Chapter Text

April 2014

She was a stupid girl in love. That much is clear now. She was so happy on her 18th birthday, wearing a sequin dress and surrounded by friends. Eloise was there, and most of the Bridgertons. Colin was there too. She was determined it would be the night .
He’d drunk too much. She saw it as an advantage. He didn’t resist when she approached him, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into a dance.
If he hadn’t been so drunk, he might have been smarter. If he hadn’t been so drunk, she might still have her future. But then, she wouldn’t have the little peanut growing beneath her heart.
Life is all ups and downs, gives and takes.

May 2014

She still remembers, with terrifying clarity, the tone of Colin’s voice when he said to Reg Fife, “It was a mistake. I was too drunk and clearly had no standards that night.”
She should’ve been ready for it. He’d been avoiding her ever since her birthday. But it still broke her.

June 2014

When she finally dares to look at the pregnancy test in her hand, she isn’t surprised by the plus sign staring back at her. She isn’t.
She’s scared, petrified, but not surprised.
It never even crosses her mind to go to him. He made himself clear. She will not beg.

July 2014

Her mother’s fury is immense. She found the test under the mattress, though Penelope would love to know why she was rummaging through her things in the first place. Not that it matters, she’s pregnant at 18, so clearly, she isn’t to be trusted.
Portia rants, the words blurring together, until she starts talking about “setting up an appointment to take care of it.”
That’s when Penelope goes feral, clawing at her mother’s face. She won’t let Portia kill her baby.

July 2014

Packing is quick, five changes of clothes, her jacket, and a pair of hiking boots. She wipes her laptop clean, tosses her phone’s SIM card, and sells the phone for cash. She takes what little remains of her college fund, £5,000, and buries it in a tin can under the willows by the Thames, where she and Eloise used to play. She can’t carry it with her, but she can’t risk leaving it in a bank either.
It’s a beautiful summer morning when she walks out of her home for the last time.

July 2014

The only thing she regrets is Eloise. But she doesn’t dare to confide in her. Eloise would go into crusader mode, confronting Colin and making a spectacle. Or worse, she might accuse Penelope of taking advantage of her brother, of being a gold-digging social climber just like her mother.
It always comes down to one of those two possibilities in Penelope’s mind. So she doesn’t dare. Eloise has no place in the life awaiting her.

July 2014

She has no place to go, no idea how to begin this new, independent life. She needs medical care for the baby, a roof over her head, and a plan, but none of it feels within reach. First night, she ends up on a park bench, hiding in the shrubbery for what little shelter it provides, grateful it wasn't cold but shivering nevertheless. She knows this isn’t sustainable. She needs a better solution.

That solution comes in the form of Emilia Barebrook, who takes her into a domestic violence shelter. Emilia finds her a bed, offers her a steaming bowl of soup, and a hot shower. To Penelope, she feels like a personal saviour, her first lifeline in this storm.

Exhaustion weighs her down, and the moment her head touches the pillow, she collapses into the clean, crisp sheets, letting sleep overtake her completely.

August 2014

She feels like a true villain. She’s taking a bed from some poor woman running away from an abuser. But she’s so lost, so lonely, she doesn’t know what else to do. She can’t let Portia find her and kill her baby. So, in fact, she is running from an abuser. She’s running and trying to save her child.

The bed is firm and uncomfortable, but the sheets are clean, and she’s grateful. All her worldly possessions are now packed into a single backpack. Is it pitiful that everything making her who she is fits into a bag? Yes. But she has no time to dwell on that now.

August 2014:

Emilia is kind to her, genuinely wants to help, but Penelope still doesn’t dare to confide in her.
“Penelope, we both know ‘Debbling’ isn’t your real last name,” Emilia says. She’s right. The name belongs to Alphie, a boy from high school who was always kind to her.
“But you need documents to get support for expecting mothers. This is what we’re going to do...”
In the end, Emilia arranges a set of documents under the name Penelope Debbling. Penelope feels a wave of relief. That night, she burns the last remnants of anything with the name Featherington still left in her bag.

September 2014 

The first time she feels her baby move is while standing in the queue for emergency accommodation at the local council. She’s 22 weeks pregnant, her belly unmistakable, pressing against clothes that are too tight to contain it anymore. She can’t afford new clothes, so she makes do, despite the discomfort.

When her name is finally called, the only thing they can offer her is a filthy motel room. The walls are stained, and the smell of mildew lingers in the air. But she takes it. She has no choice.

As she signs the paperwork, she feels it again, a tiny flutter, like a whisper of wings, deep inside her. For a moment, the motel room doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

October 2014

The first thing she buys for her motel room is ziplock bags, so cockroaches can’t get into her food. Not that she has much food to protect. Just a few crackers, the only thing she can keep down these days. She eats at the shelter for nutrients, but she still worries. What if the baby isn’t getting enough of the good stuff?

She clings to the thought of her upcoming exam in two days.

November 2014

She can see its tiny face, its little legs and fists. She sees her baby sucking its thumb, and she laughs, a real laugh, for the first time in seven months.
Was it fair that the conception of this child ended her life as she knew it? No, probably not. This little bean is coming into the world with a heavy burden, and the thought makes her cry.
But she’ll be there for it.
She will.

November 2014

She wants to cry, but the tears have dried up. Her boss just fired her. She’s too pregnant to keep delivering food by bike, apparently. She knows they’re right, but still, running Uber Eats deliveries was her main source of income. She needs money. Babies are expensive. Clothes, nappies, a crib, everything.

And she has nothing. Her possessions are still reduced to the contents of her one backpack.

December 2014

She’s living off her savings and social care now. No one wants to hire a woman who’s eight months pregnant, so she has no choice. She takes her lunches at the women’s shelter, where Emilia is a pillar of strength for so many.

Penelope envies Emilia’s determination and resilience. She’s not the only one. Emilia is their hero.

December 2014

Her motel room smells of tobacco, no matter how many times Penelope attacks it with cleaning supplies. The stench lingers, stubborn and oppressive. It makes her cry, sob, and wail in frustration. She wants better for her baby, but this is all she has.

Her possessions are now reduced to two backpacks. One holds her things. The other is for the baby.

December 2014

She’s walking through Rye Park when the contractions start, a sharp pulling in her lower abdomen. She heads back to her room and packs. It would be silly to leave her belongings behind; someone would steal them while she’s in the hospital.

She tries calling Emilia, just to hear a voice she trusts, but it’s the weekend, and Emilia doesn’t answer her business line.

With no one to turn to, she slings her two backpacks over her shoulders and takes the subway to the hospital. People stare as each contraction grips her, her face contorting in pain. An older gentleman offers to help her, and she’s grateful, until she notices him ogling her breasts beneath her pregnancy top. She clutches her bags tighter and counts the minutes until she can get off the train.

January  2015 

Aidan Debling is born on January 1st after 34 grueling hours of labor. He arrives with a soft tuft of chestnut hair, just like his father, and pale blue eyes that mirror his mother’s.  

The moment she holds him, all the pain and exhaustion fade away. He’s perfect, and in that instant, he becomes her entire world. 

January  2015

Aidan is four days old, and he doesn’t want to eat. She left the hospital a day ago, and she can barely move from the stitches and strain of delivery. All she wants is to collapse into bed with her son in her arms, but he’s wailing with hunger, and she can’t get him to latch.

She tries everything the nurses taught her. Everything she learned in the maternity course. But nothing works. She’s desperate. She can’t afford formula and wouldn’t know where to get it even if she could.

She prays—pleads—for a miracle. What was the point of having breasts that caused her so much inconvenience throughout her life if they can’t even feed her baby?

It takes six hours. Six hours of tears, frustration, and despair. But finally, Aidan latches and begins to suck. The sensation shoots through her like electricity, soothing her frazzled nerves. For the first time, she feels like she can do this.

May 2015

She qualifies for Universal Credit and Child Benefit, but it’s nowhere near enough. When Aidan is four months old, she has no choice but to find a job. Emilia helps her secure childcare, and Penelope takes a position as a waitress.  

The hours are long and grueling, and the pay is just enough to scrape by. Aidan is going through sleep regression, waking at all hours of the night, and the motel owner has already threatened to kick them out if she doesn’t keep him quiet.  

Exhausted and overwhelmed, she often feels like she’s on the verge of breaking. But when she looks at Aidan, his tiny, trusting face, his soft little hands gripping hers, she finds the strength to keep going. He’s her anchor, the one thing keeping her from drifting away completely. 

May 2015

On her second day as a waitress, the job feels like one disaster after another. She has no experience, no training. Orders are mixed up, drinks spilled. She’s juggling trays with trembling hands when a bubble of panic rises in her throat, threatening to overwhelm her.

Then Genevieve appears, placing a steadying hand between her shoulder blades.
“Breathe, darling. It’s going to be okay. We’ll get you trained in no time.”

Genevieve is a godsend. Her own life is as messy as Penelope’s, but she takes it all with a smile and a chuckle. She teaches Penelope how to hold a tray, how to shorthand orders, and even a little trick for remembering them. She buys Penelope coffee and asks her how she’s doing.

That small act of kindness breaks Penelope. She cries, overwhelmed by the rare feeling of being seen.

September 2015

At eight months old, Aidan is the light of her life. A happy, chubby baby who babbles endlessly, filling the air with his nonsensical sounds. He screams with delight at every little discovery, his joy infectious.  

On their walks, he points at trees, birds, cars, every ordinary thing is a source of wonder to him.  

Watching his delight fills her with a quiet happiness, a reminder that even in her hardest moments, there is still magic in the world through his eyes.

September 2015

October 2015

At last, her application for housing comes through. She’s assigned a small flat in a cheap neighborhood in London. It’s just one room with a bed, a tiny kitchenette, and an even tinier bathroom.

But it’s permanent, and that’s what matters.

Genevieve helps her clean the place. They move Aidan’s crib and highchair from the motel. Penelope has more things now, most of them for Aidan. Markus, the bartender, helps them move in with his old car. He even installs an extra lock on her door for safety.

Genevieve gives her a beautiful quilt for the bed. For the first time, the space feels a little like home.

December 2015

Markus is kind, so one night after her shift, when he kisses her, she doesn’t push him away. But there’s no passion, no spark. Their relationship is purely physical, and she doesn’t know how to end it without making things awkward at work.

When he eventually grows frustrated with her emotional distance, she understands. But she has nothing left to give.

The first time he hits her, she thinks it’s her fault. She doesn’t love him enough. She’s not trying hard enough. So she hides it.

The second time, the bruise is harder to hide. Genevieve notices and steps in. She forces Penelope to quit, helps her change the locks, and calls Emilia.

Emilia, her savior yet again, finds her a new job at a diner. The tips are miserable, but she doesn’t have to pay for nighttime childcare, and no one gropes her while she pours coffee.

  December 2015

Christmas is always hard. She doesn’t have many happy memories of her own family, but she remembers the giant tree at Bridgerton House, adorned with ribbons and glittering ornaments. She remembers how Violet always made sure there was a gift for her under its branches, a small token that made her feel seen.  

She misses Violet. The warmth, the kindness, the sense of belonging that house always seemed to radiate.  

