#ashford estate

[koffiphotography]

“1899″

[botchallthethings]

miraculously, I may have found a modern wheel in 100% working order for a very affordable price (provided I'm willing to drive 2.5 hours to pick it up).

wish me luck

[fly-rye]

summary of what happened during the minecraft sesh with @wanderingmoonmen tonight:

i ran around in the desert getting assaulted by phantoms while she rambled about the shitty changes made to the birkins' story and personality in the remake of re2

"leon is ugly" "oh my god i was going to say that too! leon is ugly!"

a lot of other stupid resident evil discussion because we're insane

i had a mental breakdown about chickens. because a creeper snuck up to the edge of the chicken enclosure while i was facing away from it and blew up the fence. and then chickens got everywhere. and i had to scramble to put blocks up in the way but THE CHICKENS KEPT STANDING WHERE I WANTED TO PUT BLOCKS. so way too many escaped. and then i murdered all of the adult chickens left in the enclosure while ranting and raving like a lunatic and then ran into the forest to hunt down the ones that escaped. and then i made signs on pretty pink cherry wood about how much i hate the stupid chickens and also the creeper that started the debacle

[cobblestonee1]

Independent Estate Agents

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visit:-https://cobblestoneestates.co.uk/

[waaayoutofline]

When The Cat and The Mouse Go For a Midnight Dance (part 2)

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Prompt: Vigilante!Reader x Agent!Natahsa.

Summary: Natasha finds you. Again. If you didn’t know better, you'd say she was obsessed with you. Still, you have a job to do. Will you two ever see eyes to eye?

Warnings: A bit of violence and foul language. Sexual connotations but not smut.

WORD COUNT: 2832

AN: I published it a couple weeks ago (I think?) but I couldn't put it on the master list and it was getting on my nerve soo.— Anyways, this is a part two but I dont know if I'll make a series. More like little stories here and there. Enjoy :)

The air was sharp, puncturing your lungs every time you dared to take a breath. For a second, you regret abandoning the warmth of your flat. But a job is a job, and besides, true evil never fully rests. Not your kind of evil, but the more corrupt, shameless kind. A thud was the only sound that could be heard on the terrace of none other than Wallace Ashford on a rainy night—one of the worst chief prosecutors this city could hope to have. You had your eye on him for a while now, and everything pointed to his involvement in all types of negligence concerning the underground criminal organization. Hundreds, or even thousands, of people were endangered because of his vanity.

You usually weren’t one to go after dirty politicians, but every now and then, an exception appeared. Unfortunately for Ashford, he was one. After months of tracking him, you found out that he had finally returned to the estate after a “vacation,” where only the high deities know what he was up to. He was well-guarded by a team of professionals, but that wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle after a cup or two of wine. He did, however, make you climb all the way to one of his penthouses to avoid his security systems.

Carefully, you took out the small interrupter in your pocket to check for hidden cameras or security systems. “A paranoid man, aren’t you?”

Managing to deactivate them momentarily, you pull yourself up to the banister. A soft grunt escaped you as your feet touched the ground, joints stiff from the cold and rain. Let’s just get this over with.

You made your way into the apartment—if you could even call it that. You’d seen mall floors smaller than this. High ceilings and marble floors greeted you, along with open rooms that displayed nothing but a lack of attachment, painted in neutral tones and lit by intricate chandeliers. There were no family photos or personal decor. If it weren’t for the well-maintained furniture, it would seem as though no one lived here. Despite having a wife and two unfortunate children, there was no sign of family life. Not that it could thrive here, given the fact that Wallace was nothing but a distant and neglectful husband and father, spending his days in his office, making deals with the devil and indulging in adulterous escapades.

Sighing, you finally reached what you knew to be his office, spotting his heat signature through your special lenses. Grabbing the silenced pistol holstered at your side, you carefully opened the wooden doors. A resounding click echoed through the apartment as the door opened two inches—until something screamed at your nerves. Goosebumps rose on your neck, your muscles coming to a sudden, rigid stop. After a brief moment of absolute silence, a grin spread across your face.

“Are you stalking me, Agent Romanoff?”

From the shadows, a familiar figure seemed to seep out of the darkness, revealing none other than Natasha Romanoff. She wore a tactical suit and her usual annoyed scowl, which always seemed to deepen in your presence. Her features were slightly obscured in the dim hallway light.

“Don’t flatter yourself. Do you ever take a break?” Slowly, you stepped away from the door, and she moved perfectly in sync, keeping your movements in check. Returning your gun to its holster, you smiled.

“How could I? If I did, I wouldn’t get to enjoy these lovely chats with you.” Her scowl deepened, her patience visibly fading from her green eyes. “How’d you find me this time?”

“I’m not here to answer your questions.”

A sigh escaped you. To Natasha, it sounded like that of a petulant child. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re here to detain me, blah, blah, blah…” Huffing, you crossed your arms. “I, however, have a job that needs attention. So, can we do this later?”

A shocked scoff escaped her. “You must be more insane than I gave you credit for. I’m not letting you murder that man.”

”Why not?” You whined. “If anything, I'm doing you a favor. Believe me, Wallace Ashford isn’t the type of man that you want to protect.” The atmosphere seemed to shift with your last world, and by Natasha's sudden defensive stance she noticed too. As much as you two seemed to have this unserious conversation, she knew perfectly of what you were capable of.

“That doesn’t give you the right to kill him.” She answers back.

Annoyance starts to bubble within you, the playfulness of meeting the The redhead’s patience was slowly fading away. “Well, someone has to get their hands dirty.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed, her body tense, bracing for the inevitable. Still, you noticed the slight hesitation in her fingertips as she reached for her gun. She stepped closer, but you didn’t move. “That’s not your call to make.”

You released a frustrated breath. “And whose is it, hm?” you taunted darkly. “I know you’ve researched him. You have to know what kind of man he is—the things he’s done and that will continue to do. People like him are the reason we get hurt, and yet you’ll continue to let him. But I’m the one who needs to be taken down?”

Natasha seemed to weigh your words carefully, taking them in. It was one of the things you secretly admired about her—the way she processed everything before rendering judgment. Something, however, told you her decision wouldn’t be in your favor. “The system isn’t perfect; it has its flaws. But killing him won’t solve anything. It won’t bring justice or comfort to the people he’s hurt. If you stand down, I promise I’ll make sure he faces the consequences he deserves.”

She stepped even closer, as though trying to soothe a rabid beast. But you weren’t one. No, your mind was cold and sharp, fully aware of what needed to be done. A soft sigh escaped your lips. “Oh, Natasha…”

You paused, standing directly in front of her, mere inches away. Her scent was clean, tinged with traces of rain and gunpowder. Her eyes dropped slightly, as though they were trying to pierce your soul. Tilting your head up defiantly, your eyes glinted under the dim light. You sighed, trailing your index finger along her jaw. Surprisingly, she let it happen, as if lost in thought.

“I never pegged you for being this naive. The system isn’t just flawed—it’s useless,” you snarled, and just like that, the aggression surged back, like an oncoming storm. “No, this corruption needs to be cut out at the root. Good thing I have a very sharp blade.”

And with that, all hell broke loose.

You fished a hidden knife from your side, expertly flipping it around to grip the handle before slashing outward. But as if expecting your every move, Natasha caught your wrist midair, using the momentum to twist your arm painfully behind your back in one swift motion. For a second, you were pinned, her breath hot against the back of your neck. But this was far from over. You brought your head down, then snapped it back with force, cracking into her face. The impact reverberated through you, and she grunted in pain, her grip loosening just enough.

You dropped low, crouching for a second before sweeping your leg around in a wide arc, sending her tumbling to the floor. Victory however only lasted a brief second before, with surprising agility, she grabbed your ankle and yanked hard, pulling you down with her. The two of you rolled across the cold marble floor, grappling for dominance, hands slipping, muscles straining. Finally, you managed to pin her, practically sitting on top of her, your hands pressing against her shoulders as you clumsily lost your balance. You could feel the rise and fall of her breath beneath you, her body tense.

Taking a moment to catch your breath, you looked down at her and huffed. Of course, her damn braid stayed perfectly in place, not a strand out of order. Her eyes flickered, a shade darker now—more gray than green. Anger, you realized. A dangerous, calm fury radiated from her. Natasha Romanoff never loses her composure, a lesson you learned on the very first day of this endless game between the two of you. Blood trickled down from her now slightly crooked nose, and you couldn’t resist commenting.

“Hm. Red really does suit you,” you teased, a dark smile curling at the corners of your mouth. Her eyes narrowed.

“Do you ever shut up?” she grunted, before her legs shot up, twisting with surprising force to reverse your positions. Now, she had the advantage, her frame pinning your wrists to the floor. “You’re starting to get on my nerves.”

A breath caught in your throat as you processed what just happened. You weren’t exactly proud to admit this, but something about an enraged, furious Agent Natasha Romanoff straddling you, snarling, did something to you. Heat surged through your skin, a blush rising from your collarbone to the tips of your ears. It was ridiculous, you thought. She was literally trying to kill you.

As if reminded of the danger you were in, you tried to regain control—both mentally and physically. Concentrating, you focused on the faint stirrings of the elements around you. A slow smile curled across your lips as you found what you were looking for. “Not really,” you said, your voice thick with amusement, “but I know you secretly enjoy it.”

Natasha’s eyes flashed with a mixture of disbelief and fury, her expression hardening as she leaned closer, her voice a low growl. “Why can’t you ever just admit defeat?” Her hand pressed harder on your wrist, pinning you even more firmly to the cold floor beneath her.

You winced slightly but couldn’t resist pushing her buttons one last time. “Big talk for someone who’s about to get very, very wet.”

She frowned, clearly thrown by the comment. “What are you—” But before she could finish, you glanced upwards. She followed your gaze, and you grinned. With a faint hiss and the creaking of pipes, the sprinkler system above finally responded to your command. A perfectly controlled jet of water blasted down, drenching Natasha straight in the face.

Her reaction was immediate. “Ugh!” she sputtered, hands instinctively flying up to shield her eyes as the water poured over her, soaking her tactical suit and sending droplets flying in every direction. You seized the moment, using her split-second distraction to twist out from under her grip. With a swift movement, you rolled to your feet, slicking your hair back as you stood, watching her attempt to recover.

“Really? Using your powers now?” she grunted, trying to wipe enough water from her face to clear her vision.

“Well, it wouldn’t be fair for only you to stay dry.” You winked, hands fidgeting behind your back.

Natasha finally cleared her eyes enough to glare at you, her expression a mix of frustration and grudging resignation. “You always have to make a mess, don’t you?” she muttered, straightening up, though her tactical suit was now drenched.

“I mean, it is kind of my thing,” you said, taking a step back, turning your focus back to the reason you were here in the first place.

“Just give it up, will you? He’s no longer in the building.”

You froze mid-step, your hand just inches from the door. There were no signs of Wallace. Natasha, regaining her footing, stood tall. “He’s been evacuated while we had this sorry excuse for a fight. It’s over. You failed.”

Only the last drops of water falling from the ceiling could be heard. You stood there, unmoving. Slightly out of character for her usual calm demeanor, Natasha started to approach you. But then, a sudden, silent laugh escaped your lips, sending chills down her spine—more chilling than the cold water still pooling at your feet.

“Oh, Natasha.” You glanced over your shoulder at her, eyes gleaming with dark amusement. “Do you think I’m a fool?” A sinister smirk parted your lips. “I knew you’d pull one of these stunts because, whether you like it or not, I know you.”

You turned fully, a deadly glint in your eyes. “I also sent a friend of mine to lend a hand.”

Your hands moved behind you, reaching for the vials strapped to your back. “You’re familiar with them, actually.” You walked slowly toward her, holding up the vials so she could see them clearly. Natasha’s eyes widened in recognition. One vial contained a sleek black widow spider, its abdomen adorned with the same red emblem as her suit. The other vial was empty.

“Huh, funny. By sending him away, you didn’t just send him to his death—you might’ve put the whole extraction team in danger. What’s to stop me from giving the chemical signal for my little friend here to bite your companions?” You paused, letting the weight of your words settle in with a crazed smile. “Oh right—nothing! By now, he’s already dead, and your team’s not far behind.”

Natasha’s face paled as she reached for her intercom to contact the agents tasked with retrieving Wallace. Static greeted her. No answer.

Her blood ran cold, but she took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “No,” she whispered, her voice resolute. “If there’s anything stable about you, it’s that you don’t harm innocent people.” Her confidence in her own words was surprising. On some level, she understood you. And, for once, she was right. You were a killer, but not a mindless one.

You let out a sigh. “Hmm, you’re right about that. I don’t.” With that, you pulled out another vial, this one containing a light pink liquid. “Here’s the antidote.” Before she had a chance to grab it, you pulled it back, smirking as you held it just out of her reach. This left her stepping closer, the space between you almost nonexistent. Baby hairs stuck around her face, but she still managed to look hauntingly beautiful.

“I should advise you, though: no shenanigans. I assure you, if you try to use it on Ashford, his body will violently reject it. I made sure of that.” The conflict in her eyes was so clear you could practically hear the gears turning in her head. You could see all her possible outcomes, and she knew it too.

“Your friends or a chance to detain me? The ball’s in your court, Agent Romanoff. What’s it going to be?”

She stared you down, as if trying to see right through you. “How do I know you aren’t playing me?” she challenged. “For all I know, that spider of yours never got close to my team, and this is just a way for you to get away.”

“That’s for you to decide.”

Your eyes locked once again, engaging in a silent battle of wills. Natasha’s heart raced, the weight of lives at stake heavy on her conscience, and by the glint in your eyes, she knew you understood that. She cursed herself for being so transparent, as if you could read her like an open book. Finally, her shoulders tensed, then loosened.

Unexpectedly, she grabbed the neck of your suit, yanking you toward her. Sensing no real threat, you allowed it.

“You’re going to regret this little stunt,” she warned, her voice low and dangerous. Still, you stood your ground, feeling the adrenaline course through your veins, making your words drip like honey.

“Getting under your skin, am I?” you whispered, the teasing lilt in your voice unmistakable.

Her jaw clenched, and you could see the battle raging in her mind. A part of her—how big, you couldn’t tell—was torn between wrestling you into submission or doing what she was expected to: saving the team under her command. She leaned in closer, her lips hovering just above your ear. “If you think for one second I’m going to let you win, you’re more delusional than I ever thought.”

Her warning, as sharp and assertive as it was, sent a chill down your spine. The warmth of her breath against your skin only fueled the fire coursing through you.

“If you’re lying, and anything happens to them because of this… I’ll have no compassion — no understanding left. I’ll hunt you down to the ends of the earth.”

You tilted your head back just enough to meet her eyes, your gaze steady and unwavering. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. Now go, be the hero you are, and save your friends,” you answered softly.

For a brief moment, the air crackled with tension. She hesitated for just a heartbeat, weighing her choices. With one last, piercing look, she leapt from the railing, disappearing into the darkness. Moments later, the hum of the Quinjet rising into the air echoed in the distance. With a deep, satisfied breath, you turned away from the balcony, knowing the game was far from over.

Would it ever be? You hoped not.

[pinchofhoney]

perfectly flawed

benedict bridgerton x princess!reader

word count: 2.7k

warning: hurt without comfort, it might be suggestive but there's nothing inappropriate about it (friends with benefits but without any details)

summary: Finding love as a princess comes with its challenges, but becoming a mistress was never part of the plan.

a/n: two things; one, over these few months i forgot what it's like to write something that isn't an academic paper. two, in the process of writing it i forgot that i was supposed to write it based on a song. i suppose i'm already a different person than i was just the week ago when i asked you for your opinion, but regardless, feel welcome to read this,, thing<33

pages that may interest you: masterlist ♡ taglist ♡ who i write for

Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers

London, 18th April 1814

Dearest Readers,

The Season has barely begun, yet the glittering ballrooms of London are already abuzz with whispers and speculation. The cause of this fervour? None other than the captivating niece of Her Majesty. The fairy-like young lady, whose arrival in London coincided with the Season’s beginning, has ignited a flurry of theories.

