#cigar society

[haute-lifestyle-com]

The Cigaiol Leather Cigar Humidor is a well-appointed, elegant, portable humidor that presents a lifestyle and comes complete with all the accessories, including a stylish clipper and lighter for your Cigar aficionado to enjoy fresh cigars anywhere.  Men's Accessories - Cigaiol Leather Cigar Humidor - Portable, Passes Through TSA, Stylish & Complete -  #janetwalker #hautelifestylecom #theentertainmentzonecom #humidor #cigar #cigaraficionado #cigarlife #cigarlifestyle #cigarlounge #cigarsociety

[renardsruses]

Watched Blood blockade battlefront and all it’s convinced me of is that Nightow’s gotta have a smarmy flavored, smoking joy boy with scoliosis levels of posture in all of his media

[keithfloydno1fan]

Keith in the club

[busterkeatonsociety]

This Day in Buster…June 26, 1927

The Evansville Courier & Press recommends “The General” & recalls the beginning of Buster Keaton’s career.

[un-poeta-desenamorado]

Que sentido tiene correr cuando huyes de ti ?

[fourgottencoast]

i hate having to be the angry-note-taped-to-the-door neighbor but i think regularly doing what sounds like construction (??) loud and forceful enough to shake my whole apartment (and the upstairs neighbors' too apparently!) and terrify my cat at 4-5am absolutely earns you a severe social scolding

[pers-books]

Nicola Coughlan Raised Over £70,000 for Trans Rights Following U.K. Court Ruling

The Bridgerton star called the ruling “stomach turning and disgusting.”

Allen J. Schaben/Getty Images

Bridgerton star Nicola Coughlan has raised over £70,000 (roughly $96,000) for the trans charity Not A Phase following the U.K. Supreme Court’s Wednesday ruling that the legal definitions of “man” and “woman” are based on a person’s “biological sex.”.

The ruling’s long-ranging effects are still up in the air, but it is poised to have chilling, far-ranging effects on trans rights in the U.K. As legal researcher Jess O’Thompson explained on LGBTQ+ news site Queer AF, trans people in the U.K. can now be excluded from all “single-sex” spaces under any circumstances and cannot make equal pay claims.

British anti-trans advocates have been publicly celebrating the news, including Harry Potter author J.K. Rowling, who posted a photo of herself enjoying a cigar and drink on X with the caption “I love it when a plan comes together” after reportedly donating over £70,000 to For Women Scotland, the anti-trans organization that had brought the Supreme Court case forward. Yet other U.K. celebrities, like Coughlan, have wasted no time publicly reaffirming their support for the trans community in the ruling’s aftermath.

On April 17, Coughlan took to Instagram to announce that she was launching a fundraiser for Not A Phase, a trans charity that aims to improve the lives of trans adults across the U.K. “through awareness campaigning, social projects, and funding trans+ lead initiatives,” per the organization’s official website. The actress originally set a fundraising goal of £10,000 and pledged to match donations up to that amount.

“To see an already-marginalized community… be further attacked in law is really stomach turning and disgusting, and these people celebrating it [are] more stomach turning and disgusting,” Coughlan said in a video. “If you are a cisgender person who is an ally of a trans person, I think now is the time to just… speak up and make your voice heard, and let your trans, nonbinary friends and just the community at large know that you’re there for them and will keep fighting for them.”

Just an hour after launching the fundraiser, Coughlan shared on her Instagram Story that fans had already met her £10,000 target. In just over 24 hours, the fundraiser has raised well over £70,000 at the time of writing. She has since set a new fundraising goal of £79,699.21 (roughly $105,725).

Coughlan isn’t the only cis U.K. celebrity who’s spoken out on behalf of trans rights following the Supreme Court’s ruling. On April 17, The White Lotus star Aimee Lou Wood re-shared a post from LGBTQ+ activist Ellen Jones to her Instagram Story denouncing the ruling.

“Pure rage,” Wood captioned her story. “This country is a hell hole.”

Coughlan’s Bridgerton co-star, Charitha Chandran, also called out the ruling in an April 17 TikTok that has received over 2.3 million likes.

“How pathetic to target one of the most oppressed groups in our society,” Chandran said. “Honestly? Loser behaviour… You don’t care about women. You just want to target those who are already oppressed.”

[sergioguymanproust]

The breakfast of champions! This is how it used to be if you were wealthy two generations ago. But things have changed since then, the new world says ,the vices you keep will be your undoing. Yes, because human beings keep repeating the same mistakes,and the same old habits,evolutionary history shows that we are on the way to extinction,but do not be alarmed ,this is the way the chaff gets separated from the wheat. New species are already desperate to take over this planet,but we are such an arrogant and selfish species,that won’t see it coming. Contrary to popular belief this Earth is big enough for us and other species,but culling is a necessary process,not to make more room for others but to clean up the planet. Mother Nature has always done its part to trim the bacon and keep the fittest only,this is no secret ,there will always be terminal events that will signal the end of a run.Materialism ,and depravation of the ruling elite will always end in death.No secret here folks.Cigars and coffee are great to have at the end of a vicious cycle.The day after is back to the Stone Age. You know it. Well,the option is to move up to the fifth dimension, folks meditate on these words, Words by Sergio Guyman Proust.

[beloveds-embrace]

Dukedom au masterlist (yes i need to update it ik) and we will not talk abt the abrupt ending 😭

The grand ballroom of glittered with the light of a thousand candles, their flames dancing across marble floors and golden fixtures hung from the ceilings. A symphony played softly in the background, a perfect complement to the hum of ongoing conversation and chatter. You stood at the center of it all, draped in a gown of midnight blue silk, embroidered with silver thread that mirrored the stars. A gift from Simon, one that had you staring at the beautiful dress in awe.

Tonight, you were the very image of grace and poise.

Your face and movements are calm and collected, hiding what you truly feel beneath. Lately, whispers of dishonor had begun circulating; rumors that your husband had fled a border skirmish back when he’d been deployed, abandoning his men, yet had paid for the matter to be buried. Vile lies, born of cowardice and malice. John’s name, his reputation, and the honor of your house were at stake; disloyalty towards the empire was seen as treason, and that was unforgivable.

You would not allow it.

The first spark of rage had ignited the moment you’d overheard the vile accusations from another lady, one of your more arrogant rivals who had laughed snidely. From there, the rumors spread like wildfire, poisoning the halls of the court and society.

But you were no stranger to such games like these. Tonight, after much planning, you’ll put an end to this farce.

You began with your loyal ladies-in-waiting. Each one owed their position to you, and in return, they offered their unwavering loyalty. “Listen carefully,” you instructed them during a private meeting in your sitting room, the door locked behind you. “Go into the court, the markets, the salons- anywhere whispers thrive. I want names, places, and patterns. Who speaks these lies, and who listens too closely?”

They curtsied and departed without hesitation, melting into the bustling world outside of the manor. Meanwhile, you turned your attention to your maids and house staff. Servants were the lifeblood of any noble house, privy to secrets thought hidden.

You met with them personally with Kyle’s help, ensuring they understood the stakes. “Speak subtly,” you said, your voice calm but firm. “Let it slip that those who spread these rumors do so for their own gain, that there’s no substance to the rumors. Plant doubt. Create cracks.”

“As you wish, my lady.” Kyle nods his head, hands on your waist. He leans down, and kisses your forehead, and you smile all sweet and pretty at him. “Whatever you want.”

While you wove your network of spies, John watched quietly from the shadows of the manor. Though he trusted you implicitly, he couldn’t help but feel a mixture of awe and unease. He didn’t want to doubt you, but he worried nonetheless for you.

In his study, he sat with Kyle.

“How’s she faring?” John asked, puffing a cigar as he leaned back in his chair. Papers were scattered on his desk, though they didn’t require immediate attention or replies. Pressed close to Kyle, bodies warm, he didn’t want to go back to working for now.

Kyle hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “She’s… efficient, John. The staff is utterly devoted to her even without my help. I’ve seen no signs of hesitation in her plans.”

John chuckled dryly, though there was a flicker of appreciation in his eyes. “I am not surprised. She’s scarier than any battlefield, Kyle. And they love her.”

With the groundwork laid, you began preparing to host a big gala at the manor. Invitations were sent far and wide, carrying the promise of exquisite dining, captivating entertainment, and the opportunity to curry favor with one of the most powerful families in the region.

None dared refuse.

Johnny worked tirelessly to ensure every detail of the menu was flawless, and though he would have helped anyways, he still enjoyed all the kisses he got as reward from yoh. “You’re pilin’ it on thick, Duchess,” he remarked one evening, wiping his brow as he inspected a rack of lamb. “Even for you.”

“This isn’t just a party, Johnny,” you replied, humming. “This is war.”