But most of all, she misses Eloise. Always Eloise. 

January 2016

It’s Aidan’s first birthday. The diner is closed for New Year’s Day, giving Penelope a rare day off. She spends the morning in the kitchen, determined to bake a cake. It’s lopsided, unevenly frosted, and overloaded with M&Ms, but a big, bright “1” candle stands proudly on top, and that’s what matters.

Aidan claps his little hands in delight when he sees the M&M explosion. Genevieve arrives soon after, carrying a plush dragon with soft green fabric and a goofy smile that makes Aidan shriek with happiness. They all share the cake, too sweet and too messy, but perfect in its imperfection.

When Aidan finally falls asleep, clutching the dragon tightly, Penelope sits staring at the remnants of their little celebration. Sadness weighs heavily on her chest, a mixture of bitterness and guilt that no amount of giggles could lift.

“Shouldn’t his father be here?” she asks Genevieve, her voice breaking at last. “On his first birthday? Shouldn’t he have his father here with him? I’ll never be able to give him what he can.”

Genevieve pours them each a glass of wine and listens as Penelope finally tells the story. The birthday party. The drunken dance. How stupid she was. The cold treatment and silent avoidance that followed. Colin’s cruel words. She tries to keep it light, throwing in a joke or two, but the pain spills out regardless.

Genevieve doesn’t speak right away. Instead, she takes Penelope’s hand and squeezes it. “He doesn’t need a father to see how much he’s loved. He has you.”

Penelope nods, her eyes overflowing with tears. Aidan’s soft snores fill the quiet room as Penelope crawls into bed next to him, finding comfort in his small, steady breaths.

April 2016

She caves and attempts to stalk Eloise's social media. But most of it is private, so there’s little to uncover beyond a brief mention of Eloise studying at Oxford.  

Then, she stumbles across Colin’s travel Instagram. The first picture she sees takes her breath away, Colin, smiling and tanned, standing on a pristine tropical beach. He’s laughing, carefree, the sun casting golden highlights in his chestnut hair.  

She doesn’t think about him much anymore, not in the same way she used to. But it still hurts. The life he’s living feels like a cruel mockery of her own, a reminder of what was never hers.  

Because, really, he was never hers.

January 2017

Aidan is the spitting image of his father. The chestnut hair, the way his lips curve when something catches his interest, and the way he devours food with almost religious enthusiasm, it’s all Colin.

Sometimes, in the stillness of the night, when she can’t sleep, she listens to Aidan’s tiny snores and strokes his soft hair. Inevitably, her mind drifts to Colin. What would he say if he knew?

But it’s dangerous to think that way, so she pushes the thoughts aside, burying them deep where they can’t hurt her.

Mrs. Smyth next door is an old woman who adores Aidan. She doesn’t have much, no one in the building does, but she’s lonely, and it makes her happy to share an occasional meal with Penelope and Aidan. Sometimes, she even offers to babysit, giving Penelope a rare opportunity to go out with Genevieve.

The first time feels strange. Dressing up feels almost alien. She doesn’t have proper clothes, but Gen brings over some tops, and Penelope manages to look nice. She’s still blonde; some part of her refuses to let her red curls make a comeback. The Featherington red had died with the Featherington name.

They go to a club, get piss-drunk, and end the night eating kebabs in the middle of the street, stumbling home with tears of laughter streaming down their faces. They pass out together on Penelope’s bed, and for a brief moment, life feels a little easier when you have someone to call a friend.

One night, Genevieve stumbles through her door with a swollen eye, a split lip, and a hollow, haunted look in her eyes.  

“He wanted to pimp me out to his friends,” Gen says quietly, her voice trembling. “I said no.”  

Penelope doesn’t say anything. She just pulls her into a tight embrace, holding her as Genevieve cries into her shoulder.  

Aidan shuffles out of his room, rubbing his eyes. When he sees Genevieve, he toddles over and wraps his little arms around her legs. Without a word, he offers her his favorite plush dragon, the one she gave him for his first birthday, holding it out with solemn determination.  

Gen hugs him tightly, and Penelope watches them, her chest tight with unspoken rage and sorrow. Long into the night, as Genevieve finally drifts into an exhausted sleep on her couch, Penelope sits awake, wondering why life has to be so cruel to the kindest people. 

The job at the diner is nice. The clients are all locals, pleasant and familiar. At closing, when there’s leftover food, she’s allowed to take it home, which helps. But it’s not enough to cover everything.  

To make ends meet, she scrapes by in every way she can. She earns small amounts from Swagbucks. She works a temporary data entry job for the local library modernization project. She walks dogs in the neighborhood and takes on cleaning jobs whenever she can find someone to babysit Aidan in the early morning or late at night.  

And sometimes, when sleep doesn’t come, she sits in the quiet of the small hours, cradling a cup of tea, and writes. It’s the only thing that feels entirely hers.

The first article she manages to sell is about herself, about what it’s like to be a young, unemployed, pregnant woman with no support system beyond what the state provides. Writing it is like reopening every wound she’s been trying to ignore. She sheds countless tears putting her story into words.  

The payment isn’t much, barely enough to cover a week’s groceries. But that doesn’t matter. Her article is out there. Published. The first thing she’s ever had published.  

When she shows Genevieve, her friend squeals with pride and insists they celebrate. They go out, dance until the early hours of the morning, and laugh until their ribs ache. For one night, Penelope allows herself to feel proud of what she’s accomplished.

The one time the pull of her old life proves irresistible is when Eloise finishes her undergraduate degree at Oxford. Penelope sneaks into the ceremony, blending into the crowd with oversized sunglasses and her dyed blonde hair.  

She sees them all from afar, the entire Bridgerton brood standing together, beaming with pride. Violet’s joy radiates like sunlight, and even from a distance, Penelope can hear the warm hum of their laughter.  

Her heart tightens painfully in her chest, almost pulling her toward them. For a moment, she imagines stepping forward, revealing herself, and being enveloped by their familiar warmth. But the weight of her choices holds her back.  

Before she can change her mind, she turns and runs, disappearing into the city streets before anyone can see her. 

Aidan is such a serious three-year-old that it breaks her heart sometimes. He laughs, plays, and gets into mischief, just as any child his age should. But his eyes, those pale blue eyes, are always so sad and solemn, far too knowing for someone so young.  

She often wonders why. Why are those eyes the only thing he inherited from her? Why the sadness?  

She doesn’t have an answer, and it keeps her awake at night, watching him sleep and stroking his soft hair, wishing she could take whatever burden he carries and bear it for him.

She’s alone, but not completely lonely. She has Aidan, and she has Gen. They fill her days with love and laughter, but sometimes it isn’t enough. Sometimes, she craves someone’s touch, someone who wants her for more than her friendship or her survival.  

Gen takes her clubbing, and occasionally, she hooks up with someone. She wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, reeking of booze, her makeup smudged, her hair a tangled mess. It’s nothing like the romance she dreamed of as a girl.  

It doesn’t even do a good job of chasing away the loneliness. But it’s all she can get. All she can give.

When COVID hits, everything falls apart. The diner closes, and she’s left without a job. Desperation sets in quickly. Three weeks into the lockdown, and she’s desperate enough to entertain the unthinkable, to call Anthony Bridgerton and ask for help.  

She dwells on it for days, torn between pride, fear and the crushing reality of her situation. While her meagre savings dwindle. She can’t afford her apartment anymore, so she and Gen find a two-bedroom place together. Aidan is overjoyed because Aunt GenGen is now living with them, and his world feels a little brighter with her around.  

But Gen has lost her job too. She’s working on a phone sex gig now, and the noises coming from her room make Penelope blush every time she hears them. To drown out the sounds, Penelope cranks up the volume on the cartoons, hoping Aidan won’t ask about them again. “Is GenGen okay?” he’s started asking, his innocent curiosity making Penelope cringe.

Gen’s phone gig gives her an idea. With her soft, delicate hands, something people, particularly men, have commented on with peculiar interest, she decides to open an OnlyFans account.  

Gen helps her set it up, coaching her through the process. She invests in a tripod and some decent lighting, a small but necessary expense. And somehow, it works. For reasons she doesn’t entirely understand, her hands develop a bill-paying clientele.  

The video of her peeling an English cucumber becomes an unexpected hit, earning her enough money that, for the first time, she feels a sliver of financial stability. That night, she deletes Anthony Bridgerton’s number from her phone, no longer needing the lifeline she’d been too proud to use anyway. 

To celebrate, she and Gen buy a bottle of bourbon and drink themselves silly, laughing until their giggles wake Aidan. The five-year-old appears in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes and informing them in a very serious voice, “Sleep is important at my age.”  

They dissolve into laughter all over again.

After the lockdown ends, it takes some time, but the diner finally reopens, and the owner calls her back. Between her shifts at the diner and her OnlyFans income, she doesn’t have to take on any additional jobs. For the first time in years, she even has moments to herself.  

In those quiet moments, she starts writing again, stories about a blue-eyed boy chasing dragons in a magical kingdom. They quickly become Aidan’s favorite bedtime stories, lulling him to sleep each night with dreams of adventure.  

Somehow, the simple act of committing those tales to paper makes her feel alive again, as though she’s found a piece of herself she thought had been lost forever. It gives her a sense of purpose she hadn’t realized she was missing. 

She meets Derek at the diner. He brings her muffins and tulips, and his gentle persistence wears down her walls. He’s kind, attentive, and sweet, so sweet that when he asks her out, she says yes.  

They see each other for a few months. He treats her well, and by all accounts, he’s a perfect choice. A sensible, reasonable man for a girl in her situation.  

But deep down, she knows she doesn’t love him. She’s with him because he’s safe, because he feels like the right answer to a question she’s never wanted to ask.  

When she ends it, everyone says she’s crazy, throwing away someone so good, so stable. But she knows she’s not.  

Nothing has always been preferable to settling. It’s that refusal to settle that’s shaped her, given her the strength to survive. In the end, she is who she is because of it. 

They fall into a comfortable routine. Aidan starts school and thrives, coming home each day with stories about his classmates and the new things he’s learned. His enthusiasm is infectious, and Penelope feels a sense of pride watching him grow.  

Genevieve, as passionate as ever, lands a job as a personal assistant to a B-list celebrity. It’s not her dream, but she has big plans for the future, and Penelope admires her drive.  

Penelope sells the occasional article to the paper, and each publication feels like a small victory. She’s proud of herself, even if the pay barely adds up. Most of her energy, though, goes into her stories.  

They’re whimsical, heartfelt tales of adventure and courage, often inspired by Aidan. She pours her heart into them, though the idea of publishing them feels like an impossible dream. For now, it’s enough to write, to create something that makes her feel alive and hopeful.

When her article exposing fetishism in modern England is published, and the payment hits her account, she decides to treat herself and Aidan to a weekend in Brighton.  

It’s not a lavish overseas getaway or an exotic holiday, but it doesn’t matter to him. The moment they arrive, Aidan becomes pure excitement, running across the sand with wild abandon and shrieking as the cold water laps at his tiny feet.  