Is she a princess, a countess, or perhaps a secret agent on a mission? The whispers echo through the salons, each speculation more imaginative than the last. Her regal bearing and the way she holds her fan hint at noble lineage, but her eyes hold secrets that defy easy classification. Could she be a pawn in a political game, or does her purpose lie closer to matters of the heart? Suitors line up, eager to claim her hand, but our debutante remains an unknown figure, casting doubt upon the intentions behind her smile.

Gentlemen of distinction have flocked to her side, vying for her attention. Lord Pembroke, the dashing heir to a vast estate, has been seen trailing her like a devoted puppy. The Duke of Ashford, brooding and aloof, has deigned to engage her in conversation. And then there is Captain Sinclair, whose sea-green eyes promise both danger and adventure.

At Lady Featherington's soirée, our young lady engaged in spirited conversation with none other than Miss Eloise Bridgerton. Their conversation delved into matters of politics—a most unconventional choice. Is our French princess a revolutionary sympathizer, or does she simply relish the thrill of intellectual sparring?

Rest assured, dear readers, that Lady Whistledown shall be your faithful guide through the twists and turns of this unfolding narrative. Prepare your fans and polish your silver spoons, for the London Season has just begun, and in the shadow of the Queen's niece, our world is poised to be turned upside down. Society must brace itself for a whirlwind of speculation, as we stand on the brink of a most intriguing chapter.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown

‎

At the very core of the French Empire, you were raised as the epitome of grace and subtlety. With royal blood coursing through your veins, you were groomed to be the perfect lady, the jewel of the imperial court. Every step you took, every word you said, was a careful composition, painting the portrait of an eminent lineage.

From a young age, you were taught the art of etiquette, your days filled with lessons on poise, embroidery, and the subtle language of the fan. Your attire, always impeccable, was the evidence of your status and breeding. The world perceived you as the embodiment of perfection, a delicate blossom requiring protection from the harsh realities beyond the palace walls.

Yet, behind the facade of the devoted princess, a secreted truth blossomed. Beneath the tangled layers of silk and lace, your spirit, unyielding and untamed, stood in defiance of the expectations of courtly life. The allure of royal grandeur held little sway over you, and the burden of societal obligations felt like a daily donning of a suffocating corset.

The shimmering balls and elaborate rituals became stifling, making your heart to ache for those fleeting moments of genuine connection, uncontrolled laughter, and a subtle taste of the forbidden. Although French suitors eagerly fought for your attention and the allure of your family's wealth, your soul yearned for a partner who would daringly challenge the scripted norms, infusing romance with a breath of spontaneous authenticity.

And thus, to address your reluctance to accept the prearranged path, your mother came up with a plan. Sending you to the splendour of London under the watchful eye of the Queen, your beloved aunt, she hoped this change of scenery would guide you towards a dutiful marriage, in line with the expectations befitting your royal lineage. What slipped out of her seemingly perfect idea, however, was the playful nature of fate, particularly when guided by those who avoid predictability. So, your journey to the bustling heart of British metropolis grew with an outcome greatly different from your mother's expectations.

Your aunt, holding the most esteemed position in the United Kingdom, was admired for her wisdom and understanding. But the hours of lessons imparted to you from an early age, combined with your ability to conceal your rebellious nature from the public eye, had transformed you into a pretty great actress. And your performance, crafted over the years, was so convincing that even someone as sharp as the Queen herself failed to see through the carefully constructed act.

But perhaps, this time, you've got too close to the edge, because in the blink of an eye, you found yourself entangled in a situation that, if exposed, would not only scandalize all of England but also cast a shadow over France, where your family hopefully awaited news of your impending marriage.

And how did it all start?

The beginning of your tale remains in the memories of that fateful debutante ball, where a single innocent look changed the course of your luck. It was a brief moment, a shared exchange of glimpse between you and Benedict Bridgerton, that seemed to stretch time itself. In the glimmer of that ballroom, his bright eyes locked onto yours from across the room, and the world around you seemed to slow, as if giving space for something beyond a mere glance.

You had no idea what captivated you about the man who didn't really stand out among the other attendees, but most likely it was this quiet strength of his gaze. The gaze without the typical fascination you'd grown used to as a princess of the French Empire or the usual envy that flickered in the eyes of those desperate to secure a partner who determined their life's worth. Benedict's gaze was just different. It held no trace of the thought that you were merely a silly princess with a title. It carried the feeling that you were a masterpiece, a creation worthy of admiration. And it stirred a yearning within you, an insatiable thirst for freedom and authenticity that your heart had craved for so long.

A brief exchange of words with Benedict at the ball opened your eyes, making you believe that not every man who sought your company was doing so only for your family's wealth. As you danced together, his touch ignited a spark, a fleeting moment of intimacy that lingered long after the music faded into the night, and each stolen glance exchanged across the crowded ballroom carried the weight of unspoken desires. It felt as though the connection that binds soulmates was about to disappear when your paths crossed, signalling that you had, finally, found one another.

And so, it began. A secret affair that grew under the cloak of darkness, far from the prying eyes of nosy socialites waiting to catch a glimpse of scandal. In the hidden corners of London, where shadows whispered secrets and the night sky painted a canvas of stars, you found comfort in the arms of Benedict, a man not necessarily burdened by the weight of societal expectations, yet bound by his own hesitation to commit to anything beyond the present moment.

As the inappropriate meetings became routine, you assumed the role of a mistress, a position you never imagined yourself in, and the only rule you committed to follow during your secret dates was the lack of romantic feelings. Yet, despite your best efforts to maintain a facade of emotional distance, your heart had a way of defying logic. With each stolen moment spent in Benedict's company, you found yourself drawn deeper into the labyrinth of emotions, a labyrinth fraught with longing and desire. What started as a simple agreement, devoid of romantic sentiments, soon evolved into something far more sincere.

And it genuinely scared you.

You walked nervously around the place of your every rendezvous with Benedict, your fingers nervously picking the cuticles near your nail—a gesture unsuitable for the lady you were expected to be. But in the fuss of events that have happened in London so far, such a thing seemed a minor violation. Not only did the task of slipping unnoticed from the royal palace grew increasingly difficult, but the relentless fluttering in your heart at the mere thought of Bridgerton haunted your sleepless nights.

Throughout your life, you had yearned for a love different from the one you had observed in French society. And now, when the opportunity to live your fairy tale presented itself, reality proved to be just an unrequited feeling. While you were happy to see Benedict and yearned for his presence, it seemed he may only crave your body, not the depths of your soul.

You wanted today's meeting to be the last one, a meeting where nothing would happen. Or so you convinced yourself. The purpose was clear: to say goodbye to Benedict and to draw the curtain on a relationship built on fleeting glances and secret meetings. And even though probably the best choice would have been to just stop showing up on these encounters and withdrawing from public spaces where you might cross paths, you didn't want to just pretend that nothing had ever happened between you two. The social season was still around you, and avoiding the consequences of your actions would only complicate everything. Maybe not for Benedict, but for you, for sure.

And then, the silence broken every second by your anxious heartbeat was completely shattered by the sound of footsteps. Turning, you were met with the sight of Benedict Bridgerton approaching with firm strides, and his presence seemed to overshadow your plans to say goodbye when, for a moment, the world seemed to pause as you lost yourself in the intensity of his gaze.

Without a word, he wrapped his arms around your waist, and his touch sent pleasant shivers down your spine. The warmth of his embrace, coupled with the subtle brush of his breath against your skin, stirred conflicting emotions within you. Your heart quickened its pace, betraying the reason you came for this final meeting.

“I've been thinking about you all day,” Benedict whispered, and his breath caressed your delicate skin. But as much as the desire for intimacy flickered within, you held steadfast to the resolution you had set for this meeting.

With a gentle pull, you extricated yourself from his embrace, creating a safe distance between the two of you. The tingling sensation stayed on your skin, as a remaining echo of his touch that resonated through every fibre of your being. “We need to talk,” you said, your voice steadier than your racing heart. Benedict's eyes, once filled with a yearning, now searched yours for an answer to an as yet unspoken question.

“Talk?” he asked, his voice laced with a hint of playful intrigue as he arched one of his eyebrows with his signature smile dancing upon his lips. “About what?” he pressed, and with an air of casual confidence, he crossed his arms over his chest as he ambled a few steps to the side. “You're not going to tell me you've fallen in love, are you, princess?”

A nervous laugh bubbled up from within, escaping between your lips before you could hold it back. In an attempt to mirror Benedict's movements, you crossed your arms over your chest, your head shaking with feigned amusement. “Fall in love?” you repeated his words, adopting a tone of playful dismissal. “Don't be ridiculous, of course not,” you declared, adding a scoff at the end, as if to fortify the illusion of light-hearted banter. Hoping to shield your true feelings, now concealed beneath a facade of amusement, you met Benedict's gaze with a look of mock disbelief.

“We should end this relationship,” the words spilled from your lips, hoping your voice wouldn't betray how fast your heart was beating at that moment. “I did not come to London to become just another woman in the arms of the Viscount's son. If my mother were to find out, she'd blame herself for raising me poorly, and that's not the truth,” you began to rationalize, your words flowing as an attempt to justify the decision you had set before both of you. “I have obligations to fulfil, a path to follow, and I won't achieve that by sleeping with you.”

Benedict watched you in silence, not knowing if you were serious. His gaze bore into you, seeking answers within the depths of your eyes.

“Now you're the one being ridiculous,” he retorted, his tone carrying a gentle scolding. Leaning against a nearby counter, he looked at you with a combination of disbelief. “Since when have you cared so deeply about living up to your mother's expectations?”

“I've come to understand that my mother wants what she believes is best for me. As a princess of the French Empire, there are certain expectations I must meet, whether I appreciate them or not,” you said, closing the physical distance between yourself and Benedict. Self-control was what kept your hands from reaching out as you stopped just in front of him. “Think about what would happen if our secret were to be exposed. It would be the end for both of us, and the scandal would echo across the entire continent. The Queen herself would likely seek our demise.” You emphasized your words by pointing a finger at yourself. “I cannot ruin the honour of the entire royal family for a fleeting moment of pleasure.”

Benedict met your gaze with a silent acknowledgment of the truth in your words, yet beneath the veneer of understanding, a flicker of defiance danced in his eyes. “So, what are you saying? You're suddenly prepared to sacrifice your entire life for the expectations of your family that would see you married and bearing children with some man who would likely make you miserable?” he asked, a trace of frustration evident in his voice.

A moment of silence ensued as you fixed your gaze on Benedict. Finally, a disbelieving scoff escaped your lips, and you shook your head. Taking a few steps away, you placed your hands on your hips, a gesture mirroring the internal conflict within you. “Perhaps you haven't noticed yet, Benedict, but I am a woman. And in a world dictated by the whims of men, the role assigned to women is often reduced to that of an obedient wife, tasked with bringing some affluent man's heir into the world. It's not about what I want; it's about what everyone else around me expects.”

As Benedict made a move to step closer, a surge of urgency propelled you to speak before he could interject. “I should be going now. The palace servants are growing increasingly suspicious.”

Despite the assertiveness in your tone, Benedict, keen to the nuances of unspoken emotions, closed the physical gap between you, and his touch went through the delicate fabric of your glove as he gently took your hand. “We can at least end this in a better way,” he suggested, his voice tinged with a suggestive undertone as he met your gaze.

A resolute “No” escaped your lips, infused with an overt firmness born out of the fear that another moment in his gaze might make you give in to your heart's desires. You couldn't afford the risk of surrendering to the tempting pull of his lips once again, the very lips you yearned for. “That's all I wanted to tell you today,” you continued, gently squeezing his hand as if to punctuate your resolve. Purposefully avoiding his gaze, you added, “It's over, but know that every meeting with you has been a pleasure, Mr. Bridgerton. Goodbye.” Articulated so, you withdrew your hand from Benedict's grasp, leaving only the delicate glove in his hold.

With a swift spin, you turned away and your hurried footsteps carrying you out into the rain-soaked streets of London. A quick glance confirmed the absence of prying eyes, making you hasten your pace, putting distance between yourself and the building that housed your shattered heart. As you took each step, the words exchanged at that moment of parting reverberated in your mind. The relation between you and Benedict had ignited sparks of passion and left a sweet ache of longing. Now, the path ahead led you towards the marriage your family desired, a hopeful step to fill the void left by thoughts of Bridgerton.

[jji-lee]

Hey love , I was wondering if you could hit us with a nct dream x bridgerton short blub 💞

this is clearly not a short blurb (im so sorry) but i wanted to describe them each as suiters, i hope you still enjoy! <3

dearest readers,

last night’s ball was filled with chatter on some of this season’s fine young ladies however, one lady in particular, lady y/n bridgerton, seemed to be the belle of the ball.

the bridgerton estate was bustling with life as it hosted the most anticipated ball of the season. chandeliers set the mood as the candles adorning them cascaded a warm glow throughout the hall. the air was filled with a light scent of lilies and the sound of the live orchestra. guests were wearing their finest attire, excitement radiating off their bodies as they awaited tonight's matches.

tonight lady y/n bridgerton was a sight for sore eyes. a beauty in her long shining gown, figure defined by the lining of her handcrafted dress. her heart raced with excitement at the sight before her. this was her debut season, and she was anything but excited to have some time in the spotlight but little did she know that this season had some of the finest suitors on the market.

as she strolled around the ballroom lady y/n came across her first suitor, lord jeno lee. she had caught his eye as he spoke to some familiar guests, her smell of vanilla pulling him in. he was confident, his charming smile easily making girls weak. he lightly tapped lady y/n's shoulder hoping she would spend some time with him. as she turned she was pleasantly surprised by the figure in front of her, a tall handsome man, eyes shaped like crescent moons as he smiled wide at her. he introduced himself a light hand coming up to grasp hers. she immediately felt at ease opening up and telling him about her hobbies and interests. she felt like she had spoken for a lifetime, feeling warm as he nodded and smiled at her words, his hand never leaving hers. as she realized she had been the one speaking she blushed softly asking lord jeno what his interest were. but as he opened his mouth to speak a charming fellow approached them ready to steal her away.