“War it is, then. Anything for you, bonnie.” he muttered, diving back into his work with renewed determination. After a very heated look from you that had him preening, though; he looked handsome in his element. And you’ll make sure to really show him your appreciation for all his hard work later, in the privacy of your rooms.

At every other gala and gathering, you moved through the crowd like a dancer with a purpose. You guided conversations subtly, planting seeds of doubt and faltering those who tried to be a bit too brave- and your reputation as a ���people’s princess” helped so greatly. Your allies- the few you trusted among the nobility-played their roles perfectly.

Simon, especially. You had specifically asked for his help, curled warm and cozy on his lap one night. He’d kissed you breathless and told you he would always be there for you.

“Lord Marcan, was it?” Simon mused during one party, his glass of whiskey balanced effortlessly in his hand. The others immediately listen to him; though he isn’t the most talkative noble, his words carry weight. “I’ve heard some interesting things about him. Did you know he’s deeply in debt? I wonder how far a man would go to escape ruin.”

The other nobles exchanged glances, uncertainty flickering across their faces. You watched from a distance, satisfied as Simon delivered the blow with effortless charm.

Your web was nearly complete, each thread pulling tighter around Lord Marcan- the instigator of the rumors- until he had no room to maneuver. At the final ball of the season, the one hosted by you and John, you made your final move.

You descended the grand staircase as the guests gathered, your presence commanding attention. At your signal, the servants unveiled a surprise: a performance of actors reenacting a scene from an old skirmish. But this was no ordinary play; it was a dramatized retelling of that battle, one that highlighted John’s bravery and leadership even when Lord Marcan had tried to say John had fled that day.

The crowd was entranced, all earlier doubts finally wavering and shattering. You saw Marcan shift uncomfortably, his face pale as his lies unraveled before him and eyes turned towards him in disgust.

From the balcony above, John watched with Simon and Kyle at his side. “She’s terrifying.” he murmured, though his voice carried a note of awe.

Simon smirked. “You married a bloody tactician.”

Kyle simply nodded. “She fights for you, for us, John. And she wins.”

By the end of the evening, Lord Marcan was a broken man and his wife, Lady Marcan who had laughed at you by the rumor, was seething. Their allies abandoned them, their name tarnished by his cowardice and deceit and her aftions.

And the rumors about John’s supposed abandonment of his men? Gone.

That night, as you removed your jewelry in the quiet of your chambers, John approached you. His hands rested on your bare shoulders, his touch warm and grounding.

“You’ve been busy, beloved.” he said, his voice soft but laced with admiration.

“I did what needed to be done.” you replied, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “I know you could have simply challenged him to a duel… but we didn’t have full confirmation it was him who started. I had to do it this way.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re terrifying, love. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

From the shadows of the room, Simon leaned casually against the doorframe. “She’s not wrong, John. Best keep on her good side.”

Johnny’s voice echoed from the hallway as he came by with a tray of food. Kyle comes as well, carrying glasses of wine. “Aye, and keep feeding her. Keeps her from plotting.”

Kyle sighs, though he has a smile on his face as he sets the glasses down and instead comes to help you. “…he isn’t exactly wrong. You were incredible…. And scary.”

“Perfect, in other words.” John hums, an eyebrow raising. You do not have enough time to ask anything before he and Kyle are gently turning you around on the seat, face to face with John who kneels down. “You’ve worked so hard for me, for us, my Duchess. Let me take care of you now, hm?”

“John…“

“No more words, my love,” he shakes his head, Kyle’s hands reaching to unlace your dress, your corset, until your breasts spill out. John doesn’t even seem mildly bothered by the layers of your skirt, flipping them up until you are indecent in front of your men and he is face to face with your panties. The way they look at you, so much want…

You don’t mind. The slick spot forming speaks more than enough anyways.

“Tonight,” John murmurs, kissing your inner thighs. “Will be all about spoiling you, wife.”

[j-lo-ker]

Are those Cubans?

[lostintransist]

You're cooking with that gym one.. keep going

Here is my submission for you anon.

John rubbed tiredly at his face. His feet pressed in turn to the rotating belt of the treadmill. He did not want to be here.

Base doc told him he wouldn't be getting clearance to go back on jobs until he got is cholesterol down. He, wisely, did not question how his cholesterol could be high when the only things he consumed were cigars, toast, and coffee.

Having tried the base gym a few times he found it...full of distractions.

If he could be found on base he had everyone, including the devil, showing up at his side. If it wasn't questions, it was paperwork. He fucking hated paperwork.

Gym etiquette said to, when possible, leave a machine open between you and the next person over on treadmills. You had already been on a machine when he arrived. John walked with no music. Oppositely you jived and mouthed along with whatever you were listening to. He appreciated that you didn't sing as you walked. Soap's of kilter voice drifting from the showers was more than enough.

John lifted a brow at the young man who stepped onto the machine between you and him. The man didn't spare him a glance. John shrugged. He maintained his pace, eyes fixed on the news. Damn he should start bringing his glasses. Those subtitles were stretching his limits of vision.

"Come on, just talk to me already!"

The man beside him shouted. John turned in time to see the man hit the off button and step off the treadmill. Glancing at you he his concern rises. Tight jaw, nose flaring wide as you suck in breaths, and white knuckles gripping the arms of the machine tell him a lot.

When the man appears before your treadmill John is already reaching for his off button. He's a bastard. His ex-wives agreed on that, but this was unacceptable behavior.

You surprise both men when you rip your headphones off.

"I know you don't listen to your mother either, but let's see if your kindergarten teacher was right about you being a good student." A look of disgust adds sting to the words you whip at the man. "If a woman is ignoring you, she's busy. When a woman gives you a closed mouth smile after you attempt to flirt she is uncomfortable but won't say so because she doesn't want to be raped or murdered in the next alley over. Now unless you have something of value to provide to society as a whole, you will get out my face."

All that said without you missing a step.

"God, no need to be a bitch," the man sneered up at you. "I was going to tell you I thought you were beautiful."

"Women are only beautiful when you want to stick your dick in them. Buy a flesh light instead and leave women alone. Leave me alone." You throw up double middle fingers at him.

The fucktard shouted hate as he stalked away.

John, no longer tired, laughed so hard he started to cough. He paused his machine. Covering his mouth with a fist he laughed again when he could breathe. You are staring at him when he looks up. Distrust paints the color of your eyes.

"His kindergarten teacher?" He asked, starting to chuckle again.

The tension melts away from your shoulders. The tip of your tongue makes an appearance on your lip as you give him a sheepish look. You open and close your mouth as your fingers work themselves into knots.

"So ya see..." You can't finish your thought before you are laughing too.

"I'm John," he offers you a hand to shake over the empty machine.

"Good to meet you, John," you shake his hand and give him your name in return.

"That happen to you often? If so, I would love to witness more of you cutting men off at the knees." John can't help but smile, full and wide at the embarrassment that sparks through your posture.

You sigh through your nose.

"More often than I care for," you admit.

"Well, if you need a gym buddy I am in need of a good laugh," John pulls his phone from his pocket and hands it to you to add your phone number.

"I am at your service, John. My misfortune is yours to witness," you pass the phone back with a flourish.

John can't remember the last time he laughed so much.

Gym Adventures:

SoapGaz | Simon | Phillip Graves | Ghost | 4 for 1 Special | SoapGaz/Reader NSFW | Phillip Graves NSFW | AO3

[eleu22]

just some random task force 141 headcanons

tw: drugs, dead baby jokes?

gaz

- has been approached by model scouts on nights out with the 141 and is so gassed by it but pretends not to be

- got holding onto his tactical vest straps from price because he thought it looked cool

- popular as fuck in school

- side eye king (canon)

- used to do ket when he was younger and is now paranoid price will find out somehow and be disappointed in him

- highlights during briefings and soap calls him a neek

- deleted tiktok because he got addicted to those ingrown hair removal videos

- borderline illegible handwriting

- type to laugh when hes really mad (its lowkey scary)

- has once described himself as a “thought daughter”

- paces when hes stressed

- terrys chocolate orange enjoyer

- tried to grow out a beard but it was weird and kind of patchy

soap

- will be looking at a nice view and will always say how a huge explosion would make it look so much cooler

- does that thing where he tells you to straighten your legs and then kicks the back of your knee

- cannot stay still in his sleep and has once woken up with half is body off the bed horizontally

- has a comic book collection and if you touch it he will kick you out

- goes to life drawing classes sometimes in his free time

- all of his exam papers had doodles on them

- the type of guy to draw a penis in ur notebook

- all of his socks have holes in them but refuses to buy new ones, some are literally the concept of a sock at this point

- smells his armpits unabashedly to see if he smells or not

- will ask to tell you a secret and burp in your ear

- when someone drops like a plate or a cup is the type to scream “wheey!!” and clap and he did that at a pub once and got them kicked out

- will make a fart noise and loudly blame it on you (especially in packed elevators)

-booger flicker

ghost

- makes zero noise when sneezing but still acts it out and he looks like hes bugging

- nose bridge pincher

- doesn’t clip off his fingernails he literally just bites them off and spits it into the bin

- type to say “well done.” sarcastically

- casual dead baby joke enjoyer

“how many babies does it take to paint a wall?”