They eat sticky, melting ice creams, walk along the beach collecting seashells, and ride the merry-go-round on the pier. His laughter fills the air, a soundtrack to their perfect day.  

For Penelope, it’s everything. A reminder that joy doesn’t need grandeur, just moments like this, simple, beautiful, and shared. 

Aidan is in the middle of Key Stage 2 when he starts bringing home elaborate art projects, pieces so intricate and creative that even Penelope, with her untrained eye, can tell they’re well beyond his age.  

He also begins talking endlessly about Mr. B, the new art teacher, with an enthusiasm that gladdens her heart. Every day, there’s something new: how Mr. B encouraged him to mix colors, or how he explained perspective in a way that "just made sense."  

It isn’t the best school, not by any stretch. It doesn’t compare to the lavish private schools Penelope herself attended at that age. But seeing someone like Mr. B take the time to instill a love of art in children, even in a public school in a less-than-great neighborhood, makes her feel grateful.  

For the first time in a long while, she feels like Aidan is getting something extraordinary. 

She’s half-annoyed, half-amused by Aidan’s growing obsession with Mr. B, so much so that she finds herself actually looking forward to meeting him at the school’s Christmas exhibit.  

She arrives tired from her shift but buoyed by good news, another one of her articles has been purchased, and she’s already planning what she can afford to buy Aidan for Christmas.  

Aidan pulls her and  practically drags her across the room to the panel where his painting is displayed. He is so excited she can not but laugh. He points with pride at the wall at his painting. Nervous energy is radiating off him.  

When she looks at the painting, she’s taken aback by the vibrant depiction of a snow-covered village, with twinkling lights strung between cottages and tiny carolers singing under a glowing lamp post.

Then, a voice speaks from behind her.  

“Aidan. There you are. Showing off your masterpiece”  

“Mr B.” Aidan chirps “Meet my mum”

The tone is familiar, so familiar that her stomach drops. But she has no time to place it before she turns around and freezes.  

Standing before her is Benedict Bridgerton, and the flicker of recognition in his eyes tells her there is no fooling him.

Chapter Text

His mother’s screams cut through the air. He hears them in his room.  Unearthly wails that pierce his soul. He runs into the living room without breath, his heart pounding in his ears. She is crumpled on the floor, clutching her pregnant swollen belly. Her sobs are raw, guttural, choked attempts at breathing, a sound that will haunt him for years to come.

Anthony is there, his face pale and ridden with panic. He is trying to hold her upright and failing. "Mummy, breathe," Anthony pleads, his own voice trembling, his breath coming out shakily.

Benedict freezes in the doorway, his feet rooted to the ground. He doesn’t want to understand what is happening. 

Before he can even say anything, Eloise flings herself at him. Her small arms wrapping desperately around his neck as she buries her face in his shoulder. "Papa," she whispers, her voice breaking before the sobs take over, shaking her entire body.

Benedict holds her tightly, his own chest constricting with a pain he doesn’t yet know how to name. The world tilts and shifts, irreversibly.

They make a bleak picture. All of them, dressed in black, standing in a tight circle around their mother. Her wide, tear-filled eyes keep darting to the coffin.

Benedict is holding her arm on one side, Anthony on the other. He can feel her trembling beneath his grip, her strength gone,  like she will collapse at any moment. Anthony’s face is stoic, but his eyes are hollow and his jaw is clenched so tightly that it looks painful.

Colin is beside them, his hands gripping Eloise’s and Daphne’s in a death grip. Neither of them complains, their small fingers wrapped tightly in his.

Francesca and Gregory, too young to fully grasp what is going on, are clinging to their aunt and uncle. 

They are a family. A family without its head.

Colin is acting out in school. His usual sweet nature has been replaced by sudden outbursts of rage. The staff is understanding, but it still needs to be addressed. Benedict doesn’t really know how to help. He takes him out, just the two of them, to wander the park or get ice cream. They talk about nothing and everything, but it feels like trying to plug a sinking ship with his bare hands. It isn’t enough. It probably never will be.

Eloise and Daphne come to his room almost every night, looking for comfort he doesn’t know how to give. He lets them crawl into bed with him, their whispered questions about their father cutting through the silence like knives.

Downstairs, Aunt Winnie is doing her best with the babies, but their cries echo through the night. Francesca and Gregory don’t understand what’s wrong, but they feel it, the tension, the grief, their wails a reflection of the burden pressing down on them all.

They all miss their father. But they miss their mother, too. Some days, it feels like two people died in that car crash, not just their father, but her too.

Sometimes Benedict catches a glimpse of her, drifting down the halls like a ghost, her face blank with sorrow, her eyes cried dry. She’s been reduced to a hollow shell.

“Where are you, Mother?” he whispers one day as he watches her retreating form. But no one answers.

Anthony is lost. His burden is the heaviest of them all, and Benedict knows it.

His brother is brave and determined, standing tall in front of lawyers, board members, and professors. Navigating the storm that is their father’s legacy with a strength that looks unshakable. To everyone else, Anthony is a pillar, calm, composed, and in control. But Benedict sees the cracks.

He notices the bottles smuggled into their father’s study late at night, then quietly removed before the maids can collect the trash. He sees the dark circles etched under Anthony’s eyes, the way his hands twitch and shake when he thinks no one is looking.

Benedict doesn’t know how to fix it. He only knows Anthony is drowning, and someone needs to reach him before it’s too late.

So he sits with him one night. No words, no questions, just a quiet presence at first. Then a shared drink. One drink turns to two, and eventually, the silence breaks. Anthony cries, ragged, painful sobs that he’s been holding back for too long. Benedict cries with him.

The joy that is Hyacinth Bridgerton comes into their lives one stormy night in May, and instead of adding to the weight of their family burdens with one more soul to care for, she somehow makes it lighter.

Everyone gathers around baby Hyacinth. Her tiny hands clutching and pulling at everything within reach, her wide eyes following each one of them around, her infectious baby giggles replacing the cries. She is the beacon of light in their darkness. Slowly, laughter finds its way back into their lives.

And slowly, their mother begins to return too.

He starts the art history program at The Courtauld Institute of Art. Anthony would prefer he pursue a more business-oriented career. But Benedict has no head for business, he never has, and he never will. Since he was a little boy, all he’s ever wanted to do was create art.

Still, the sting of being just another spoiled rich boy trying to pass himself off as an artist gnaws at him. So, he decides he needs a more practical career as well. Art history feels like the perfect compromise.

It also allows him to stay in London and help with the kids. Anthony might be the head of the family, but Benedict is the one who keeps everyone’s emotions in check, even when his own are running wild.

Colin is in his young buck phase, full of swagger and mischief. It would be amusing if Benedict didn’t constantly have to clean up after him, figuratively and sometimes literally. Eloise has just hit puberty, and her endless rebellion brings a new kind of chaos. How they’ll survive her teenage years is anyone’s guess.

The first time a panic attack hits him, he’s sitting in his room, sketchbook open on his lap. At first, it’s a faint uneasiness in his chest, like something sharp just beneath the surface. Then it grows,his chest tightens, the walls around him seem to lean closer, closing in like they’re about to crush him.

His breath catches, shallow and frantic, but no amount of air feels like enough. His chest burns, a searing pain that makes him clutch at his shirt, as if loosening the fabric might loosen the invisible vice squeezing him. His vision blurs, doubling the shapes around him. The room feels detached from reality, like a bad dream where nothing makes sense but everything feels real.

He stumbles to his feet, knocking over a chair in the process. His knees give out before he can make it to the door, and he crumples to the floor, gasping for air. His heart pounds like it’s trying to escape his chest, every beat deafening in his ears.

Minutes pass. His heart rate slowly begins to ease, the pounding fading to a dull thud. The cold sweat running down his temples dries, leaving his skin clammy and chilled. He’s exhausted, like he’s run a marathon and been punched in the ribs all at once.

He will survive. The realization comes with an odd hollowness, almost disappointment. I’ll survive . The thought shames him, sinking heavy in his stomach. Anthony already has so much to carry. How could he add more to his brother’s shoulders?

So, Benedict presses it all down. He locks it away in a box he’ll pretend doesn’t exist, pretending the weight isn’t there. And then he paints. The strokes are angry, wild, chaotic,red and black streaks that scream what he won’t let himself say.

The finished piece doesn’t make him feel better. Nothing will. But at least he’s made the screaming inside him visible, even if no one else will ever see it.

He falls in love. Often.

Love, in his opinion, is a beautiful thing meant to be consumed frequently and without hesitation.

And he loves women. Their sharp minds, their striking bodies, both lean willows and lush, curvy Aphrodites. He loves men too, with their quick wit and strong hands, broad shoulders, and oh-so-kissable jaws. He loves them all with the same fervor, the same open-hearted intensity.

Sometimes, though, he feels puzzled, maybe even a little worried, by how easily love finds him, and how easily it seems to leave. 

Every time, it ends the same way. His lovers part with him amicably, always so kind, so understanding.

He should be grateful, perhaps, for the lack of drama. But a quiet voice whispers to him late at night, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts: Am I so easy to let go of?

Panic attacks slowly become his daily reality, hidden but ever present.  Until one day, during Art Theory and Criticism, it all becomes too much. 

His chest tightens, his breath catches, and he finds himself clutching at his shirt in the back of the classroom. The teacher notices him struggling and calls an ambulance.

It’s a mess. Anthony is informed as soon as the medical insurance details are activated, and Benedict hates himself even more for the trouble he’s causing.

At the hospital, they hand him a prescription for anti-anxiety pills and a referral to see a psychologist. He’s discharged within hours.  Stress and exhaustion listed as causes.

Anthony is still giving him strange, probing looks in the days that follow, but Benedict waves it away as the usual weight of exams and too much partying. He doesn’t dare let Anthony dig deeper, he is carrying enough burdens already.

He falls in love with Paul one summer evening during a performance art exhibit in Hyde Park. The stars are reflected in Paul’s beautiful, doe-like black eyes, and Benedict cannot resist. The way he smiles, the way he speaks, it’s intoxicating and alluring and utterly irresistible . Benedict feels trapped in Paul’s orbit, unable to look away, unable to bear even the thought of being apart from him.

One night not long after they meet they are laying in the grass. Paul points to the night sky.
"That one," he says, his finger tracing a constellation. "That’s Andromeda. Did you know it’s named after a queen who was almost sacrificed to a sea monster?"
Benedict laughs softly, lying beside him. "You’re making that up."
"I swear on my life," Paul grins, his doe-like eyes sparkling. "Look it up when you get home. It’s a tragic love story. You’ll eat it up my romantic prince"
Benedict doesn’t look up. He can’t stop staring at Paul’s face, lit faintly by the moonlight, and he thinks to himself that no star could outshine him.

Days blur together as Benedict follows in his shadow, captivated by the beauty of the pain Paul carries. It’s etched into every movement, every word, a haunting presence that both draws Benedict closer and pushes him away.

And Paul is in pain. Always haunted. Always running.

He hurts Benedict with his sharp words, slashing through him with an ease that leaves Benedict breathless. He hurts him with his actions, careless and cruel. But Benedict always comes back, searching for Paul’s soft lips, for the fleeting warmth of his strong arms.