"may i? lady y/n is not yet taken by you i assume?" lord jeno was all too kind allowing you to spend some time with your next suitor. you soon discovered he was duke of ashford, haechan lee, notorious for throwing the best balls and well, secret after parties. he ducked his head down as he brought your hand up to his lips. you flinched at the contact slightly tugging your hand away, but his grip only became stronger, a grin growing on his stupidly handsome face. "you're the talk of the ball tonight lady y/n, might i add your mother did a beautiful job decorating this place." you smiled at the compliment towards your mother, swayed by the idea that he had kept her in mind, "that is a great compliment coming from you duke, maybe you can invite me to a ball of your own someday?" he pulled her near as he got close enough to whisper, "you do know what goes on in my balls don't you m'lady, if that is the type of entertainment you seek, then just let me know now, i’ll have everything ready for you." he gave her hand one final kiss and danced away, proud that he left her red and flustered.

a cold touch jolted her out of her shocked state, as she turned to see the owner of this touch her eyes widened upon seeing the one and only lord renjun huang. he had pushed a cold glass into her arm to catch her attention, "excuse me, m'lady you were looking a bit hot, would you care for a drink?" she was relieved by the sudden change of demeanor between the men feeling comfort as she reached for the glass and muttered out a small thanks. "i'm surprised to see you here my lord, i hear you never come out to these sort of events." he blushed at your comment, knowing of the rumors of him being 'forever in solitude.' "yes, well, i saw someone this season who has caught my eye, maybe she will be the one to dismiss these rumors." she giggled at his comment knowing he was clearly talking about her, she was flattered that she was the one to finally get him to come to a ball. as their drinks emptied lady y/n excused herself to the ladies room to fix up her fading lip tint. as she walked through the ball she heard a familiar voice call her name…

a tall figure pushed through the crowd of guests hand in the air to stop her, “y/n, oh excuse me, y/n, pardon me, lady y/n, oh will you get out of my way” she stopped to see who was causing this disturbance. finally the man reached her, mumbling under his breath something about an annoying duke that needs to learn manners. “y/n i requested they play our song, let me have this dance?” lady y/n’s long time best friend lord chenle lee stuck his hand out awaiting her answer. she giggled at his disheveled appearance, he’d never been one to dress up for these kinds of occasions, and accepted his dance. he pulled her into the dancing crowd a familiar up beat tune playing. some would think they were long lost lovers finding each other again as they laughed, swayed, and twirled around the ballroom. but do not be fooled my dear reader, this lord seemed to be a temporary distraction for sweet lady y/n as she was seen shortly after with someone else to fill her cup…

as she caught her breath, a small smile still resting on her face, she heard a small voice behind her, “care for a refill m’lady?” she turned to see a very tall dark haired boy standing in front of her, he was dressed in all black a towel draped over his forearm, hands holding a bottle ready to refill her cup. as he looked up at her through his bangs she saw his features, a beautiful nose and lips adorning his face, “can i ask your name? lord…?” he quickly put the bottle down to wave his hands dismissively, “ no no, not lord, just jisung, jisung park, your mother hired me for this event” she smiled warmly at him causing his shoulders to relax and a light blush to form on his cheeks. “my mother has fine taste in bottle servers then” she held her glass out to him and giggled as he scrambled to pick up the bottle and pour the fizzy liquid into her glass. she gave him a light wink and walked out to get some fresh air in the garden.

as she wandered deeper into the large maze of a garden she began to hear distant giggling, as she continued to walk the sound grew louder. when she took a right turn she was greeted by a pair of strangers intertwined with one another. she gasped, quickly turning, well as quickly as her gown allowed, to shield her eyes from what was occurring in front of her. she heard the male laugh and the bushes rustle which she assumed was the girl running off, not wanting lady y/n to recognize her. lady y/n cleared her throat, “are you decent?” the male laughed again humming in approval. as she turned to see who this frisky male was she was met with a bare chest in front of her, buttons undone. she quickly put her hands over her eyes, “i asked if you were decent!” she felt his hands tug hers down. she looked up to avoid eye contact with his chest and was met with the beautiful face of duke jaemin na, this season’s biggest playboy, his sparkly teeth on display, “well hello there pretty lady, are you lost?” she backed away from him afraid she’d fall into his trap, “duke i actually am not lost, i will be finding my way out immediately!” she turned to exit the maze, hoping some magical force would guide her out. and unsurprisingly the duke followed behind her pestering her with questions from “what do you do on your free time?” to “have you ever been intimate with yourself?” she tried to ignore him, only answering the appropriate questions until she finally escaped the maze leaving him behind calling after her.

she finally thought the night was over and rushed to her mother’s side to find some peace, however, her mother had other plans. “my sweet girl, come, come!” she ushered her over, “i’d like you to meet sir mark lee!” a gentle looking man stood next to her reaching his hand out to lady y/n. as she took his hand he gave it a kiss and pulled her away from her mother to talk. “i’m sorry about all that, it’s getting late, i’m sure you’ve had a long night of suitors rushing your way” she smiled at him grateful that he acknowledged her struggle, “no worries sir, your company is welcomed, after everything i’ve been through your presence is soothing” he gave her a small smile before asking lady y/n to recount her night, giving her loud and exaggerated reactions to the stories, causing her to laugh at his expressions. they seemed to hit it off well, finding comfort in the others words.

the night seemed to end too early for lady y/n bridgerton, but it seemed she had done more than enough work for herself this season, as the next morning she was greeted by seven handsome men wanting to speak with her. now it is far too early to say which man has infiltrated the heart of our darling lady y/n. but patience my dear reader for tomorrow is right around the corner.

yours truly,

lady whistledown

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Pleasure Is My Business: Part One

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.1k

Summary: You’re brought back to your high school days with this case. You put that behind you when you graduated, but life has a funny way of bringing you closer to the person who made your life miserable back then.

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there are any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them. If you’ve seen the show, then it’s the same level of angst unless otherwise stated

x

"The prostitute is not, as feminists claim, the victim of men, but rather their conqueror, an outlaw, who controls the sexual channels between nature and culture." - Camille Paglia

Before you leave for work, you grab the coffee you premade as soon as you wake up. The coffee is right next to your high school reunion invitation. The opened card stares at you whenever you pass by it, begging you to acknowledge it. High school was one of the worst years of your life because not only did kids bully you, but you felt their own pain as your own.

It wasn't fun.

This reunion is in a few days but you're still in Quantico. Looks like you won't get to go, and honestly, you're kind of relieved. Spencer wants you to go and prove to everyone you're this hotshot FBI agent (which you are), but you don't feel like proving to a bunch of people who never gave a fuck about you in the first place.

"Are you gonna go?" Spencer says from behind you.

"We'll, seeing how it's in a few days and we're not in Dallas, I don't think so. It's so stupid because instead of a night, they made it a whole weekend getaway. As if I want to spend more time with them than I have to."

"Maybe you can go to the other one."

All you can do is shrug. You really don't want to get into this right now, plus, you have to get ready for a case Hothc pulled together. Hotch got called to Dallas early in the morning to do a briefing on a case sent by Patrick Jackson, the attorney general.

Hoyt Ashford, a hedge fund manager for a major bank, has turned up dead in a hotel room. Hoyt didn't do too well in the public eye after going on talk shows and talking about how the real estate crisis wasn't a real thing. He posted an apology video about the issue, but once word got out that he died, his lawyers classified it as a suicide.

If you know any better, then that's not true.

According to Hotch, there was Viagra near Hoyt's body. Considering that his wife was at home with the kids, it's safe to assume the prostitute he was with killed him. Something that's confidential and not to be mentioned in any reports is that Hoyt took $10,000 out of a fund in cash. No one saw the prostitute he was with, which isn't surprising since they know how to be discreet. According to Patrick, this is the second murder in Dallas.

You might be able to attend your reunion after all.

"Female serial killers are a fascinating field," Spencer says once everyone is in the air. "We don't have much information on them, but what we do know involves throwing the rules completely out the window. Take the signature, for instance. They don't torture or take trophies because there is no sexual gratification when a woman kills. Murder is the goal. They don't have to do anything extra."

"So, basically, women are more efficient at killing," you half-joke.

"Historically, they have had body counts in the hundreds."

"Assuming that the job is the stressor, what are some of the reasons prostitutes kill their customers?" Hotch asks over the phone.

"Money, drugs, and PTSD. At some point, every call girl, no matter how well paid, gets coerced into an activity she didn't consent to. Aileen Wuornos used to purposefully stage paid sexual encounters as an excuse to murder men she thought would rape her," you explain.

"Wuornos was psychotic and disorganized. I think this girl is poisoning them before she has sex with them."

"She's using Tetramethylenedisulfotetramine. It's a popular rat poison in China which can be easily soluble in alcohol," Spencer explains after reading the files Hotch sent over.

"Poison is the perfect MO. It's quiet, quick, and the victims never see it coming because they think they're getting lucky." Hotch makes an uncertain noise. "Does that mean something to you?"

"These men are paying $10,000 a night for discretion as well as sex. She has a history with them. She didn't decide to kill them at the moment. She walks in with the intent to kill them, and she's doing it before she sleeps with them. She's not just organized, she's also methodical. She decides early which one of her clients is worth killing," Hotch says.

"Maybe the victims all share the same fetish. Both victims were in their fifties, highly visible, and careful of their image. If they were kinky in the same way, they'd go to great lengths to hide it."

"We're facing a corporate culture that'll do everything it can to keep us out."

"Actually, I had some luck there. Hoyt's wife isn't too happy with how he died. She agreed to talk to us but because every silver lining has a dark cloud, the hedge fund released a statement." JJ pulls out her phone to read the statement that was sent to her. "Ashford died peacefully in his home, according to lawyer David Madison.' They're already trying to close ranks."

"Does that language sound familiar to anyone else?" Spencer asks.

"What do you mean?"

"It's the same thing as the murder of the first victim. 'According to the company lawyer, Stanton died peacefully in his home'."

"Y/N and Morgan, start with the wife and see if you can get her to open up. JJ, call the lawyers and tell them I want to meet with both of them."

"You want to play them off each other?"

"I think one of them wrote both press releases. Let's see which one calls us back."

Once you land, you and Derek head over to the Ashford home where Yvonne Ashford is eagerly waiting for you.

"Mrs. Ashford, we're very sorry about your husband," you say.

"I've been getting nothing but condolences all day. I feel like a hypocrite for accepting them, knowing how he died."

"We think your husband might have been targeted because of something sexual he did with this call girl. I know this is hard, but is there anything you can tell us about what he liked?"

"In bed? I can sum it up in one word. Younger."

"How much younger?"

"Twenty-five. That was when I first met him."

"So, your age difference was part of the attraction?"

"Are you kidding? It was the whole relationship."

"Mrs. Ashford, no offense, but your husband spent a lot of money on this woman. Was there anything else at all that he liked from a younger woman besides the ego boost?" Derek asks.

"There's a certain kind of man, Agent, for whom the only kind of sex that matters is the ego boost. In a marriage like ours, you have to work at it or in my husband's case, pay for it."

Your phone rings and you step off to the side when you see Hotch is calling.

"Yeah, Hotch?"

"We got a meeting with a madame that sets meetings up like the one Ashford was in. Spencer is heading over to meet with her. I want you to go with him."

"Sure." You hang up and walk over to Derek. "I got to go. See what else you can find out about Hoyt."

"Yeah."

The madame, Lauren, is hosting an open house where she is able to meet clients discreetly. It's actually pretty smart since people might think they're there for the open house instead of something else entirely.

"This is actually pretty smart," you say when you meet up with Spencer. "Properties like this are safe and an inspection-free investment for large sums of cash."

An older woman walks out of the house with a big smile on her face.

"Well, hello, you two!"

"Are you the--"

"Isn't this neighborhood just fabulous? You're gonna love this house," she cuts your boyfriend off. She escorts you two inside the house for more privacy. "You two need lessons in faking it. I teach a class."

"So, you arrange dates for escorts?" you ask.

"All I arrange are meetings. What happens between two consenting adults when that meeting is over is something I'm not liable for. Now, who wants a scone?" she offers from a platter.

"Listen, we're looking for someone who is a high-end prostitute who takes fees up to ten thousand dollars. She has the intent of killing her clients before having sex with them."

"Oh, yes. We all know about this woman. She's terrible for business."

"I guess there's only so many men that can afford the service you provide, right?"

"Yes, but with the way she's behaving, she's only hurting herself. An escort's client list is the most important investment she has. It's her daily income and her retirement package when she sells the list."

"She's not working with a service then. No madam would allow an escort to kill off the clientele."

"What about the type of work your employees do?" Spencer asks nervously. "We're sort of operating under the assumption that this escort is killing men who make her perform a specific sexual act."

"What did you have in mind, sweetie?" she smirks.

"I... I don't even... I don't know."

"Don't mind him," you giggle. "It's his first time."

"If I may, I think you're looking at this all wrong. Start with this question: why would a man pay a woman five figures?"

"It's not just for sex, is it?"

"Of course, you've got to be good in bed to be successful, but that's the easy part. What men want more than the no strings attached sex is a therapist. Someone who will absorb the worst parts of their personalities."

"They're looking for someone to tell their fears and insecurities to. Everything they can't take home to their wife."

"That's what I groom my girls to do--how to talk to these men and how to listen. Don't get me wrong, deviancy comes with the territory. I can't tell you how many men need to be submissive as an outlet from their extremely stressful jobs. I can tell you that if the sex was the reason she was killing these men, she would have broken long before she charged $10,000."

"It isn't how these men act in bed, it's how they act out of it," Spencer says.

This unsub isn't killing at a specific time because it's whenever her client wants to meet with her. While you've been talking to Lauren, another murder has taken place. You and Spencer leave the open house and immediately head over to an office firm.

Joseph Fielding is found dead inside the elevator, tied to an office chair with X's marked in lipstick on his eyes, and clear tape wrapped around all over his mouth.

"The victim is Joseph Fielding. He was the CFO here," Rossi says when you two get there.

"Was he poisoned?"

"Yes, and staged. She killed him in his office and then rolled him out here to be found."

You walk over to the victim but pause when you see the energy left behind by the unsub. It's blue because the unsub is a female, but you recognize this energy. There are eight billion people in this world with eight billion different base energies. Every single person you've met has their own energy signatures, and you're familiar with this one. Not only have you seen this energy before, you know the person attached to it.

You've met and gotten to know this person before.

"I know this unsub," you say.

"You do?" Hotch asks.

"Yeah, but I can't put a name to it yet. I've definitely seen it sometime in my life."

Hotch gives you time to put a name to the unsub, but for right now, he focuses on what he can see physically.

"The lipstick is new."

"It was done postmortem. Reid said female serial killers don't leave a signature. I think she did that just for us. She's already exposed him at his most vulnerable. Now she wants to be noticed."

There is commotion by the barrier formed by local police by a man trying to get through, which he does eventually.

"Which one of you is Aaron Hotchner?"

"Me."

"I'm Larry Bartlett. I represent Mr. Fielding in Webster Industries."

"This is a closed crime scene, Mr. Bartlett."

"I know. I spoke to Ellen Daniels, and she said you're a very reasonable man."

"Escort him out, please," Hotch says to one of the officers.

"No, wait. Please." The officer tries to grab him, but he doesn't leave right away. "The press is outside and they can smell blood. Is there any way we can handle this discreetly?"

"We're not about to lie for you," Derek says.

"You don't have to lie. Just don't comment."

"Excuse us."

Hotch takes the team off to the side to talk about the benefits of not commenting on the murder. "Is there any reason to go public yet?"

"Validating her is exactly what she wants. If we hold back, she's more likely to make a mistake," you say quietly.

"He doesn't need to know that. We need everything you have on Fielding like bank accounts, tax records, and emails."

"Everything?" Larry asks in uncertainty.

"Everything."

"I'll gather everything and send it in the morning."

x

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[antaxzantax]

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 49

Summary: Alfred Ashford starts secondary school. Alexia Ashford receives psychiatric treatment after attacking her psychologist. Alexander Ashford reveals the CODE: Veronica project to his mother.

I

The pinnacle towered above a complex of stone and brick encircled by a high, thick stone wall. The wall bordered the only road connecting the estate to the London suburbs. A bronze plaque embedded in the stone announced the entrance to King Jacob II College.

Elizabeth bade him farewell on the threshold of the main building. Ailing with age, she barely leaned back to kiss Alfred on the cheek and had to leave after greeting headmaster Leslie Campbell and housemaster James McNamara-Douglas, both members of Jacob's Circle and attached to the respective clans. From that moment on, both men would be responsible for Alfred's care and education for the next five years.

The headmaster led him to his office to explain the social and educational dynamics of the institution. Alfred, now dressed in his frock coat and stiff collar, carried his bulky leather suitcase without complaint and with the housemaster on his back. King Jacob II College, the headmaster began, was part of the Jacobean educational project designed by Veronica Ashford and Rupert Campbell to ensure the political and economic influence of the remnant Stuart lineages in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and imperial possessions. King Jacob II was founded in the late 19th century as the boys' boarding school for the recruitment of the English and foreign elite concentrated in London. At the same time, Queen Anne College was erected as its female counterpart. Due to the success of the project, King Charles I and Queen Mary I colleges were opened in Edinburgh for the Scottish and Irish elite. Because of the geographical division, the funding and governance of the Scottish boarding schools remained in the hands of the Campbells, while the Ashfords took over the governance of the English pair. This separation also had to be respected by the families, which is why Alfred was compulsorily transferred to King Jacob II after preparatory school. And, unsurprisingly, the administration of the four schools rested exclusively with Jacob's Circle. There was no one, not one teacher, who was not an associate or member of the Circle. On the contrary, most of the student body came from a diversity of social and cultural backgrounds, with a handful of foreigners, and a small Jacobin minority. This Jacobin minority was concentrated in King's House, and it was these boys who always served as prefects. Alfred would be housed in a single dormitory in King's House, where he would share residence and communal life with thirty other boys. Finally, because he was Ashford, custom dictated that he was entitled to a couple of exclusive dormitory privileges. Alfred chose a television with VHS and the Atari 2600. He would get the movies and video games.

