting him against his shoulder, and with effort, he led him out of the bar. Outside, the night was cold, but Colin didn't even notice. He winced in pain with every step. Phillip frantically hailed a taxi. When the vehicle stopped, he abruptly opened the door and helped him in.

"Where do you live?" he asked, almost shouting in his ear.

Colin murmured the address. Barely a whisper between broken teeth, but it was enough.

During the ride, Phillip watched him without blinking. Colin's arm hung unnaturally, and his face was swollen beyond recognition. He had no cell phone. He carried no wallet. He had no way to call anyone. It was as if he had set out to completely disappear from the world.

Upon arriving at the apartment, Phillip helped him up, almost carrying him up the stairs. He gently laid him on the sofa and hurried to bring him a cold, wet towel. Colin closed his eyes, groaning, and for a second thought he was going to vomit again. But he didn't.

Phillip stood in front of him, panting.

"You can't go on like this, damn it. You can't..." he murmured, quietly, more to himself than to Colin.

He looked around the apartment. It was a mess. There were empty bottles everywhere, dirty dishes, clothes on the floor. Everything smelled of abandonment. Of surrender.

Phillip swallowed. He knew what he had to do. Even if Colin asked him not to, even if he forbade him when he woke up.

He didn't know how many seconds he had spent looking at Colin's bloodied face before his thumb dialed Anthony Bridgerton's number. He didn't know if he was trembling from fright or helplessness. He only knew he couldn't do this alone. When Anthony answered, his voice, usually charged with authority, became unrecognizable upon hearing the words:

"It's Colin. He's really bad. I need you to come."

Not ten minutes passed before hurried footsteps were heard in the building's hallway, followed by the sound of the door hitting the wall as it burst open. Anthony was the first to enter, followed by Violet, Kate, and Benedict, who held Sophie's hand. The impact was immediate.

"Colin!" Violet cried, clutching her hand to her chest upon seeing him lying on the sofa, barely conscious, his face swollen, bruised, covered in both dried and fresh blood. Her youngest son was unrecognizable.

Kate froze for a second. Benedict let go of Sophie and ran to his brother's injured body. Anthony followed him, and for the first time in years, his innate leadership didn't know what to do in the face of such devastation.

"What the hell happened?" he asked, his voice broken, kneeling beside Phillip, who awkwardly and with wet towels tried to clean the cuts on Colin's cheek.

Phillip swallowed. He had blood on his hands. Literally. It wasn't a metaphor. He rubbed his forehead with his stained forearm, not taking his eyes off Colin.

"I... I was at a pub, having a beer," he began, his voice choked. "And suddenly I heard screams. Two guys fighting. I went closer and... it was Colin. He was... he was lying on the floor, and the other man kept hitting him as if he wanted to kill him."

"My God!" Kate exclaimed, covering her mouth.

"Why didn't anyone stop him sooner?!" Anthony roared, clenching his fists. He abruptly stood up and began pacing the living room, like a caged lion.

"They pulled him away when he was almost unconscious. I got him out of there. He didn't want to go to the hospital. He just said that... that I should take him home." Phillip's gaze fell again on his friend's swollen face, now pale and covered in sweat. "He didn't have a phone. He had no one to talk to."

Benedict, who had remained silent, suddenly broke the silence with an icy remark:

"His arm doesn't look good."

Everyone looked at him. He was right. Colin's left arm hung with an unnatural curve, as if the bone had given up.

"We have to take him to the hospital, now!" Anthony said, already in operational mode.

"Come on, Colin." Benedict bent down and tried to lift him gently. "We've got you, brother."

But the slightest attempt to lift him made Colin let out such a heartbreaking scream that even Violet staggered.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Benedict murmured, tears overflowing his eyes.

Anthony and Phillip helped him, trying to stabilize his body. Every groan of pain that came from Colin was like a dagger plunging into the heart of everyone present. Violet couldn't bear it anymore. She sobbed with her face in her hands. Sophie put her arms around her and held her.

"Colin... my child..." Violet whispered, as they took him out of the house.

Kate had run to the car and already had the engine running. Benedict and Anthony carefully placed Colin in the back seat. He cried in silence, too weak even to stay awake. Every movement was a punishment. Every previous blow an open wound.

"It's okay, brother. We're with you. You're not alone." Anthony kept talking to him, as if that could keep him conscious. "You're not going to die. I'm not going to leave you. Do you hear me?"

Benedict said nothing. He just held his hand, his face soaked with tears. He looked at him as if it were the last time he would see him alive.

Phillip got into the passenger seat. On his face there was something more than guilt: there was horror. A man like him, who had faced so many things, now felt small, useless, helpless.

Kate drove off without hesitation. The city lights sped by, but for those in the car, time moved slowly. Painfully.

"Where's Mom?" Anthony suddenly asked.

"Sophie's taking her in my car. They'll meet us at the hospital," Benedict replied, not taking his eyes off his younger brother, whose breathing was becoming weaker and weaker.

No one spoke again during the entire journey. There were no words for what they were feeling. Seeing Colin like this was not just seeing a broken body. It was facing a truth they had all ignored for too long: their brother was suffering. And not just outwardly.

Also inwardly.

And that hurt more than any blow.

The screech of tires echoed loudly against the wet asphalt as Kate braked right in front of the Emergency entrance. As soon as the car stopped, the doors burst open. Phillip shot out of the passenger seat and ran to open the back door. Anthony and Benedict, with tears they didn't bother to wipe away, held Colin as best they could, trying to spare him more pain, though that seemed impossible. Every movement provoked a ragged groan from him, wet with the blood that continued to flow from his broken nose and a deep wound on his eyebrow.

"We need help!" Phillip shouted, entering the emergency room with hands full of dried and fresh blood. The echo of his voice bounced off the white walls and the staff reacted immediately.

Two nurses and a doctor ran towards them with a stretcher. Benedict, his lips pressed together, held Colin's arm with both hands, trying to keep him still. The bone protruded slightly under the bruised skin, and the youngest Bridgerton emitted a barely audible sound, a mixture of pain and delirium.

"He has an open fracture of the left humerus, multiple contusions, possible cranial trauma. He hasn't completely lost consciousness, but he's not responding clearly," Phillip reported in a trembling voice, as if he himself were part of the medical staff.

"Was it an assault?" a nurse asked as they pushed the stretcher inside.

"Yes. They were killing him," Anthony said, walking alongside, his jaw tense and his hands clenched into fists.

"Patient's name?" the doctor asked as they turned down a hallway.

"Colin Bridgerton," Phillip and Benedict answered at the same time, their voices on the verge of breaking.

The group had to stop at a double door. One of the nurses raised her hand firmly.

"This far. You can't go in."

"But he's our brother!" Benedict exclaimed in desperation.

"I know, sir, but we need to stabilize him. We'll give you information as soon as we know more."

One last look. Just one. Anthony stole it before the door closed. Colin, on the stretcher, his face destroyed, his lips purple, his right eye completely closed and his left barely ajar. He was looking at him. He was searching for him. Like a small child who didn't understand what was happening.

"Tony..." he mumbled with a faint voice, before they took him away.

And Anthony fell to his knees.

Kate ran to him, hugging him from behind, feeling his sobs shake his back. Benedict paced back and forth, hands in his hair, unable to stay still. Phillip leaned against the wall, exhausted, his legs trembling.

Minutes later, Sophie arrived, almost dragging Violet, who had insisted on coming. Her face was as white as the hospital wall, but her determination knew no bounds. When she saw her children crying in the hallway, she didn't ask anything. She just approached them. Her family was falling apart in front of her, and she needed to keep a cool head.

"Where is my son?" she asked in a firm voice.

"Inside. They wouldn't let us in." Kate was the one who spoke this time, her hand still resting on Anthony's shoulder.

"Is he conscious?" Violet asked, and everyone looked at her.

"He was, more or less," Phillip said with a broken voice. "But his arm... damn it, Violet, they broke his arm like a twig."

Sophie, hearing that, covered her mouth with her hand. Violet, however, did not tremble. She walked towards the double door and asked for him. The nurses refused, but a doctor came out shortly after.

"Family of Colin Bridgerton?"

Everyone stood up.

"Yes," they said, as one body.

"He's being stabilized. He has an open fracture in his left arm, will probably need surgery. He has multiple contusions, bruises on his face and abdomen. We are evaluating if there's internal damage. We'll have to do a CT scan to rule out brain injuries. He lost a lot of blood and is dehydrated, but he responds to stimuli. He's not entirely lucid."

"Can we see him?" Benedict pleaded, almost voiceless.

"One person for now. We'll take him to radiology soon, but if someone wants to see him for a few seconds, now's the time."

Violet stepped forward. No one argued. She entered alone.

Silence took over the hallway as soon as the doors closed behind her. Anthony still couldn't speak. Kate sat next to him, squeezing his hand. Benedict paced aimlessly, and Phillip sat down, resting his elbows on his knees, covering his face with his hands.

The nightmare was just beginning. But for now, Colin was alive.

And that was all they had left.

Violet was the first to enter. Her son, her little boy, was injured. And when she crossed that door and saw him connected to machines, with wires on his chest and an IV slowly dripping into his bruised body, a sob escaped her soul.

"Colin…" she whispered, approaching his side with trembling steps. "What have you done, my love? Why?"

Colin slowly turned his face towards her, his eyes swollen and dull as if all the color had drained from his life.

"Mom…" he whispered in a hoarse, broken, barely audible voice. "It was the only way… to make it stop hurting."

"What thing, Colin?" Violet took his good hand, clinging tightly as tears streamed down her face. "What did you want to stop hurting?"

He swallowed with difficulty. His body trembled, and every word was an act of resistance.

"My heart… the damned heart. I couldn't bear it anymore, Mom… Penelope…" his eyes closed for an instant as he held back tears. "Everything hurts since I lost her. I wanted it all to end."

Violet's crying became heartbreaking.

"No, my child. Not like this. Not this way…"

And just then, a nurse gently knocked on the door and entered.

"Mrs. Bridgerton, excuse me… We have to take him to the imaging area for pre-surgery studies on his arm."

Violet nodded, wiping her tears with her free hand. She leaned in and tenderly kissed Colin's sweaty forehead.

"We're going to get you through this. All of us. You're not alone, my love. You never were."

As the stretcher was slowly wheeled out of the room, Violet stood there, trembling, her chest shattered and her eyes red, repeating over and over that she had to be strong… even though inside she was breaking just like her son.

The wait was eternal. Violet returned to the room with trembling steps, her face streaked with tears. As soon as she crossed the door, her children immediately rose, and it was in the arms of Anthony and Benedict that she finally collapsed. She sobbed in silence, with the anguish of a mother who had just seen her son prostrated in a hospital bed, connected to machines, with tubes and electrodes as if each one was trying to hold a part of him that no longer wanted to continue.

"Why, Mom?" Benedict whispered, stroking Violet's hair as she hid her face in his chest.

She shook her head again and again, and with a broken voice repeated through tears:

"He said it was the only way... the only way his heart would stop hurting for Penelope."