The downpour catches them on their way back from an art exhibit. They huddle under a narrow awning, drenched and laughing.

Paul tilts his face to the rain, droplets clinging to his lashes. "I always loved storms," he says, his voice soft.

"Why?" Benedict asks, tucking his jacket tighter around Paul’s shoulders.

Paul shrugs, his gaze dreamy. "They remind me that chaos can be beautiful too."

Benedict stares at him, water dripping from his own hair, and knows he’s completely lost.

He asks him repeatedly, each time with more fear, what it is that haunts him so. But every time, Paul rejects him. Sometimes with a cold, unreadable look. Sometimes with a sharp, cutting word that leaves Benedict reeling. And sometimes, cruelest of all, by turning to someone else, punishing Benedict for his curiosity, for his love.

They’re sprawled out on Benedict’s couch, Paul’s head resting on his lap. A lazy playlist hums from the speakers as Benedict absently runs his fingers through Paul’s soft hair.

"You’re going to get bored of me one day," Paul murmurs, his voice sleepy but teasing.

"Not possible," Benedict replies instantly, his thumb brushing the curve of Paul’s jaw.

Paul cracks one eye open and smiles. "Careful, Bridgerton. I might hold you to that."

"Do it," Benedict says, grinning as he leans down for a kiss.

Benedict is no prude. He’s dabbled in more than his fair share of substances over the years. Sometimes to dull his pain, sometimes to bring himself to that elusive edge of artistic creation. Fleeting, so irresistible.

But the passion with which Paul consumes them leaves Benedict terrified.

The first time he finds Paul in a puddle of vomit, barely breathing, twitching in the rhythm of his fading heartbeat, panic seizes him. He’s frozen for a moment, unable to comprehend what he is seeing. Then, shaking, he calls an ambulance. 

The paramedics haul Paul into the emergency ward, and Benedict spends hours pacing in the waiting room.

When Paul is finally discharged, he’s furious. Furious with Benedict’s rich-boy fears, with what he calls his suffocating attitudes.

And yet, Benedict is still there, unable to walk away.

Paul pulls him into the center of their tiny living room, his phone playing an old jazz tune. "Come on, Benny, dance with me."

Benedict hesitates, laughing nervously. "I don’t dance."

"You do now," Paul insists, tugging him close and spinning him clumsily. Their laughter fills the room, their steps mismatched and chaotic, but Benedict feels his chest lighten.

"This is ridiculous," Benedict says, grinning.

Paul beams up at him. "You love it, though."

And Benedict does.

He finds Paul in a dimly lit back alley, kneeling in front of some guy, giving him a blowjob, the crinkle of a plastic wrap clutched in the stranger’s hand.

For a moment, he can’t move, fighting the shock and the suffocating wave of disgust, at the scene, at Paul, and maybe at himself for still loving him despite it all.

But then he storms forward, grabbing Paul by the arm and yanking him away with a force that makes Paul stumble.  He throws a wad of cash at the guy, who shrinks back, muttering curses before disappearing into the alley.

Paul’s fury is instant, his dark eyes blazing. “What the fuck, Benedict?” he hisses, shaking off his hand. “You don’t own me!”

“You were doing this for that?” Benedict spits, pointing to the plastic wrap lying abandoned on the ground. His voice cracks. 

Paul shoves him hard in the chest. “You and your rich-boy bullshit! You think you’re better than me? You think your money fixes everything?”

Benedict wants to scream back, to throw  insults, to demand answers. But the words die in his throat. Instead, he just grips Paul’s arm tighter and drags him out of the alley.

And Paul doesn’t stop berating him the whole way home.

He tries to leave him one bitter winter night. He can’t bear it anymore. The endless cycle of rejection, desperation, depression, and addiction that consumes them both.

Paul is on his knees, clutching at his arm, his pupils wide black pools, dilated from whatever substance he’s taken this time. 

“Please, Benny, my love” he whispers, his voice trembling. “Don’t go. I need you. I can’t do this without you.”

But Benedict has no sympathy left. His heart, once so open, is now worn thin from too many nights like this. He shakes Paul off.

“I can’t save you, Paul,” he says, his voice flat and distant. “And I can’t keep losing myself trying.”

Outside, the snow crunches under his feet as he walks away, his chest hollow, his hands shaking. 

The call comes early the next morning. A cold, sterile voice on the other end informs him that Paul is in the psychiatric ward after an attempted suicide. They say it plainly, like reading off a list, but the words hit Benedict like a physical blow. 

Tried to cut his wrists.

He doesn’t think. He runs. He doesn’t stop. His mind races faster than his legs, spiraling with guilt, with terror, with the image of Paul lying in a pool of blood.

When he reaches the hospital, they make him wait. Too long. His hands tremble, his knees bounce uncontrollably. He tries to keep the tears at bay, but the shame and regret are too much to hold back.

Finally, they let him in. Paul is pale, his wrists wrapped in clean white bandages. He looks fragile, but when he sees Benedict, something in his eyes shifts.

“I’m sorry,” Paul whispers, his voice cracked and raw.

Benedict collapses into the chair beside him, gripping his hand as sobs wrack his body. “I’ll never leave you again,” he chokes out, his words a promise and a confession all at once. And Benedict swears to himself, over and over, that he’ll find a way to save him.

Benedict buys the drugs himself. 

He hates himself for it, for handing over his money to dealers in dark alleys, but he can’t bear the alternative. 

He can’t bear the things Paul is willing to do for his next fix. 

When he returns, Paul is waiting, hollow-eyed and trembling, signs of withdrawal obvious in his every movement. 

Benedict places the package on the table silently, almost throws it as the shame burns him.

Paul snatches it without hesitation.

“You’re pathetic. A rich, spoiled brat trying to play savior.”

The words cut deep, but Benedict doesn’t flinch. He just stands there, watching as Paul prepares his shot.

And then, as always, Paul softens once the high takes over. His body relaxes, and he climbs into Benedict’s bed, curling against him as though nothing had happened. Benedict lies awake, staring at the ceiling, his arm wrapped around Paul’s frail body.

Paul is asleep with his head tilted against the headrest. Sunlight seeps through the curtains shining on him. His chests slowly rise and fall. His soft breathing is the only sound in the apartment.  

Benedict sits across from him with a sketchbook in his hand, carefully capturing the peaceful curve of his lips, the shadow of his lashes, the way the light kisses his cheek.
Paul stirs, catching Benedict mid-stroke. "Am I your muse now?" he teases, his smile lopsided with sleep.
"You’ve always been," Benedict murmurs in response.

Anthony is furious when Benedict is caught in a drug deal. By the time Benedict is released, the full weight of the Bridgerton name and corporate machinery has already been deployed, ensuring no charges stick.

And Paul is right this time. His rich-boy background saves him.

Anthony’s rage is cold and measured, it cuts him deeper than plain shouting ever could. “You’re destroying yourself, Benedict, Your’re letting that man destroy you” he says, his voice low and trembling with restrained fury. 

When Benedict tries to defend Paul, Anthony's fury boils over and he  slams a hand against the desk,

“That man is poison, Benedict.  He’s an addict dead set on destroying himself and taking you down with him.  I will not stand for it.  We will not.  If you want to enable him, that’s on you.”  He pauses… “Leave him or else you’re on your own.  No money.  No house.  No family.  No Bridgerton name to bail you out the next time this happens.” Pause… “And there will be a next time…”

The months that follow are cold and silent. He is forbidden from Bridgerton House, And Benedict understands.

He understands because he’s broken his brother's trust. He understands because he can barely trust himself anymore.

Paul seems better. Like he is truly trying this time. 

He goes to support meetings, takes his Buprenorphine, and talks about the vacation they will take together in the summer.

They spend a day by the Thames, the first carefree day Benedict can remember in years.

They eat food from stalls and watch the way the sun sneaks through the naked branches. Paul’s smile feels real, brighter than it’s been in months, and Benedict lets himself believe, just for a moment.

The next morning, Benedict wakes up alone.

The side of the bed where Paul slept is cold. His clothes are gone. Benedict’s chest tightens, but he tells himself he’s being silly. Paul has probably gone out for coffee or to a meeting and didn’t want to wake him.

The call comes at 9:07 a.m.

Paul’s body was found in an alley, a syringe still in his arm.

Benedict drops the phone. The world tilts and shifts, irreversibly.

The nights blur into days, the days into weeks, and the weeks into months. 

Time moves  but he is stuck in his grief. 

He cannot eat. He cannot drink. He cannot paint. He cannot breathe.

He is a shell of a man. The world feels distant and everything that once gave him purpose lies abandoned. 

His sketchbooks gather dust, his paints dry in their tubes.

He exists, but barely.

It’s just before Christmas when Anthony and Colin show up at his apartment and drag him to Aubrey Hall. And drag is quite literal. They half-carry him out the door, ignoring his protests and lethargy.

When they arrive, his mother pulls him into a tight embrace and doesn’t let go. Francesca, Eloise, and Daphne take turns trying to make him laugh with their ridiculous stories and jokes, but it’s no use. 

He sits silently, enduring it all, waiting for it to end so he can return to his bed.

Maybe with a nice bottle of brandy, he thinks. It’s Christmas, after all.

But then Hyacinth comes.

Her brightness is blinding. She looks at him with so much love and devotion.

“Will you paint me, Ben?” she asks and her voice is so full of hope.

He doesn’t really want to paint. The very thought of painting feels impossible. But he can’t say no to her. So, he retrieves his old supplies from his childhood room, the brushes stiff with neglect, the paints nearly dried out.

For the first time in months, he sits in front of a canvas. And with Hyacinth as his subject, he picks up a brush and begins to paint.

He paints Hyacinth first, the  brightness she is and  her infectious joy. Then he paints Daphne, Eloise, and Francesca, their laughter frozen in strokes of color. He paints his mother, her knowing soothing eyes.

He paints Colin and Gregory laughing together in some shared mischief. He even paints Anthony sitting in his office and  hunched over his desk. Sharp light falling on his expression of focus and exhaustion.

And then, he paints Paul.

Over and over, He paints Paul. 

He paints his face, his hands, the way his eyes glimmered and his lips curved. 

He paints the moments they shared.

The ones that broke him and the ones he still clings to and hopes will never fade.

He paints until there’s no paint left, until the canvases run out. 

Until his tears, like the paint on the canvas, are dry.

He stays in Aubrey Hall, settling into the quiet company of his mother. Violet knows what it is to lose love, to have it ripped away too soon. She doesn’t push him to heal or move on before he’s ready.

Instead, she embraces him with silence and patience and offers her support in every glance and touch.

When COVID begins and the world shuts down, the family assembles there. And thank goodness paint supplies are still delivered promptly by mail, because there is so much to paint.

During those strange, suspended days, Benedict finds himself rediscovering pieces of himself. 

He takes to fishing with Anthony. He plays soccer with Colin and Gregory. He reads with Francesca and Eloise.

And, of course, he paints Hyacinth, her light as bright as ever. 

He paints all the beauty and fractures of the world surrounding  him.  

His family comes to him. One by one they offer their love and  their presence. Just like he did once.  