The course began with the one hundred and fifty students gathering in the auditorium to listen to the headmaster's speech. A giant painting of Veronica Ashford and another of Rupert Campbell hung on the wall, and Alfred felt the pressure. He broke out in a sweat and disguised the movement of his nervous hands by pretending to adjust his trousers. The painting of Veronica Ashford anticipated reading the biography of illustrious pupils like his great-great-grandfather, great-great-grandfather and grandfather, who contributed so much to the civilisational development of Britain. And, ultimately, in an adjoining room for the assembly of the student body with the faculty and school authorities, Alfred read the name inscribed on the wooden panels of Stanley Ashford, Thomas Ashford, Arthur Ashford, Edward Ashford, and Alexander Ashford. His name would be engraved after his father's just as his future son's name would be placed after his own. Alfred felt a knot in his stomach. Victory or death.

As in prep school, a first week of grace was granted for the freshmen to settle in. However, the week took an unexpected turn when the group of five prefects from his house bowed to him and invited him to join their group. Alfred accepted without a second thought. The prefects passed his test on his knowledge of the school and the staff and promised him their selfless protection. Alfred heartily welcomed the initiative as a qualitative improvement on his bitter and lonely experience at Watford. However, he soon discovered that his relationship with the gang was not peer-to-peer, but primus inter pares. He discovered this when Roderick, one of the five boys, brought him another boy to be his fag. Technically, the school had banned fagging last year, but Alfred could enjoy the approval of the prefects to dispose of one secretly. He ordered the boy called Henry to take care of the cleaning of his dormitory and to serve him tea for nothing, because it was Roderick who managed this service. In this way, no one disturbed him with trifles. But there was a second matter. An unexpected and disturbing fact that captured Alfred's imagination and all his attention.

The punishments. A month after the first day of school, Harvey, another prefect, invited him to come to the garret of the house. Alfred followed Harvey to the trapdoor. Before opening the lid, he held out a black Halloween mask simulating a rabbit's head to Alfred.

“Put it on.”

In the garret there were three children, two thirteen years old and one fourteen. The children were frightened by the sight of the monstrous rabbit. The five prefects rounded them up in a circle, and one of them asked the rabbit:

“How do we punish them?”

The rabbit called to one of the prefects to whisper the verdict in his ear. The prefect understood the rabbit's words and carried out his will. Three prefects held the victims while the other two wielded belts.

They knew where and how to strike so as not to leave marks or draw blood. Harvey put the rabbit mask in a hidden box and congratulated the prince on his creativity.

“See you next time.”

At first, he distracted himself by daydreaming and sketching children and prefects in a notebook. One of the teachers caught him but ignored the scene Alfred had drawn: a detailed and realistic depiction of the five prefects beating the three boys with their belts. He got bored with the belts and reimagined the scene from other angles and with other tools. First, he designed simple tools such as scissors, pruning shears, sticks and ropes. Secondly, he traced the shape of bladed weapons and instruments of torture such as the iron lady. And thirdly, he included new victims in the scene. He secretly made a quick sketch of his classmates and housemates and then introduced them into the scene, which constantly changed location and furnishings. In a catacomb, in his room at Ashford Hall, in a cemetery, in a shopping centre or in a laboratory with the Umbrella logo printed on the wall. As the number of locations and their difficulty increased, so did the definition of the bodies, their postures and expressions. He wanted it to be realistic and so he signed up for painting classes instead of marching with the cadets[1]. The painting classes improved his skill, as well as supplanting his abstinence for punishment. He once painted a picture in which he framed the reason he clung to the memory of the first punishment: power of influence, desire for importance and, above all, mitigation of emotional emptiness. The positive emotions of the punishment outweighed the negative emotions of family abandonment and parental absence. If he thought about the punishment, he forgot about other thoughts such as whether his father loved him or whether he was disappointed in him. Alfred wanted to prove his worth to him, but locked up in the boarding school he could think of no way to prove his manhood to him other than by wearing a kilt and killing Englishmen. Fortunately, the anguish didn't last more than two months. Harvey reappeared in his room with the rabbit mask stuffed in a sports bag.

“Let's go.”

Under his guidance, the punishments increased in variety, but habit drove him to seek more and be more reckless. To his face, he insulted fellow housemates for being lower class, was racist towards the only pair of Indians in King's House, beat up a middle-class boy who got too smart with the Stuart, shoved a boy's head down the toilet and forced a pair of freshmen to skinny-dip in the stream that ran through the estate. They lashed out with conservative slogans at the only leftist in the building while burning a picture of Fidel Castro with a lighter. At this point, Alfred's existence was limited to studying and inventing new outrages with which to reaffirm his status and evade the uncomfortable questions raised by the emotional void. A reign of terror in which he gave free rein to his limitless brutality.

In December 1982 Alfred made out with Henry. He had masturbated to a porn magazine that Roderick had smuggled into the study room he shared with him and Harvey. There weren't any girls at his school, so he went to try whoever was closest to hand. The two kissed roughly out of inexperience and without excitement on Alfred's part. In any case, Henry's warmth did him good and he threatened his subordinate to keep their relationship a secret.

“You're an asshole,” Henry replied.

In January 1983 Alfred showed up at the headmaster's office. He left with two letters and a reprimand for having been caught smuggling in a couple of VHS movies and a video game. He had to be subtle if he didn't want to lose his privileges. The Exorcist and Invasion of the Body Snatchers. He watched them with Henry and loved them. Unfortunately, Henry was a lout with Atari’s Adventure.

The first letter was signed by his grandmother. She wrote that his father and sister were well in Antarctica and that she missed him very much. She wanted to hug her grandson again and go on a picnic with him. The second letter was signed George Frederick Benjamin Stanley Owen Ashford-Campbell-Douglas-Stuart from the Soviet Union. He knew who he was: his grandfather's younger brother Edward Ashford. Spurred by morbidity and surprise, he read the second letter.

II

Dear Alfred,

Perhaps you know who I am. We have never met in person, and never will, though you may have seen me in some picture my father forgot to tear up or burn. I will be brief and to the point. I am your great-uncle George and I feel an obligation to warn you about our family and about your future. What you do with this warning, and even with this letter, I leave up to you, but I want to tell you in writing what I know and have experienced.

You were born in 1971, three years after my older brother's death and more than ten years after my father's death. I imagine that Alexander must have spoken highly of both of them, as it is a moral imperative for a son to speak well of his father and grandfather, who nurtured and educated him. But my father and brother were not good people. They pretended to be, but inside them there was always an unparalleled penchant for contempt for human life. However, it is unfair to blame only the two of them. After all, we all share origin and responsibility for the lifestyle that our great-great-grandmother Veronica adopted and that we have uncritically cultivated because, as has already become evident, class, status and privilege suffocate the heart of humanity. Veronica and Rupert were no exception.

Do you know what lurks beneath the factory floors that Veronica ruled with an iron fist? But what can I tell you about her that you don't already know? A prodigy daughter of capital and empire. Thief, traitor and genocidal, just like her brother Rupert. Out of cowardice I missed my only chance to cremate her remains. Given her background, it did not strike me as odd that her only offspring, Stanley, was a friend of Aleister Crowley. I recall that in his later years he believed he was a messenger of Lucifer. He made Ouija boards to communicate with his mother's mummy and spent a fortune acquiring a huge secret collection of books, statuettes and esoteric artefacts. If you're curious, Stanley's secret basement is hidden behind one of the library's bookshelves. The book entitled De Vermis Mysteriis activates the opening mechanism. See with your own eyes the horrors from beyond the grave that he collected, for the horrors he perpetrated in the factories and in the colonies were destroyed so that no evidence would remain.

Grandfather Stanley had a pair of twins: Thomas and Arthur. Thomas was an alcoholic whoremonger with a taste for human flesh and my father, well, what can I tell you about my father. A staunch anti-communist, champion of the monarchy and conservative arrow, my father designed the propaganda that convinced British youth to get involved in the two world wars, built that undignified prison in Colorado and worked with the CIA on MK-Ultra, mistreating those poor teenagers in Florida.

When you are a child and naive, you tend to glorify the sins of the father, and idolatry blinds the masses. I was made aware of my mistake through my older brother. As the main heir, I thought Edward was taking it seriously to please our father. But I was wrong. Underneath his handsome and hearty facade, lurked a twisted and ruthless man who instigated and supported civil wars and coups in Latin America and Asia for the imperialist cause. It was he who was enraptured by the effects of the atomic bomb on civilian populations and who always advocated servility and starvation as the means to pacify a society as terrifying as ours. It was Edward who arranged for Alexander to travel at the age of sixteen to Indonesia to participate in the government's eugenics programs against the civilian and indigenous population.

I still wonder how a man capable of being so good to his family could finance the execution of such acts against the human species. The last I heard of him, he had founded a pharmaceutical company with an Englishman. My brother always had a very unique worldview: war and compassion, paternalism and authoritarianism. My brother, like my father, wanted to see the dream of a world once again ruled by the élites for the élites, as was the absolutist Stuart monarchy. My father and brother believed that we would return to this old order once the Bolshevik fever had passed.

That's why I left. For this reason, my father expelled me from Ashford Hall and deprived me of inheritance and family. The only thing I retain from my former life as an aristocrat is the name and surname, the accent and manners. I don't miss home, yet I am nostalgic for my lost innocence, when everything was vibrant and pure, devoid of danger and worry.

Tired of suffering, I fled to the Soviet Union alone and without a passport. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I did not die and rebuilt my life in Moscow after the Great Patriotic War. Sometimes I regret my decision; at other times I bask in my natural compassion for the unfortunate souls who were not born like us. There is no place on earth that is free from human shortcomings, but I intend to resist and not falter in my destiny to help others and to let myself be helped.

That is why, Alfred, I wanted to write this letter as a warning about the family you were born into. I last saw Alexander when he was twenty-three years old. So is the father, so will be the son. His determination for the old order is as strong as his father's was.

I know you have a twin sister, Alexia. After this warning, all I can say to you is to love each other so that you will not allow either of you to fall into empty illusions.

I wish you a happy life.

Your great uncle,

George Ashford

III

It was as if she wasn't there; she felt her body, but not her person. Sleepy, paused, on the verge of falling to the floor if it weren't for the fact that she had been tied to the chair by the abdomen with a belt. On her right wrist was an identification bracelet and to her left was a barred window. A table and a vacant chair with rounded edges made up the only furniture in the aseptic room.

The door opened. A dark-haired, bearded man sat in the chair. He carried a folder with him, the contents of which he arranged on the table. The bearded man was dressed in a doctor's coat with no logo or identification. He read each paper carefully.

The bearded man took out a blank sheet of paper from the folder and a pen. He wrote at the top of the sheet.

“I am Aaron Green, clinical psychologist and psychiatrist.” He smiled sympathetically. “Do you mind if we start with some basic questions to get to know each other better?”

Motionless. Aaron jotted down on the sheet of paper.

“If you don't feel like talking, you can nod or shake your head. We can still talk this way. Might you like to?”

Nodded.

“Your name is Alexia Ashford?”

Nodded.

“Alexia is a very beautiful and unusual name. Is it of Greek origin?

Nodded.

“I've read the rest of your names, but I prefer to stick with Alexia. Agreed?”

Nodded.

“You were born on January 24th, 1971?”

Nodded.

“Do you have siblings?”

Nodded.

“An older sibling? Younger?”

Denied.

“Twin?”

Nodded.

“Is it a boy?”

Nodded.

“And what's his name?”

Silence. Aaron consulted his papers.

“Alfred? Like Alfred Hitchcock and Alfred the Great?”

Nodded.

“Alfred is also an interesting name. Germanic. Its literal meaning is ‘advised by the elves’. Curious.”

Silence.

“Your father's name is Alexander Ashford?”

He nodded.

“Like Alexander the Great, I suppose.”

Quiet.

“Do you know where you are? The place, not the room.”

Denied.

“The Margaret Ashford Institute. The social engineering institute your great-grandfather Arthur founded.”

Silence.

“Why are you here?”

Silence.

“I'm going to do one thing. I'm going to try to reconstruct what happened and you nod or deny depending on whether you remember, okay?”

Nodded.

January 12th, 1983. She was working. An alarm suddenly went off. A female voice boomed in the room: ‘The self-destruct system has been activated. Please all personnel must evacuate immediately’. Her first reaction was to run to the laboratory attached to the study room. A disproportionately large ant was fiddling with its antennae on the glass of the tube. She stood in front of the insect, blank. Behind her, monitors displayed the data of an unfinished investigation. She approached the excited ant as the alarm massacred her eardrums. She touched the glass with a trembling hand. She was going to cry.

A door slammed. Alexander. There was blood on his face, but no wounds. He hugged Alexia so tightly that he choked her. He lifted her off the floor and carried her out of the study room. The ant stayed. The research stayed.

Alexander ran as if possessed, and at no point did he let his daughter touch the floor. They ascended to the lobby, where Martin and Jonathan greeted them armed. Alexander left his daughter by the elevator doors and grabbed the shotgun Martin handed him. The three men shouted at each other. Alexander bent down to talk to her. She didn't hear his words, only that his gaze radiated hatred. Martin and Jonathan led the way, Martin with an assault rifle and Jonathan with a shotgun. Alexander protected his daughter in the rear.

They walked out into the hall. Alexander caught her hand and forced her up the stairs at full speed. Her shoulder ached. Martin and Jonathan followed behind them.

Five minutes until detonation.

Alexander shot a man in the head. The impact of the pellets scattered the grey matter across the concrete and steel corridor.

In the helicopter, she looked at her hands. Bloodied.

Blank.

January 17th, 1983. Session with Dr Sarah Charleigh. She hadn't spoken since the incident. She seemed catatonic.

“What is the T-Veronica?”

She had written that name on the board they had given her to communicate with them. The T-Veronica was...

She stuck a pair of sewing scissors into Charleigh's thigh. All the way in. She slapped her across the face. According to Aaron's testimony, she was screaming at the top of her lungs. She broke furniture and various objects. She saw her face in the mirror and smashed her head against the glass. She drew blood on her forehead. Completely out of her mind, she had to be restrained by four. Aaron and his team sedated her and transported her by ambulance to the Institute. She was drugged and strapped to a stretcher, then in a single bedroom and now in an interrogation.

What is the T-Veronica?” Aaron repeated.

Anger. Sadness. Fear. Joy. Surprise. She didn't understand her emotions. She shifted in her seat. In front of her, she had a disproportionately large ant. Her first discovery and research project. But there was something else. She was a queen. A queen that was hers. Alone, confined in a cage and chained to an existence subject to the will of others who did not want to understand her, who considered her a fairground attraction. A queen who had learned to coexist with her affliction and to keep at bay the dilemma of whether or not to continue living; because in that cage she had contemplated herself and had concluded that she hated herself.

She hated herself for trusting her family.

She hated herself for hating her family.

She hated herself for loving her family.

She hated herself for allowing others to impose their dreams on her.

She hated herself for taking on those dreams as her own.

She hated herself for allowing others to laugh at her.

She hated herself for having smiled at those who laughed at her.

She hated herself for her conformity.

She hated herself for her emotional weakness.

She hated herself for loving Alfred.

She hated herself for loving.

She hated herself for not imposing her will.

That was the T-Veronica: her will. Her will be done on earth as it was in heaven. Her will to live and to transform her being into something else.

Into the queen. A nasty queen. That she would not feel that she would not suffer, that she would only be pure volition. To cease to exist to exist again. She no longer wanted to be Alexia.

The T-Veronica disintegrated in the explosion. The queen died. Alexia stayed.

What is the T-Veronica: she went mad because she remembered that she had lost it forever.

Forever.

Aaron finished filling out the sheet.

“Alexia.”