Anthony clenched his jaw and looked away, his eyes glassy. Violet had barely had time to react to that confession when the nurse arrived, in a professional but compassionate tone, to announce that they would take Colin for more tests.

The minutes passed like hours. No one spoke. Sophie, who had arrived shortly after with Violet, stroked Benedict's hand without a word. Kate stood beside Anthony, trying to be his anchor as he contained a storm. Phillip didn't move from his spot, his elbows on his knees, looking at the floor, as if guilt had settled on his back.

Finally, the sound of a door opening broke the silence, and everyone suddenly stood up as they saw the doctor approach with a grave but serene expression.

"Family of patient Colin Bridgerton?"

Everyone nodded urgently, approaching the doctor.

"We're going to take him to orthopedic surgery. The fracture in his left arm is complex and requires immediate intervention. But..." he paused, checking his chart, "his alcohol levels are extremely high. So much so that, after the operation, he will be transferred directly to the psychiatric unit for an evaluation."

A shudder ran through everyone. Violet didn't dare look up. Anthony closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, and then asked in a grave voice:

"Is he in danger?"

"Physically, if everything goes well in the operating room, no. But emotionally and mentally... your son needs help. He has crossed the line. This is not simple intoxication. It's self-destructive. It's serious."

No one argued. No one questioned. Everyone nodded, aware, at last, that they could no longer pretend Colin was fine. They had lost him inside long before this night, but now they had a chance to try and get him back.

And everyone, in a sepulchral silence, looked at each other... hoping that this time, it would be enough.

Hours later, when the sun had already set behind the horizon and the hospital silence had become unbearable, a nurse finally appeared before the family gathered in the waiting room.

"The surgery was successful," she said softly, though her words barely managed to calm the anguish that consumed them inside. "The doctor managed to stabilize the fracture in his left arm. Everything indicates that he will respond well, but... he is still very weak."

The Bridgertons let out a contained sigh. It wasn't relief; it was barely air. Surviving no longer seemed enough.

The nurse added:

"He's in recovery. When he wakes up a little more, you'll be able to see him. But only two people at a time, and for a short while. He's very sedated."

There was no discussion. Violet and Anthony looked at each other and the rest nodded wordlessly. No one deserved that first encounter more than them.

They walked down the hallway as if each step hurt. The white, cold light of the hospital made everything feel even more alien, more hostile. When they reached the door of the room, the world seemed to stop.

Colin lay in bed like a shadow of himself. His face was so pale it looked like wax; his lips dry, cracked. His right eye was still bruised, inflamed; his eyebrow still had traces of dried blood despite being cleaned. His left arm was completely immobilized and elevated with thick bandages, connected to an IV. Monitors beeped slowly, reminding them that he was still alive... though barely.

When he heard the creak of the door, Colin barely turned his face, with effort. He saw the figures of his mother and older brother standing, stopped, as if they couldn't move forward. Both their eyes were red, bright with contained tears. Then he looked away towards the window.

"I don't want your pity," he murmured in a muffled voice, as if it pained him to use it. "Don't look at me like that... please."

Violet said nothing. She didn't try to convince him. She just walked towards him with a heartbreaking calm, as if she feared a sudden movement would break him even more. She leaned over him, caressed his hair with impossible tenderness, and kissed his forehead with a devotion reserved only for children who are fading away.

"You're not alone, my love," she whispered in a broken voice. "You're not... and you never will be."

Colin closed his eyes tightly, as if those words hurt more than any wound. And then, unable to stop it, tears began to fall. They weren't loud sobs; they were silent, slow... as if they came from a place that had already emptied too much.

Violet barely dared to touch him. But she couldn't stay silent. She needed to understand.

"Why...?" her voice trembled, broke. "Why did you want to die, Colin?"

Colin clenched his teeth. His chest rose and fell with difficulty, as if breathing was a task that demanded too much.

"Because it was the only way... the only way my heart would stop hurting," he finally replied, barely audible. "Ever since I lost Penelope... it's like something has been killing me inside, every day. And I couldn't take it anymore... I didn't want to feel anything anymore."

Violet let out a choked sob, resting her forehead against his, still crying.

"I understand, son. More than you can imagine. I lost your father when you were just a child. And that pain... it never disappeared. I carried it with me every day. It slept with me. I raised all of you with it on my back. And I still feel it. But I learned to live with that pain... because I had reasons to go on. Because there was love around me, and promises to keep. You have them too."

Colin looked at her with teary eyes, desperate, broken.

"I don't know how..." he whispered. "I don't know how to go on. I don't know how to get up again."

"No one knows how," Violet said, caressing his damp cheeks. "You learn step by step, with help. But if you can't do it for yourself yet... do it for her. For Penelope. And for me. Because she was like a daughter to me... but you, Colin... you are my child. And I can't lose you too. I couldn't bear it."

Colin closed his eyes tightly, this time holding nothing back. His whole body trembled with each sob. And for the first time in months, instead of suppressing it, he let it out. All the pain. All the guilt. All the love that had rotted inside him.

"Help me..." he murmured. "Please... try with me. I can't do it alone."

Anthony, who until that moment had remained standing, trembling in silence, approached with determined steps. He leaned over the bed, took his good hand tightly, and kissed his head, just like when Colin was little.

"I've got you, do you hear me? I'm never going to leave. No matter what you need. I'll be here. Always."

Colin cried a new, liberating cry. And for the first time since his heart broke, he felt that there was still something to live for.

He was no longer alone.

And that was his first step back.

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It had been several months since that night Colin hit rock bottom. Since then, his life had changed in more ways than he could comprehend.

He attended therapy four times a week, without fail. Some sessions were individual, others group. And while often he left in silence, with a lost gaze or reddened eyes, other times he managed to articulate his emotions honestly, starting to unburden himself of what had been dragging him down for so long. He still wore a sling on his left arm, as the fracture had been complex and required constant physical therapy to regain mobility. Some days he couldn't feel his hand; others, he could lift a coffee cup with trembling firmness. He was moving forward, slowly, but moving forward.

He wasn't living alone. His family, worried about a relapse, took turns staying with him. Sometimes it was Anthony, other times Benedict, even Hyacinth and Gregory offered to spend a night when they could. Everyone, in their own way, was taking care of him, surrounding him with a network he had never asked for but now valued as if it were his last support. He had only seen two people since leaving the hospital: Daphne and Eloise.

He didn't know much about Eloise. His mother had said she needed space, that she had been going through her own silences. But Daphne... it was different. He knew she had wanted to visit him, that she had asked about him, but that the twins had her completely absorbed. He didn't want to waste more time, or keep postponing meetings out of fear. So, determined to stop running from affection, he took his coat and headed to his sister's house.

He knocked on the door, not quite knowing how he would be received. It was Simon who opened it, his shirt wrinkled, his hair disheveled, and dark circles as deep as his tired gaze. But as soon as he saw him, he hugged him gently. It was a warm hug, one of those that don't need words. He asked how he was, with a sincere murmur.

"Getting by," Colin replied, not trying to sound strong, but with an honesty that surprised even himself.

When he entered the living room, the air seemed charged with memories and emotions. There was Daphne, with the twins on her lap, and next to her, Eloise. But something about Eloise made his heart sink: she looked thinner, paler, as if the vitality that had always characterized her had evaporated. Her sunken eyes barely held his gaze.

Daphne was the first to react. She got up and crossed the room to hug him tightly, closing her eyes as if by touching him she could assure herself that he was truly there, alive, present, healing. He held her with his only available arm, while the other rested in the sling.

But Eloise didn't move. She remained seated with the twins in her arms, looking at him from her corner as if she didn't know what to do, as if she could barely breathe. Colin felt that pang, that unknown distance that had never existed between them, but he didn't judge her. He knew he wasn't the only one who had been hurt.

He was the one who approached first. He leaned down gently to see the twins.

"Hello, Amelia. Hello, Belinda," he whispered, with a faint smile, his fingers barely trembling as they brushed their tiny hands. "I'm your Uncle Colin."

Eloise lowered her gaze. Still without moving.

"Hello, Eloise," he said in a low voice, carefully modulating his tone as if his words could break something.

"Hello," she replied, without looking up. It was a broken whisper that barely broke the silence of the room.

Daphne, observing them, understood that this wasn't her moment. So she excused herself, saying she would take the girls to sleep. She kissed Colin's forehead, tenderly caressed her sister's face, and went upstairs, leaving them—for the first time in months—completely alone.

The silence that remained in the room was dense, filled with everything they hadn't said. Words wouldn't come, but their eyes did, as if searching through each other's cracks for a bit of the lost bond. Colin took a deep breath. He felt the anxiety throbbing in his chest, but he also knew that, for some reason he didn't quite understand, he was ready to be there. To talk. To apologize. To heal.

"Why did you do it?" Eloise asked in a trembling voice, looking at her brother's face, pale, haggard, his left arm still immobilized in the sling. "Why did you go so far, Colin?"

He looked at her, and for an instant, he wasn't the broken man she had been seeing in the last few minutes, but the boy who used to comfort her when she cried over lost causes, over injustices, over broken hearts.

"Because it was the only way the pain would stop," he replied with a strained voice, his gaze lost somewhere beyond the room. "I didn't want to die... not consciously. But living without her... it was like drowning in slow motion. I wanted silence. I wanted not to feel."

Eloise felt her chest tighten. Tears blurred her vision as she leaned in to take his right hand, the only one free of bandages.

"I found out weeks later... and I couldn't understand it. I thought of you, how strong you always seemed to be. But now I see that I didn't see you either. That we all failed to see the pain behind your silence. And I... I failed you too."

Colin slowly shook his head.

"No. We failed each other. That night... we said cruel things. Things neither of us meant, but they came out because we didn't know how to bear so much pain. I blamed you... you blamed me... and Penelope was no longer there to remind us what mattered."

"And none of that will bring her back," Eloise whispered, swallowing with difficulty. "Nothing we say or do. She's gone, Colin. And every day it's hard for me to accept that she won't return."

He blinked hard, but couldn't hold back the glint in his eyes.

"Sometimes... it's the memory that keeps me going. Other times, the memory breaks me in half. But if I stop remembering her... it's like she dies again."

She leaned in and hugged him as best she could, being careful not to touch his injured arm. Colin rested his forehead on her shoulder, breathing with effort, as if the simple act of clinging to his sister sustained him.

"There's no world without Penelope," he said in a hoarse voice, barely a whisper tangled with sobs. "Not yet. But I'm trying to be strong... for Mom, for you... for what she was. And for what she deserved me to be."

"I'm trying too," Eloise murmured, tenderly caressing his hair. "But there are days when I still want to hit walls. Scream. Stay still. All at the same time. And then I imagine her there, looking at us, mocking our dramatics..."

"Stop crying and do something useful with that sadness," Colin repeated, smiling through tears.

"Exactly," she laughed weakly. "And then she'd correct my tone, or criticize my clothes. The strange thing is... I even miss that."