Slowly, piece by piece, he heals.

After the lockdown is lifted and life begins returning to some semblance of normality, he gathers the courage and visits Paul’s grave.

He sits by the headstone. First he is confused and unsure of what to say but then the words pour out of him.  

He tells him everything. The good, the bad, the resentment, the guilt, and, above all, the love.

In the following months while he tries to assemble his life back, he visits often. It becomes almost a ritual.

One day, on his way back from the cemetery, he notices a school Paul used to attend as a child.

It’s in Peckham, not the most prestigious London neighborhood. In fact, it feels as far removed as possible from his own upbringing in the streets of Mayfair.

The building is crumbling, its walls covered with dirt and graffiti, but something about it stops him in his tracks.

Outside, he sees an old bulletin board with peeling flyers and job applications pinned to it. Among them is a notice for an art teacher.

Without thinking too much about it, Benedict steps inside. 

His first day of teaching, and he is absolutely terrified.

Those small, judgmental eyes make him feel like there are twenty little Anthonys sitting in front of him, each one silently measuring him and finding him lacking. To make it worse, the boy in the first row actually looks a bit like Anthony, which only makes his nerves worse.

He’s teaching Key Stage 2 kids, so in the end, it’s not as terrible as he feared.

He’s not sure how he’d handle brooding teenagers (though experience with five younger siblings, several going through puberty at the same time, has left him resilient to most kinds of brooding). But these kids are sweet, eager, and genuinely interested in their work. They’re a real joy to be around.

After all the chaos, turbulence, and sorrow of the past few years, this classroom very quickly starts to feel like home.

He shouldn’t have favorites. He knows that. But he can’t help being charmed by little Aidan Debling.

Maybe it’s the boy’s pale blue eyes, always so serious, or perhaps it’s the way he reminds Benedict of Anthony and Colin when they were kids. With those piercing eyes and his mop of dark chestnut hair, Aidan could almost be a Bridgerton. Benedict chuckles to himself, thinking how even his mother would agree.

Other teachers tell Benedict bits about him when he asks, a typical story of a young, single mum struggling to raise her child.

Benedict finds himself rooting for the boy. He takes extra time to help him with his projects, stays a little longer to talk to him after class. Aidan doesn’t just remind him of the people he’s loves, he reminds him of why he’s here.

The Christmas school exhibit is not the grand gallery opening he once dreamed in his youth but it fills him with inexplicable joy. He’s not even presenting any of his works. But in a way all the kids participating are his works. SO that is something. ANd he is proud. 

He spots little Aidan dragging a short blond woman toward where his work is displayed, his excitement practically vibrating through the room. Benedict chuckles to himself. The boy had been so eager about the exhibit that he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d barely slept the entire week leading up to it.

Benedict finds himself looking forward to meeting Aidan’s mum. The boy talks about her often. How she helps him with his projects, how she works so hard. She seems like a loving, devoted mother. Unfortunately, Benedict has seen cases where that isn’t true, so it’s always a relief to see a child like Aidan thriving.

But when the woman turns to greet him, his heart stops in his chest.

He knows those eyes. He knows that face. Her hair is blond but copper tresses show up in his mind. 

It’s Penelope Featherington. His sister’s friend. Neighbour that pined over Colin. The girl who ran away from Mayfair nearly a decade ago without a trace.

All at once, the dots connect.

Chapter Text

Their story

It feels like an eternity, though the silence lasts only a few seconds. 

“Benedict Bridgerton,” he says, extending his hand. 

She takes it, her palm trembling slightly against his. “Penelope Debling. It’s nice to meet you.” The words come out as a mumble, barely audible. 

He doesn’t let go right away, his gaze locked on her face, as if they’re the only two people in the room. She can’t stop looking back, her breath hitching under the intensity of his eyes. 

Aidan, oblivious to the tension, tugs on Benedict’s sleeve, eagerly explaining something about his painting. Benedict responds, his tone warm, but Penelope can’t hear a word. The sound of her own pulse drums in her ears, drowning out everything else. 

Another boy appears, dragging Aidan away, and she's relieved and petrified at the same time. 

The air between them thickens. It’s almost suffocating. 

“When I first met Aidan,” Benedict begins, his voice careful, “I was amused by how much he looked like he’d fallen out of one of our family pictures. I guess now I know he actually did.” 

Her breath catches. “Ben…” she whispers, but he cuts her off. 

“Mum and Anthony will be here shortly,” he says, his tone calm but unyielding. “It wouldn’t be fair to take Aidan away, but you might want to hide for now if you don’t want to be recognised.” 

She blinks at him, stunned, disbelief written across her face. 

“Oh, you and I are going to have a conversation,” he continues, his voice low and firm. “Many conversations. But it doesn’t have to be a public blowout.” 

His words are stern, leaving no room for argument, and all she can do is nod and run away to hide in the canteen.

Fucking Penelope Featherington. He can’t believe it.  

And Aidan. Oh, that boy is a Bridgerton if he’s ever seen one. The resemblance is uncanny,he sees those features in the mirror every day.  

Colin? It has to be Colin. He’s almost completely certain Aidan is Colin’s. But… in theory, it could be Anthony’s. He shakes his head. No.  

He remembers how Eloise fell apart when Penelope ran away. How she blamed Colin, though no one ever explained why. There’s a story there, one he doesn’t fully know, but now it’s starting to click into place.  

Does Colin know?  

Shit. Is Colin galavanting around the world knowing he has a kid in bloody Peckham and not caring? No, Colin doesn’t know.  

For all his brother’s reckless, impulsive ways, Benedict knows one thing: Colin would never abandon his child. He wouldn’t. Not intentionally.  

Which means Colin has no idea he has a son.  

“You look good, Pen. Even if I do miss your lion’s mane.”

She smirks, a small, wry twist of her lips. “And you look as handsome as ever, Ben.”

They sit in silence for a moment.  He’s tempted to talk about the weather, anything to fill the gap.

She shifts in her chair, fidgeting, avoiding his eyes. He knows she must be nervous.

“Will you tell me what happened?” he finally asks, cutting through the tension.

“I was stupid,” she says simply, her voice flat.

“We all are at one time or another, but I think I’ll need a bit more detail than that.”

“What exactly do you want to know?”

He meets her eyes, his tone direct. “Just to make it clear,Aidan is Colin’s, right?”

She nods. “Wait ... you didn’t think Anthony?”

“I couldn’t rule it out. Aidan’s got that stern, judging look that makes everyone squirm. You know.” His attempt at a joke is weak, but she smiles anyway.

“Aidan is Colin’s,” she confirms, and he nods.

“But you never told him.” and he prays she did not.

“I was a stupid girl with a crush on an immature boy,” she says, her words coming in a single breath. “I practically dragged him to my bed when he was too drunk to think straight. He avoided me afterward, then publicly, in front of his friends, said he obviously had no standards that night.”

Benedict flinches. “That was… not very well done of him. But a baby is more than just a ”

“I loved him,” she interrupts, her voice sharper now. “For as long as I can remember. I was silly and naive. I’m not saying that as an excuse, just to explain where my head was. He broke my heart. Cruelly. Mocked me in front of everyone. Even if I wasn’t in love with him, I thought we were friends. He was my best friend. I thought he cared about me, at least that much.”

She’s staring out the window now, her voice distant. He can tell she’s somewhere far away.

“When I found out I was pregnant, I was terrified,” she continues. “I had no idea what to do. I just… shoved it under the rug. Well, under the mattress. That’s where my mum found the test.”

“Portia knew you were pregnant?”

“I never told her whose baby it was. I don’t think she suspected Colin. If she had, she would’ve tried to profit off it.”

The thought makes him sick. Portia knew. She sat in their living room, night after night, with his mother crying over Penelope’s disappearance,and she never said a word.

“She arranged for an abortion. I couldn’t go through with it. So, I ran.”

He studies her face, the weight of her words sinking in.

“I get the need to run as far away as you can from Portia Featherington,” he says finally. “But why not come to us?”

She exhales sharply, almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “And do what? Colin despised me. It would just prove I was no better than my mother. And I wasn’t sure Anthony wouldn’t agree with the abortion, either. So I ran.”

“Are you going to tell them? Tell Colin?”

“No,” he says, his voice steady. “But you will.”

She feels relieved in a way. The guilt has always been there, a constant weight. She’s been denying Aidan his family because of her pride and fear. Ending it,giving in,feels almost like freedom. Almost.

Happy might be too strong a word. She’s not ready. Not yet.

Benedict doesn’t push her. Even after he says he won’t back out, that she needs to tell Colin, he doesn’t press the issue. He gives her time.

And that’s good. What’s another month or two when she’s already spent ten years carrying this alone?

He’s working on an art project at the community center, aiming to bring the children’s creativity to the streets of Peckham.

He nags Penelope until she finally agrees to volunteer. He wants to spend more time with her and Aidan, and this feels like the perfect opportunity. It’s strange, knowing the boy is his nephew. Colin’s son.

They build waterproof frames to protect the art from the weather and organize workshops for kids of all ages, teaching them everything from mixing paints to sketching their ideas. Penelope handles the letters and emails to the council, persuading bureaucrats to grant the necessary permits.

Anthony is footing most of the bill. Benedict figures that if the Bridgerton name can help a good cause, it’s worth using. The family still doesn’t know. But that’s fine. All in good time.

She's strangely conflicted about Ben coaxing her into helping with the community art projects he’s leading. She really doesn’t have time for it,between work and Aidan, her days are already stretched thin.

But Aidan loves it, throwing himself into every activity with endless enthusiasm. And he is Aidan's uncle. And, well, she likes Ben. She always did.

He’s different now, though. Sadder, somehow. There’s a weight in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

She notices it but doesn’t ask.

Genevieve, stubborn as ever, convinces her to send her manuscript to children’s book publishers. Penelope isn’t holding her breath,it feels like a long shot,but there’s something satisfying about taking that first step.

One day after the community center workshop, they have tea at a local café. Aidan is seated at the next table, focused on his homework, while they sip their tea and share a plate of chips.

He tells her about the summer Eloise broke her arm sneaking out of Fran’s debutante ball through a first-floor window. He describes vividly how everyone had to cater to Eloise’s every whim while she was impossibly demanding, her antics driving the entire household to the brink.

She laughs at first, the image of Eloise vivid and sharp in her mind. 

Then, later, when she comes home and Aidan is asleep, she cries. 

They sit on a bench in Rye  Park, eating fish and chips while watching Aidan play soccer with his schoolmates. It’s a cloudy, cold January day, and she is shivering with her ass freezing on a bench. The boys don’t seem to mind the weather, their laughter carrying across the frozen lawn.

They don’t talk much. Instead, they watch the game in silence. Aidan is such a little mischievous whirlwind.

He reminds her of Colin more and more with each passing day. 

It makes her sad.

He senses her fear and reluctance. She’s letting him in, slowly, so he doesn’t push her to tell the family. It will happen when she’s ready. It’s more important to do it properly than to rush.

Sometimes, she’s like a wounded animal—hurt and retreating into her shell if he says the wrong thing. He’s not even sure what the wrong word is, just that it was wrong.