Alexia didn't raise her head. She didn't have the strength.

“We're going to help you. Trust us.”

The Queen is dead, long live the Queen.[2]

IV

Elizabeth hardened her words.

“You're a fool.”

Alexander didn't fight back. He had told her. He couldn't take it any longer and told her. The CODE project: Veronica. The incident at the Antarctic base.

He was depressed and did not know how to carry on his father's and his mother's legacy. Elizabeth insulted him for meddling in this absurd conspiracy. His father approved the project, and he went ahead believing that it would satisfy him; that this was what he had to do as a son. A father-son pact to go straight ahead, as he had always been told to do. Edward had loved his son, but he had always been accustomed to prioritising ends over means. Edward took advantage of Alexander so that he would carry out the wishes of the former one even after the death, as Elizabeth said with the utmost sincerity.

Elizabeth stroked his hand. Alexander began to cry. For decades, he had sought ways to positively influence his son to avoid disasters such as those described. However, fighting Arthur on his home turf was virtually impossible. Taking advantage of the fact that she was a foreigner, a Protestant and a non-conformist, Arthur manipulated the family to cast Elizabeth as an ignorant outsider and to focus Alexander's education on Edward. Elizabeth had to adopt a passive, complementary role to her husband's in order for the marriage to survive and thus retain custody of their son. But the results were nil. Arthur and Edward guided Alexander to be exactly like them, and they succeeded.

The Antarctic base exploded to kill the employees who had rebelled against Alexander's tyranny. The son's excuses for this decision were pitiful and absurd, and he could not fool his mother: he killed them out of hatred.

But she could not loathe her son. She would not do it for her last chance: Alfred and Alexia. He said to Alexander: I forbid Alexia to work until she comes of age, and I forbid you to see your children until I decide. Alexander bowed his head tearfully.

“But I want to see them,” he protested, sobbing.

“Who?”

“My children.”

“You only get one chance,” Elizabeth burst into tears.

They hugged each other.

“You only have one chance...”

[1] Combined Cadet Force (CCF).

[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_king_is_dead,_long_live_the_king!

[salvawhores-world]

Benedict Bridgerton X OC PART 1

Benedict Bridgerton x Helen Ashford

Warnings - infidelity angst, Colin and his dramatics, Bridgerton siblings banter.

A/N - This is my first time ever writing anything I initially started off with a small idea of imagining Benedict in an arranged marriage and now I have a whole story dedicated to him with two parts. I love him he’s my comfort character

Benedict Bridgerton was a man of many talents, but it was his passion for art that truly set him apart. From a young age, he had a natural talent for sketching and painting, and he spent countless hours lost in his own world, creating masterpieces that would never see the light of day.

He longed to pursue art as a career, to create something that would leave a lasting impression on the world.

But such dreams were not meant for someone of his station. His family had other plans for him, plans that involved a respectable marriage and a career in politics.

As the second eldest son of the Bridgerton family, Benedict had always known that he would be expected to marry and carry on the family line. However, the recent marriage of his older brother Anthony to Kate had made the prospect of Benedict's own marriage all the more pressing.

Benedict's mother, Violet, couldn't help but worry about her son. She knew that he had a passion for art and a desire to pursue a career as an artist, but she also knew that his duty to the family would come first. She feared that the pressure of marriage and starting a family would stifle his creative pursuits and leave him feeling unfulfilled.

Violet had seen it happen to too many women of her own generation, and she didn't want the same fate to befall her beloved son. She had tried to broach the subject with Benedict, but he was always quick to deflect the conversation. He didn't want to burden his family with his own worries and concerns, and he certainly didn't want to disappoint them by admitting that he wasn't ready for marriage just yet.

But as the Bridgerton family continued to socialize and attend events, the pressure on Benedict only grew. He couldn't escape the constant chatter about eligible young ladies and potential matches, and he found himself withdrawing more and more into his art as a way to cope.

Violet watched her son with a heavy heart, knowing that she couldn't protect him from the expectations of society forever. She only hoped that he would find a way to balance his duty to the family with his own desires and passions, and that he would be able to find happiness on his own terms.

Eloise, her heart pounding with both curiosity and courage, confronted her mother about the discussion she had overheard between her and Anthony as they strolled together through the grand halls of their estate.

The words tumbled out of her lips in a burst of audacity, "I just heard you and Anthony talking about Benedict's marriage, but as far as I know, he isn't courting anyone, not even this season."

Violet Bridgerton, her mother, paused for a moment, her eyes holding a glimmer of understanding and a touch of nostalgia.

She gently took Eloise's arm, her voice carrying the weight of experience and wisdom as she responded, "Oh, my dear Eloise, sometimes in life, love takes its own course. It isn't always about falling in love but rather finding love, staying in love, and then realizing you have fallen ever so deeply."

"What do you mean, Mother?" Eloise inquired, her voice tinged with both curiosity and skepticism.

Violet smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes, as they continued their leisurely walk through the opulent estate. What I mean, my dearest, is that sometimes life presents us with unexpected twists and turns. It's entirely possible for Benedict to embark on an arranged marriage, a path dictated by tradition and duty, rather than one fueled by romantic notions."

Eloise burst into laughter, her mirth bubbling forth uncontrollably. The sound echoed through the corridors, startling her mother and causing heads to turn in their direction. Violet stared at her daughter, her expression a mix of surprise and concern.

"Forgive me, Mother," Eloise managed to say between fits of laughter, attempting to regain her composure. "It's just that the idea of Benedict, our dear Benedict, surrendering to an arranged marriage seems utterly preposterous."

Violet's brows knitted together, her concern deepening. "Eloise, this is no laughing matter. Arranged marriages have been a part of our society for centuries, and they have their own intricacies and complexities."

Eloise wiped away tears of laughter, her amusement slowly subsiding as she recognized her mother's earnestness. "I understand, Mother, and I apologize for my outburst. It's just... Benedict, surrendering his heart to an arranged union? It feels inconceivable, given his free-spirited nature and disdain for convention."

Violet's lips curved into a gentle smile, a touch of mischief dancing in her eyes. "Ah, my dear Eloise, that is the beauty of life. It often surprises us, revealing facets of our loved ones that we never imagined existed. Perhaps there is more to Benedict's story than what meets the eye."

As they continued their walk, Eloise pondered her mother's words, her mind filled with possibilities and newfound curiosity. The notion of Benedict, the eternal wanderer of passions, embracing an arranged marriage felt like an enigma waiting to be unraveled. With a mixture of skepticism and intrigue.

As fate continued to weave its intricate threads through the lives of the Bridgerton siblings, it seemed that each of them had fallen into the embrace of classic romance tropes.

Daphne, the eldest daughter, had embarked on a journey of fake dating, her heart entangled in a web of pretense. Anthony, the protective older brother, had found love in the most unlikely of places, as old enemies blossomed into passionate lovers. Colin, the carefree and curious sibling, had discovered the beauty of a slow-burning romance with his dearest friend.

And now, it appeared to be Benedict's turn to dance within the realms of yet another timeless trope – the search for love within the confines of an arranged marriage. Fate had taken hold of his destiny, leading him down a path strewn with the delicate petals of duty and tradition.

In the midst of uncertainty, Benedict sought solace in his passions, losing himself in the strokes of his paintbrush and the whispers of his thoughts. With each stroke, he poured his longing and hopes onto canvas, the art becoming a testament to his desire for a love that transcended convention.

Entering the drawing room, Benedict found Anthony engrossed in a stack of papers, his face clouded with frustration, while Kate stood nearby, arms folded tightly across her chest, a deep furrow etched upon her brow. The tension in the room was palpable.

“Must you always interfere?" Kate's voice carried a hint of exasperation, her words laced with a touch of defiance.

Anthony sighed heavily, his gaze meeting Kate's with equal determination. "Of course, I must. Benedict is my brother, and it is my duty to guide and protect him."

Kate's eyes flashed with a mix of concern and frustration. "But shouldn't you let him be, Anthony? What happened to his dreams of applying to art colleges? You can't simply dismiss his passion."

Anthony remained silent, his lips pressed tightly together, the weight of responsibility weighing upon him.

"Viscount Anthony Bridgerton!" Kate's voice rang out, her frustration reaching its peak as she snatched a paper from her husband's hand.

“Kathani," Anthony finally spoke, his voice measured and controlled. "He is my brother, and I must prioritize what I believe is best for him, regardless of his personal inclinations."

Kate scoffed, her eyes filled with a mixture of disappointment and disbelief, before turning on her heel and storming out of the room, leaving Benedict standing in the doorway, a witness to the clash of wills between his brother and sister-in-law.

Benedict struggled to make sense of their heated exchange, the words and emotions swirling in his mind like an abstract painting yet to be deciphered. He longed to understand what they were discussing, how his art and aspirations were entangled in their impassioned debate.

Benedict sauntered into the grand main hall, where Eloise sat engrossed in her book, Colin and Hyacinth fiercely battling each other in a game of chess. The servants scurried about, setting up tea and cakes with an air of anticipation.

"Didn't Daphne and her little one just bid us adieu?" Benedict mused, his voice filled with curiosity.

Eloise, barely lifting her gaze from the pages, responded with nonchalance, "Oh, indeed! Daphne and her precious offspring, the never-ending tale that keeps us entertained. That THING’S face hasn't changed in moons!"

Colin erupted into laughter, only to be silenced by a stern glare from their mother, Violet. "Eloise, enough of your quips. And Colin, my dear, stop being the instigator," Violet scolded, her tone laced with maternal authority.

Colin gasped, feigning innocence. "Mother, 'twas Eloise who spoke of young Auggie as if he were a lifeless object. Why am I always the one caught in the crossfire?”

Eloise playfully continued to tease Colin, and he retaliated with equal fervor. Benedict contemplated joining the banter, a mischievous glint in his eye, but his mind remained consumed by the earlier events. He was barely aware of the chatter around him.

"Eloise, Colin, enough of your bickering. Lady Danbury might grace us with her presence any moment now," Violet interjected, busy arranging the crockery with precision. "Both of you, vacate the hall. I have an affair of great importance to discuss with Lady Danbury in utmost privacy."

Eloise stubbornly protested, "But I'm at the climax of this novel! Can't you see, Mother? Leave me be!" Violet shot Eloise a pointed look, conveying her wishes through a mere expression.

With an exasperated sigh, Eloise reluctantly closed her book, muttering under her breath, "May the heavens save us from such tyranny," before reluctantly exiting the room.

Violet then turned her attention to Colin and Hyacinth, adopting a commanding tone. "Colin, Hyacinth, must I resort to written instructions to enforce obedience?" The siblings sprang into action, hastily collecting their chess pieces, aware of their mother's unwavering authority.

"Benedict, my dear, one shouldn't expect their aged mother to repeat herself, now should they?" Violet quipped, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Benedict nodded, a hint of amusement in his eyes, as he made his exit from the hall.

Lady Danbury gracefully entered the room, her presence commanding attention. "Violet, my dear, I believe I have unraveled the reason behind this conversation of ours," she stated, delicately sipping her tea.

“Agatha, my son," Violet began to explain, but Lady Danbury interjected with a mischievous smile, "Ah, the talented artist that he is. Such brilliance is a rarity in this day and age."

Violet, perplexed by Lady Danbury's remark, followed her gaze outside the window, where Benedict sat on a swing, lost in his thoughts. Violet's eyes widened in realization as she turned back to Lady Danbury. "You have someone in mind, don't you?" she inquired, her voice filled with curiosity.

“Lady Danbury leaned forward, a glint of excitement in her eyes. "Indeed, my dear Violet. I know of a young lady named Helen Ashford. She possesses all the qualities that would make her a perfect match for Benedict. Beauty, grace, and a spirit that matches his own. They would create a remarkable union."

Violet's brow furrowed as she contemplated the idea. "An arranged marriage for Benedict? But will he accept such an arrangement willingly?" she questioned, her concern evident.

Lady Danbury chuckled softly. "Ah, my dear Violet, love has a way of blossoming even in the most unexpected circumstances”

Violet's eyes sparkled with intrigue. "You truly believe they would be a good match?"

Lady Danbury nodded, her conviction unwavering. "Indeed, my dear friend. Their shared passions, their complementary spirits, it is a pairing meant to be. With a gentle nudge and a little encouragement, their love story could unfold like a beautiful tapestry.

Helen, my dear sister, you must consider marriage someday," Earl Henry Ashford persistently attempted to engage in conversation with his headstrong sibling, as he had done countless times before.

Helen glanced up from her musical notes, her determination evident as she dropped her quill.

And I never claimed I wouldn't, brother. Find me a suitable match and marry me off if you must. After all, I was born for it, was I not? What I refuse, however, is to seek a love match and hope to find true love within the bounds of marriage," she asserted firmly, making her stance clear.

Henry attempted to explain his perspective, hoping to change her mind. "How can you perceive being in love as a negative thing simply because of one unfortunate incident?" he questioned.

Look at our king and queen, we all aspire to have a love like theirs," Henry argued, his tone filled with conviction, as if hoping to sway Helen's viewpoint.

Helen's eyes narrowed with a hint of pain and defiance. "The incident you so casually refer to was our mother, Henry," she retorted sharply.

“And speaking of our king and queen, have you not noticed the loneliness that engulfs our queen? I would rather enter into an arranged marriage than embark on a path of self-destruction," she declared, her voice laced with bitterness. With that, she abruptly rose from her seat and stormed out of the room, leaving Henry to contemplate her words.

It was a difficult matter for Helen. Her parents had shared a passionate love, a union that seemed unbreakable. They adorned each other with affection, creating a celestial symphony of devotion.

However, tragedy struck when, at the tender age of fourteen, Helen discovered her father's lifeless body in their backyard. He had taken his own life upon learning of her mother's infidelity.

Since that fateful day, Helen had learned that no amount of love could ever fill the void or shield against heartbreak. She held a deep resentment towards her mother, who had abandoned Helen and her brother, leaving young Henry burdened with the responsibilities of an Earl at the tender age of nineteen.

The moon cast a soft glow over the tranquil Bridgerton estate as Eloise sought solace in the hidden depths of the backyard. The late hour and the veil of darkness concealed her secret indulgence—a cigarette, clandestinely lit to calm her restless mind.

Unbeknownst to her, Benedict had noticed her absence from the drawing room and followed the flickering ember of her vice. He found her, a solitary figure enveloped by the shadows, and approached her with cautious steps.

Eloise," Benedict called out, his voice carrying a blend of concern and curiosity. She turned, startled by his sudden presence, and quickly tried to hide the evidence of her forbidden vice. Benedict, ever perceptive, arched an eyebrow but said nothing, extending his hand to take the pack of cigarettes from her. Eloise exhaled deeply, grateful that her brother had discovered her secret rather than their ever-watchful mother.

Benedict sought answers, and he knew Eloise held the key. After all, Eloise Bridgerton always possessed knowledge, an understanding of everything. "Would you care to enlighten me?" he inquired gently

Eloise sighed with a sense of relief, extending the pack of cigarettes to him. "What troubles you, Eloise?" Benedict pressed, his tone laced with weariness.

Eloise feigned confusion, attempting to divert the conversation. "What troubles me? Is it the fact that I will be out next season? Or perhaps the reality that I never had the chance to pursue my studies? Or maybe it's the secret betrayal of my childhood best friend, concealed for who knows how long," she rambled, trying to steer clear of the true topic at hand.

Benedict grew impatient, sensing her avoidance. "You know perfectly well that is not what I am asking," he stated firmly. Eloise let out an awkward chuckle, well aware that Violet would be furious if she discovered their conversation. "Haha, a funny thing indeed. So, Mama intends to arrange a marriage for you. That is why Lady Danbury paid us a visit this afternoon," she revealed.

Benedict's face contorted with disbelief. His mother knew all too well that he desired a love match, to marry for love alone. "Nonsense! What nonsense are you speaking, Eloise?" he protested.

Eloise, weary of the situation, replied, "It was something about staying in love, a string of nonsensical ideas. But Mother is determined, Benedict."