“depends on how hard you throw them.”

(silence)

- really enjoys solitaire mobile is on level 177

- he once made a recruit run laps for microwaving tea

- off duty he has terrible posture

- chapped lips 24/7

- favourite takeout is chinese food and always get the vegetable spring rolls - he will buy takeout in bulk and then live off of leftovers instead of actually buying groceries

- has 3 forks one knife and one spoon

- has literally no sense of rhythm what so ever , cannot dance to save his life

- loves making social situations awkward in purpose but would never admit that so he just comes off as slightly off putting a lot of the time

price

- sneezes and coughs ridiculously loudly

- weirdly territorial about his hat (i find it so funny he has a waterproof version of it)

- has a weird mole on his back he refuses to get checked out - his reasoning is if he dies via mole it was natural selection

- has extensive knowledge on art history and hates conceptual art (has a tate membership card)

- licks his finger before turning a page

- casual moomin enjoyer

- cuts his cuticles - likes his maintenance has a beard grooming kit

- says he doesnt watch tiktoks but he watches tiktok dog video complications in youtube and they have the most npc ass audios

- is on the “cigar society” on facebook and gives reviews for them

- does the head tilt of disappointment (if its thrown at gaz he literally will not get over it for days)

- slaps his knee when laughing really hard

- also nose bridge pincher

- is the type of make those hiking comments to people who walk by

- really enjoyed the lego batman movie

- unabashedly itches himself

- takes fish oil supplements

- always puts his hand up to say thank you when cars stop for him

- flirts with baristas

- had a brief midlife crisis where he wanted to become a mystery novelist (still has the drafts hidden somewhere but you couldn’t waterboard that information out of him)

thank you

[zaynessbeloved]

A Duke's Silence

Co-author: @astarry-moon

Synopsis: They called him cold. Distant. Impossibly composed. The kind of man you should never try to love because he would never love you back.

You believed that, too. Until you didn’t.

You weren’t the type to be tamed. You were too bold, too curious, too free-spirited for the quiet fate society carved for you. But when your path crossed with the enigmatic Duke of Ashbourne, everything began to unravel—your expectations, your composure, and eventually, your heart.

He was a man no one understood—not even you, not at first. But behind the silence was something raw and aching, something that burned just for you. And once you saw it, once you touched it, there was no turning back.

Together, you didn’t just defy society and its expectations—you rewrote them. One stolen glance at a time.

Content warnings: Regency Era AU, Slow Burn, Emotional Repression, Misunderstood Male Lead, Strong-Willed MC, Tender Domestic Moments, Protective Family Bonds, Healing from Generational Judgment, Mutual Pining, Late Realizations of Love, Deep Yearning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Courting to Marriage Progression, First Time in a Semi-Public Setting, Love Confessions, Fingering (implied), Oral (female receiving), Wedding Night, Honeymoon Seclusion, Established Relationship Intimacy, Tender & Rough Sex, Spicy Domesticity, Semi-Public Intimacy, Marking, Praise Kink, Possessive Touches, Desperate Kissing, Soft Dom Energy, Manhandling, Obsessive Affection, Gentle Restraint, Insatiable Zayne Energy, Bath Sex, Mirror Sex, Against a Piano Sex, Aftercare, Soft Epilogue, Pregnancy Reveal, Happy Ending.

Pairings: Zayne x reader

Word count: 8.8k words

A/n: After writing A Duke’s Promise, I knew I wanted to return to this world. So, alongside @astarry-moon, we created Zayne's story that takes place in the same Regency Era AU as Rafayel's.

Zayne is everything I personally wanted in a Regency Duke: misunderstood, composed, maddeningly controlled in public—but utterly undone in love. He’s quiet in crowds, devastating behind closed doors, and so deeply in love with the reader it’s almost unbearable.

This story is for the bold girls, the ones who speak too loudly in drawing rooms and ride too fast through snow-covered forests. For the girls who want to be chosen not for convenience, but for everything they are.

So if you like brooding dukes, fiercely soft devotion, piano duets turned scandalous, and an ending that feels like a long exhale after years of restraint—then this story is for you.

With all our love, —Lex and Elle

Chapter 1

You shouldn't be here. That much is obvious from the moment your heeled boots echo against the polished marble floors of Wendell Hall, every step a defiance. The air inside is stale with parchment and pomp, a faint scent of cigar smoke still clinging to the wooden panels despite the ban. The room is filled with men in deep coats and deeper voices, all gathered for a guest lecture on “Liberty and the Ethics of Rule”—which is to say, men talking about how other men ought to govern everything. Including you. 

You slip into one of the upper rows of the tiered seating, cloak drawn over your shoulders, hat pulled low, the curve of your jaw a weapon as sharp as your mind. Seraphina had helped. Of course she had. Her innocent eyes were the perfect smokescreen for your aunt’s nosy questions.

Your cousin Jace, seated across the aisle in the crowd, doesn’t even pretend to be surprised when he spots you. He leans across during the applause that greets the guest speaker’s arrival, murmuring just loud enough for you to hear, “You really think I wouldn’t recognize you, even in that ridiculous bonnet?” 

You give him a slow smile. 

“I didn’t come here to be recognized,” you whisper back. “I came here to listen.”

“God help us all,” he mutters, shaking his head. 

The room settles. The speaker begins—a renowned philosopher, old and rotund, with breath like damp wool and a voice like chalk against slate. But you listen. And your mind sparks. And you take notes in your head, biting the inside of your cheek every time someone says “naturally, women lack the constitution for governance.” But it’s not the lecturer who steals your attention first. No, it’s him. 

Seated in the far right corner, his coat a precise obsidian, gloves still on, posture rigid but regal—as though the seat itself was carved around his spine. The Duke of Ashbourne. You’d only heard rumors. You’d never spoken. Never even been in a room with him until now. But there he is. Watching the speaker. Listening, but not quite still. You notice the way he taps one gloved finger once—once—against his knee when something idiotic is said. 

And then, you feel his gaze. Not once. Not twice. But thrice. It drags along your profile like a cold wind curling over firewood—not blatant, not indulgent—but aware. 

And then there’s another. A man you hadn’t noticed until he spoke. 

“Quite the scene,” comes a warm, easy baritone beside you—a man with a softer coat, a charming smile, and eyes that glitter with just enough virtue to be suspicious. Lord Berkeley.

“You,” he murmurs, glancing toward you as if he stumbled upon a rose among thorns, “are the only reason I’ve remained awake. I rather think more women ought to attend these things. The room might be a touch more intelligent for it.” 

You raise a brow, unimpressed. “Is that flattery or philosophy, My Lord?” 

He grins. “Whichever gets the Lady’s attention.”

It’s charming. Not sincere. But the way he speaks of liberty, of choice, of women deserving a voice—it is refreshing. And part of you can’t help but wonder if he's just clever enough to believe what he says… or just clever enough to say it.

When the lecture ends, the crowd buzzes—mostly with murmurs about your presence. The Duke of Ashbourne walks out without a word. Without a glance. But you feel him pass. Like the press of a storm before the thunder.

Outside, Jace joins you under the colonnade, cloak around your shoulders.

“You’re going to regret this,” he says lightly, glancing toward the exit doors.

“Unlikely,” you reply. “I rather think I’ll enjoy it.”

But when you return to the Everthorne townhouse later, soaked in evening mist, your aunt is already waiting in the parlour. Tapping a spoon against a teacup, quietly. Like a sword against glass.

“Do you truly think I wouldn’t find out?” she says coldly. “Wendell Hall. A lecture reserved for men. What would your father say?”

And then Jace steps forward, arms crossed. “I had invited her.”

You blink. She blinks. He shrugs. “Don’t look at me like that, Mother. I needed someone to keep me from falling asleep.”

She groans into her hands. And somewhere far away, in the high towered silence of Ashbourne Hall, a certain Duke stands at his rain-slick window, his hands behind his back, and remembers the scent of bergamot, smoke, and roses. 

————

The mornings are yours. Before the world awakens with its stifling rules and expectations. Before society dons its masks of silk and civility. Out here, on horseback, wind slicing your cheeks and damp grass whipping at your boots, you feel like something more than a daughter, more than a Viscount’s ward, more than a pretty porcelain on a shelf. You feel alive.

Your mare, bright and spirited, cuts clean through the fields at a gallop. The hem of your riding coat flutters behind you like a banner. There is nothing polished or polite about you at this moment. No pearls. No powdered scents. Just sweat, smoke, bergamot and the wild. Your signature.