"I miss the way she saw the world. How she made me notice details my camera never captured," he said, with a bitter smile. "She always said my photos were beautiful, but they lacked soul."

"And you hated it when she told you that."

"And she was right," he admitted, sighing. "Since she left... I haven't touched a camera. But I think... I'm ready to look again."

Eloise gently squeezed his hand.

"What are you going to do?"

"I've accepted some commissions for when I get the sling off," he replied, slightly raising his bandaged arm. "Documentary photography, landscapes, portraits... I need to leave London for a while."

"Where do you plan to go?"

Colin took a folded sheet from his pocket and handed it to her. Written on it, in his hurried handwriting, was a list of destinations.

Italy. Greece. Japan. South Africa. Argentina. Australia... I want to look at the world again. Search for images that tell me something. That give me back what I lost.

Eloise scanned the list, her eyes widening as she read.

"That's months, Colin... you'll be gone a long time."

"London isn't London without her anymore," he replied, looking down. "I can't walk these streets without seeing her on every corner. In every cafe. In every sunset we used to share. I need to heal in a place where I don't encounter her with every breath."

Eloise leaned in and hugged him tightly, clinging to him as if she could prevent him from breaking again.

"I'm going to miss you. A lot."

"It won't be forever," Colin whispered, resting his forehead against hers. "I just need to leave for a while. But I'll come back. I'll always come back. To Mom. To you. To those who helped me not give up."

"And to your photos," Eloise said, trying to smile. "Just this time... try to make them have soul."

He laughed weakly.

"I'll try."

"And are you still going to send your photos to galleries?"

"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe I'll send them home in envelopes. So you can see them first."

They stayed like that, embraced, sharing a silence that no longer weighed so heavily. They hadn't fully healed. But for the first time in a long time, they knew they could start to. Together.

Chapter Text

2022

She didn't know how she had gotten to her apartment in Manhattan. The last thing she clearly remembered was the sound of water at the clinic, the crinkle of paper beneath her body as they told her, with the sweetness reserved only for inevitable tragedies, that she was eight weeks pregnant. Eight weeks. Two months. A baby. A child who, however absurd and cruel it seemed, could only be Colin Bridgerton's.

She collapsed onto the sofa without even taking off her coat. Her heart pounded against her chest with the force of a war drum. Her mind spun relentlessly, repeating over and over the question that tormented her: What am I going to do? What could she do? In New York, her name was Anne Rather. In London, Penelope Featherington was dead. That's how she had planned it. That's how it had to remain. She had faked her death, buried her past, entombed her history with dirt and tears to flee, to survive… and now, how could she go back?

She knew she couldn't go back to London. Not as if nothing had happened. Not when her mother could drag her to court for falsifying documents, for dishonoring the family name, for the scandal. Not when the Bridgertons—with all their power, their money, their rage—could do the same, especially if they discovered the role Agatha played in helping her escape. No. There was no way back. Time doesn't go backwards, she reminded herself bitterly. It only moves forward, dragging consequences with it.

The idea formed in her head with chilling clarity: abort. Say goodbye before starting. Erase the trace before it left a mark. It was a possible, even logical, decision. She strongly defended it when other women needed it. "My body, my decision," she repeated with conviction in her conversations. But thinking about it for herself, something inside her chest broke.

She abruptly stood up and walked to the large window of her apartment. From there, she could see the city awake, bright, immense. Thousands of lives. Thousands of decisions. Thousands of stories, crossing, breaking, healing. She placed her hands on her belly, trembling, as if touching it could confirm what she already knew.

She couldn't do it.

She couldn't.

Because for him—for Colin—it had been a gamble. A dirty, cruel gamble. A night of drunkenness, of lies, of laughter with those he called friends. But for her… for her it was something else. It was love. It was surrender. It was the desperate act of a woman who, even knowing she would leave, wanted to keep one last sweet memory before the end.

She clutched her belly with both hands, closing her eyes, letting tears silently stream down her face. "We'll get through this together," she whispered. "Even if you're alone inside me… even if you never truly know where you come from… I'll have you. Always. It will be you and me against the world."

She lifted her head, still with her hands on her belly, breathing deeply. She was no longer alone. She no longer lived only for herself. She lived for someone else. She lived for someone else. And she wasn't going to give up.

Never.

She approached her computer as if the answer to everything that tormented her lay in its keys. The screen's glow illuminated her still pale face, and after a deep sigh, she opened a new blank document. In London, she had been a columnist known for her biting honesty when talking about restaurants, bars, and flavors that intoxicated more than good wine. But in New York, as Anne Rather, her reality was different. She had been at the publishing house for just two months, and between proofreading tasks, assisting with other people's columns, and even cheerfully bringing coffee, she felt more like a shadow than a writer. She hadn't yet found her place, her tone, her voice… But today, something inside her—something as literal as it was symbolic—demanded that she speak. Write. Be herself again, even if anonymously.

So she wrote. She started with the rawest, most real thing: I'm pregnant and I have no idea how to feel about it. And from there, the words flowed like an overflowing river. She wrote about the fear that ran through her like an electric current, about the bewilderment of finding herself a single mother when she still hadn't managed to find herself. About the irony of having dedicated so much time to supporting the motto "my body, my decision" and now facing that very decision without being able to make it without trembling. Because she understood the right, she supported it, she would defend it in every space where she could raise her voice… but something inside her prevented her from applying it to her own body.

She reflected on how easy it was to judge from the outside and how complex it was to live it from within. She wrote with rage, with tenderness, with shame, and with hope. She debated with herself for hours, struggling with each word between the rational and the emotional, between the cold, practical Anne who wanted to survive, and the Penelope who still cried secretly every night, hugging a pillow as if that could take her home. Her text became a visceral testimony about pregnancy in single women, about the weight of judgment, about the ethical, emotional, social implications. But it also became her catharsis, her way of saying: I exist, I fight, and I still have something to say.

Because even though she was no longer Penelope Featherington, even though no one knew who she really was, that new life beating inside her seemed to push her to rebuild herself, to rediscover her purpose. As if that small existence challenged her to be better, to go beyond what she had believed possible. And as the cursor blinked on the last line, her hands still on the keyboard and her heart pounding in her throat, she knew that her story was just beginning.

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That's how the weekend passed, trying to get used to this new reality that embedded itself in her chest like a sweet, painful thorn. She was pregnant. No matter how many times she repeated it in her head, she still struggled to believe it. She knew she would soon have to go for medical check-ups, to know if everything was going well, to understand how her pregnancy was progressing… But at only eight weeks, her body hadn't visibly changed. And it was so curious. Since childhood, she had had that little pouch of fat on her belly, the same one that made her doubt if she would ever truly look different. Whenever she passed in front of a mirror—whether while going out to buy food, glancing at her reflection in a shop window, or simply while brushing her teeth in her apartment—she would look down and notice nothing different. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing miraculous.

If she hadn't heard that tiny heartbeat in the doctor's office, she would have sworn the doctor was lying to her. But that sound—that rapid, insistent drumming that wasn't her own—confirmed only one thing: a life was beating inside her. A new heart. And although she didn't know what to do with it yet, although the reality weighed on her shoulders like a wet blanket, she couldn't help but feel that something in her had also awakened.

During her Sunday, she wandered aimlessly through the city. She had no plan. She just needed the noise of New York to shout louder than her head. She walked as if the steps could distract her, as if the buildings could cradle her. In one of those meaningless turns, her eyes met a sign scrawled in chalk: Tarot Reading. Astrological Chart. Soul Divination. She blinked. She stood in front of the shop, indecisive. It was one of those strange storefronts, wrapped in purple velvet curtains and warm lights that flickered like trapped fireflies. Something in her—perhaps instinct, perhaps desperation—pushed her to enter.

The space was unlike anything she knew. It smelled of incense, old wood, something slightly sweet. Soft music played, like a murmur. And then, from behind the curtains, a girl emerged. Tall, with hair curly like a wild cloud and a long skirt that brushed the floor. She had the exact appearance Penelope always imagined of a gypsy from storybooks. And that, far from seeming like a joke, she loved.

"First time?" the girl asked, with a smile that didn't judge.

Penelope nodded, taking a step forward, with that mix of skepticism and curiosity that had been churning in her stomach since she saw the sign.

"What… what do I have to do for you to read my future?" she asked, crossing her arms, unsure if she was there to laugh at everything or to find answers she didn't know she was looking for.

"A palm reading costs ten dollars," the girl replied, pointing to a small circular table at the back of the shop. "My name is Crystal."

Penelope hesitated for just a second. Then she took a crumpled bill from her back pocket and extended it.

They sat facing each other. Crystal took her hand as if it were an old, precious map. Her touch was warm, secure. Her long fingers, decorated with stone rings, touched the lines with reverence.

"Aries," she said, without even looking at anything other than her palm.

Penelope blinked. Her faint smile faded a little. That word shook her.

"How…?" she murmured.

Crystal didn't answer immediately. Her expression widened, amused, not mockingly, but with the satisfaction of someone who has just confirmed something.

"Are you skeptical?"

"A little," Penelope confessed, tilting her head, between doubt and surrender.

"I'll show you," Crystal said, leaning in a little closer. "It's not magic. Energies, the ones we carry, the ones we inherit, the ones that surround us… influence more than you imagine. But I can tell you something about yourself, Anne Rather"—and as she said that false name, Crystal raised an eyebrow, as if sniffing out the disguise.

Penelope swallowed hard. She squeezed her hand. She had given a false name from day one in New York, ever since she decided that Penelope Featherington should disappear.

"Are you interested in knowing who you will be… now that you're no longer who you were?" Crystal asked, almost in a whisper.

And Penelope didn't know what frightened her more: that she knew or that she had felt it too.

Crystal let out a soft nasal laugh.

"It's okay, I'll show you. Energies don't lie, you know? They leave traces. And you… you fled," she murmured, gently squeezing her palm. "You fled from an indescribable pain. A pain that not only broke you, but rewrote you. You are not the same person you were a few months ago. Not even a few weeks ago."

Penelope swallowed with difficulty. She felt an icy wave run down her spine. No one knew. No one here knew.

"And you're pregnant," Crystal added bluntly.

Penelope recoiled, pulling her hand away. Her heart was racing.

"How… how did you know?"

Crystal shrugged, amused.

"That has nothing to do with energies, darling. I saw you from the window, looking at the sign and then putting your hand on your belly. But there's more. Your face, the color of your skin... even your hair. Those curls aren't uniform. Some are straighter, others drier. That's hormonal. Obvious changes when you know where to look."

Penelope, disconcerted, raised her hands to her hair. And yes, Crystal was right. There were completely disheveled strands, as if they had forgotten how to curl. She hadn't noticed it before. Not in detail.

"And besides," Crystal added in a softer voice, "you have that look. Of someone carrying more than their own body. Of someone who builds herself while trembling."

Penelope didn't know what to say. For the first time in weeks, she felt seen. Not observed. Seen.