Benedict ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts swirling in a sea of uncertainty. He had always envisioned a marriage filled with passion, a partner with whom he could share his deepest desires and aspirations. The idea of surrendering his fate to an arranged union felt stifling, restricting the freedom he longed for. Yet, he couldn't deny the weight of his family's expectations and the duty he felt to honor them.

As the moonlight bathed them in its ethereal glow, Benedict and Eloise found themselves at a crossroads—a delicate balance between tradition and personal desires. Little did they know that their conversations under the moonlit sky would set in motion a chain of events that would challenge their beliefs, push the boundaries of their comfort zones, and ultimately lead them to uncover the true meaning of love, choice, and destiny in a world where societal norms and personal desires clashed.

Lady Danbury's carriage arrived at the elegant estate of Earl Henry and Countess Caroline Ashford. The grand entrance welcomed her with its intricate marble columns and exquisite floral arrangements.

Lady Danbury, adorned in her finest regency attire, descended from the carriage with grace, her eyes shimmering with purpose. As she was ushered into the drawing room, Earl Henry and Countess Caroline rose to greet their esteemed guest.

"Lady Danbury, what a delight to have you grace our humble abode," Earl Henry exclaimed, extending his hand in greeting. "To what do we owe this honor?"

Lady Danbury's eyes twinkled mischievously as she settled into an ornate armchair. "Ah, Earl Henry, Countess Caroline, I have come with a proposition that might pique your interest," she replied, her voice laced with a hint of excitement.

Curiosity piqued, Earl Henry motioned for his wife to join them, and they sat opposite Lady Danbury, eager to hear her proposal. Countess Caroline's eyes sparkled with anticipation, for she had heard tales of Lady Danbury's matchmaking prowess.

"Pray, Lady Danbury, do enlighten us," Earl Henry urged, his voice tinged with anticipation.

Lady Danbury leaned forward, her gaze fixed on them. "I come with a proposition concerning your sister, Miss Helen Ashford," she revealed, her voice carrying a tone of conviction.

Earl Henry exchanged a quick glance with Countess Caroline, their interest now fully piqued. "Miss Helen? Pray, do tell us more," Earl Henry inquired, his tone politely inquisitive.

"Lady Danbury," Countess Caroline interjected, her voice filled with curiosity. "What could you possibly propose for our dear Helen?"

Lady Danbury's smile widened, and she clasped her hands together. "It has come to my attention that the honorable Benedict Bridgerton, the second oldest of the esteemed Bridgerton siblings, seeks a suitable match," she began, her words measured and deliberate.

Earl Henry leaned back in his chair, a spark of hope igniting in his eyes. "Benedict Bridgerton, you say? A fine gentleman indeed. But what does this have to do with our Helen?"

Lady Danbury's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "I believe that Helen and Benedict would make a splendid match. Helen's intellect, strength, and unwavering spirit would complement Benedict's artistic soul and free-spirited nature. It is a union that could bring about an extraordinary partnership."

Countess Caroline's breath caught in her throat, her heart beating with a mix of excitement and trepidation. "Lady Danbury, do you truly believe that our Helen and Benedict would find happiness in such an arrangement?"

Lady Danbury nodded, her confidence unwavering. "I have witnessed love bloom in the most unexpected of circumstances, Countess Caroline. Sometimes, the path to happiness lies beyond our preconceived notions. With Helen's resilience and Benedict's ability to see beauty in all things, I am convinced that their union would be nothing short of extraordinary."

The Bridgerton family gathered in the grand drawing room, its opulent walls adorned with exquisite portraits and shimmering chandeliers casting a soft glow. Violet Bridgerton, the matriarch of the family, stood at the center, her gaze commanding attention from her beloved children.

"Dear family," Violet began, her voice carrying the weight of authority and love. "There is a matter of utmost importance that requires our attention today."

Benedict, standing tall with a hint of unease in his eyes, exchanged a nervous glance with his siblings. They had all heard whispers of an impending arranged marriage, but the confirmation from their mother now hung in the air, tense and palpable.

Violet's piercing gaze met Benedict's, her voice steady yet tinged with a hint of sadness. "My dear Benedict, it is with a content heart that I inform you of the arrangement we have made for your marriage. Miss Helen Ashford, a young woman of impeccable character and grace, has been chosen as your bride."

Benedict's breath caught in his chest, his heart pounding with a mix of emotions. He looked around the room, meeting the eyes of his siblings, who bore expressions of both concern and curiosity. Benedict summoned his resolve, his voice firm yet tinged with a touch of defiance.

"Mother, I cannot comply with such an arrangement," he declared, his words echoing in the hallowed space. "I believe in the power of love, and I refuse to enter into a marriage devoid of that sacred bond."

Violet's eyes widened, a mix of surprise and disappointment flickering across her face. She moved closer to her son, her voice laced with a combination of maternal concern and authority.

"Benedict, my darling, marriage is a complex institution, and sometimes love can blossom in the most unexpected of places."

Benedict shook his head, his voice unwavering. "I appreciate your wisdom, Mother, but I have a passion for art that consumes my very being. I have dreams and aspirations that I wish to pursue, to create a life filled with beauty and inspiration. A loveless marriage would stifle that fire within me."

As tension hung in the air, Anthony, the eldest Bridgerton sibling, stepped forward, his voice cutting through the silence. "Benedict, you will marry Miss Ashford as Mother has arranged. It is our duty as members of this esteemed family to honor our responsibilities and uphold our reputation."

Benedict's eyes widened, his jaw clenched with a mixture of frustration and defiance. He locked eyes with Anthony, his voice resolute yet tinged with a touch of rebellion. "Anthony, I understand the weight of our family's expectations, but I cannot enter into a loveless union. I refuse to sacrifice my own happiness for the sake of appearances."

Anthony's gaze hardened, his voice filled with authority. "Benedict, you will do as I say. Our family's honor and standing in society depend on it. Love may be a luxury we cannot afford at the moment, but duty and responsibility must prevail."

Benedict's hands curled into fists, his voice strained with emotion. "Is our happiness to be sacrificed at the altar of societal expectations? Should we not strive for more than mere appearances?"

Violet, the voice of reason, stepped forward, her presence commanding attention. "Anthony, my dear son, let us not make hasty decisions fueled by obligation alone. Benedict's happiness and his pursuit of love are not matters to be taken lightly."

Anthony's expression softened, a flicker of understanding crossing his features. He took a deep breath, his voice gentler yet resolute. "I apologize, Benedict. I only seek what I believe is best for our family. But know this, my brother, love can sometimes be found in the most unexpected of circumstances."

Benedict nodded, his voice filled with gratitude for Anthony's willingness to listen. "I appreciate your concern, Anthony, but I cannot dismiss the yearnings of my heart. I must follow my own path, even if it means defying convention."

As the siblings stood before their mother, the weight of their differing opinions filled the room. It was a battle between duty and individuality, tradition and personal fulfillment.

In the quiet solitude of the Bridgerton family library, Daphne and Francesca found Benedict, his face etched with a mix of worry and defiance. They exchanged a knowing glance, understanding the weight of his inner turmoil. Daphne gently placed her hand on Benedict's shoulder, her voice filled with sisterly warmth.

"Benedict, dear brother, we understand your reservations. But before making any final decisions, would you not consider meeting Helen Ashford at least once? It may bring some clarity to your heart."

Benedict sighed, his eyes searching theirs for reassurance. "Daphne, Francesca, I fear I am destined for a life devoid of love and passion. How can I marry someone I do not know, someone I am not in love with?"

Francesca moved closer, her voice soothing yet resolute. "Benedict, love does not always happen at first sight. It can blossom slowly, like a delicate flower, when given the chance. Please, give Helen a fair opportunity to show you who she truly is."

Benedict hesitated, his fingers tracing the edges of a well-worn book on the table. "But what if I cannot find that connection, that spark of love? What if my heart remains untouched?"

Daphne clasped his hand, her eyes shining with sisterly affection. "Benedict, love is a mysterious and unpredictable force. It may elude us when we least expect it, and yet it can also surprise us in the most unlikely of circumstances. Give Helen a chance, and you may discover a love that surpasses all expectations."

Benedict bowed his head, grappling with his inner turmoil. "I shall meet Helen, for your sake, dear sisters. But I make no promises. My heart is guarded, and it may take more than a single encounter to sway me."

Francesca smiled, her voice filled with hope. "That is all we ask, dear brother. Keep an open mind, and perhaps fate will guide you towards the love you seek."

Helen Ashford sat by the window in the Ashford estate's study, engrossed in a book about astrophysics. Her mind danced with celestial wonders as she scribbled notes with determination. The room fell silent as her brother, Earl Henry Ashford, and his spirited wife, Countess Caroline, entered, their presence casting a lively aura.

"Helen, my dear sister, we have something of great import to discuss," Henry announced, a twinkle in his eyes.

Helen looked up from her book, her interest piqued. "Pray tell, what is it that has you both so eager to share?"

Caroline exchanged a knowing smile with her husband before speaking. "Dearest Helen, we have come to speak of a gentleman named Benedict Bridgerton. It appears he has caught the attention of many, and his accomplishments in the arts are widely renowned."

Helen raised an eyebrow, her voice laced with curiosity. "Benedict Bridgerton? And what of him? Should I be intrigued by his artistic endeavors?"

Henry chuckled, his affection for his sister evident. "Oh, dear sister, it seems you have misunderstood our intention. We do not speak of Benedict as a mere display of talents or a knight in shining armor. No, it is his character, his kindness, that has sparked our interest."

Helen leaned forward, a hint of skepticism in her voice. "Character and kindness, you say? Well, those are qualities worth considering. But let me make myself clear, I am not in search of grand love or a sweeping romance. A kind-hearted man who respects and cherishes me would be more than enough."

Caroline smiled warmly, her eyes filled with understanding. "We understand, Helen. And it is precisely because of Benedict's reputation for kindness that we thought to introduce you. You deserve nothing less than a partner who values you for who you are."

Helen paused, contemplating their words. "Very well, I shall meet this Benedict Bridgerton. But let it be known that my expectations are not high, and I will not be swayed by empty words or grand gestures. If he proves to be a man of genuine kindness and integrity, then perhaps there may be room for further consideration."

Henry and Caroline exchanged a glance, their excitement tempered with respect for Helen's independence. "We appreciate your open-mindedness, dear sister," Henry said. "All we ask is that you approach this meeting with an open heart and give Benedict a chance to prove himself."

Helen nodded, her determination shining through. "Rest assured, I shall approach this encounter with caution and reserve judgment until I have had the opportunity to know him better. After all, in matters of the heart, it is the substance beneath the surface that truly matters."

The Bridgerton siblings gathered in the grand parlor, preparing to depart for the Ashford estate for dinner. Excitement filled the air as they teased and bantered with one another, their playful spirits dancing like fireflies.

Colin, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, couldn't resist poking fun at Anthony. "Ah, dear brother, it seems love is in the air once again. We shall witness another Bridgerton succumbing to the bonds of matrimony."

Anthony smirked, ever ready with a retort. "Indeed, Colin, but pray tell, will it be before or after you find yourself shackled by the bonds of wedded bliss?"

Kate, Anthony's quick-witted wife, chimed in, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "Oh, Colin, do enlighten us. Will your heart be captured soon, or shall we wait for another decade of your bachelorhood?"

Colin feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart dramatically. "I am a man of patience and discerning taste, dear sister-in-law. The right lady must grace my presence before I fall head over heels."

Eloise, unable to contain her laughter, joined in the banter. "Oh, Colin, we've been waiting for the day when love will sweep you off your feet. But until then, we shall revel in your charm and wit."

Benedict, the subject of their playful teasing, sighed, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Pray, dear siblings, spare me from your matchmaking endeavors. I am perfectly capable of finding love in my own time."

Francesca, always the voice of reason, chimed in. "Now, now, let's not overwhelm Benedict with our matchmaking schemes. Love has a way of finding us when we least expect it."

The room erupted with laughter, the joyous sound echoing through the halls of the Bridgerton household. They knew that while they may tease and prod, their bond as siblings was unbreakable, and their support for one another unwavering.

Eloise, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of nervousness and excitement, approached the elegant lady engrossed in her book. Her heart raced as she tried to find the right words to initiate the conversation.

Clearing her throat delicately, Eloise caught the attention of the young woman, who looked up, her eyes filled with curiosity. "How may I help you, miss?" Helen inquired, her voice soft and polite.

Eloise, her voice slightly trembling, introduced herself. "I... I'm Eloise Bridgerton, Benedict's sister," she managed to say, her words faltering slightly.

As the realization dawned upon Helen, her face lit up with recognition. "Forgive me, Miss Eloise. How careless of me. I should have known. It is a pleasure to meet you," she replied warmly, extending a gloved hand in greeting. "I am Helen Ashford."

She was, feeling more at ease now, smiled gratefully and accepted Helen's hand, shaking it gently. "The pleasure is mine, Miss Helen," she said, her voice growing steadier. "I must say, I've heard so much about you from my family. They speak highly of your intellect and wit."

Helen's eyes sparkled with appreciation. "Oh, the flattery, Miss Eloise. Your family is far too kind. I am but a humble scholar, indulging in the wonders of knowledge." She closed her book gently and placed it on her lap.

Eloise, curious about the book Helen had been immersed in, couldn't help but ask. "May I inquire about the book you were reading? 'The Glass Universe,' is it not?

Helen's face lit up with enthusiasm. "Ah, you have a keen eye, Miss Eloise. Indeed, 'The Glass Universe' is a captivating exploration of the unsung heroines who made significant contributions to the field of astronomy. I find it utterly fascinating."

Eloise's eyes widened with genuine interest. "Oh, how marvelous! Astronomy is such a captivating subject. I confess I have only dabbled in it, but perhaps we could exchange thoughts and ideas sometime. I would love to hear more about your studies."

Helen's smile grew wider. "That would be delightful, Miss Eloise. I'm always eager to discuss the wonders of the universe with like-minded individuals.

As they engaged in a lively conversation about their shared interests, the apprehension that had initially enveloped Eloise melted away. She found herself genuinely connecting with Helen, appreciating her intelligence and passion for knowledge.

As Eloise and Helen engaged in their animated conversation, the Bridgerton siblings watched from the doorway, captivated by the sight before them. Colin, unable to contain his teasing nature, leaned toward Francesca and whispered, "Eloise Part 2, is she not?"

Francesca stifled a laugh and whispered back, "Hush, our Eloise is not this polished in her manners."

Their giggles, however, did not go unnoticed by their stern older brother, Anthony, who shot them a disapproving glance, silently warning them to behave themselves.

Meanwhile, Benedict stood transfixed, his gaze fixed upon Helen. She possessed an ethereal beauty that left him in awe, a beauty that could not be replicated on canvas no matter how skilled the artist. Her every movement seemed to possess a grace and elegance that he found irresistible.

Henry, the ever-gracious host, took it upon himself to introduce Helen to the Bridgerton family members one by one. Helen greeted each of them with genuine warmth and politeness, making a favorable impression with her charm and grace.

Violet, observing Helen closely, couldn't help but be impressed. Her keen eyes took in every detail of Helen's refined demeanor and graceful poise. It was clear to her that Helen was not only beautiful but also possessed an intelligence and sophistication that matched her appearance.

"Miss Helen, it is a pleasure to have you here with us," Violet said warmly, extending her hand in greeting. "I must say, your reputation precedes you. I have heard nothing but commendations about your intellect and wit."

Helen curtsied gracefully, her eyes shining with gratitude. "Thank you, Lady Bridgerton. Your kind words are most humbling. I must say, it is an honor to be welcomed into such esteemed company."

Violet's smile widened, and she studied Helen with a discerning eye. "I must say, Miss Helen, you possess a rare combination of beauty and intelligence. It is truly a delight to have you amongst us."

Helen's cheeks flushed with a mixture of modesty and appreciation. "Your words are far too kind, Lady Bridgerton. I am but a humble scholar, seeking knowledge and exploring the wonders of the world."