The path curls lower as you guide the reins, pressing your heels lightly—your breath syncing with the rhythm of the ride, your thoughts silent for the first time in days. There is no one here to scold. No prying eyes. Only the wide stretch of moor and morning frost.

Unknowingly, the trees begin to thicken. You do not notice. Not at first. You’ve ridden this path countless times, though never quite this far. It winds like a whispered invitation between old oaks and yawning thorns. You think only of air and blood and freedom as you disappear into the edge of the forest. Ashbourne Forest. You don’t know it. Not yet. But he does.

Far above, standing still as carved marble on the jagged cliffs that rise behind Ashbourne Hall, The Duke of Ashbourne watches. He came to walk. As he always does in the early morning, when the rest of the world still sleeps. Dressed in black, boots crunching lightly over frost-bitten rock, coat collar turned up against the wind. He came to think. To be alone.

But then, he sees the figure on horseback. A streak of movement where there should be none. A figure too confident, too bold, not one of his stable hands, and certainly not from his household.

For a moment, he assumes it must be a reckless boy from the Everthorne estate. But then he sees the posture. The curve of a waist. The flash of unbound hair escaping a loose braid. The way your hand grips the reins—not like an amateur, but like someone born in a saddle.

And then he knows. You. The woman from the lecture. Riding, wild and untethered, straight into his woods. And though you cannot see him—though the cliff is high and the distance vast—you feel it. That pull. That sudden prickle of awareness, as though the air has shifted. As though someone, somewhere, is watching.

You glance back over your shoulder. There is nothing there. Only trees and frost and the warm breath of your mare. But the sensation lingers. Crawls beneath your skin. For a single heartbeat, you feel… seen. Not in the way men at soirées look at you. Not like a commodity or curiosity. But like something... dangerous. 

You don’t linger. Not after the trees begin to thin and the hush of the forest tightens around your chest like a too-tight corset. Not after the air shifts—too still, too sharp—and you feel the unmistakable press of something unseen along your spine. You pull at the reins gently, the mare slowing beneath your hands, her ears twitching at the wind.

You realize then, with a flicker of unease, that you’ve crossed too far. The Everthorne fields are behind you. You’re no longer riding on your family’s land. This is Ashbourne territory. And you, bold and brilliant and stupidly curious, have trespassed on the Duke’s domain.

You turn the mare with practiced ease, heart thudding low in your chest. It isn’t fear—not quite. But something colder. Sharper. As if the eyes that were watching still linger, even now that your back is turned. By the time you return home, the sun is higher, your boots muddied, your hair wind-tangled and wild. You’re met at the stables by your uncle’s steward, who hands you a sealed note from your aunt.

"Return by the drawing hour. We are to discuss London."

London. You knew it was coming. The Season always does. And yet... It feels heavier this year. Not the weight of gowns or expectations or the endless dance of introductions. But knowing that they expect you to choose. To settle. To be softened and shaped into something suitable. A match must be made, they’ll say. As though you are a thing to be traded. As though your fire can be measured by coin and lineage.

You dress properly that evening. You sit in the drawing room as expected, spine straight and lips still. You nod when your aunt speaks of carriages and trunks and guest rooms in the London manor. You are to leave in four days. With Jace and Seraphina.

A chaperone is not required for you, not anymore. You are not a fresh debutante, wide-eyed and simpering. You have already been presented. Already survived one Season—and emerged unmarried.  It was a quiet scandal last year. This year, it will not be allowed.

You don't argue. You only murmur your agreement, then slip away before your aunt can ask about the state of your boots.

————

The night before departure you are summoned, not scolded. The note arrives at supper, tucked beneath your napkin in your uncle’s familiar hand.

“Meet me in the study. After.”

It smells faintly of pipe smoke and wax. You fold it silently, already knowing what this is. You do not expect affection. You certainly do not expect understanding. But you go.

The house is quiet as you move through it, the kind of stillness that settles before a great shift—like the breath before a storm or the ache before a goodbye. The door to your uncle’s study creaks slightly as you push it open, and he’s already there. Standing by the fire, brandy in one hand, his expression soft in that rare, unguarded way you remember from childhood.

"Come in, little thorn," he murmurs, using the name your father gave you once. 

You shut the door behind you, blinking at the unexpected warmth in his voice. The study is old and heavy with memory. Books, firelight, shadows. You feel smaller here—but not unwelcome.

He doesn’t scold you for riding into the Ashbourne woods. He doesn’t mention the raised voices earlier with your aunt, or the way you refused to apologize for existing in a way society deems improper. Instead, he nods to the second glass already poured. 

You cross the room in silence, settle into the chair opposite his, and take the drink with both hands. The brandy is sharp. Like the truth.

“I thought,” he begins, voice low, “that I had more time. When your father died.”

Your throat tightens. He doesn’t speak of him often. None of them do. As if grief is something best buried beneath expectations and silk-lined silence.

“He was reckless,” your uncle says, not unkindly. “And brilliant. Too brilliant, sometimes. Always thinking the world would catch him, no matter how high he leapt. You’ve got that in you too.”

You set your glass down, carefully. “I’m not reckless,” you murmur.

“You are alive,” he says, with quiet conviction. “And in this house, that is almost the same thing.”

The silence stretches, long and aching.

“I was not meant to be a Viscount,” he admits. “I was the second son. The quieter one. I loved horses and poetry and chasing your father into all kinds of trouble. Then he was gone, and I had to grow up in a week. Your aunt married a man who barely remembered how to write a proper letter.”

You smile faintly. “She reminds you.”

He laughs, a real sound, low and warm. “Every day. And I let her. Because she’s often right, even when she’s… sharp.”

You look down at your hands. “She doesn’t like me.”

He exhales. “She loves you.”

You lift your eyes to meet his. Doubt etched in your brow.

“She doesn’t understand you. That’s true. But you frighten her in the same way your father frightened me—because you make the world bend around your will. And that kind of woman… is often punished for existing.”

That strikes deeper than you expect. You feel it all the way down to your spine.

“She wants to protect you,” he adds. “In the only way she knows how. By forcing you to fit into a shape society will not crush.” 

“I don’t want to be shaped,” you say, fierce and soft at once. 

He nods, eyes warm. “Then carve something new.”

The fire crackles. You want to remember this moment—this warmth, this rare truth—forever.

“But still go to London,” he says, after a pause. “Go with Jace. Go with Seraphina. See what the world offers. Not because you must find a husband, but because your father would never forgive me if I let you rust here in a cage you never asked for.”

You rise, and he stands with you. For a moment, you hesitate—then step forward and wrap your arms around him. He stiffens at first, then folds around you, one hand against your back, warm and steady. You smell smoke and old books and something like comfort. It matters more than you can say. You leave the study with your eyes burning, your chest heavy, and your heart—for the first time in weeks—just a little less angry.

———— 

The carriage ride is a balm you didn't know you needed. Jace sits beside you, boots crossed, book forgotten on his lap as he argues half-heartedly with his wife. Seraphina leans out the window despite the wind, her hair whipped in every direction, laughing like it’s a language only the two of you speak. 

"She’ll catch a fever," Jace mutters. 

"I’ll catch freedom," Seraphina retorts. "Have you ever seen clouds this dramatic, or are you too buried in your maps?" 

They squabble like that for miles. Loud and bright and ridiculous. You don’t even try to hide your grin. It is only with them that you feel this version of yourself—sharp-tongued and untamed. You are not Miss Everthorne, not quite. You are you. 

"She’s smiling," Seraphina gasps with mock horror. "You’ve done it, Jace. You’ve made her smile before the Season. The world must be ending." 

"Impossible," Jace says. "I haven’t even begun my lecture on noble etiquette and comportment."

"Do that and I will leap from this carriage."

"And I will push you," you offer sweetly.

The laughter bubbles again, loud enough to make the driver glance back once in amusement. You watch the trees blur past as the city looms closer, the sky bright with spring. Somewhere behind you lies the edge of Ashbourne Forest. Somewhere ahead, the Season waits with all its sharpened teeth. But for now, between the three, you are just you—untamed and unchosen, fire on the edge of being lit. 

The London townhouse greets you like an old book someone else has read. Its walls echo with familiar voices—Jace’s steady calm, Seraphina’s bright laughter—but they feel like borrowed warmth, not yours just yet. Still, the fire is lit, your rooms are already prepared, and the windows let in the shifting grey of the London sky. 

Seraphina wastes no time flinging open the drapes in your chamber, declaring that the dust of the countryside has no place in the capital.

“There are too many people here to waste a good view,” she says, hands on her hips like she rules the city.

You smirk from the doorway. “And too many people to hide from.”

She turns, grinning, eyes full of mischief. “You never hide. You terrify. It’s not the same thing.”

Jace lingers in the hall, arms folded, a fond smile tugging at his mouth as he watches you both. The golden warmth between the three of you settles quickly—like you never left each other’s sides. The townhouse holds your laughter well. That night, you sleep in high-thread sheets and dreamless silence, the kind that only old cities can offer.