Crystal resumed the reading. She explained that hands spoke. That energies were like invisible ink, marking paths traveled and those to come. That it wasn't about guessing, but about learning to read what others couldn't see.

"Do you think what's written can be changed?" Penelope whispered.

"I believe what's written can be understood. And if it's understood, it transforms," Crystal replied calmly. "Destiny isn't stone. It's clay. And you… you have a potter's hands."

It was at that moment that Penelope, driven by a strange mix of admiration, curiosity, and a desire to write about something that didn't hurt, asked:

"Can I interview you for my column?"

Crystal didn't hesitate for a second. She nodded enthusiastically and said she'd love to.

"What do you want to know?"

And so, in the midst of that small place filled with incense, tapestries, and crystals, they began to talk for hours. Crystal told her about chakras, about how stones held memories. She showed her collection of astrological charts and how she could find patterns in planetary movements. She told her about the energy that concentrates in fingertips, in wrist bones, in the cracks of the soul.

And between readings and laughter, between secrets and lavender tea, Penelope formed a new friendship. One she didn't seek, but found. Like everything important in her life. Like everything truly worthwhile.

A friendship that didn't save her from the past, but taught her to live in the present.

Monday arrived with a strange mix of nerves and determination. Penelope walked through the building's hallways with a new sparkle in her eyes, proudly carrying the two columns she had written over the weekend. One spoke of her experience with Crystal, of energies, of the human aura, and how the invisible traces of the past can be read if one knows where to look. The other, much more intimate, narrated in the first person what it was like to navigate the beginning of a pregnancy alone, with fear but also with a newfound strength.

Although she still felt nausea and tiredness, something inside her had stabilized. Perhaps not physically, but her mind seemed calmer. She felt that her baby, though still invisible to the world, was already beginning to teach her to speak from a more real, raw, and honest place.

She took a deep breath in front of her boss, Tilley Arnild's, office door. She knocked twice with her knuckles before turning the doorknob and entering, her printed pages in her hands. Tilley, as always, was sitting behind her desk, surrounded by stacks of papers, her steaming coffee mug, and that expression that blended chronic fatigue with fierce lucidity.

"Anne?" she said, looking up from some documents. "Do you have something for me?"

"Yes," she replied enthusiastically, approaching and placing the papers on the desk. "I wrote two columns this weekend. One is about energies, after a chat with an incredible woman named Crystal. The other... well, it's more personal."

Tilley raised an eyebrow, picking up the first paper. She began to read, her fingers drumming softly on the desk. Penelope used that moment to explain what she had in mind.

"I want to propose a new column. A fixed space. I want to write about the daily lives of women. Not like those aspirational columns that show a perfect life, but something more real. Raw when it needs to be. Intimate, sincere. I want other women to be able to read themselves in my words and know that they are not alone."

Tilley placed the paper on the desk and interlaced her fingers, observing her intently.

"And what would that column be called?"

"Living Without Asking Permission," Penelope said without hesitation. "Because that's what I've learned these days. That women have to start living from ourselves, not from what is expected of us."

Tilley remained silent for a few seconds, as if savoring the words. Then she took the other sheet and read it entirely, without interrupting. Her face didn't express much, but that wasn't bad. With Tilley, silence was part of the process.

When she finished, she sighed and nodded slowly.

"Alright. You'll get a chance. One week. One column. If it surpasses the numbers of the others you're supporting, I'll make it permanent. If not, we'll continue as before."

Penelope smiled, feeling a wave of relief. She accepted without hesitation.

"Thank you. I promise you won't regret it."

She was reaching for the doorknob when she heard her name in a lower, almost curious tone.

"Anne..."

She stopped and slowly turned.

"Yes?"

Tilley observed her with an arched eyebrow and an expression that mixed irony and understanding.

"Is this raw column... your unusual way of telling me you're pregnant?"

Penelope's eyes widened. In her excitement over the approval of her proposal, she had completely forgotten that in one of the paragraphs she had described what she felt about being pregnant. It didn't mention names, dates, or exact situations, but it was clear.

"Oh, God..." she murmured, covering her face. "I didn't mean to say it like that. I just... wrote it and didn't think. Yes, Tilley. I'm pregnant. Early on. But I don't want anyone else to know yet. I don't want them to look at me differently or start treating me like I'm broken."

Tilley didn't smile, but her eyes showed a certain tenderness behind her serious facade.

"Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me. When you decide to talk, you'll do it. Not before."

Penelope nodded gratefully.

"Thank you, really."

And with her heart pounding, she left the office. She had gotten an opportunity, a voice... and a promise that, this time, she would live without asking permission.

That's how it was.

Five months had passed since that conversation in Tilley Arnild's office, and the column "Living Without Asking Permission" had become a phenomenon. It was read with devotion by thousands of women across New York, commented on social media, debated in feminist forums, replicated in universities, and shared on blogs by single mothers, activists, and students alike. Not only that, but Danbury Publishing NYC had found in that column its brightest jewel, the insignia that was earning them awards, recognition, and new contracts with allied media.

Penelope not only wrote with passion; she wrote with fire. From reality, without adornments or superfluous metaphors. Her experience as a pregnant woman, with a history of abandonment, with a life she was rebuilding from the ashes, was the pulsating heart of every printed word. And she didn't do it alone: she had recruited several of her colleagues from the publishing house, women with equally profound stories, and also Crystal, who now received a small commission for her information on legal, health, labor, and emotional issues related to motherhood and women's rights.

Professionally, Penelope was being reborn.

Personally, her belly was growing strong, and with it, a whirlwind of emotions. She had entered her third trimester and it wasn't just soft kicks she felt at midnight anymore. Her boy —because yes, it was a boy— had a knack for appearing just when she most needed to laugh... or lose her composure. Like that afternoon.

She had spent a beautiful day at the beach, in Coney Island, where she allowed herself to rest under an umbrella, with a cherry popsicle in one hand and the other caressing her belly. The sun was setting when she took the subway back home. She sat at one end of the car, her feet a little swollen, an empty water bottle in her canvas bag, and the illusion of arriving home and putting her feet up. It was then that her son, with a glorious and powerful kick, hit her bladder with surgical precision. There was no time for anything. The stream shot out without her being able to stop it, staining the fabric of her linen dress and soaking the seat.

The horror was immediate. Her eyes widened. She pretended to have tripped over a water bottle, muttered something about a leak in her bag, and got off at the next station with her dignity in tatters. She walked to her apartment without looking at anyone, with the perfect mix of rage and suppressed laughter, muttering under her breath:

"I don't want you right now, did you know that? I don't want you at all."

But once home, after showering and drying her face in front of the mirror, laughter burst from deep within her chest. She doubled over with laughter, tears streaming down her cheeks, while her boy continued to move as if he were laughing with her too.

That was her life now: overflowing emotions and unexpected laughter. Every day was a new chapter.

That night, Penelope left the office late. She had been reviewing the latest articles for the column's weekly edition when Alfie Debling, her editorial colleague and friend, appeared at her desk.

"Are you leaving already?" he asked, with a tool bag in one hand and a charming smile.

"Yes, finally. I'm exhausted," she said, turning off the computer screen and rubbing her lower back. "Today the little one decided to train for the Olympics."

"Precisely why I've come to escort you home," Alfie announced, as if it were his sacred mission. "Besides, you said you haven't put together the crib yet, right?"

Penelope smiled, her eyes shining at the gesture.

"Are you here to save a tired mother from dying under a mountain of wood and screws?"

"Always. I have screwdrivers, patience, and a great ability to read instructions without fighting with them," he joked.

And so they left together, between jokes and comments about the week's articles. On the way, the child moved intensely inside her, as if he also knew they were going to build his nest. Penelope paused for a second at the subway entrance, placing a hand on her belly, closing her eyes.

"Are you okay?" Alfie asked.

"Yes," she replied, looking down with a soft smile. "It's just that... in those movements, in that restless way of kicking, he takes my breath away."

And it was then, amidst her friend's laughter as he told her something about the time he mistook baby oil for face cream, that she thought of him. Of Colin.

She remembered him with a clarity that made her stop for a second. His crooked smile, his sarcastic jokes, his raspy voice in the mornings when he hadn't had coffee. The way he laughed, as if he feared nothing. As if everything were possible.

She missed him. God, how she missed him.

And she knew, with a certainty she had refused to accept for months, that her son resembled him. He was as restless as him. As unexpected. As noisy. Every kick, every nocturnal turn, reminded her of Colin. And that was what tightened her throat, what took her breath away for an instant: knowing that this little piece of him was still there, growing inside her, without having him there to see it.

"Are you okay?" Alfie asked suddenly, just as they entered the lobby of Danbury Publishing.

She blinked, hiding the tremor she still felt in her chest. She nodded quickly.

"Yes," she replied, forcing a soft smile. "I'm just eager to put the crib together, that's all."

"Then let's go, knowing you, you'll want it to match the exact shade of the curtains and the unicorn plushie."

She let out a soft chuckle.

"Don't underestimate me, Debling. I even have a color palette saved on Pinterest."

And as they got into Debling's car together, she instinctively caressed her belly. She didn't say anything else. She didn't need to. Because some memories weren't meant to be shared. Some memories stayed right there, between the heart and the silences.

And Colin, no matter how much she tried to bury him, was always right there.

Debling parked in front of the building and hurried to open the car door for Penelope, as he always did. He helped her out with a slight smile, no unnecessary comments, no awkward phrases about pregnancy or the burden. She thanked him with a warm look and they both walked to the building's lobby, a modern and quiet complex in the heart of Manhattan. The place was covered in pale marble and large windows that let in the late afternoon light. Penelope took a deep breath.

When they entered the apartment, Debling didn't lose his enthusiasm for a second. As soon as he closed the door behind them, he dramatically shook off his coat, hung it on the coat rack, and walked straight to the baby's room, as if that were his sole purpose in life.

"Time to fight with Swedish instructions!" he exclaimed, raising his arms as if about to enter a boxing ring. "Who needs translation when you have instinct?"

Penelope let out a laugh. Not a fake one or a polite one, but a genuine laugh that came from deep within her chest. She felt how that small spark of joy loosened the knot that had been tight inside her all day. Watching Debling walk purposefully towards the room decorated with teddy bears and golden stars in gold and white tones filled her with unexpected tenderness.

From the hallway, she heard the rustling of boxes being opened, the clinking of metal pieces hitting each other, and then his voice, half-mumbled:

"Why the hell are there extra screws if I used all the holes...? Is this normal? This can't be normal."

With a smile still lingering on her lips, Penelope headed to the kitchen. She put water on to boil in the electric kettle and, while waiting, searched the cabinet for a bag of her favorite blend: chamomile with lavender. It was her nightly refuge, the only thing that truly calmed her since she had arrived in New York. Then she thought of Debling and, without hesitation, prepared a strong coffee. He didn't like soft concoctions; he needed caffeine, preferably in doses close to lethal, and she already knew him by heart.