Violet chuckled softly. "Oh, my dear, humility suits you well. Please, do enjoy your time here. Our family is known to be a lively bunch, and we are thrilled to have you as part of our evening."

The grand dining room of the Ashford estate was bathed in the warm glow of candlelight as the Bridgertons and Helen Ashford gathered for a sumptuous dinner. The table was adorned with elegant silverware, crystal glasses, and exquisite floral arrangements, creating an atmosphere of refined opulence.

As the first course was served, stimulating conversations filled the air. The clinking of fine china and the gentle murmur of polite laughter echoed throughout the room. Violet Bridgerton, the epitome of grace and poise, sat at the head of the table, her eyes sparkling with delight.

"I believe we should leave Benedict and Helen chaperoned to get to know each other," Violet proposed, her voice carrying a gentle yet commanding tone.

Benedict's heart skipped a beat, and he looked up nervously, his eyes meeting Helen's. She swallowed her food harshly, momentarily surprised by the suggestion. Her gaze flickered with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

"What a good idea," Henry Ashford chimed in, his voice carrying a touch of excitement. "It will give the young ones an opportunity to converse without prying eyes."

Kate, always eager to assist, added, "I shall chaperone after dinner, ensuring their privacy. Colin and Eloise can be quite the mischievous duo, and we wouldn't want any interference."

"I must warn you, Miss Helen," Eloise began mischievously, leaning closer to her. "Our dear Anthony here has a habit of offering unsolicited advice when it comes to matters of the heart."

Helen raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "Is that so, Miss Eloise? Pray, do tell me more."

Eloise glanced at Anthony with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Oh, it's quite amusing, really. Whenever Benedict expresses the slightest interest in someone, Anthony appears out of thin air with a scowl on his face, ready to interrogate the poor soul."

Helen stifled a laugh, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Interrogations, you say? How fascinating. I shall keep that in mind."

Anthony, who had been engaged in conversation nearby, overheard their exchange and couldn't resist chiming in. "I assure you, Miss Helen, it's all for Benedict's own good. Someone has to protect him from the scoundrels and fortune hunters lurking about."

Kate, sitting across the table, joined in the lighthearted teasing. "Oh, Anthony, we all know your intentions are pure, but sometimes your interference borders on comedic grandeur."

The room erupted in laughter, even Benedict couldn't help but chuckle at his brother's reputation. "Fear not, Miss Helen," he said with a playful grin. "Anthony's overprotectiveness is merely a reflection of his devotion to our family. It can be rather amusing to witness."

Helen smiled warmly, feeling the genuine camaraderie that surrounded her. "I appreciate the warning, Miss Eloise and the assurance, Mr. Anthony. Rest assured, I can handle a little interference if it means getting to know your brother better.

Violet, observing the playful exchange with motherly pride, interjected, "Oh, my dear Helen, with this lot, you shall never have a dull moment. But in their own peculiar way, they care deeply for one another."

The conversation continued, peppered with light-hearted jabs and infectious laughter, as the Bridgertons and Helen forged a bond, finding comfort and joy in their shared camaraderie.

Dinner was soon over and everyone was scattered as per their interest Benedict cleared his throat, feeling a touch of nervousness. "Pray tell, Ms. Ashford, what are your preferred pastimes aside from composing music?"

Helen straightened her posture, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon. "I do engage in writing music, Mr. Bridgerton. It is a pursuit that allows me to express my innermost sentiments."

Benedict nodded, his hands fidgeting slightly. "Ah, yes, the language of music. It possesses a unique ability to stir emotions. Might I inquire about the emotions you seek to convey through your compositions?"

Helen's eyes flickered with uncertainty, her fingers intertwining. "I do not actively seek specific emotions, Mr. Bridgerton. Rather, I endeavor to convey a sense of depth and resonance, allowing the melodies to unravel the mysteries within."

Benedict furrowed his brow, his own words stumbling slightly. "I understand. It is intriguing how both painting and music have the power to transport us, to reach beyond mere words and touch the depths of the soul."

The silence that followed was accompanied by the occasional rustle of leaves, an unspoken tension hanging in the air. Both Benedict and Helen were captivated by each other's passions, yet their formal exchange left them grasping for common ground.

Attempting to break the awkwardness, Benedict ventured cautiously, "Do you find inspiration in specific composers, Ms. Ashford?"

Helen's lips curved into a faint smile, a touch of relief evident in her voice. "Indeed, Mr. Bridgerton. The works of Beethoven and Mozart resonate deeply within me. Their mastery of composition ignites a fire within my soul."

Benedict's expression softened as he found a glimmer of connection. "Ah, the classical masters. Their timeless melodies have a way of transcending generations, speaking to the depths of our being."

As they meandered through the gardens, their conversation ebbed and flowed, from discussions of artistic influences to shared admiration for the beauty of nature. The formality began to dissipate, replaced by a genuine curiosity and the gradual unraveling of shared interests.

Caroline delicately maneuvered her fingers through Helen's long, cascading locks, her touch gentle and comforting. The flickering candlelight cast a warm glow upon them as they sat together in Helen's bedchamber, preparing for the night.

"So, my dear Helen, what are your thoughts on Mr. Benedict Bridgerton?" Caroline inquired, her voice soft and curious.

Helen's jaw tightened momentarily, a flicker of emotion crossing her face. She took a deep breath, composing herself before responding. "I find the entire Bridgerton family to be quite delightful. They possess a warmth and closeness that is truly admirable. I would consider myself fortunate to be a part of their esteemed lineage.”

Caroline, astute as ever, detected the underlying evasion in Helen's words. She gently held Helen's hand, her eyes brimming with empathy. "My dearest sister, I come from a large family, blessed with devoted parents who cherished each and every one of us. I experienced a childhood filled with love and joy. But Helen, after all that you and Henry have endured, I believe you deserve this. It is your choice whether or not to seek love in marriage, but my dear, the kind of familial love that the Bridgertons embody is something we all deserve."

Helen's eyes welled with tears, her heart torn between apprehension and the longing for a sense of belonging. She clung to Caroline, finding solace in her sister-in-law's embrace.

“Caroline, you speak the truth. The love of a family is a precious gift, one I never had the chance to experience fully. I do not wish to let such an opportunity pass me by. I promise you, I shall strive to be the best daughter-in-law and a devoted wife to Benedict."

Caroline smiled, her eyes shimmering with pride and affection. "That is all I could ever hope for, dear Helen. The Bridgertons will welcome you with open arms, and I have no doubt that you will fill their lives with light and love."

As she settled into her bed that night, her heart carried a flicker of hope, knowing that she was embarking on a journey that would forever change her life.

Anthony poured himself a glass of fine Irish whiskey, his gaze fixed on Benedict. Curiosity danced in his eyes as he broached the subject. "So, brother, what are your thoughts on Miss Ashford?"

Benedict took a deep breath, furrowing his eyebrows as he contemplated his response. His mind buzzed with a myriad of emotions and thoughts, but for now, he decided to keep his newfound revelation to himself.

“Miss Ashford... she is quite... delightful," he replied, choosing his words carefully. "Resilient and remarkably strong. I believe she would make a splendid addition to our family."

Eloise, unable to contain her excitement, interjected with a burst of enthusiasm. "She's like the woman of my dreams! She possesses that main character energy from a novel. Benedict, you simply must marry her. She's the kind of intelligent woman this house needs!"

Colin, always quick with a witty retort, couldn't resist teasing Eloise. "Oh, Eloise, she's there to balance out your daftness, isn't she?"

Eloise shot back with a playful glare. "Oh, go back to your never-ending travels, Colin. Nobody likes you in this house anyway."

Anthony, weary of the banter, stepped in to restore order. "Enough, Eloise and Colin! Can you two ever be serious?"

“I don't see the need for seriousness, Anthony, especially since you provide enough of it for all of us."Eloise, ever the mischievous one, responded with a cheeky grin

With that, Eloise swiftly made her escape from the study, leaving a bemused Anthony in her wake.

Anthony sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I shall need a physician for my ailing heart during her entire season, I fear."

Colin, sensing the tension, decided it was best to exit the study as well, dodging any potential admonishment from Benedict. "Well, then, let us inform Mother tomorrow and set a date for your impending nuptials."

With a hearty laugh, Colin left the room, leaving Benedict alone with his thoughts.

Benedict found himself faced with a quandary, and yet he had devised a solution that seemed the most sensible. If he were to enter into this marriage for the sake of his family, then why not choose someone who epitomized perfection for the Bridgertons? Helen Ashford embodied all that was desirable—a captivating beauty, elegance, and a refined intellect. She possessed a resilient spirit, a strong voice, and yet remained gentle, polite, and empathetic.

In his mind, Benedict formulated a plan. He would proceed with this marriage before the season's end, and within two months of their union, he would return to his beloved academy. It seemed like a fair compromise, one that allowed him to pursue his own passions while fulfilling his familial obligations.

Deep down, a nagging question arose—what did Helen stand to gain from this arrangement? Yet, Benedict swiftly buried those doubts, reminding himself that if he was sacrificing for the sake of his mother, he, too, deserved the opportunity to follow his own aspirations. For now, he would keep his thoughts to himself, allowing his resolve to strengthen and his path to unfold.

Thus, with a steadfast determination and a masked inner turmoil, Benedict embraced the decision he had made. The intricate tapestry of his life was about to intertwine with that of Helen Ashford, creating a new chapter in both their stories. As the world around him spun with expectations and possibilities, Benedict remained resolute, ready to embark on this unconventional journey that would test the boundaries of duty, love, and his own desires.

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[alannybunnue]

Lord Beesbury hated Dunk at first.

Dunk was a commoner hedge knight that was responsible for his daughter's royal fiance being exiled, took her purity, and fathered a bastard on her. Ruining her for other potential matches.

Of course, he still loved his daughter and doted on his grandson Baelor. So to restore his daughter's honor and to help legitimize his grandson, he demanded that Dunk marry Lady Beesbury. To which he agreed enthusiastically...

Their relationship was a rocky one for a long time. That is until Aerion comes to visit Honeyholt.

Lord Beesbury had never actually spent much time with his daughter's former intended. He had meant him before but only briefly. He believed all those rumors about Aerion's cruelty and madness were just that, rumors. But when during his stay, Lord Beesbury realized how wrong he was.

Aerion insisted on being called by titles he did not have, he made unreasonable demands of everyone there every day, he constantly treated his daughter with disrespect and made public overt unwanted advances towards her even while she was pregnant. He saw how scared of him she was.

So when Dunk returned and beat the little bitch bloody and threw him out of the castle, he actually became thankful for the events that occurred at Ashford. He was much better than that overblown "dragon".

Lord Beesbury had no idea what Aerion truly was.

He wanted the best for his only heir and he thought that marrying her to the second son of Prince Maekar would be it.

After the prince got exiled, his daughter started to show a signs of pregnancy. When he questioned her, in tears of shame, she admitted to have let the man who had humiliated her betrothed to take her maidenhood.

Lord Beesbury was a man of reason, but that would only change for his daughter, knowing that his grandson was going to be a bastard if something wasn't done, he summoned Duncan and demanded that he would marry his daughter.

For years, the Lord of Honeyholt thought that Dunk only did that so he could have power and status. Never seeing the truth that was right before his eyes.

When Aerion arrived at his estate, he finally understood what the rumors were about.

He almost failed with his child.

[fearsmagazine]

DRACULA, A COMEDY OF TERRORS, performances begin Sept. 4th, on at the New World Stages in NYC.

Drew & Dane Productions presents Dracula, A Comedy of Terrors by Gordon Greenberg and Steve Rosen in a limited 18-week engagement, September 4 – January 7, at New World Stages (340 West 50th Street). Opening night is September 18. Directed by Gordon Greenberg (Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, Geffen), Dracula, A Comedy of Terrors features a company of fearless actors including Jordan Boatman (Medea at BAM, The Niceties), Arnie Burton (The 39 Steps, Peter and The Starcatcher), James Daly (Shaw Festival, Stratford Festival, Hulu’s “Letterkenny”), Ellen Harvey (How To Succeed, Present Laughter) and Andrew Keenan-Bolger (Disney’s Newsies, Tuck Everlasting). Tickets are now on sale at Telecharge.com, (212) 239-6200.

(L-R) ARNIE BURTON, JORDAN BOATMAN,, ELLEN HARVEY, ANDREW KEENAN-BOLGER, JAMES DALY. Dracula, A Comedy of Terrors. photo by Maria Baranova

Bram Stoker’s horror classic gets a riotous makeover in this lightning-fast comedic reimagining that celebrates goth, camp, sexuality, and the magic of live theatre. This 90-minute, gender-bending, quick-change romp features a pansexual GenZ Count Dracula in the midst of an existential crisis. When he sets his sights on the brilliant young earth scientist Lucy Westfeldt, he meets his match for the first time – as well as a slew of other colorful characters including vampire hunter Jean Van Helsing, insect connoisseur Percy Renfield and behavioral psychiatrist Wallace Westfeldt, whose British country estate doubles as a free-range mental asylum. With a cast of brilliant quick take comedians, this Dracula will make you scream… with laughter.

(Back, L-R) KAITLYN BOYER, ARNIE BURTON, JAMES DALY, ANDREW KEENAN-BOLGER, SEAN-MICHAEL WILKINSON. (front, l-r) JORDAN BOATMAN, ELLEN HARVEY. Dracula, A Comedy of Terrors. photo by Maria Barano

“In re-reading Dracula, we were surprised and intrigued by the boldness with which Stoker, a closeted gay man in Victorian England, plays with sexuality and gender norms,” says director/co-writer Gordon Greenberg. Co-writer Steve Rosen adds “we wanted to celebrate him and, at the same time, send up his moody, broody melodrama in the spirit of some of our comedic heroes like Charles Ludlam, Monty Python and Mel Brooks.” In regards to the New World Stages production, Greenberg continues, “We are so fortunate to have assembled an extraordinary company of top-notch comedic actors whose fearlessness and hilarity make the whole experience feel like a party. We hope our Dracula gives audiences of all ages the chance to forget about their troubles and just laugh their heads off for a while.”

Playwrights STEVE ROSEN and GORDON GREENBERG. Dracula, A Comedy of Terrors. photo by Maria Baranova

Dracula, A Comedy of Terrors features scenic design by Tijana Bjelajac, costume design by Tristan Raines, lighting design by Rob Denton, original music and sound design by Victoria Deiorio, and wig and hair design by Ashley Rae Callahan. General Management is by Live Wire Theatrical. The company understudies are Kaitlyn Boyer and Sean-Michael Wilkinson. Production management is by Intuitive Production Management, and production stage management is by Morgan Holbrook. Casting is by JZ Casting. Dori Berinstein (The Prom) is Executive Producer.

JAMES DALY. Dracula, A Comedy of Terrors. photo by Maria Baranova

Dracula, A Comedy of Terrors was commissioned and originally produced by Maltz Jupiter Theatre (Andrew Kato, Producing Artistic Director/Chief Executive) in 2019. In 2020, it was adapted as a radio play for The Broadway Podcast Network with an all-star cast including Annaleigh Ashford, Laura Benanti, Alex Brightman, James Monroe Iglehart, Richard Kind, Rob McClure, Ashley Park, Christopher Sieber, and John Stamos. Productions followed at Capital Repertory Theatre in Albany and Segal Centre for Performing Arts in Montreal. A hit with critics and audiences alike, Dracula, A Comedy of Terrors has been praised by the Albany Times Union as “a raucous comedy, done with impeccable adroitness …stuffed with sight gags, wordplay and lightning-fast costume changes,” and described as “a delicious comedic romp” by Berkshire Edge. McGill Daily calls the play “a sexy retelling of the classic 1897 novel that leans into contemporary gender roles with an unprecedented comedic angle. … not to be missed.” BroadwayWorld calls it a “lightning-fast, laugh-out-loud comedy.”