————

The carriage rocks gently over the cobbled street as you peer out at the mansion ahead—all crystal windows and gilded door frames. The chatter of debutantes and matrons swirls in your ears like perfume.

“I still don’t understand why this one is called a small gathering,” you murmur.

Seraphina, resplendent in soft violet and starlight, giggles beside you. “Small means under a hundred guests.”

“Then I shall start referring to thunderstorms as light weather,” you mutter.

Jace, across from you, snorts into his cravat. “You’re not required to dance tonight, you know.”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, but neither am I permitted to scowl in a corner without your dear wife dragging me into conversation.” Seraphina beams, utterly unrepentant.

The ballroom is a hive—candlelight dripping from chandeliers, string music dancing through laughter, and the air thick with too-sweet perfume and too-eager glances. You are wearing midnight blue. Your signature scent—bergamot, firewood, something alive and untamed—follows you through the crowd like a dare. It makes some women narrow their eyes. Makes some men’s gazes linger longer than they should.

You navigate it all like a soldier through smoke. Not rude. Not afraid. But untouchable. And then—“Miss Everthorne.”

You turn. The voice is smooth, low, and achingly familiar. Too familiar. Lord Berkeley stands just behind your shoulder, a smile curling at the edge of his mouth. Dark curls impeccably tamed, coat perfectly tailored, the picture of noble warmth. You blink, then smile—slow and amused.

“I should not wonder at our paths crossing again, My Lord.” you say, arching a brow. “It seems London is not as wide as it claims to be.” 

A chuckle. “Or perhaps fate is not as subtle as it pretends to be.”

You tilt your head. “Or you simply haunt places where women gather, like a ghost with particularly charming manners.” 

He places a hand to his chest, feigning injury. “Now that was unkind.”

You smirk. “Indeed, but not inaccurate.”

His eyes flick over your figure, not indecently, but not with disinterest either. “You look like trouble tonight, My Lady.” he murmurs. “Elegant, dangerous trouble.”

“Good,” you say, sipping from your champagne glass. “That means I’ve dressed correctly, My Lord.”

He laughs. It’s a pleasant sound—deep and easy. The kind of laugh you know how to distrust, even as it slides easily into your bones. Around you, the crowd stirs. Conversations and music continue. But the moment narrows, just a little.

He leans in, just enough to make you feel it. “I do hope you’ll save me a dance, Miss Everthorne.”

You smile, slow and sharp like a blade dressed in velvet. “I shall consider it.”

And you leave him standing there, still grinning after you, eyes gleaming with something you cannot yet name. You had just turned away from Lord Berkeley’s pleasant smile—far too charming for comfort—when the low murmur moved through the ballroom like wind through silk.

The Duke of Ashbourne had arrived. Not alone, of course. He walked in beside another tall figure—Lord Greystone, if you remembered correctly. A man more known for scandalous laughter and flirtation than the restrained thundercloud at his side. But it was the Duke who caught the room like flint to stone. Midnight black. From boots to gloves to the gleaming buttons of his coat, he was carved in severity, every movement controlled, like a man at war with his own presence.

And yet—people parted for him. Like the tide for the moon. He did not look around. He never needed to look around to be noticed. You, however, had quite enjoyed being the one watching. Until he turned his gaze and met yours. It was a blow, not a glance. Steady. Measured. So very unreadable.

“I feel cold,” Isabella murmured beside you, fanning herself furiously. “And I think I like it.”

You nearly choked on your laugh. Lord Greystone’s voice snapped your attention just in time, “Miss Fitzroy?” 

Isabella blinked. “Yes, My Lord?” 

The man was practically glowing, his boyish smile stretching wide as he stepped forward. “I’ve heard so much about you from Lord Everthorne. I confess I did not expect you to be quite so…”

She arched her brow. “So?” 

“Enchanting,” he said with a grin, utterly shameless. “Will you grant me the honor of the next dance, My Lady?”

You jabbed your elbow gently into her side.

“Go on,” you whispered, smirking. “You look like you’re considering setting him on fire anyway.”

“I might still,” she muttered, cheeks pink, but she accepted Lord Greystone’s arm, and off they went.

“Shameless,” you murmured after them.

“And hopeless,” Jace added, chuckling, before turning to Seraphina with a courtly bow. “Shall we, My Lady?” 

Seraphina took his hand, the pair already melting into the rhythm of the room. And then it was only you—and the Duke. The silence between you was immediate. Not tense, but charged. Like the air before a storm. 

You turned to him, a smile tugging at your lips, and tilted your head just so. “Do you dance, Your Grace?”

His gaze did not waver. “Not unless I am in a circumstance which forces me to.”

You blinked—then raised your fan, hiding the curve of your grin behind painted silk. “Charming.” 

And then, just like that, you turned and walked away—unhurried, shoulders straight, the ghost of your laughter hanging behind you like perfume. He did not follow. But his eyes did. 

The ballroom air had begun to thicken—heat from bodies and music and perfume settling like a second layer on your skin. You made a graceful escape under the guise of refreshment, weaving through silks and stares until you reached the edge of the room.

You plucked a glass of chilled cordial from a silver tray just as a familiar voice ghosted behind your shoulder. 

“Careful, Miss Everthorne. If you stand too long alone, you may be mistaken for a ghost.”

You didn’t turn. You merely sipped, and smirked. “I assume that makes you the haunting type, My Lord?” 

Lord Berkeley moved to your side with a smile that had probably unpinned more than a few hairpieces over the years. “Only at parties. The Duke tends to take all the brooding corners for himself.” 

Your eyes flicked subtly across the ballroom—and yes, there he was. The Duke. Standing alone, half in shadow, posture straight and untouched by the music, the crowd, or the warmth of the room. 

You hummed into your glass. “Yes, well. He did inform me he only dances under duress.”

Lord Berkeley laughed, and the sound was light enough to cut through the candle haze.

“He has not danced in years. Doesn’t speak unless forced. And still, every Lady in the room keeps glancing his way as though he might suddenly recite poetry and fall to one knee.”

You arched a brow. “And what about you, My Lord?”

He placed his hand over his heart in mock solemnity. “I would never deprive a Lady of poetry, should she require it.” You laughed despite yourself. He extended a hand, eyes glinting. “May I have this dance?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

The music swelled, and he led you to the floor—and for the first time that evening, you moved. Not politely. Not stiffly. But with freedom. Lord Berkeley was light on his feet and lighter with his conversation. He asked no prying questions, made no overreaching assumptions. He merely spun you in time with the violins and told you, quite sincerely, that your laugh was better than the champagne.

You smiled. You even forgot, for a moment, the weight of eyes. Until you glanced up—mid-turn, flushed and grinning—and saw him. Still against the wall. Still watching. But now, his hands were behind his back, jaw taut, gaze fixed on you like a blade waiting to fall. He said nothing. Did nothing. But he did not look away. Not once. 

————

Three days pass. Three more events. Three more crowds full of powdered laughter and gold-rimmed gossip. And his name follows you through them all. The Duke of Ashbourne. You hear it behind gloved hands and beneath raised brows. Not shouted. Never that. But breathed—like scandal, like fire, like something no one dares touch directly for fear of what it might reveal.

He ruined a lady once, they say. Though no one agrees which one. He doesn’t dance. Doesn’t court. Doesn’t entertain a single name sent his way. And yet they all still try. Mothers with trembling fans. Daughters with eyes wide and rehearsed. They circle him like moths around a fire that never warms. 

You sip your champagne slowly and listen. He never denies the rumors. That one, at least, is true. He doesn't defend. He doesn't explain. He doesn't engage. He simply stands—regal, motionless, black-gloved and perfectly unreadable. A figure carved out of winter and legacy. And silence. 

He is incapable of love, one says, voice too bright to be casual. He is bound only to duty, says another, older, sharper. That one lands deeper. Not because it’s cruel. But because it feels true.

And then—Eirhart. That stops conversation. Always does. You’ve heard the name spoken before, always with the same air of reverence and unease. The Eirhart family. Ancient. Prestigious. Distant. There is power in that name—old power, deep and bone-quiet. They are respected, yes. But never embraced. People tip their heads in greeting and keep three steps’ distance. You have only just begun to understand why. 

That night, in the quiet of your room, you find your thoughts straying. You could be thinking of Lord Berkeley. Of his beauty. His charm. His ease. His comfort. But instead, your mind is stuck wondering about someone uncomfortable. Someone who does not speak unless he must. Who does not look unless something catches. Someone who does not smile. But who for some reason, watched you dance. 

There is something in him you cannot read. Something that makes you curious, intrigued even. And for you, that is new. And that, perhaps, is why you find it hard to look away. 