As the kettle whistled, she rested her hands on the counter and let the steam brush her face. She breathed deeply. The smell of coffee, the soft floral aroma of tea, the distant sound of tools and murmurs — everything felt like a budding home. As if her life was about to be rebuilt from the rubble.

She carefully prepared the two cups and placed them on a wooden tray she found on top of the microwave. She made sure to add a sugar bowl, a small spoon, and a napkin. She didn't want to just bring Debling a drink; she wanted to bring him a gesture. A silent thank you.

When she crossed the threshold of the baby's room, the scene she found filled her eyes. The dresser was already perfectly assembled, aligned with surgical precision against the wall. The crib stood with its polished, firm bars like a small sanctuary. Debling was now bent over the changing table, an Allen wrench between his teeth, his brow furrowed and a look so concentrated it almost seemed like he was solving an ancient enigma.

"You're amazing," Penelope murmured, moving forward with soft steps so as not to interrupt his concentration.

He lifted his head and, with the wrench still between his teeth, smiled. He theatrically removed it from his mouth and took the coffee cup as if it were a trophy.

"This is the real prize for surviving wordless drawings," he said, inhaling deeply the aroma of coffee. "God, this smells like life. Thanks."

"Everything is looking beautiful," she commented, observing the room with shining eyes. Her words were loaded with something more than gratitude. There was admiration. And a hint of peace.

Debling looked around and then turned to her, gesturing broadly at the empty shelves.

"What about the diapers? The clothes? This needs life. Everything is too... tidy. I want to see baby chaos."

Penelope let out a soft giggle, already turning on her heels.

"All that is in my room. I've been organizing it for weeks, but I never had time to move it here."

"Perfect. I'll finish this damn... I mean, this beautiful changing table. Diaper operation in progress!" he shouted in an epic tone, raising the wrench like a sword.

Penelope left the tea on the hallway table before heading to the master bedroom. There, at the back, against the wall, she had several large zippered bags. She knelt carefully, opened the first one, and as the smell of new fabric and soft detergent was released, she felt a pang of emotion. She first took out the small white cotton sets, then the onesies with cheesy messages —"Hello, world," "Mom is my superhero"— and the tiny hats she already imagined on her son's little head.

She paused for a moment, the hat in her hands. Her fingers caressed it softly, as if she were already caressing a head. Every garment was a promise. An act of faith. An affirmation that the future existed, that there would be mornings.

On the second trip from her room to the baby's room, Penelope tried to lift the huge bag of diapers with both hands. She had insisted on carrying it herself, convinced she could do it alone, but she barely managed to lift it from the floor when it slipped from her arms like a seal sliding on a wet rock.

"Debling!" she shouted, with a mix of frustration and laughter— "Help me, this is bigger than me!"

Her voice echoed in the hallway, and in less than two seconds, Alfie Debling appeared at the door, with an arched eyebrow and a mocking smile on his lips. Without saying anything, he bent down to lift the giant bag, but as he did, one of the smaller bags —one that was right on top and poorly placed— fell loudly to the floor. From it spilled some clothes Penelope had packed in a hurry that morning. T-shirts, a sports bra... and then, among the folds, like a damn romantic comedy accessory, a set of women's underwear that clearly didn't belong in that context.

Red. Lace. The kind not worn for comfort, but for effect.

Penelope froze, her cheeks bursting with color. She took a step forward as if she could stop time and hide what was exposed before he noticed.

"I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, stumbling over her words— "It wasn't... I didn't know that was there..."

But it was too late. Debling looked at her, then looked at the garment, and without flinching, picked it up with two fingers, with the same expression someone would have picking up a fallen napkin. He walked calmly to the bed and left it there, folded somewhat clumsily but without saying a hurtful word.

"Relax. It doesn't affect me in the slightest," he said, turning to her with a carefree smile.

Penelope narrowed her eyes, still paralyzed by embarrassment.

"Why?" she asked, genuinely confused. Most men she knew would have made an awkward joke, or at least a mocking comment.

He tilted his head and smiled at her with a mischievous twinkle.

"Because if it were sexy men's underwear, I'd already be in a puddle of water. But since it's not..."

Penelope blinked several times. She processed his words and, finally, gathered the courage to ask aloud:

"Are you gay?"

Debling let out a laugh that filled the room as if he were an old friend who had just been asked the most obvious question in the universe.

"Did you really think I wasn't? Of course I am!" he exclaimed amidst laughter— "I thought you knew ages ago!"

"No... I..." Penelope looked down, feeling a little silly— "I thought you were flirting with me... That you were nice because you liked me."

Debling raised an eyebrow and moved a little closer, still laughing.

"Oh, please!" he said theatrically— "No, darling. I just see you as an absolutely strong woman who, every now and then, needs someone to assemble a changing table for her, otherwise she'd end up screwing the diapers to the wall."

Penelope snorted and crossed her arms, but the smile that spread across her face was inevitable. There was something comforting in that playful sincerity.

"Thanks for helping me... really. Not everyone would. They wouldn't even have offered."

Debling winked at her as he took a tool from the box on the table.

"Not everyone can handle the Swedish assembly manual with elegance," he replied, holding a screw between his teeth. "Besides, you're my friend. Do you know how many times I've assembled cribs for women I don't even like? One even threw a shoe at me. Literally. And I still finished the playpen!"

She let out a laugh, surprised by how good it felt to truly laugh.

"And what happened to her?"

"The shoe was ugly," he said with a shrug. "I deserved it for letting her know."

Penelope laughed harder. The atmosphere was becoming lighter, as if the apartment was slowly shedding all the accumulated sadness of the past few days.

"Besides," he added, as he screwed in one of the changing table's legs, "how could you think I was straight if Rob doesn't even go near the columnist section because of me?"

She looked at him, confused.

"I thought he hated me?"

Debling shook his head, letting out an almost mocking laugh.

"No!" he said through laughter— "We went out twice. It was a disaster. The guy can't talk about anything but his own columns. And the sex was even worse. He's hated me ever since and can't even stand to see me."

Penelope put a hand to her mouth, stifling a nervous laugh.

"God! That explains a lot."

"So don't feel bad," he added, smiling tenderly. "It's not you. It's him. It's always him."

They both burst into laughter, this time without reservations. That clean, honest laughter, without hidden meanings or expectations. In that instant, among the scattered tools, the open bags, and the forgotten lace set on the bed, the air became clearer. Easier to breathe.

Penelope leaned against the doorframe, watching Debling as he placed the last piece of the changing table with a surgeon's concentration. For the first time in weeks, she didn't feel the constant pang of fear or sadness. She felt safe. Accompanied. Seen.

And she understood, in a silent flash, that life isn't always repaired with an epic love story. Sometimes, it's rebuilt with kindness. With presence. With someone who doesn't ask uncomfortable questions and doesn't judge if you accidentally packed lingerie in the diaper bag. Sometimes, everything starts to heal with a new dresser, some sincere laughs, and a little hot coffee.

A few weeks later, Penelope could barely walk. Her belly had grown so much that she was starting to feel like the baby was bigger than herself. Climbing stairs was an odyssey, and sitting for more than an hour caused her lower back pain. Tired, exhausted, and with her body pleading for rest, she decided to talk to Tilley and ask for permission to work from home. Tilley, seeing her so swollen and still determined to fulfill her responsibilities, agreed without protest.

One quiet afternoon, while Penelope was reviewing a new column written by Clara —a simple guide on how to invest in the stock market for beginners— from her computer, she couldn't help but smile when she saw that the email included a meme of a giant-eyed hamster about to cry. The text read: "This is how we all feel when we don't know how to invest in the stock market." Penelope laughed to herself, genuinely amused, placing a hand on her belly as if she wanted to share the joke with her baby.

It was then that the doorbell rang. She fell silent, confused. She looked at the time in the corner of the screen, then looked at her calendar. She was sure neither Debling nor Crystal were going to stop by that day. No one was supposed to visit her.

With effort, pushing away from her desk, she stood up and walked slowly to the door. Her gait was clumsy, her swollen feet protested with every step. But her surprise was even greater when she opened the door: Agatha was there. Standing. Imposing. Dressed in a sober dark-toned outfit, with her bag hanging from her arm and a severe expression on her face.

Penelope froze. She tried to straighten up, to adjust her dress a little, which evidently made her look very pregnant. The cut no longer concealed anything. She couldn't hide it. Not in front of Agatha.

"Agatha…" she stammered, her voice choked.

The woman entered without asking permission, without even giving her a smile. She closed the door behind her softly, but with a firmness that echoed in the apartment. Silence took over the room for a few seconds. Tense. Dense. Almost unbreathable.

"I found out this morning from Tilley," Agatha finally said, turning to face her with an raised eyebrow. "She told me the 'queen behind Living Without Asking Permission' was working from home because…" she lowered her gaze to Penelope's prominent belly— "…because she was pregnant."

Penelope swallowed hard. Her throat was dry, her hands trembled slightly. She suddenly felt naked, exposed, as if the air itself had stripped away all the layers she had tried to protect herself with.

"I wanted to call you," she said softly, almost pleadingly, "I swear, but… I didn't know how."

Agatha crossed her arms with an impenetrable gesture, her face still hardened by a mixture of worry and disappointment.

"And what happened to the phone I gave you when you left London? The one I had saved for emergencies, so you could contact me when you needed to?"

Penelope lowered her head, feeling as guilty as a child who has accidentally broken something valuable.

"I have it," she admitted in a whisper. "It's stored in one of the drawers… but… I never used it. I didn't remember… I felt so lost at first, and then everything happened so fast that… I just didn't know how to go back."

Agatha looked at her in silence for several seconds that felt like an eternity. Then she sighed deeply, as if releasing the weight of everything she had held in since she thought she had lost her.

"I forgive you," she finally murmured, with a slight tremor in her voice. "You have no idea how much I worried when I didn't hear from you anymore, when the only thing that arrived was that brilliant column… with no trace of the woman behind it."

Penelope nodded, and felt the knot in her throat finally begin to loosen.

"A couple of months after arriving here… I started to feel sick," she said, calmer now. "I was dizzy, vomiting for no reason, exhausted all the time. I attributed it to stress, to the city, to leaving everything behind. I thought my body was reacting to the change… but then I took a test. And there it was. The baby. I knew I was pregnant."

Agatha took a step closer, softer now, without judgment, only with wide eyes.

"And what did you feel?" she asked in a low voice.

Penelope smiled sadly.

"Terror, at first. Then guilt. I thought it was some kind of punishment for running away… for lying… but then… then I understood it wasn't. That it was an opportunity. That it was my child, and no matter what had happened… he deserved to have everything. The best of me."

Agatha tilted her head, narrowing her eyes as if trying to read her completely.

"The baby…?" she asked, her voice laden with intent. "Is it…?"

Penelope didn't let her finish. She already knew what was coming.

"Yes. It's Colin's," she affirmed firmly, not dodging her gaze. "But what's done is done. I can't go back and tell him I'm pregnant, Agatha. For everyone in London, I'm dead. I can't change that now."