Dracula, A Comedy of Terrors will play a 18-week limited engagement September 4 – January 7, at New World Stages, Stage 5 (340 West 50th Street.) Opening night is September 18. Performances are Sunday, Monday, Wednesday and Thursday at 7PM, Friday and Saturday at 8PM, with matinees Saturday and Sunday at 2PM. Tickets are $99 - $119. Premium seating is available. Tickets are now on sale at Telecharge.com, (212) 239-6200. For more information, visit www.DraculaComedy.com.

[midori-laboratories]

Flowers and Ash, Chapter 5

Book 1, Calendula Chronicles series.

Story synopsis: When the eldest daughter of Edward Ashford accompanies her father and brother on a last-minute trip in 1968 to secure their legacy, an act of spite turns into a boon for the family. When tragedy and scandal strike, the survivors will have to be clever if they are to live long enough to pick up the pieces of their lives. Pre-slash/Gen.

Chapter synopsis: After the funeral, Alexander and Marigold discuss what to do next.

CW for eventual violence, implied death of family member, isolation, dissociation, and violence

Late 1968

Alexander had been understanding; almost too much, given how little she had been permitted out in public since her own accident. She fixed him with a sharp eye that would have withered him just a few short months earlier, but he stood firm. The last few months had left their mark. Aft et a moment, he sighed. “I’m not blind, Mari. Father wasn’t even in the ground, and he’s already campaigning to sweep up his shares. Do you have a plan, at all?

“Do you?” She wrinkled her nose at the blood pressure cuff strapped to her arm. “Are you planning to walk away from your work?”

Alexander sighed, took the reading, and nodded to her. His sister ripped the binding instrument from her arm with no small amount of satisfaction. The desk in front of her was littered with notebooks and papers, tracking her vitals since the summer, along with psychological assessments cobbled hastily together. Moving to the other side of their father’s study in the old English estate, he untied the medical mask and sat down. He looked evenly at his sister and considered the situation.

The loss had hit them both, both psychologically and physically. Both of them had clearly lost weight. Lack of sleep and stress had put faint lines into Alexander’s face that now greeted him in the mirror each morning. Marigold, however…aside from the weight loss, nearly glowed with good health. Still. Her eyes had lost pigment, and the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose had faded to almost nothing. The coppery cast of her hair was being slowly replaced with new growth that was positively flaxen. Even the faint scarring of everyday accidents- she had dubiously checked her arms for faded measles scarring, shocked to find the familiar marks just gone.

The three - no, two- of them had cautiously elected to keep her medical situation quiet, at least until she was out of harm’s reach by means of Dr. Marcus’ petulant ambition. After the funeral...there was something wrong in the way Marcus had seemed both completely isolated and totally confident in his position. How fully convinced that he was untouchable.

Spencer seemed almost willfully blind to all of this. It would even be more worrying had they simply been shut out. He was an uncle In all but blood, but he was also cleaning up in the wake of the death, isolating the useful contagion from the more profitable part of the whole venture.

Something about the situation twisted in her gut when she had thought to disclose her condition. They - her father included, Marigold had to allow - had gone in and cleared out a local population over an old temple and some flowers. From what she had managed to surmise, everyone else who had been exposed to the pathogen therein had died. Immediately. Brutally. While...she was becoming something else.

Right now, she was mostly isolated, but she had some control over it. The staff had been edgy around her for the first few weeks, although they seemed to relax easily in her presence unless something alarmed her greatly. She would have to work on that. She knew she’d have the opportunity to do so. Premature white hair, as. a symptom of trauma, was hardly unheard of.

But Marcus, a prime asset of Spencer’s, under isolation and set apart and outside from the world...no. Spencer, uncle or no, would be well-meaning enough, but Marcus had turned into a monstrous person under his guidance.

What would he do with her?

Alex sighed again. “I’m not planning to walk away, not from the work itself,” he admitted. “The marrow samples I took from you- yes, I told you it would hurt and you still said you wanted to be awake, and now we both know that you recover astonishingly fast- anyhow, I can culture those against tissue from others hit but the same virus. Figure out the missing links.”

“Meanwhile, you’re isolated, and Spencer was mobilizing a full coup at the bloody reception.” She drummed her fingers on the desk, looking out the window. Having control over the Europe lab means one of those people will sniff out what you have in no time..oh.” Her musings intersected neatly with her line of thought. She darted a look at Alexander with a humourless smirk. “No wonder Marcus is so damn paranoid. I doubt he’s done much of anything moved without Spencer’s say-so for a while now.”

Alexander’s eyes narrowed. “You did something. That’s the face you make when you've done something, and are waiting for the consequences to come storming up so you can kick them in the face.”

Marigold laughed and waved the accusation off. “I took a little risk at the funeral. Might have a payoff eventually other than spite.” She sobered. “So you need to be able to work in peace. Are you still chasing Veronica?”

Alexander blushed. “Given the memory and intelligence testing we’ve been running through? I’d be stupid not to. You realize I could probably train you with Father's notes. You’d be an asset in any lab. Wouldn’t even have to worry about infection risk.”

“No.” She hadn’t meant to raise her voice. People would figure out something was up, and the malaria story Alexander had spun up on the fly only held so long as people weren’t treating the alternative seriously or looking too closely at the situation.

Someone downstairs dropped something in the kitchen, and a cacophony of shouting reached them in the study. The siblings both froze, and waited for the confusion to subside. Alexander had posited that she had a pheromone effect, linked to her moods, on those surrounding her- the family was inured against the worst of it. There were so many things about all of this that could become problematic.

The healed scarring worried her. The ‘incident’, the mishap which had ejected her from London society and had led to her little trip with her family, had scarred her internally at the time. It had also effectively removed her from the marriage horse-trading of the European gentry. It had been among the worst thing that could have happened to a girl of her station, and Spencer in particular had made a point of alluding to her misfortunes when seeking to reshape her to the company’s uses. If her internal scarring was gone as well, things could change again for her. The possibilities of that outcome…she kept that locked and barred firmly behind a heavy door in her mind.

She had declined to broach the topic. Her father had guessed in a quiet moment just after they had returned home, whilst her brother was attending to her blood panels in the adjoining room. He had taken her hand, so tenderly, so hopeful at the renewed possibility for future grandchildren.

She had still been weak, then. They had agreed not to discuss it further until the lab was set up, and she was feeling ready to join them there. Her father had pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, eyes shining. “My darling girl. The things we’re going to do for the world.”

They would never have that chance.

She took a deep breath, forcing herself back into the moment. She lightly jabbed a finger at her brother. “If I thought you were about to request an ovary, I’d likely hunt down one of the dusty old swords from the great room and have a go at you.” Alexander blushed even deeper at that, but it cut the rising tension well enough.

“No labs. I-“ she faltered, then: “No one can know. You said yourself that Marcus wasn’t convinced with the story at all, and shut his mouth to save face. Your notes said subclinical pheromone impacts when exposed to the subject, yes? Generates a highly suggestible effect?”

Alexander glared at her. “I know I don’t leave my notes out.”

“You left the room to put away samples, and I wanted to know why the staff was still being kept back. As I said, I took a little risk. Told him he was clearly mistaken and to keep his idiot mouth shut. Did you know the idiot will drink anything he gets handed at a party without even looking at it?”

“I don’t know whether to laugh or scream at you…”

“Neither, but someone needed to cauterize that raw nerve and I could, so I did. I’ll be more careful from now. So you need space to work, but also privacy.”

Alexander glared, then allowed that this was the conversation she was determined to have. “That’s the shape of it. We both know what happened in that lab, but it doesn’t matter. Spencer wants you front and center making connections for the company…”

“And if Umbrella is thriving, he’s not pulling from the Foundation anymore. Don’t we have access to some remote locations? Through the estate?”

The new 6th Earl Ashford blinked, then smiled faintly back. “You know, that could work.”

“Good,” she smiled back. “And in the meantime, I think I need to build a little library of my own. Can you show me what I need to know to track what you’ve been tracking? I’m a quick study these days.”

The locked door of their situation would stay shut. They each had the tools necessary to rebuild the Ashford legacy if they were quiet and clever. It was only a matter of time.

And, oh, the things they could do in that time.

[fcrtnite]

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* full muse bios can be found here

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[echoes-of-the-land]

Chapter Two: The Fires of Discontent

The chill of autumn had settled over Somerset, painting the landscape in shades of gold and crimson. Thomas Lane stood at the edge of his property, arms crossed against the brisk wind, his heart heavy with the burdens of the world around him. The farm, once a source of pride, now felt like a weight pressing down on him. Each year, the harvest grew more meager, the demands from Lord Ashford more insistent.

“Eliza!” he called, his voice breaking the stillness as he watched his wife tending to their small vegetable patch. “Have you heard the latest from the village?”

Eliza wiped her brow and looked up, concern etched on her features. “What news could possibly be good these days?”

“Another tax increase. The lord expects us to pay for his new estate while we struggle to keep our heads above water!” Thomas’s frustration boiled over. “How can they expect us to survive? It’s as if we’re nothing more than cattle to them!”

Eliza set down her trowel, brushing dirt from her hands. “It’s unbearable, Thomas. Our children deserve better than this life of servitude and hardship. But what can we do?”

“I attended a gathering last week,” he replied, his tone shifting from anger to urgency. “Men from all over are talking about the colonies. They say there’s land there—land we can own, not rent!”

Eliza looked at him, her eyes widening with uncertainty. “And what of the journey? It’s fraught with danger. What if we lose everything?”

“What do we have to lose here?” Thomas shot back, passion igniting in his voice. “The king and his lords care nothing for us. They see us as nothing but sources of revenue. We could go to a place where we’re free to build our own lives!”

As the days passed, Thomas’s resolve only deepened. He spent evenings in the local tavern, a place buzzing with talk of rebellion and hope. He found himself sitting with men like John Harris and Philip Carteret, who shared his frustration.

“Have you heard about the latest decree?” John asked one evening, his voice low as they huddled around a flickering candle. “The king’s men are cracking down on dissent. They’re arresting anyone who dares to speak against the crown.”

“They’ve gone too far,” Philip chimed in, anger simmering just beneath the surface. “We can’t let them treat us like this. We deserve better.”

“What can we do?” Thomas asked, leaning forward, his heart racing. “We can’t fight them directly. But what if we left? What if we went to the New World?”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group. “We can be free men there,” John said, his eyes lighting up with excitement. “We could own land, make our own rules. Just imagine!”

The prospect ignited a fire within Thomas. “We must act quickly. If we stay here, we risk everything. Our lives could be in danger if we continue to speak out.”

After much discussion, the men decided to take their plans seriously. They began organizing gatherings in secret, away from the watchful eyes of the local gentry. They would find others willing to take the leap into the unknown, to leave the familiar behind for the chance at something better.

That evening, as Thomas returned home, he found Eliza bustling about the cottage, her hands full with their children. He pulled her aside, urgency in his voice. “I spoke with John and Philip. They’re ready to leave. Many families are considering it. We could join them.”

Eliza’s expression turned serious, her brow furrowing. “You’re serious about this? It’s a great risk. What if we fail?”

“Every day here feels like a greater risk,” Thomas replied, determination shining in his eyes. “The more we pay, the less we have. We can give our children a future—one filled with opportunity.”

The weeks turned into a blur of preparations. The Lanes and their neighbors met in the woods under the cover of darkness, plotting their escape and sharing their dreams of a new life. The conversations buzzed with excitement, but also with the weight of uncertainty.

“We must leave at first light,” Thomas urged one night, his voice steady. “If we stay any longer, we risk drawing attention to ourselves. We cannot let fear hold us back.”

“What if we find nothing but wilderness?” Eliza asked, her voice trembling slightly. “What if the stories we’ve heard are just that—tales spun to entice the foolish?”

“Or tales that inspire the brave!” Thomas countered, his passion undeniable. “We have been brave long enough here. We’ve endured too much. It’s time we take charge of our destiny.”

The night before their departure, the air was thick with emotion. The families gathered for one last meal together, sharing laughter and tears, stories and hopes. As they ate, the conversation turned to their plans for the New World.

“What will it be like?” one of the children asked, eyes wide with wonder.

“Better,” Thomas replied, looking around at the faces of those he had come to consider family. “A place where we can be free, where our children can run without fear.”

At dawn, the families set off, their hearts pounding with a mix of fear and excitement. They journeyed toward the coast, the salty air filling their lungs as they approached the dock. Thomas turned to Eliza, who stood clutching their youngest child, her face a mix of hope and trepidation.

“Are we sure about this?” she whispered, searching his eyes for reassurance.

“We are,” he replied, squeezing her hand tightly. “This is for our children. A future where they can thrive.”

As they boarded the ship, Thomas took one last look at the land they were leaving behind—the hills of Somerset that had held their ancestors but now felt like a prison. The sails unfurled, and the ship set forth, cutting through the waves toward an uncertain destiny.

The journey across the Atlantic was fraught with storms and sickness, yet the promise of a new life kept spirits high. Each day, as the ship rocked and creaked, Thomas shared stories of the freedom that awaited them, igniting hope in the hearts of the weary travelers.

One evening, as the sky darkened and stars began to twinkle above, Thomas gathered the families on deck. “Look at the stars,” he said, gesturing toward the vast sky. “They guide us toward our future. Each of us has a part to play in this new world. We are not just escaping—we are building something together.”

The families murmured in agreement, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of lanterns. Eliza stood beside him, her hand resting on their youngest child’s shoulder. “We have come so far,” she said softly. “We must remain united, for our children’s sake.”

Days turned into weeks, and as the ship navigated the treacherous waters, the travelers formed bonds that would last a lifetime. They shared their fears, dreams, and laughter, creating a tapestry of camaraderie that would help them weather any storm.

When they finally arrived on the shores of New Jersey, Thomas stood at the bow of the ship, his heart racing with anticipation. “There it is! Land!” he shouted, excitement bubbling within him.

As they disembarked, the lush landscape amazed them, the air filled with the scent of earth and possibility. But Thomas’s heart was drawn to Freehold—a place that seemed to call to him, a vision of what they could create together.

One evening, as they set up camp near the edge of the woods, Thomas gathered the families, looking into their hopeful faces. “This is our chance,” he said, voice steady with conviction. “We’ve escaped the grip of the crown, and now we can build something truly ours. Together, we will forge a community grounded in respect and unity.”

The following morning, the settlers made their way toward Freehold, guided by the rising sun. The land was wild and untamed, but it sang to Thomas’s heart. As they walked, he turned to the others. “We can turn this land into something beautiful. Imagine fields of grain, homes filled with laughter, and a community that thrives.”

Eliza looked around, her apprehension melting into hope. “And a place where our children can run free, without fear of the crown’s decree.”

As the days rolled on, the Lanes quickly became involved in the fledgling community, their efforts focused on establishing a homestead and laying down roots. Thomas, with his innate leadership qualities, began forging relationships with influential figures like Philip Carteret and John Wiggins.

At a meeting in a clearing near the future site of the church, Thomas spoke passionately. “We must establish laws that reflect our values—justice, equality, and respect for one another. Our strength lies in our unity.”

Carteret nodded, his eyes bright with approval. “You speak wisely, Thomas. We can create a place where families thrive, free from oppression.”

As they worked to build their new lives, Eliza utilized her extensive knowledge of herbs and healing. One afternoon, as she tended to a sprained ankle for a neighbor, she glanced up to find Thomas watching her, pride swelling in his chest.

“You’ve a gift, Eliza,” he said, admiration evident in his voice. “You bring comfort to those in pain.”

“It’s our duty,” she replied, smiling as she wrapped the ankle. “We are building a community together. We must support one another.”

Their home, a modest yet welcoming farmhouse, soon became a gathering place. Laughter filled the air as families came together, sharing meals and stories. One evening, as they celebrated the harvest, John Harris raised his cup.

“To our future!” he exclaimed. “To the Lanes.

#TheLandBefore#LenniLenape#HarvestFestival#AncientWisdom#NatureAndTradition#KimoAndNia#CommunityAndConnection#SpiritsOfTheAncestors#WhispersOfChange#LoveAndLegacy#CrossroadsOfHistory#HarmonyWithNature#CulturalHeritage#StrengthInUnity#StoriesOfThePast