————

The morning began with war. Or at least, it felt that way. Maids moved around you like soldiers in campaign—pinning, fastening, smoothing, powdering. Ribbons and silks and pinned curls flew through the air like artillery fire. A comb snapped in someone’s hand. Another shrieked about the placement of a floral rosette. You barely suppressed the urge to dive from the balcony in your shift. 

“You’d think we were being offered to the Gods,” you muttered, as yet another petticoat was tugged into place. 

“You are,” one of the maids said cheerfully. “Only the gods wear waistcoats.” 

By the time it was over, you stood at the mirror, polished and pinned, wrapped in a pale blue gown that sparkled like frost kissed by sunlight. You looked... delicate. You hated it. But it fit the theme—and if you were to be paraded among fountains and florals like a prize mare, you might as well play the part.

You descended the staircase like a lady, but your heart was already elsewhere—not in the salons or gossip, but in the winding walks of Vauxhall Gardens. It was the only thing about the day you did look forward to.

The gardens were madness dressed in flowers. Everywhere you turned: silks and lace, powdered curls, parasols like spun sugar. Music floated from the elevated bandstand, light and fluttering, and the walkways overflowed with laughter and carefully staged conversations. Gentlemen in fashionable coats bowed and blinked too much. Young ladies curtsied like porcelain dolls.

Vauxhall Gardens was a theatre—and you, reluctantly, were cast. You wandered along the gravel path, the sound of your heels lost in the hush of whispers and the steady trickle of water from marble fountains that seemed in competition with one another. The largest resembled a temple, flanked by statues of Roman gods and surrounded by a ridiculous number of cherubs.

At least the refreshments were divine. You helped yourself to a glass of lemonade—perfectly chilled—and eyed the endless parade of pastries, delicate sandwiches, and fruit tarts that disappeared faster than they arrived. No alcohol, of course. A fact you deeply resented.

But these parties offered a rare mercy, you could wander alone without scandal. That was the unspoken rule of Vauxhall—people watched, but they pretended not to. It was a theater with the curtain slightly askew.

You drifted past the grand rotunda and toward the less crowded west lawn, where the scent of roses nearly overpowered the perfume clinging to your skin. Your gown brushed over the grass, the pale blue fabric catching the sunlight like seafoam. Around you, voices carried; 

“She’s still not married, poor thing—”

“—heard Lord Alton nearly proposed in Bath last year—”

“—and did you see Miss Farlow’s décolletage—”

You tuned them out. You let your steps fall where they pleased. You were not a debutante. You were not new. And for one golden afternoon, you were simply... free. Even if you wore blue. Even if your skin itched for shadow, and your thoughts wandered back to unreadable eyes in a crowd, black gloves resting behind his back, watching. But he wouldn’t be here. The Duke didn’t come to garden parties. Or so they said.

You were admiring a row of hedges sculpted into the shape of mythical creatures—a griffin with far too many feathers, a centaur mid-lunge when Lord Berkeley appeared.

“Miss Everthorne.”

You turned, expecting a greeting. Not the flower he extended between his fingers. A single, exquisite blue rose.

You blinked. “Is that for me, My Lord?” 

He smiled, infuriatingly warm. “It is.” 

You hesitated, staring at the bloom—its color unnatural and stunning, like moonlight soaked in ink. The petals curled at the edges like silk ribbons, almost glowing beneath the sunlight.

“You do realize,” you said slowly, “that blue roses do not exist in nature?”

“That is what makes them interesting,” he replied. “Much like you.”

You frowned, but not unpleasantly. “It must have cost a fortune.”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping just enough to make it feel conspiratorial. “I noticed your necklace the other night. The sapphire pendant.” His eyes flicked briefly to the delicate piece resting against your collarbone—your mother’s, always worn, never mentioned. “It reminded me of this. I thought the match appropriate.”

Your fingers brushed the pendant instinctively. It was oval-cut, framed in gold filigree, cool against your skin. You had never taken it off. Not even for sleep. You weren’t certain you remembered how. 

Your throat tightened. The necklace belonged to your mother. The only thing she left you that wasn’t measured in ledger books and distant mourning. You were still trying to find your voice when Jace arrived, Seraphina on his arm. His brows lifted slightly at the sight of the rose in your hands. 

“Oh no,” he said dryly. “Lord Berkeley is giving you things. This is how it starts.”

Seraphina beamed like the devil in lilac silk. “That’s a very rare flower, My Lord,” she said sweetly. “I suppose next you’ll be offering to name a star in her honor?” 

Lord Berkeley grinned. “Only if she’ll agree to claim it.” 

You coughed, trying to suppress the blush threatening your throat. “You are all utterly ridiculous, My Lord.”

But you did not give the rose back. Seraphina leaned in slightly as Jace pretended to study a hedge shaped like a stag.

“He has taste,” she murmured in your ear. “A little dangerous, no?”

You said nothing. You looked down at the flower. You felt the weight of your mother’s necklace. And you tried—truly tried—not to look around for a flash of black coat or the sharp line of a jaw watching from somewhere deeper in the garden. You did not succeed.

You found Isabella near one of the marble fountains, caught mid-laugh as she tried to coax a pastry off a delicate silver tray without entirely dislodging her reticule or dropping her drink.

“Are you stealing?” you asked mildly.

“Borrowing,” she said with her mouth full of cream and sugar. “Temporarily.”

You handed her a linen napkin just as she nearly lost a raspberry tart to the breeze. The two of you wandered toward the refreshment tables, skirts brushing the clipped grass, plucking lemon cakes and tea sandwiches between jokes about terrible suitors and the woman near the gazebo who had clearly stuffed her corset with false padding. 

“I think I spotted a scone in her décolletage,” Isabella whispered. 

You snorted into your tea. “I’m serious,” she added. “It shifted when she laughed.”

“And how closely were you observing the upper scones, Miss Fitzroy?” 

“I am a scholar of the absurd,” she said, lifting her chin with mock dignity. “And today, society is my lecture hall.”

You were still laughing when they appeared. From nowhere, naturally—as if conjured by the very laws of dramatic inconvenience. Lord Greystone. And beside him—all black, all silence—the Duke.

“Oh no,” you murmured, still chewing, “I feel a promenade coming.”

Isabella tried, valiantly, to look surprised. 

“Miss Fitzroy,” Lord Greystone beamed, already halfway through a bow, “I’ve been looking all over the gardens for you.”

“Have you, My Lord?” she said, straightening slightly. “How very concerning.” 

“I was hoping,” he continued, “you might allow me the honor of a promenade.”

You arched a brow at her sidelong. She shot you a look that said Help me. You smiled.

“I’m afraid I promised Miss Everthorne I’d remain at her side today,” Isabella said sweetly.

You began nodding—just as Lord Greystone turned to you with a grin.

“Then allow me to propose a brilliant solution,” he said, clapping his hands together. “A shared promenade. The four of us.”

The air shifted. You swallowed. Well, damn me, you thought. Thank you so much, Isabella. You glanced sideways. The Duke hadn’t flinched, hadn’t blinked, hadn’t breathed, as far as you could tell. He was all stillness and sharp lines, eyes fixed on some distant point behind your shoulder.

Isabella looped her arm through yours with the grace of a traitor. You turned to the Duke, hands folded primly at your waist.

“Shall we, Your Grace?” you asked, voice sweet as sugar left too long in the sun. “I promise not to lecture you on the dangers of fresh air.”

His eyes flicked to yours. Cold. Precise. And something else—something faintly annoyed. Good.

“Lead on, Miss Everthorne,” he said simply.

You walked side by side, behind the more animated pair of Lord Greystone and Isabella, who were already several paces ahead and deep in some ridiculous conversation about Greek myths and dancing. You and the Duke… did not speak.

You tapped your fan against your palm idly. "You are very quiet, Your Grace."

"I have little to contribute regarding whether Persephone would prefer waltzing or the quadrille."

“A pity. I imagined you had strong feelings about classical symbolism.”

A pause. “I do. I simply keep them to myself.”

You hummed, amused. “Fascinating.”

He glanced down at you. “What exactly do you find fascinating, Miss Everthorne?”

You met his gaze with a smile that bordered on mischievous. “How little I know about you. You’re like a statue someone placed at every party—admired, avoided, and thoroughly unreadable.”

“That is by design.”

“Even so,” you said, tapping your chin with your fan, “I find myself terribly tempted to read you anyway.”

He looked forward again, jaw tight. But his stride stuttered—just once. You grinned. The path through Vauxhall’s west garden curved gently around a copse of trimmed hedges, the gravel soft beneath your slippers as the four of you promenaded together—though it hardly felt even.

Lord Greystone and Isabella were already several paces ahead, now lost in conversation about the absurdity of fashionable boating hats. You adjusted your grip on the blue rose in your hand—still impossibly vibrant, still drawing the eye. You noticed his glance before he spoke.

“A blue rose,” he said. “Interesting.”