Agatha slowly lowered her shoulders, as if she had just released a weight she had been carrying for some time. She nodded, without another word, and took a step towards her. With unexpected tenderness, she placed a hand on her arm.

"And… how's the pregnancy going?" she asked, in a softer, almost maternal voice. "Are you well? Are you taking care of yourself? Are you going to your check-ups?"

Penelope nodded with a small smile. For the first time since Agatha arrived, her shoulders relaxed a little.

"I'm… fine. The check-ups are normal, the doctor says he's growing healthy, strong. Although, honestly, I think he's going to come out walking," she joked. "He's so big! Sometimes I feel like I don't have any more space."

Agatha smiled, her eyes shining.

"And is it a boy or a girl?"

"Boy," Penelope replied, and the smile that accompanied her was automatic, tender. "It's a boy. I already have a couple of names in mind, but I want to wait to see him. To feel him… to decide."

Agatha sighed and gently caressed her arm.

"I'm so glad to see you like this, Penelope. Radiant, brave… I know it wasn't the easy path, but you're doing well. You know that, right?"

Penelope looked down for a second, then nodded.

"Thanks. The column keeps me focused. It gives me purpose… something that's mine, besides the baby. It also helps with money. I'm saving everything I can for him. I don't want him to lack anything."

"He won't lack anything," Agatha affirmed with conviction. "Not while I'm around."

The emotion in the air was dense, but this time in the form of relief. Penelope felt something akin to peace. Perhaps for the first time since she had escaped.

"I'm going to make some tea," she said then, pointing to the kitchen. "Do you want a cup?"

"Sure, that would be nice," Agatha replied with a knowing smile.

When she arrived in the kitchen, Penelope began to feel a slight discomfort just below her belly. She didn't pay too much attention to it at first. She placed both hands on her rounded abdomen and took a deep breath, attributing it to the baby's movements. "You're just stretching," she murmured softly, in an almost affectionate tone, as she took the tea bags from the drawer and put the water on to heat. She calmly arranged two cups on the tray, although a slight sharp pain shot through her again just as she straightened up.

When she had both cups served and was holding the tray in her hands, she headed towards the living room, but she had barely taken a few steps when a much sharper pain stopped her dead in her tracks. The tray trembled in her hands and she almost dropped it. She instinctively brought a hand to her belly, and frowned as she tried to stay upright. At that very moment, Agatha, who was sitting on the sofa waiting for her, immediately stood up, noticing the expression on her face.

"Penelope? Are you okay?" she asked, taking a step towards her.

Penelope tried to nod, but her face reflected bewilderment and growing pain. Then, a wet splash clearly echoed on the wooden floor, interrupting all thought. Both looked down at the same time.

A puddle of water was forming right beneath Penelope's feet.

"Penelope… your water just broke," Agatha announced in a voice that wavered between surprise and fright.

"No! It can't be!" Penelope exclaimed, dropping the tray onto the nearest side table. "There are two weeks left! There are still two weeks left, Agatha! This shouldn't be happening!"

Her breathing began to quicken, her eyes wide with a mixture of panic and pain, as a new contraction seized her body, making her double forward and hold onto the wall. Agatha rushed to her side to support her and nervously stroked her back.

"Calm down! Calm down, Penny. Breathe… Do you have your bag packed? Yours and the baby's?"

"Yes! Yes, they're in the baby's room!" she replied between gasps, her voice breaking as she tried to stay upright. "In the closet, both of them! Agatha, go!"

Without wasting any more time, Agatha ran to the baby's room and returned with both suitcases in a matter of seconds. She helped Penelope walk to the elevator while holding her tightly. On the ground floor, she helped her get into the car and gave quick instructions to the driver.

"To the hospital!" Agatha ordered, and then paused for a moment, turning to Penelope with a frown. "Which hospital? Tell me which one!"

Penelope, her face sweaty and her hands clutching her belly, gritted her teeth and let out a long groan before releasing in a trembling voice:

"To Mount Sinai! The one on the Upper East Side!"

The driver sped off as Agatha took her hand, trying to calm her with soft words. Penelope, meanwhile, struggled to retrieve her phone from her dress pocket. She barely managed to unlock it, found Alfie Debling's number, and dialed, holding it with one hand as a new contraction made her curl up in the seat.

"Come on, come on… answer," she whispered.

"Anne?" Debling finally replied, his voice surprised. "Is everything okay?"

"Sorry… sorry to interrupt your date," she began, trying to sound calm though she could barely control the trembling in her voice. "I'm… I'm about to give birth, Alfie. I just… I just wanted to know if you could come. I'd like to have a friend nearby."

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, followed by the sound of a chair scraping and distant voices.

"I'm on my way! I'm coming! But… but I'm with my date, is it okay if he comes? He's a guy, his name is Kevin."

"I don't care, Alfie!" Penelope exclaimed just as a contraction made her scream loudly, curling up in the seat. "Just come!"

Alfie let out a choked laugh.

"Perfect, love. That was an order. I'm on my way, Anny, hold on. You won't be alone, okay?"

He hung up before she could answer. Penelope dropped the cell phone onto her lap, breathing heavily, gritting her teeth with each new spasm of pain. The contractions were becoming more frequent. Agatha held her hand tightly as the car sped through the city, dodging traffic, with the urgency of someone carrying life about to be born within them.

Penelope almost ran into the hospital, doubled over her abdomen, feeling how the contractions gave no respite, as if they were tearing through her from the center of her being. She walked clinging to Agatha's arm, but every few steps she had to stop, grasp her belly, and gasp as if escaping from something much deeper than pain. As soon as she reached the reception desk, she leaned towards the nurse with clear desperation in her eyes.

"I need Dr. Rogers," she said through gritted teeth, breathing heavily. "It's time. I can't take it anymore."

The woman, with a tired but kind face, nodded quickly. "I'll call him right away. Please wait a moment, Mrs. Rather."

Not five minutes passed before Dr. Rogers appeared down the hallway in his white coat and serene face, as if the world wasn't about to split in two in that waiting room. When he saw Penelope in the wheelchair, he approached quickly and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"We're going to take you to a room immediately. Come on, Penelope."

Everything was fast, too fast. As soon as they entered the room, two nurses approached with gloves and screens, and while one adjusted the fetal monitor, the other lifted Penelope's legs and checked.

"She's fully dilated," the woman said. "She's ready."

Penelope's heart gave a violent lurch.

"What? What do you mean ready? I'm barely putting on my gown! I haven't even breathed properly! Isn't this supposed to take hours? Shouldn't I have time to mentally prepare?"

Dr. Rogers knelt beside her and took her hand with a slight professional smile.

"Every body is different. But you've already done the hardest part. Your body has already done its work. Now there's only one thing left: push."

Penelope could barely believe it. Ten minutes ago she still thought she could go home if it was all a false alarm. She still felt the warm memory of the hospital gown slipping over her shoulders. And now... now her legs were open, a white light focused between them, a hand squeezing hers, and a voice telling her it was time to bring her son into the world.

She gripped Agatha's hand tightly, the only constant she had left in that chaos of new cities, false names, and buried past. With overflowing eyes, Penelope pushed. She screamed. She felt the world splitting in half and her body going with it. The contractions came like killer waves, merciless, as if they wanted to drag her away. She pushed again. And again. Sweat ran down her forehead, the gown stuck to her skin, and Agatha's fingers intertwined with hers like an anchor.

Once, twice, three times. Until finally, a sharp, fragile, furious cry filled the room. The kind of sound that takes your breath away and opens a new space in your chest.

Penelope leaned back, exhausted, trembling, her eyes wide open and her body completely surrendered. But when she heard the cry, she burst into sobs, releasing all the contained fear, all the pain accumulated over years, months, and hours that had turned into a new life.

"Everything's fine," the doctor said. "We're going to check him, and in a few minutes they'll bring him to you."

And they delivered. Fifteen minutes later, a nurse entered with the baby in her arms. He was half-clean, wrapped in a white blanket, still red and with his face contracted from crying. A shrill, fragile, living sound. But the moment Penelope received him, as soon as his body touched hers, the crying stopped. The baby snuggled against her chest as if recognizing her. As if he knew that was his place.

She hugged him tenderly, kissed his damp little head, and murmured nonsensical words, wrapped in tears. Love overflowed her, tore her apart and reassembled her at the same time. Agatha, the stoic, the strong, the imperturbable Agatha, had shining eyes. She approached carefully, as if afraid to break the moment.

"Do you have a name yet?" she asked softly. "Have you decided?"

Penelope nodded, caressing the small brown head resting against her chest.

"Yes. His name is Thomas."

Agatha repeated the name softly, as if testing it in the air. "Thomas…" And then she left an open silence, waiting for her.

Penelope took a deep breath, watching her son's head move gently with the rhythm of her chest; she could distinguish traces of brown hair on his tiny head (not so tiny because he almost tore her vagina coming out); so yes, the Bridgerton genes, Colin's genes won in her little son. She could see how he was a copy of Colin, he was so much like the photos Violet proudly showed when Colin was born, and Thomas was a replica of him. A wave of nostalgia squeezed her throat.

"Bridgerton," she whispered. "He's Thomas Bridgerton."

Agatha slowly raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. There was no judgment on her face, only understanding.

Penelope smiled sadly and added: "But to the world… he will be Thomas Rather."

A silence enveloped them, full of what could not be said. Of what could never be said. Penelope kissed her son's head again, and closed her eyes, knowing that her life had changed forever. From that moment on, it would be the two of them against the world.

She and Thomas.

Against everything.

Chapter Text

2025

Penelope walked with a quick pace towards Genevieve's studio, trying not to trip over her black heels. She knew the new wedding photographer would arrive that week, and that he would also be in charge of taking photos of Thomas, as the only court page. The mere idea of seeing him dressed for the occasion gave her a mix of tenderness and a lump in her throat.

She was still a bit annoyed. She had proposed Claire, a photographer who worked for her column, but Genevieve insisted that the new photographer was a gift from a “very dear friend from London.” Claire was automatically out of the equation. Every time Genevieve said the word "London," Penelope's skin crawled; she couldn't help but remember her old life... and everything she had left behind.

However, those thoughts were relegated to a corner of her mind every time she saw Thomas smile or eat with that insatiable appetite. It wasn't enough that he was a physical replica of Colin: he had also inherited his kind, warm... and gluttonous personality. Penelope always thought it was some kind of karma for having run away and never telling the Bridgertons that a new member existed in the family.

In her dark skinny jeans, her brown wool sweater, and those heels that gave her confidence with every step, she crossed the street towards the park in front of the studio. Rae, Thomas's nanny, had told her they were playing for a while after the photoshoot.

Penelope would have arrived sooner if it hadn't been for a supposed "emergency meeting" about her column, called by Clara. The urgency, according to her, was to discuss the astral content that Crystal would publish next week: “Fashion according to your astral chart.” Penelope was about to strangle her when she found out. It was something they could have easily talked about on a video call.

“Clara, are you telling me this was the urgent thing?” she had said with a frown.