They have to tread carefully, especially because of Aidan. So, he gives her time.

He meets Genevieve when she comes to help at the community center, and she doesn’t waste time giving him the classic “privileged artist” rundown.

He takes it in stride.

What stands out to him is the way she watches over Penelope and Aidan. The way she’s careful, even untrusting, around him. He respects that.

Families aren’t always born, they’re made.

It amuses Penelope, Gen’s protectiveness and the way Benedict just lets her walk all over him.

Most of the time, she manages to push away thoughts of what’s waiting in her future. But they creep back in during quiet moments. Benedict is patient and understanding, but she knows the time is coming. She’ll have to face it soon.

Her biggest worry is Aidan. She spends sleepless nights debating: should she tell Aidan first or Colin?

She wants to give Aidan time to adjust to the idea of having a father before he meets one. But what if Colin doesn’t want anything to do with him? What if he breaks Aidan’s heart too?

“What does Aidan know about his dad?” Benedict asks one evening.

“Not much, really. Not having a father is more normal here than it ever was in Mayfair,” she replies, then pauses, biting her lip. “He did ask once if his dad was in prison, dead, or just gone.”

“How do you think he’ll react?”

She shrugs, her focus shifting to the coloring pens she’s arranging in their tins. After a while, she says quietly, “I’m scared he’ll be so mad at me.”

Benedict reaches out and gently squeezes her hand.

February arrives, and with it, his 36th birthday. His mother insists on throwing a family party, and by some miracle, everyone makes it. Even Colin returns to London for the occasion.

Dinner is loud and boisterous, as only Bridgerton family dinners can be. It warms his heart to see his mother so happy, all her children gathered under one roof. It’s not as common as it used to be, and he savors the moment.

Hyacinth gifts him a mug that reads, “I’m a teacher—what’s your superpower?” The humor makes him laugh, and it’s nice to see how supportive everyone has been of his new career. For a while after Paul, it felt like he was on suicide watch, with the family treading carefully around him.

Anthony, true to form, makes another donation to the community center, shrugging it off as no big deal. The rest of the presents range from thoughtful to the usual sibling teasing. And he feels loved.

She’s putting away the chairs after the workshop. It felt strange not having Benedict there, but she knew better than to expect him to miss one of Violet Bridgerton’s family dinners. Especially when it's in his honour.

After tidying up, Genevieve, Aidan, and she crowd together for a quick picture. They all pull a silly face as she snaps the photo.

She sends it to him with a simple message: Happy Birthday.

During dinner, a message lights up his phone. It's from Penelope, Aidan, and Genevieve at the community center, pulling faces at the camera with text, “Happy Birthday!”

He laughs, but Eloise, sitting beside him, glances at his phone.

His smile fades as he instantly closes the message, but it’s too late. Her face freezes, her expression a mixture of shock and recognition. Shit. He can’t let her blow up in front of everyone.

“Who was that, Ben?”

“Friends,” he says quickly, but he can tell she’s reading right through him, a second away from causing a scene.

“I’ll tell you everything,” he adds in a low voice. “But when we’re alone.”

“That’s—”

“Yes,” he interrupts firmly. “But don’t say a word. After dinner. Swings.”

She falls apart in the bathroom, struggling to keep the tears at bay. Genevieve notices immediately as she always does.

On their way back, they pick up dinner, though Penelope barely touches hers. Gen agrees to babysit, though it’s unclear if babysitting will even be necessary. Aidan seems to sense the strange energy. He watches her with worried eyes, clinging to her more than usual.

When it’s time for bed, she tucks him in, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” she whispers, her voice barely steady.

She turns off the light and closes the door.

Eloise is waiting for him at the swings, fidgeting nervously with a cigarette in her hand.

“I thought you quit,” he says, unsure how to begin.

“These are special circumstances, you’ll have to agree.”

He nods and sits on the swing next to hers.

“I’m not crazy, am I?” she asks, her voice tense. “That was Penelope. On your phone. In your messages.”

“Yes.”

“How long?” she presses. “How long have you known where she is?”

“Not long. I… we met just before Christmas.”

She nods, processing, her gaze fixed on the ground.

“Would you have told me? Or did she not want you to?” Her voice cracks, and he instinctively reaches for her hand.

“Penelope… it hasn’t been easy for her,” he says carefully, unsure how much to share. How much does Eloise need to know before she sees Penelope herself? How much is too much, and how little is not enough?

“I agreed to give her time to come forward in her own way.”

“Like ten years?” she snaps, rolling her eyes.

“No, El. But I didn’t want to scare her off. I sent her a message. She’s waiting for us. If you want to go.”

For a moment, he isn’t sure what she’ll say. Then she tosses the cigarette to the ground and grinds it out with her foot.

“Let’s go, then.”

She doesn’t ask any more questions as they sit in the car, but after a while, she says, “Can I see the picture again?”

He hesitates for a moment, knowing there’s no way she won’t make the connection. But what’s the point of hiding it now? With a small sigh, he unlocks the phone and hands it to her.

She looks at the picture for a long time, her tears falling silently as he focuses on navigating the traffic.

Finally, she speaks. “So, that’s our nephew, huh?”

“His name is Aidan,” he says. “He’s in my class.”

She lets out a shaky laugh and wipes her tears again.

Eloise’s hug feels like coming home. Fierce, strong, and a little desperate. She wraps her arms around Penelope tightly and doesn’t let go. And Penelope doesn’t want her to. It feels good to hold her again. It feels good to belong somewhere.

“I’m going to kill you,” are the first words Eloise says after ten years.

And Penelope knows what she really means is, “I love you.”

They sit through the night, talking, apologizing, and crying. Benedict stays with them, his quiet presence a steadying force. When the cold starts to bite, he drives them to an all-night diner, ordering cocoa, and a pile of crisps and sneaking in a bottle of whiskey to spike the cocoa.

He watches them with a soft smile as they talk and laugh, Eloise’s laughter ringing out like a piece of her heart has been restored.

Eloise becomes part of their  community art squad. At first, she and Genevieve are a bit reserved, former and current best friend, unsure of where they stand or how they fit.

But one night, the three of them go out and drink lemon drops until they’re practically sliding off their bar chairs, laughing and trading stories about men. It’s impossible to say who’s dated bigger idiots, Eloise or Genevieve, but by the end of the night, they’ve formed an unshakable, angry-female kind of bond.

Penelope just watches, tears in her eyes.

She’s happy.

It’s March already, and she knows her time is running out. She’s been so comfortable in her little bubble with Genevieve, Eloise, and Aidan. A perfect, fragile world where she finally felt happy.

“Are you going to tell him?” Eloise asks one evening while they’re sharing dinner after art classes.

“Aidan or Colin?”

Eloise pauses, thinking it over. “Any of them. Both?” she finally says.

“I’m not sure who I should tell first.”

Eloise keeps eating, the question hanging in the air. It takes her a whole plate of chips and half a milkshake to pick the conversation back up.

“You should tell Aidan first. Colin needs to know, yes, but for him, it doesn’t matter if it’s now or in two months. For Aidan, every day matters.”

It’s the seemingly normal Tuesday night in March when all hell breaks loose. Benedict spots one of the dealers who used to supply Paul loitering near the playground by the community center.  

He doesn’t think. There’s no conscious thought, only rage. Pure, undiluted, all-consuming rage coursing through his veins, tightening his fists, driving his every move.  

Before he knows it, he’s on him, fists flying, the man’s nose cracking under his knuckles as they hit the pavement. The sound barely registers through the roaring in his ears.  

They have to drag him off, but even then, he’s yelling, his voice raw with fury. He hurls every threat he can think of, promising to kill the man if he ever sees him near the kids again.  

Back at the office, his colleagues pour him a drink and bandage his split knuckles.  

Penelope is there too, holding his arm, her hand squeezing his shoulder. He leans into her, grounding himself in her presence, letting the storm inside him subside.  

Later that night, after she’s put Aidan to bed and he’s still there, neither of them able to leave or be alone, they sit together on the couch.

He starts talking about Paul.

The words pour out of him, raw and unfiltered, tears streaming as he speaks. He doesn’t stop until the first rays of sunlight shine through the window, catching on his tears.

She holds his hand, her other hand rubbing his back gently. She doesn’t say much. What is there to say anyway?

It’s Saturday afternoon, and she and Aidan have just returned from the market when he sits at the kitchen table and gives her the look . One of those stern ones, just like Anthony Bridgerton.  

“What is it, buddy?” she asks.  

“Is Ben my father?” he asks, and her knees buckle. She sits down across from him, stroking his hair and taking his small hands in hers.  

“No,” she answers truthfully. “But he is your uncle. And Eloise is your aunt.”  

Aidan is quiet for a moment, processing.  

“I was hoping he was my father. I like him. Everyone says we look so much alike.” 

“You do,” she confirms. “That’s because your father and he are brothers. All the Bridgertons look alike.”  

“How many brothers does he have?”  

“There are 8 of them. Four brothers and four sisters,” she explains.  

“So I have three uncles and four aunts,” he calculates. 

She nods slowly, and it's clear to her he is  overwhelmed by the sheer number.  

“What’s his name?”  

“Your father’s?” she clarifies, and he nods. “His name is Colin.”  

“Does he know about me?”  

“Not yet.”  

“So we're going to tell him?”  

“Yes.”  

“Why didn’t we tell him before?”  

She hesitates, her heart clenching. This is the question she’s dreaded. “Because I was scared,” she admits softly.  

He nods, accepting her answer with the simple understanding only a child can manage.  

“Can I have ice cream now?”  

At first, she tries to pretend it isn’t there. She looks away, turns her head in another direction. Denial is her secret weapon against heartbreak.

But then she catches herself watching him. The way he walks, talks, paints. The way he laughs with Genevieve and encourages Aidan. The way his eyes linger on her, soft and searching.

It’s unsettling.

It’s dangerous.

It makes her want to run away screaming.

Because she knows she can’t take that again.

Even though Penelope told him she had explained to Aidan that he was his uncle, Benedict is still a bit shocked when Aidan approaches him.

“You know, I thought you might be my dad,” Aidan says matter-of-factly.

“Yes, your mum told me,” Benedict replies.

“But you’re my uncle.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Is my dad a good guy?”

“Yes, he is,” Benedict answers, uncertain how much to say. “He’s very funny, always making people laugh. And he’s kind.”

“He doesn’t know I exist.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“If he’s so nice, what was Mum scared of?” Aidan asks, his eyes searching Benedict’s face.

“It’s not always bad people we’re afraid of,” Benedict says after a pause. “Sometimes we’re scared of being hurt by the nice, kind people we love.”

“Because he didn’t love Mum?”

“He loved her,” Benedict explains gently. “But not in the same way she loved him.”

It sneaks up on him, the feeling of warmth, tingling through his limbs. At first, it confuses him, catching him off guard like a slight hitch in his breath. That familiar sensation of falling when you meet someone’s eyes.

It’s not something he ever expected to feel again. But it’s there.

It’s there when she lifts her head from her laptop, focused and determined. When she snorts and laughs at one of his jokes. When she giggles. When she yawns.