You turned your head, calm and unreadable. “What’s so interesting about it, Your Grace?”

“They’re rare.”

You smiled faintly. “I’m well aware. Lord Berkeley was very kind to give it to me.”

“Interesting choice of a courting gift.” His tone was deadpan, unreadable. But the edge of it? Sharp.

You kept your eyes forward. “And may I ask why, Your Grace?”

He paused, just a beat too long. “Blue roses symbolize unattainability. And unrequited love.”

You chuckled—warm, but wicked. “They also symbolize mystery. Then perhaps such a rose should be given to you instead?”

That stopped him. He did not laugh. “I’ve no interest in such things.” He didn’t look at you when he said it.

You tilted your head. “Flowers… or love, Your Grace?”

His jaw flexed. “Neither.”

You nodded, as if that answer were predictable—expected, even. “Not many can afford such a privilege.”

His eyes flicked to you then, briefly—something unreadable tightening behind them. “I suppose Lord Berkeley could be a comfortable match for you, then.”

You laughed, low and dry. There was no humor in it. “I’ve no interest in a comfortable match, Your Grace.”

His mouth opened slightly, but you cut him off with a tilt of your head. Then, his voice smooth as silk drawn across a blade. “Then what are you interested in, Miss Everthorne?”

You smiled. The kind of smile that did not touch your eyes. “I want a man who sets fire to my reason and leaves me breathless with wanting,” you said. “Either that, or nothing at all.”

Ahead, near the edge of the lake, you spotted Lord Berkeley leaning lazily near the boats, speaking with another gentleman. His coat was open, posture relaxed, unaware of the heat humming behind you like a spark in a dry forest.

You turned to the Duke and dipped into a perfect little curtsey. “Do excuse me, Your Grace.”

And just like that—you left. No backward glance. No explanation. You walked away, rose in hand, breath steady. And behind you, the Duke stood very still. As if you’d thrown the flower at his feet.

The lake glistened like glass beneath the late afternoon sun, its surface dotted with decorative row boats painted in soft pastels—blue, green, a faded gold that shimmered like champagne. You’d barely taken three steps toward the bank before Lord Berkeley appeared at your side like a shadow made of charm.

“Miss Everthorne,” he said with a bow, eyes twinkling, “may I offer you a moment of freedom before the orchestra begins its attack on Haydn’s Fourth?”

You laughed, unable to help it. “Freedom and a boat ride? My Lord, you’re spoiling me.”

“Think nothing of it,” he said, gesturing gallantly. “I find it my civic duty to rescue ladies from suffocating promenade partners.”

You arched a brow as he helped you into the boat. “Then consider this a formal thank you for helping me escape a most grievous torture.”

He grinned, taking the oars with the practiced ease of a man born to flirt and row at the same time. “I do what I can for the helpless and oppressed.”

You gave him a look. “Helpless?”

He smirked. “Momentarily oppressed, then.”

The boat drifted into the gentle current. The sun dappled across the water, catching the edges of your gown and his smile. The conversation, like the breeze, was light—playful. He made you laugh without effort. You didn’t notice the edge of the path. You didn’t see the shadows beneath the line of manicured trees. But someone else did.

The Duke stood at the northern edge of the garden walk, coat still buttoned to the throat despite the warmth, his gloves clasped behind his back. He had not expected to see you so at ease. In a boat. Laughing. His jaw tightened.

You tipped your head back and laughed again—loud enough that it carried across the lake. The wind caught your hair, loosened it slightly from its pins, and he watched—stared—as you pushed it back with one unguarded hand. The blue rose was still in your lap. His jaw flexed once. Twice. The muscles at his temple flickered. He did not speak. He did not move. He did not blink.

You returned to the lawn with slightly flushed cheeks and an extra curl loose from your temple. Isabella found you near the lemon cakes, still nibbling on your victory. She looked like she’d seen something entirely more entertaining than anything Vauxhall had yet offered, or something Lord Greystone might have said.

“What?” you asked, reaching for another tart.

She leaned in, voice low and laughing. “What did you do to the Duke, exactly?”

You blinked. “What?”

“The poor man looked like he was about to shoot arrows out of his eyes. At you.” 

You smirked. “Hm? I may have insulted his entire bloodline or something of the sort. No idea, really.” 

She nearly choked on her pastry. You popped a raspberry into your mouth and looked out across the crowd. You didn’t see him now. But you felt it. He had seen you with Lord Berkeley. He had looked. And he hadn’t liked it.

The day faded in soft colors and laughter. You, Isabella, Jace, and Seraphina stayed longer than most, indulging in lemon pastries, live musicians, and the firework display that lit the gardens in streaks of gold and blue. It ended in laughter, not scandal. For now.

————

Three days later, you stood in your chamber with your arms raised halfway while Seraphina circled you, scrutinizing the fit of your ivory linen day gown as though preparing you for battle.

“It’s too proper,” you muttered.

“It’s appropriate,” Seraphina corrected, hands busy with the sash. “This is a race viewing, not a masked ball.”

“You say that like those are two different things.”

Jace’s voice drifted in from the hallway. “I heard that, you know!”

You and Seraphina shared a look and promptly rolled your eyes in unison.

“Honestly,” Seraphina said, straightening the neckline with one last tug, “he’s more excited for this horse race than he was for our wedding.”

You snorted. “He thinks he’s going to be asked to judge something.”

A pause. Then Seraphina’s grin bloomed. “We should tell him it’s a fashion competition. Watch his entire sense of identity collapse.”

You both burst out laughing just as Jace stepped through the open door, impeccably dressed in a deep green coat with gold trim and the sort of expression that screamed importance. “What, may I ask, is so amusing?”

You gestured vaguely at his existence. “You. And your unwavering belief that today’s event will change the course of English sporting history.”

He didn’t flinch. “You underestimate the significance of Thoroughbred bloodlines.”

“You underestimate how loudly you said that just now,” Seraphina murmured. 

Still, you let them banter, smiling faintly as Seraphina hooked her arm through his and pulled him toward the stairs. The sun outside was already high, pouring golden light over the cobblestone streets of London as the carriage waited. 

There would be crowds, laughter, excitement—and hopefully, pastries. And perhaps, if luck continued to stir as it often did when you least expected it, a certain Duke whose presence you could tolerate... if only for the opportunity to tease him a little more.

————

The race grounds were a riot of color and anticipation. Silks rustled in the breeze, sunlight glinted off parasols and polished boots, and gentlemen clustered near the track like roosters before a storm. The scent of cut grass and trampled petals lingered under the crisp scent of tea and citrus pastries being passed around on silver trays. The main promenade was flooded with bright gowns, hats the size of serving trays, and fashionable lords pretending they understood Thoroughbred lineages more than they actually did.

You stood beside Seraphina, watching Jace lean far too enthusiastically over the fence, pointing at one of the black horses as if the beast would somehow remember his encouragement.

“Look at him,” you murmured. “He’s ready to challenge the horse to a duel.”

“He’s naming it in his head,” Seraphina said, sipping her tea. “He’s probably composing a poem to it.”

You tilted your head. “Something beginning with 'To the beast of my heart—’”

“'Whose hooves beat like thunder, and mane like the sea—’” Seraphina added.

You both burst out laughing. Jace turned slightly. “I can hear you, you know.” 

“We know,” you said in unison, not even pretending to be sorry. 

He wandered off soon after to join a group of lords talking loudly near the refreshments table—all waistcoats, monocles, and wild declarations about bloodlines. You and Seraphina drifted toward one of the viewing pavilions shaded in pale silk, where cushions and small garden stools made lounging in lace slightly more bearable.

That’s when Isabella found you. She wore a sun-yellow dress and had a pastry in each hand. Her smile was wide, her expression nothing short of delighted.

“I’ve made peace with the fact I’ll be rolled home like a jam tart,” she announced. “And you’re both coming with me.”

Seraphina reached for a pastry with one hand, linking arms with her in the other. “If I’m to perish, it shall be under sugar and scandal.”

The three of you found a patch of shade, shoes nestled in grass, skirts tucked carefully, laughter flowing like wine.   

You leaned closer. “How many Lords have offered to explain the rules of racing to you so far?” 

Isabella held up three fingers. “But one tried to rhyme with ‘derby,’ so he’s been disqualified from life.”

Seraphina snorted, shaking her head. “You know, when my parents come to these things, they spend more time critiquing the color palettes of the banners than the horses themselves.”

“Oh yes,” you smiled, “The Duke and Duchess of Ravencourt are known to inspire whispers when they attend anything involving dirt.” 

Seraphina gave you a sideways grin, her voice softening. “They never minded that I didn’t care for horses, either. I liked books. And laughter. And questions. They had told me little me asked my father why bees loved lavender so much. And why he kissed my mother that often.” 

You tilted your head. “What did he say?” 