The tension dissipated when Alfie, who had heard the reason, shouted from his desk:

“Did you hit your head, Clara?! Or why the hell do you call this urgent?! I was in bed with an Italian Adonis named Lucca, kissing until we were sated, and you made me come out for this stupidity!”

That mental image was still with her as she walked. An involuntary smile appeared on her lips, but disappeared as soon as she heard a child's laugh.

Looking up, she saw him: her little "mini Colin" landing on the sandy ground after sliding down the slide, laughing loudly while waving his arms. Rae watched him from a bench, with a half-empty bag of cookies.

Penelope felt her heart fill with warmth. Her steps slowed; she wanted to record every second of that scene in her memory. Thomas turned and saw her, smiling with all his father's light. And then she smiled too, completely forgetting any shadow from the past.

Thomas saw her and ran towards her, shouting “Mom!” over and over again, with that sweet little voice that still held a childish echo. Penelope immediately knelt down, receiving him with open arms and hugging him to her chest. She filled him with quick, almost desperate kisses, while she breathed in the warm scent of sun and cookies that her little one always had. Thomas laughed loudly, his bubbly laughter filling the air, clinging to her neck as if the rest of the world didn't exist.

Rae, who was watching from a nearby bench, approached with a calm pace.

“Everything okay at work?” she asked in a kind tone, but with a curious glint in her eyes.

Penelope sighed and nodded, downplaying it.

“Yes… it was just something very silly,” she said, as if with those few words she could erase the annoyance of that useless meeting.

She stood up and Thomas, with that seemingly inexhaustible enthusiasm, got down from her arms to take her hand and start taking little jumps beside her, as if every step were a game.

It was then that a male voice resonated behind her.

“Anne!”

Penelope turned with a polite smile, immediately recognizing Jack, Genevieve's fiancé. The sunlight accentuated his golden skin, and his navy blue pants and impeccable white shirt gave him that elegant and relaxed air that he always wore effortlessly.

But it wasn't Jack who took her breath away.

Next to him, just a few steps away, was him. That man she had run away from three years ago. That man who never knew Thomas existed. That man who, in another life, had laughed at her love and had accepted money for a bet to sleep with her.

She felt a dull blow to her chest. All the blood seemed to leave her face, and her breathing became erratic. Her fingers instinctively tightened on Thomas's little hand, as if by just holding it she could protect him from everything.

He looked at her, and the instant their eyes met, his expression changed. The coffee cup he was carrying slipped from his hands, clattering against the pavement and splashing the ground. And then, to Penelope's horror, he fell to his knees in front of everyone, with tears overflowing his eyes.

“No…” he whispered with a broken voice, as if he were seeing a ghost.

Penelope remained motionless, unable to look away. She had found him. And the worst thing wasn't that. The worst thing was that he had heard Thomas call her "mom." He knew. And she understood in that instant that she was in serious trouble.

Jack, seeing that scene, immediately approached Colin and, frowning, asked him if he was okay. Colin didn't answer; his lips were trembling and his eyes didn't leave her, as if he feared that if he blinked, she would disappear. He could only cry, with broken breathing, his shoulders shaking under the weight of accumulated pain. Penelope, motionless, seemed to hear nothing. She didn't even register how Thomas clung to her leg with both hands, repeating her name insistently, trying to get her attention.

She saw out of the corner of her eye how Jack helped Colin up, but as soon as Colin's eyes fell on her again, something inside him seemed to break. Without thinking, he lunged forward, closing the distance in two strides, and wrapped her in a hug that left her breathless. His face sank into her shoulder, and the tears began to soak the fabric of her blouse.

“You're alive… it's you… you're okay…” he whispered, his voice broken, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. His hands, trembling, traced her face, and he left short, frantic kisses all over her face, as if he needed to make sure she was real. Then he hugged her again, this time tighter, with the fear of losing her again.

Penelope still didn't react, like a statue trapped in an impossible moment, until Thomas, with an unexpected impulse, squeezed her leg hard and pushed Colin back. His voice, high and determined, broke the tension.

“Mommy! Mine!” he shouted, clinging to her as if trying to protect her.

That was enough to snap her out of her trance. With a quick movement, she lifted the boy into her arms and hugged him tightly, feeling his small heart beating against hers. He repeated over and over again, almost like a mantra, “Mine, my mom,” while Penelope stroked his back, whispering that everything was okay, that mom was there.

Colin watched them, motionless, and the scene was anchored in his chest. That image… he had seen it before. It was the dream he had had weeks ago. And now he understood: Thomas wasn't just a child under his care… Thomas was his son.

He advanced cautiously, but the little boy's eyes, full of distrust, made him stop.

“Penelope…” he murmured, his voice laden with a mixture of relief and reproach.

Before she could answer, Jack frowned.

“Penelope? But her name is Anne.”

She took advantage of that crack in the conversation to regain control.

“You're mistaken… you must have confused me with someone else. My name is Anne,” she said, in a firm, unwavering tone.

But Colin smiled, and that smile wasn't one of mockery, but of certainty.

“Don't try to deceive me. I'd recognize the redhead who threw me off my skateboard so many years ago… she had a yellow bookmark in her hand and a look of victory that I'll never forget.”

Penelope tried to maintain her facade, shaking her head.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“If you're not Penelope,” he interrupted her, taking a step closer, “show me your forearm. You won't have the scar you got at fifteen, when you wanted to be a baker and ended up with burned hands making cookies.”

She stared at him, not looking away.

“I don't have to show you anything,” she replied coldly, although her voice trembled on the last word.

Colin let out a brief, choked laugh, drowned out by tears.

“That's the proof. That answer… is exactly what Penelope Featherington would give.”

Jack, aware that the tension was increasing, intervened with a firm voice.

“We'd better go into the studio and talk calmly.”

“No,” she immediately replied, “I have nothing to talk about.”

But Rae, who had been watching in silence, stepped forward with a dry smile.

“All of Thomas's things are inside. There's nowhere to go.”

The silence that followed was so heavy that even Thomas stopped talking. Penelope felt that every look on her weighed like a stone, and with no other options, she turned on her heels and crossed the door of Genevieve's studio. The air inside was different, more enclosed, and with every step she felt how three years of secrets were beginning to crumble.

Upon entering the building, the first thing they saw was Genevieve, who turned around smiling when she recognized them.

“Anne! What a surprise…” she exclaimed, greeting her fiancé with a quick kiss before looking at Colin and noticing the wet trail of tears on his cheeks. Her eyes then fell on Thomas, who was clinging to Penelope's neck so hard that his knuckles were white. The atmosphere was so charged that you could almost hear the silence.

“Well… since we're all here, let me introduce you properly: Anne, this is Colin, and Colin, Anne…” she added with a forced smile. “And, to be honest, like this, with Thomas in the middle, you look like a happy family.”

The comment, intended as a joke, only hardened Colin's expression and erased the color from Penelope's face. Genevieve caught the change instantly and her smile disappeared.

“I think… I shouldn't have said anything.”

“Don't worry, Gen. But I need a space to talk to Penelope,” Colin said, without taking his eyes off her.

Genevieve looked at him strangely.

“Penelope? You're mistaken, she's Anne.”

Penelope remained silent, rocking Thomas as if the act of lulling him were her only defense.

“Why don't you correct him?” Genevieve insisted.

“I already tried…” Penelope whispered, “but he doesn't believe me.”

“Because I recognize the woman I've loved since we were children,” Colin replied, taking a step towards her. “She says her name is Anne, but she's Penelope.”

“Colin, you have to consider that Penelope is dead,” Genevieve said, lowering her voice. “You just saw someone similar and your mind is playing tricks on you.”

“No. She is Penelope, it's not my mind,” he cut in firmly. “And her 'death' is something we have to talk about. That's why we need to be alone.”

“Okay… we'll talk,” Penelope accepted, letting out a sigh that seemed to drag three years of exhaustion.

Carefully, she handed a furious Thomas to Genevieve.

“No! Mommy!” the child protested, stretching his arms towards her.

“Everything is okay, honey… I'll be right back,” she said, her voice trembling.

Colin waited until she was free to move, but before continuing, he turned to Genevieve.

“We can take the family photos another day, right?”

“Of course,” she nodded, a little confused. “Anyway, our families couldn't come because of a work emergency.”

Colin turned back and walked with Penelope until they reached a large fabric warehouse. He opened the door, let her in, and closed it with a “click” that, in that silence, sounded definitive. The initial joy of seeing her alive had vanished. In his eyes, sweetness was now mixed with a fierce determination… and with the anger of a man who had waited too long for answers.

“Colin… I'm telling you one last time… I'm not Penelope.” Her voice trembled, not from fear, but from the pressure of having him so close, from the weight of that half-truth that was stuck in her throat.

“Stop lying.” His response was a sharp edge. His eyes burned, and every word carried the weight of three years of false mourning.

Penelope took a step back, but he, like a predator who doesn't intend to let his prey escape, grabbed her arm with a force that chilled her skin. In a single, rough, and decisive movement, he pulled the sleeve of her sweater up, exposing the scar.

The silence between them became thick. Colin watched her and a broken laugh escaped his lips, a dangerous mixture of relief, disbelief, and an emotion so intense that it was unsettling.

“Are you crazy?” she spat, pulling her arm away and covering the mark with a desperate gesture, as if she wanted to hide not only the scar, but everything it represented.

Colin leaned towards her, placing both hands on the nearest table, his gaze fixed, sharp as blades.

“You'd better start talking… now.” His tone was a barely contained threat, and his shoulders were tense as if at any moment he was going to break something… or break himself.

“Aren't you upset?” she asked, unable to understand that the first emotion on his face was not pure hatred.

“Very,” he replied, and the smile that wouldn't leave his face was more disturbing than any scream. “I'm furious with you… but I'm seeing you alive, and that… is worth more than my rage.” His eyes welled up, but his voice was still a whip.

Penelope let out a long, tired sigh, lowering her voice as if the entire room had shrunk.

“Please… don't tell anyone I'm Penelope. Here… in New York… I am Anne.”

Colin let a darker smile appear on his lips, one that had nothing of relief and everything of accumulated resentment.

“I don't give a damn about people. I want to know… why I spent three years kissing a plaque in an urn believing you were dead… and it turns out you were alive, with a son who, curiously, looks just like me.”

“Is he my son?” There was no room for beating around the bush; his voice was full of demand and fear.

She said nothing.

“I asked you a question. Is he my son?” The tone went up a notch, and his knuckles turned white from clenching the table so hard.

Silence.

“Penelope… is he mine?” he repeated, with a seriousness that chilled the blood, each word falling like a blow.

She looked up and her eyes spoke before her mouth; there was no verbal confession, but he understood everything. The smile disappeared as if it had never existed. His breathing caught in his throat and treacherous tears began to roll down his cheeks.

“What did I do to you… for you to come up with such a twisted revenge? Faking your death… and keeping me away from my son?” His voice broke on the last word.

“Revenge?” she laughed, but it was a hollow, empty laugh. “Was it nothing to you to mock me and my love… with a cheap bet?”