He starts noticing his eyes searching for her whenever they’re in the same room, his body unconsciously turning toward wherever she’s standing.

He knows the signs, but it still surprises him when he realizes it: little by little, he’s falling in love.

It’s hard to watch her agonize over how to tell Colin.  He’s going to be back in London for Easter holidays and they’ve decided—he, Eloise, Gen and Pen—that it’s the right time.

He knows it has to be done. Colin deserves to know. Aidan deserves to have a father (and Ben is sure Colin will want to be one). But it makes him uneasy. He doesn't like the thought of her and Colin being close again. It’s horrible of him. He is a bad friend. He is an even worse brother. But the feeling is still there. 

In the end, she decides to write him a letter.

She’s not sure she can bear to face him—not yet. It feels cowardly, but she’s long since come to terms with her own cowardice.

So she pours her soul into the letter.

She writes about Aidan, about the life she’s built for him, about all the things she wishes she’d done differently. She writes about how sorry she is. How she hopes, more than anything, that he might forgive her.

When she’s finished, she folds the letter carefully, tucks it into an envelope, and writes her phone number on the back. Then, with trembling hands, she gives it to Eloise and Benedict.

Aidan is spending the night at Genevieve’s. She’s too nervous to have him around, too distracted to not make him worry. She wants to be alone when the phone rings, if it rings. She wants to be ready.

And all she can do now is wait.

They drag him to his room, Benedict and Eloise, away from the rest of the family. Eloise suggests, only half-seriously, that they drive him to some remote moor and not let him return until he swears to behave.  

“What exactly are you two up to? You’re acting very strange,” Colin says, his smile fading as he studies their faces.  

Benedict hesitates but finally says, “I’m going to give you a letter. You’re going to read it. It’s going to be…”  

“Fucked up,” Eloise interrupts, crossing her arms.  

He rolls his eyes. “Disturbing.”  

“You’re making me very nervous now,” Colin says, his smile vanishing entirely.  

Benedict hands him the letter. Colin takes it, his expression hardening as he opens it. Benedict watches as his face drains of color, his smile replaced with an uneasy seriousness. His chest rises and falls sharply, each breath shallow and ragged.  

“It’s okay,” Benedict says softly, stepping closer and putting a steadying arm around him. “Just breathe.”  

Colin rubs his eyes, as if trying to clear away a veil of disbelief. Benedict knows the feeling.  

“How long have you known?” Colin asks finally, his voice uneven. “You’re handing me a letter without a stamp, so I’m guessing you’ve both been in contact with her.” His tone sharpens, anger beginning to seep through.  

“I found out just before Christmas,” Benedict admits. “Aidan is in my class. But I didn’t know until I met his mother at the Christmas exhibit.”  

“I’ve known since Benedict’s birthday,” Eloise adds. “I found out by accident.”  

“So you waited three months to tell me?” Colin’s eyes narrow, his voice laced with accusation.  

“I was trying not to scare her away,” 

He doesn’t call.

She waits, checking her messages, scrolling through her missed calls. But he doesn’t call.

And that’s alright.

What she did isn’t forgivable. She knows that. She’s known it for years. But knowing doesn’t make it hurt any less.

She can’t sleep.

Instead, she sits at the kitchen table, staring at the phone lying motionless on the surface. The hours crawl by, and morning comes before she even realizes.

At some point, exhaustion wins, and she dozes off, her head resting on her folded arms.

When she wakes, there’s a message waiting for her. It’s from Eloise.

“He’s processing. It will take a bit.”

It’s a proper mess.  

Colin is furious, pacing the room, his anger spilling over into wild gestures and shouts. He demands to go to Penelope, to fight, to scream, to get answers. Benedict and Eloise have to physically block the door to stop him.  

Anthony storms in, bewildered by the noise, followed closely by a concerned Violet. The story spills out before anyone can stop it.  

Colin rages, yelling loud enough to shake the walls, but at least Anthony is there now. To grab him, hold him back, calm him down when the fury threatens to boil over.  

Benedict turns around and he can see his mother holding the letter.  Her hands are trembling as she reads it and tears are spilling silently down her cheeks. Her pain feels like a blow to the chest.  

And then there is Colin, he is crying too. He sinks into Anthony’s arms.  His rage is dissolving into raw and broken sobs, sounds that cut through the room like a blade.  

Benedict wants to cry as well, but he feels like he has no right to. He just stands there, watching the wreckage unfold, and he can barely breathe.  

So he and Eloise tell everyone what they know about Penelope and Aidan. The room suddenly feels heavy  and overcrowded. Tension reflecting in every move.

Colin is furious and he is  angry with him. “I can not believe you knew, and you didn’t tell me?” he snaps.

But then Violet steps in. And she is calm and collected and her voice is firm.

 “Enough, Colin. Benedict was trying to protect Penelope and Aidan. You may not like how he handled it, but his heart was in the right place.” Her words seem to soften Colin’s rage a bit. Fight seems to drain out of him.

But Anthony is pacing, angry, and frustrated. Full of vindictive energy.  “We need to call a lawyer,” he declares with determination. “We’ll demand joint custody. We’ll make sure—”

“No we will not. We’re not doing that.” Eloise cuts him off and meets his glare with her own.. 

“This,” she says, pointing at him, “is exactly why she didn’t dare to come to us in the first place. You’re just proving her fears valid, you moron.”

“She wants Aidan to be part of the family,” Eloise continues. “I know it was wrong to hide him. She knows it was wrong. But she’s willing to make things right. Let’s not destroy that by acting rashly, okay?”

It’s Easter Sunday, and Benedict is driving them to Bridgerton House. She feels sick with anticipation, her stomach twisting with every mile closer. Beside her, Aidan looks just as nervous, picking at his cuticles until she takes his hands in hers to stop them both from fidgeting.

“It’s going to be alright, love,” she whispers softly.

“What if they don’t like me?” he whispers back, his voice trembling. “What if he doesn’t like me?”

The question breaks her heart. She doesn’t know where to begin, but before she can even try, Benedict cuts in, his voice steady and sure.

“I like you. And Eloise likes you. That’s already a significant number of family members who know you and like you. And the rest of them will too,” he says confidently. “I know them, and I know you. They will like you.”

There’s no hesitation in his tone, no room for doubt. Aidan takes a deep breath and relaxes, the tension in his small body easing.

She doesn’t relax.

They will like Aidan. She knows that much. But how they’ll treat her ? That’s an entirely different question.

The urge to throw up as Ben pulls the car to a stop is almost unbearable. She’s grateful she skipped lunch—it would only have made an unwelcome reappearance now.  

She was so focused on the Bridgertons that she forgot about the other side of the square. Her childhood home.  

She doesn’t know if her mother still lives there. She doesn’t want to know.  

She hated that house. Every ghastly wallpaper, every pretentious piece of furniture, every cold, empty room and stifling hallway.  

She hated everything that house represented, and she vowed never to go back.  

Benedict holds her hand tightly as they walk up to the front door, Aidan’s small hand clasped in hers on the other side. She feels like she can barely breathe, her heart pounding in her chest.

The door swings open, and Eloise is there, beaming. She leans in to kiss Penelope on the cheek and then crouches to high-five Aidan, who grins shyly.

“Come on in,” Eloise says brightly, stepping aside.

They walk into the warm, familiar chaos of Bridgerton House, and there she is—Violet.

Violet’s eyes land first  on Penelope and then they shift to Aidan. Her expression softens into a smile. She steps forward without hesitation and before Penelope can react or in truth think what to say, Violet wraps her in a fierce hug.

Penelope freezes for a moment, but then she lets herself go and melts into the embrace. Violet presses a kiss to her temple and then another to her hair.

When she finally lets her go Violet turns her attention to Aidan. She crouches to his level with a gentle smile.

“Hello, Aidan,” she says softly. “I’m your grandma.”

Colin and Aidan stand in front of each other, both confused and shy. Colin’s eyes glisten, while Aidan stares up at him, studying his face as though searching for pieces of himself within it.  

And they are so alike it physically hurts her to look.  

She squeezes Eloise’s and Benedict’s hands, her lifelines as they stand beside her. They’re both there. Blocking the exits, grounding her, reminding her that she’s not alone.  

Colin speaks softly to Aidan, and whatever he says makes Aidan smile, his face lighting up. But she doesn’t hear the words. Her heart is pounding too hard in her ears, drowning out everything else.  

For one brief moment, Colin’s eyes graze hers, and she feels the cold distance and accusation in them. 

And that’s alright. She understands.  

Benedict steps closer to her. Putting his hand gently on her back he guides her to a seat. She lets him, her knees weak beneath her. Violet follows them, sitting on her other side.  

Through the window, she sees Colin and Aidan heading into the garden together, their silhouettes framed by the spring sunlight.  

Panic threatens to take hold, clawing at her chest. But Benedict is there, his hand is warm, his smile soft.  

She breathes.  

In the end, everything goes much better than she expected.

Colin and Aidan spend the whole afternoon together.  She hears Aidan’s laughter ringing through the garden. That laughter feels like a balm to her wounded soul.

Violet is everything Penelope ever wanted in a mother. Warm, kind, and welcoming. She thanks Penelope for coming and for bringing Aidan into their lives. And her words are sincere despite the lump they leave in Penelope’s throat. It makes her a bit nauseous being thanked for her own selfishness, but she knows Violet means every word.

Violet asks about her life, about Aidan’s. She listens with genuine interest, as though the past ten years did not happen. It feels strange but also familiar.

Even Anthony is polite. Careful, reserved, but polite.

Colin, however, doesn’t say a word to her. Barely looks in her direction.

And that’s alright.

Ben is there and not letting her arm. She feels safe.

It’s Monday, her 28th birthday, when the email from the publisher arrives.

They want to publish her book about a boy chasing dragons.

She’s at the diner when she reads it, letting out an uncontrollable squeak of joy that turns every head in the room.

“Just got some good news,” she mutters awkwardly, before darting outside to call Genevieve.

She asks Mrs. Smyth to watch over Aidan, and the four of them—Eloise, Genevieve, Benedict, and Penelope—head out to celebrate. It’s a double celebration, though the specifics hardly matter with the energy they bring to the night.

Drinks are flowing, laughter echoing through the crowded pub, and they can’t stop smiling. They dance until their feet ache, sing until their voices crack, entirely out of tune but utterly unbothered. It feels good to be alive.

In the early hours of the morning, Benedict walks her home. His arm is supporting her waist, steadying her as she stumbles in her high heels on her sore feet. 

When they reach her door, she fumbles with the keys, laughing softly at her clumsiness. As the lock clicks open, he leans down and kisses her. 

His lips are soft and gentle, tasting faintly of whiskey and courage. She freezes, shocked and petrified. 

“I just messed up, didn’t I?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, fear in his eyes.

“No” she answers and pulls him down once more.

He wakes up in her bed, her body curled into his, her soft breaths brushing against his chest. Her hair tickles his nose and cheeks, the scent of her lingering in the air. She’s warm and soft, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

For a moment last night, right after he kissed her—and he still isn’t sure how he ever found the courage—he was certain he’d ruined everything. Royally, completely, irrevocably messed it all up. 