Colin closed his eyes for a moment, as if he needed that second not to scream.

“I owe you many apologies for that… but I was drugged. I don't remember anything from that night.”

“That's worse,” she said, with a coldness that hurt more than screams. “Because that's where the real you came out. You didn't have the ability to pretend… like you do sober.”

“Forgive me…” it was barely a whisper, but it carried the full weight of guilt.

“It wasn't revenge,” she continued, and in her voice there was a hint of sadness she tried to hide. “After I disappeared, I realized I was pregnant… and by then, my lie was already real.”

Colin let out a bitter laugh, which sounded more like self-contempt than mockery.

“Thomas was more important than us. He deserved to have me as a father.”

“Why?” Her question was a dry blow. “Why have a father who, when he was conceived, mocked his own creation?”

He tensed immediately, closing the distance between them in an instinctive movement, but she didn't look away for a second.

“Don't put words in my mouth.”

“I'm not lying,” she replied, firm as a rock. “It wasn't me who said 'I'd rather be dead than be with Penelope.' But I am saying this… I would rather be dead than let Thomas be near a coward.”

The words pierced his chest. Colin stepped back slightly, breathing as if each inhalation cost him.

“I want to be close to him… and to you.”

“What you want… I don't care about,” she said. “I only care about Thomas… and his well-being.”

“He deserves a father…” he said, and anger lit up his voice again. “Unless he already has one.”

“Who do you think I am?” she exploded, and the room seemed to shrink even more. “Thomas is too small to ask about his dad… but if he had, I would have told him the same thing you said years ago: that he would be dead.”

“Why do you have this damned obsession with death?” he roared, unable to contain himself. “You play with it as if it were nothing.”

“My plan was to keep being Anne… but you showed up.”

“I showed up to not leave,” he declared, with an intensity that burned. “I want your forgiveness… and to be with my son. It's my right.”

“It's too late, Colin…” her voice sounded firm, although something inside her trembled. “Penelope died. I… am Anne.”

He tilted his head, with that cold calm that always made him seem more dangerous. “Now that we're on that topic…” he said, staring at her, “why did Agatha tell everyone that she saw you dead?”

The name fell like a stone. Penelope's heart skipped a beat and, for the first time in the entire conversation, her expression darkened with a glint of fear. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she replied, trying to keep her voice neutral.

“Of course you do.” His tone thickened, venomous. “She helped you run away, didn't she? I'm sure the Bridgerton lawyers would love to know that detail.”

Fear turned into contained fury. Penelope took a step forward, her breathing short, and in an impulsive and precise movement, she dug her fingers into the lapel of his jacket and pulled him towards her, staying inches from his face. “Agatha has nothing to do with this,” she spat, her voice a snarl. “Don't involve her.”

Colin smiled, but the smile was dark, one that promised no comfort. With a gesture as quick as it was gentle, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close to his body, immobilizing her without open violence, like someone trapping a beautiful and dangerous animal. “If threatening Agatha gets you like this…” he said, with a teasing hint, “I think I'll threaten her more often.”

Penelope struggled, managed to separate herself a few inches, the fabric of the jacket tense under her hands, but she was still trapped in his arms. “You're crazy.” The word was a sharp blow.

“Crazy about you.” He answered, not letting go. “I'm so angry… but also, after so much time, the dream of my life came true: to see you again. And now… besides, I have a son.”

“You have nothing,” she said, cuttingly. “He's just mine.”

Colin let out a macabre smile, like someone who enjoys a confession that hurts. “He's both of ours.”

She rolled her eyes with a mix of exasperation and rejection, trying to make disbelief her shield. “Are you comfortable?” he asked, mockingly, lowering his voice and tone like someone measuring the danger of their prey. “Do you feel comfortable smiling now?”

It was in that instant that Penelope perceived, with cold panic, that he still had her pressed against his body. She pushed his chest with the palm of her hand, tried to get free, felt the warm smell of his coat, the firm beat of his chest against her back. “Let me go,” she ordered, her voice broken with anger.

“Why? I'm so comfortable,” he replied, and for a second the irony broke and gave way to something serious, almost painful. “I missed you, Pen… so much. I hit rock bottom because I didn't have you.”

She looked at him harshly. “And why should I care? Besides… why does it affect you so much if you never loved me?”

The confession came out of Colin like a sentence that sought no excuses: “I always loved you.” The words didn't sound fake; they had weight. “But that drunk night… it wasn't the right time to tell you.”

Penelope laughed, a short, bitter laugh. “Right. And yet, it was the perfect time to say that you were with me for a moment of passion that meant nothing.”

His eyes hardened. “I said it out of fear. Fear of them mocking me.” There was an honesty that roared beneath the spine of his anger.

“And was I so insignificant to you and your stupid friends that I could be considered 'insignificant'?” Her voice cut, each word a dagger.

“No.” He denied quickly. “They would have mocked me… for being so perfect together.”

“Don't lie.” Penelope stared at him. “That only confirms that the best thing I did was leave.”

“No.” Colin said firmly. “It wasn't the best thing. Because I couldn't be with you. And I matured.”

Penelope let out an empty laugh. “You'll mature when cows fly.”

He couldn't help but smile at her sarcasm; he squeezed a little tighter, not to hurt her but to remember, to feel. “I missed your humor… and everything about you.”

She sighed, tired of so many words beating. “Even if it takes me my whole life… and two reincarnations,” he said, becoming serious, as if making an oath, “I will beg for your forgiveness and earn a place in your life… and in our son's. I will show you that I am not that insecure boy. That I changed.”

Penelope looked at him, her laugh was sharp and skeptical, stuck like an edge. “Then… you'll see something impossible.”

Colin had her trapped in his arms, the brush of her skin against the fabric of his jacket making every second a delicious and painful torment at the same time. His words resonated with a mix of firmness and hope, like a pact not only with her, but with himself:

“I have nothing in London that ties me down more than my family, and honestly, I don't want to be away from you for another minute. I'll stay in New York. This is where I'm supposed to be, Penelope. To convince you… to be close to our son.”

His grip tightened when she tried to pull away, her body trying to free itself from the prison his closeness represented, but her mind screamed a much bigger chaos. “You're crazy,” she gasped, her eyes bright with frustration and fear.

“Maybe so, but I'm not leaving.” His voice, deep and full of determination, was a wall against her words.

Penelope stared at him, fatigue weighing on her eyelids. "I'm not going to convince you to leave, am I?"

"No." He replied with a mixture of tenderness and fire. "I'll never walk away from the woman I love again."

The words fell between them like a sentence, a challenge, a confession so brutal that even the air seemed to hold its breath. She swallowed, her lips tight, her voice sharp as she replied, "You don't love me. You just wanted someone to control, someone behind you to adore you."

Colin leaned toward her, his eyes deep and transparent, with a painful sincerity that pierced her skin. "You don't know anything. Your 'death' was a blow that ripped out my soul and left me empty. Now that you're here, I'm not going to waste this opportunity. One way or another, by hook or by crook."

Penelope's response was a bitter, cutting smile. "I'd love to see you try."

She pulled away again, taking a step back, but then something caught her attention. The silver chain hanging from Colin's neck, shining in the room's dim light, calling to her eyes like a lighthouse.

Her heart stopped for an instant when Colin looked down at her, then gently pulled at the fabric to show it completely.

"I never take it off," he said in a low voice, almost a whisper. "I never take off the gift you gave me, because it's the only way I have to feel you close, even when you're far away."

A torrent of emotions invaded her without warning. Her hand rose on its own, trembling, and her fingers grazed the chain with a reverent and nostalgic touch. She remembered with pain and love the moment she gave it to him, the promises hidden in that small gesture, the contained tears and smiles, and everything that symbol had unleashed: Thomas, the lie, the distance between them.

She allowed herself a soft, almost incredulous laugh, as if it were all a beautiful madness.

Colin approached slowly, with a calm that burned, and whispered, "Stop being so stubborn, Pen... let me in."

But she looked back at him, firm and clear, not giving an inch. "Never."

Then his smile returned, dark and playful, with the confidence of someone who knows that no wall is impenetrable. "Then I'll have to convince you another way."

Before Penelope could react, Colin's lips crashed against hers with an urgency that seemed to contain all the years of loneliness, all the endless nights, and all the choked sighs he had never confessed to her. It was a voracious, stolen kiss, like a hurricane that gave no warning and swept away everything in its path. Instinctively, Penelope tried to push his chest, her trembling hands hitting him in a desperate attempt to escape. But her strength was in vain; he held her with a firmness that disarmed her, that made her feel trapped between the fire of his embrace and the ocean of emotions she could no longer control.

She hit his torso with both hands, first with rage, then with confusion, and finally with a muffled sadness that made her hesitate. Colin, without losing a second, pulled her even closer, wrapping her in his arms as if he wanted to merge with her, as if in that instant the only way to save himself was to become one.

The resistance she had so fiercely maintained began to break, slowly and painfully. The barricade built by years of pain and distrust gave way to the force of desire, hope, and the love buried under so many lies. Penelope stopped fighting, not because she wanted to, but because every fiber of her being surrendered to that storm that consumed her: the sweet and bitter taste of his lips that awakened sleeping memories, the heat that spread like liquid fire over her skin, the passion that had been hidden, buried under layers of silences and goodbyes.

There was no longer fear, nor hatred, only the raw truth of that instant where the world was reduced to that kiss, to that contact, to that broken connection that was now mending itself, fragile but powerful. For a second that seemed eternal, they clung to each other regardless of the chaos that surrounded them, letting time stand still and love, after so much suffering, finally find its voice in a single kiss.

But then, a sharp, powerful scream burst into the room, tearing them from the whirlwind.

"Get away from mommy!"

They both separated quickly, the air charged with electricity and surprise. There was Thomas, small but determined, pushing Colin's legs with all the strength his arms allowed him.

"Bad! Bad!" he cried with tears in his eyes. "You're hurting her!"

Colin blinked, his pulse still racing, and only then did he realize that Penelope had let out a choked whimper during the kiss, a sound that now seemed to him like a vulnerable and meaningful echo.

He tried to approach the boy with open hands and a soft voice. "Honey... son..."

But Thomas backed away, his face marked by fear and contained rage. "No! She's my mommy and you're bad!" His words were an insurmountable wall.

Penelope picked the boy up in a protective hug, feeling him cling to her neck as if with that gesture he could protect himself from the whole world.

"Bad Colin... bad Colin," Thomas repeated in a broken voice, his small body trembling against her.

Colin stood motionless, watching the scene with a broken heart. The fear in Thomas's eyes, the way Penelope protected him, the invisible wall that separated him from them... All of it hurt him more than any physical wound.

And he knew that what he had in front of him was not a small obstacle or a passing argument. It was a battle he had to fight day by day, a dark and long path where he would have to earn the trust not only of Penelope, but of that child who now saw him as a stranger, a villain.

An uncertain future, but a future that he was determined to face, because nothing was more important than recovering the lost love and building, step by step, what he had once broken.