But then she kissed him back. And she pulled him into her apartment. And then into her bed.

And he began the thorough, careful work of worshipping her, piece by piece, with a reverence he hadn’t known he still had in him.

It’s a little awkward, but every time he feels her pulling away, he leans in and kisses her. And she giggles, like she can’t quite believe what they’re doing. He can’t believe it either.

She makes coffee and sits at the kitchen table, and he sits across from her, playing absentmindedly with the fingers of her hand, brushing his thumb over her knuckles.

“I…” she starts, and he doesn’t want her to.  

“I thought you were gay, Ben?”  

That was not what he expected her to say.  

“Excuse me?”  

“Are you gay?” she asks, her face a mix of confusion and curiosity.  

“Why?”  

“The only person you ever talked about was Paul,” she whispers, like she’s unsure if she should even mention him. His stomach sinks.  

One—because talking about Paul is still, always, hard.  

Two—because if she thought he was gay, then maybe last night was just a bit of fun for her.  

“I’m not gay,” he says slowly. “I suppose you could say I’m bisexual. Or even better, pansexual. I’m attracted to the person, not their gender.”  

She studies him, clearly turning the words over in her mind, weighing what they mean for them.  

“But I’m primarily monogamous,” he adds, offering her a small smile.  

She blinks, then nods. “Oh … Okay,” she says simply, her fingers curling around his. And somehow, that’s enough.

They agree to not to say anything to anyone before they themselves know what is going on. Naturally It takes about three minutes. Three minutes of all of them being in the same room before both Genevieve and Eloise clock them in.  

Eloise’s brow furrows, her eyes darting between Benedict and Penelope, her worry practically radiating off her. 

Meanwhile, Gen takes one look at them—Benedict’s hand brushing Penelope’s back, her smile a little too soft—and bursts into laughter. “Oh, my God. Finally!” she says, throwing her hands in the air like this is the best news she’s had in years.  

Penelope tries to explain, but Gen won’t let her. “No, no, don’t even. I’m happy for you, love. It’s about bloody time someone good happened to you!”  

Benedict can’t help but smirk, but when his gaze meets Eloise’s skeptical one across the room, he knows this isn’t going to be as easy as Gen makes it seem.

But it’s not hard either.  

Yes, there’s a million and one complication. Aidan, Colin, and the tangled past between them. They’re all carrying so many scars, so much baggage. But somehow, they just fit.  

It feels like coming home after a long, hard day and sinking into a space that’s warm, comforting, and safe. 

They are far from perfect. Messy, wounded, hurt. But they are each other's balm and refuge.  

Finding time to be alone is nearly impossible, with Aidan and work and everything else in between. But Benedict doesn’t mind. He finds himself cherishing the small moments: sitting on the couch while she folds laundry, working on lesson plans while she writes. Just being in the same room is enough.  

Still, he has a nagging suspicion Aidan is onto them. The boy watches them with wide, curious eyes, too quiet for his usual chatter. But he doesn’t say anything, just shy smiles and glances that make Benedict wonder when, not if, the questions will come.

It’s summer, and they’re all at Aubrey Hall.  

On paper, it should be perfect. Aidan gets to bond with his father and the rest of the Bridgertons. She has two weeks off from the diner to work on the edits for her book. Ben is there, and so is Eloise.  

But in reality, it’s uncomfortable.  

Being there feels strange, almost suffocating. Colin hasn’t said more than two words to her since she arrived. And while Eloise knows about her and Ben, no one else does. 

And if she is completely honest with herself, she is not ready for anyone to know about them just yet. At least not before they tell Aidan.  

Whatever Ben and her have going on between them still feels too fragile. Too precious to expose it to the scrutiny of the outside world. Too delicate to risk breaking it under pressure of questions and assumptions everyone will have.  

She tries  focusing on her book. 

Naturally, it’s Colin who walks in on them. Benedict’s hands are under her skirt, and his lips are locked on hers when the door creaks open. 

Colin freezes for a second, then turns on his heel and walks away without a word. 

Benedict sighs and goes after him with a heavy  “I’ll talk to him.” 

Penelope sinks into the couch feeling mortified and like the weight of the world just landed on her shoulders.  The cat’s out of the bag now. They have to deal with it.

Dinner that evening is filled with tension and unspoken words. She didn't even dare ask him what he said to Colin.

Even with Hyacinth, Gregory, and Aidan chatting and laughing about TV shows, the atmosphere is thick and unpleasant. Violet keeps glancing around the table, clearly confused and growing increasingly exasperated. 

Eventually, Hyacinth notices. She looks around and bluntly asks, “Oy, what’s wrong with you lot?”

“The drama,” Aidan deadpans. “It’s like watching EastEnders with Mrs. Smyth.” 

The table goes silent for a moment before Eloise bursts into laughter, unable to hold it in. Benedict follows, choking on his drink as it comes out of his nose in his failed attempt to stifle his amusement. 

Penelope groans, burying her face in her hands, her cheeks burning. Even Colin cracks a reluctant smile, and Violet, though still mystified, lets out a small chuckle. 

Colin finally approaches her one afternoon while she’s sitting in the library, editing on her laptop. 

He pulls out a chair and sits down beside her without a word. She closes the laptop, turning toward him. Her chest tightens. She’s nervous but relieved at the same time. 

“I guess it was time,” she murmurs softly.

“He’s amazing,” Colin says, breaking the silence, his voice tinged with something between awe and sorrow.

She smiles, her heart aching. “He is.”

“I’m not sure how to forgive you,” he admits, and the weight of his words sinks between them. 

She nods, unsure of what to say. 

“It’s not just Aidan, you know.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “After you left, Eloise went wild on me. She blamed me for your disappearance… And honestly, I blamed myself too.” He takes a deep breath, steadying his voice. “I knew what I said and how I acted after what happened between us was the reason you left. I didn’t know the extent of it, obviously. But I knew it was what pushed you. I knew it was my fault.”

Penelope swallows hard, her hands twisting in her lap, unsure whether to speak. 

“And I was so angry at you,” he continues, his voice quieter now, almost pained. “Because in my head, you were my friend, and I felt like you trapped me in a situation where I had no choice but to be a bastard. And I was a bastard. I should have handled it better. I should have handled it without hurting you. But I was a fool. I was uncomfortable and ashamed, and I felt like the worst person alive.”

His words cut through her like glass. She dares not interrupt, even as her throat tightens. 

“And then you left,” Colin says, his eyes distant. “No one knew where you were. Eloise convinced Anthony to hire a private investigator. Did you know?” 

She nods faintly, recalling the frantic lengths Eloise had gone to.

“The only thing he found,” Colin continues, his voice heavy, “was some jewelry you sold in a pawn shop two days after you disappeared. So, we knew you weren’t kidnapped. And even though it was a relief, it still meant—it was my fault.”

She presses her lips together, guilt flaring anew as he keeps speaking. 

“Eloise refused to talk to me. For years, actually.” His brows furrow as the memory seems to weigh on him. “And then you sent her that letter for her birthday, and I just couldn’t take it anymore. I ran too. Not as thoroughly as you did, but I ran. I started traveling, avoiding everyone, playing this stupid, careless, funny persona while I felt like such a bastard underneath.”

Tears stream down his cheeks, and Penelope’s heart clenches, but she doesn’t dare reach for him. 

“I know it doesn’t compare to what you went through,” Colin says, his voice breaking. “And yes, I was still living the life of a rich, spoiled brat. But I kept looking for you. I wanted to tell you how sorry I was. Every time I saw a redhead, my heart would skip, and I’d wonder, Is that Pen?”

She swallows the lump in her throat and whispers, “I dyed my hair blonde as soon as I sold that jewelry.” 

Colin huffs a bitter laugh. “Irony, isn’t it?”

They sit there in silence for a moment, letting the weight of the years settle between them. 

“I don’t think I ever really stopped running,” Colin admits quietly. “Maybe now I can. But I’m so angry at you right now.”

“You have every right to be angry,” she says softly.

“That doesn’t make it feel much better.”

“No,” she agrees. “I imagine not.”

Colin sighs, his gaze softening just slightly. “I do want to be friends again. For Aidan. Not today. I can’t today.” 

She swallows hard. “But one day… I’d like that too. To be friends again.”

He nods. “One day.” 

“In the meantime…” He glances at her, his lips curving into a small, tentative smile. “He really is such an incredible kid.”

Her own smile wobbles into place. “He really is.”

The fall is a whirlwind.

Ben asks Penelope and Aidan to move in with him. His current place is too small, so they end up finding a new apartment together. It's better this way, no lingering shadows, no memories of pain. A fresh start in every sense.

Aidan is thrilled. In a matter of months, he’s gone from having no father figure to having two, and he’s not shy about working it to his advantage. Between Ben’s patience and Colin’s indulgence, the boy knows exactly how to navigate them both.

Sneaky little thing.

He even enlists Hyacinth as his advisor, her devious mind already legendary in the Bridgerton household. Ben catches them whispering in corners more than once, and while he can’t prove they’re plotting something, he’s not naive enough to think they’re not.

She wakes up one morning as the sun is rising, its golden light filtering through the curtains. The warmth of Ben’s body next to her is a comfort she still isn’t used to, even after all this time.

She turns to look at him, his profile serene in sleep. His chest rises and falls steadily, his features soft and unguarded. She wonders, not for the first time, how she ended up here with him. There were no bolts of lightning, no suppressed passions, no heartbreak. No drama.

They just fit.

Day after day, little by little, bit by bit they grow closer, until one day there is no chance of untangling themselves from each other any more.

She leans into him, burying her face in the crook of his neck, and breathes him deeply into her lungs.

It’s the smell of home.

Her book is released a month before Christmas, and within ten days, it sits at the top of the bestseller list. She’s overwhelmed, amazed, and battling an imposter syndrome that whispers she doesn’t deserve this.

Colin is talking to her again. Mostly about Aidan. But it’s a start.

Ben’s art project expands to other neighborhoods. Streets gradually filling in the gray with kids’ artwork, transforming plain walls and forgotten corners into vibrant displays of color and joy.

The Christmas exhibit in school is practically run down by Bridgertons. Both Ben and her are laughing as they remember how it all started to unravel exactly a year ago. 

They are sitting in the living room at Aubrey Hall, the massive Christmas tree towering over them, its lights twinkling brightly. The room is alive with laughter and chatter, Daphne, Simon, and their children adding to the boisterous atmosphere. 

August, a couple of years younger than Aidan, is loud and energetic, a sharp contrast to Aidan’s shy and careful demeanor. The boys are showing off their presents to each other, the occasional good-natured tease thrown in, when August suddenly pipes up.

“If you’re a Bridgerton, why is your last name Debling?” 

The room quiets slightly, eyes turning toward Aidan, who looks thoughtful for a moment before replying with unexpected confidence.

“I think we’re all gonna change our last names to Bridgerton when Mum and Ben get married.”

Aidan freezes, realizing what he said. His wide, panicked eyes dart toward Benedict. “Did I spoil your surprise, Ben?”

Benedict laughs, warm and true “No, kid, you just made everything better.”