“He said lavender was soft and stubborn, just like her. And some things you never stop loving, even if you don’t understand why they matter to anyone else.”  

Her voice grew more wistful, her eyes bright with quiet affection. “Evelyna’s the one who takes after him. All sharp eyes and sketchbooks and observations about cloud shapes. She’s got a mind like a silver knife. She once told me she wanted to grow up and ruin men with her intellect.” 

You nearly choked on your tea. Seraphina smiled. 

“And Theodore... Well, he thinks the garden belongs to him and that the sun rises only because he woke up. He’s got ink on his nose every other day and pockets full of flower petals. And somehow still manages to charm everyone.”

You rested your chin on your hand, smiling faintly. “Your family sounds like poetry.”

Seraphina’s voice turned soft. “They are. Wild, disorganized poetry. But still.”

The crowd suddenly roared with excitement as the jockeys began guiding their horses toward the start line, and the buzz of anticipation rolled like thunder through the grass. You stood, brushing your skirt, and let your eyes drift over the crowd. A world of silks and society, of smiles and wagers and stares. And somewhere—you could feel it—a certain pair of unreadable hazel eyes, watching you from a distance you hadn’t yet turned to find. 

The viewing terrace was draped in white linen and the smell of too many expensive colognes. Polished benches stretched beneath fluttering awnings, all arranged for the best view of the racing green below—where the horses were lining up, stomping the earth with impatient hooves.

Your party had been given prime seating, naturally. Jace and Seraphina took one end, deep in whispered mockery of the powdered man to their left who’d already dropped his opera glasses twice. You were seated beside Lord Berkeley, who had already offered you a second fan, two sugared almonds, and a commentary on each rider’s waistcoat. 

Across from you sat Lord Greystone, practically vibrating with delight, and Isabella, who looked both amused and alarmed. And then, at the far end—slightly turned from the group, boots crossed neatly, gloves folded in one hand—sat the Duke. Silent. Sculpted. Watching the field as though the sun was a personal offense.

You hadn’t spoken with him yet. But you knew he could hear you. The moment the first horn sounded and the riders took off—thunder across the field—your entire posture changed. You leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on the dark bay at the edge of the pack, your hands tightening in your lap. You did not sit like a lady watching horses. You sat like someone who understood what they were doing.

“Watch the left, My Lord” you said softly to Lord Berkeley, though your eyes never left the track. “That one’s pacing too high. He’s trying to burn them out before the turn.”

Berkeley blinked. “Should I be taking notes?”

You didn’t answer, you were too focused on the race. You were up out of your seat half a second later, as the horses thundered past the first corner. “That’s it, that’s it—take the inside line—yes!

You clapped once, grinning. A bright, genuine, unapologetic thing. The others laughed—not at you, but with you. Isabella leaned over to give you a look. “I’d pay to watch you ride one.”

You waved her off, but your eyes never left the finish line. When the dark bay crossed first, you let out a triumphant, “I told you!” that startled the man in the row behind you into spilling his cordial. 

You turned to your friends, glowing, still smiling—and found him watching you. The Duke. Expression unreadable, but... not empty. His eyes narrowed slightly. Like he was cataloguing something. Like he’d just heard a new language and wasn’t sure whether he liked the sound of it — or was already memorizing it.

Your smile curled. You raised a brow. “What, Your Grace?” you asked, casually. “Surprised?”

His gaze flicked to the track. Then to you again. “Not entirely,” he said. “You strike me as the sort who prefers to win, Miss Everthorne.”

You tilted your head. “And you strike me as the sort who doesn’t like surprises, Your Grace.” 

The corner of his mouth twitched. Just a fraction. But you saw it. And then he looked away again, as if you hadn’t said anything at all. But he had heard you. You knew it. The moment the race ended, Lord Berkeley turned toward you with a smile that hadn’t dimmed since the boat ride at Vauxhall Garden. 

“Well,” he said, brushing nonexistent dust from his cuff, “I appreciate horses as much as the next gentleman, but I confess I haven’t the faintest clue what actually just happened.”

You laughed—warm, genuine. “Don’t worry, My Lord. I’ll teach you.” 

He smiled wider, clearly pleased with himself. You didn’t notice the beat of silence beneath the joke—the lightness with no depth behind it. He meant well. Always did. Just didn’t speak your language. Not really.

You settled back into your seat as the chatter around you swelled—other matches were still being set, more races to come. Lord Greystone, who had spent the last twenty minutes alternating between cheering like a child and whispering increasingly ridiculous commentary into Isabella’s ear, turned toward you with an easy grin.

“That was rather impressive,” he said, nodding at you. “You really do love this.”

Isabella leaned over slightly, sipping from her lemonade. “Oh, she knows a lot about those things, My Lord.”

You gave her a look. “Do not make it sound like I collect riding manuals in secret.”

“Do you not?” she asked sweetly.

Lord Greystone laughed, then glanced past you to the far end of the bench. “You also love these things, Zayne,” he said over your head, a little louder than necessary.

You felt the shift instantly. The name. Zayne. You turned your head, just slightly—not to look at him directly, not yet, but enough to catch the angle of his profile. The Duke sat as still as ever, but… his eyes were sharper now. The air around him felt taut, drawn. He didn’t respond. Not immediately. Then, quietly—too quietly—he said, “I do.” 

Two words. Clipped. But they held weight. You blinked. He does? You hadn’t expected that. Something about his silence, his stillness, had made you assume the races were simply part of his endless tolerance for society’s charade. But now…now you wondered. How much does he know?

You felt the weight of his stillness differently after that. Less like boredom. More like observation. You didn’t speak to him, not directly. But as the next match was announced and the horses trotted onto the field, your gaze slid to him more than once.

And once—just once—you caught him watching you back. Not smiling. But not looking away either. 

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[fictionadventurer]

I have to talk about Chester Arthur. His story makes me go crazy. A mediocre president from the 1880s who's completely forgotten today has one of the best redemption stories I've ever heard and I need to make people understand just how cool his story is.

So, like, he starts out as this idealist, okay? He's the son of an abolitionist minister and becomes famous as a New York lawyer who defends the North's version of Rosa Parks whose story desegregates New York City's trolley system.

Then he starts getting pulled into politics and becomes one of the grimiest pieces of the political machine. He wants money, power, prestige, and he gets it. He becomes the right-hand man of Roscoe Conkling, the most feared political boss in the nation, a guy who will throw his weight around and do the most ruthless things imaginable to keep his friends in power and destroy his enemies.

Because Arthur's this guy's top lackey, he gets to be Controller of the Port of New York--the best-paying political appointment in the country, because that port brings in, like, 70% of the federal government's funds in tariffs. He gets a huge salary plus a percentage of all the fines they levy on lawbreakers, and because he's not afraid to make up infractions to fine people over, he is absolutely raking in the dough. Making the rough equivalent of $1.3 million a year--absolutely insane amounts of money for a government position. He's spending ridiculous sums on clothes, buying huge amounts of alcohol and cigars to share with people as part of his job recruiting supporters to the party, going out nearly every night to wine and dine people as part of his work in the political machine. He's living the high life. Even when President Hayes pulls him from his position on suspicions of fraud, he's still living a great life of wealth, power, and prestige.

Then in 1880, his beloved wife dies. While he's out of town working for a political campaign. And he can't get back in time to say goodbye before she dies. Because he's a guy who has big emotions, it absolutely tears him up inside, especially because Nell resented how much his political work kept him away from home. He has huge regrets, but he just moves in with Roscoe Conkling and keeps working for the political machine.

And then he gets a chance to be vice president. The Republican Party has nominated James Garfield, a dark horse candidate who wants to reform the spoils system that has given Conking his power and gave Arthur his position as Port Controller. Conkling is pissed, and he controls New York, and since the party's not going to win the election without New York, they think that appointing Conkling's top lackey as vice-president will pacify him.

They're wrong--Conkling orders Arthur to refuse--but Arthur thinks this sounds like a great opportunity. The only political position he's ever held is Port Controller--a job he wasn't elected to and that he was pulled from in disgrace. Vice President is way more than he could ever have hoped for. It's a position with a lot of political pull and zero actual responsibilities. He'll get to spend four years living in up in Washington high society. It's the perfect job! Of course he accepts, and Conkling comes around when he figures out that he can use this to his advantage.

When Garfield becomes president, Arthur does everything he can to undermine him. He uses every dirty political trick he can think of to block everything that Garfield wants to do. He refuses to let the Senate elect a president pro tempore so he can stay there and influence every bill that comes through. He all but openly boasts of buying votes in the election. He's so much Conkling's lackey that he may as well be the henchman of a cartoon supervillain. On Conkling's orders, he drags one of Garfield's Cabinet members out of bed in the middle of the night--while the guy is ill--to drag him to Conkling's house so he can be forced to resign. He's just absolutely a thorn in the president's side, a henchman doing everything he can to maintain the corrupt spoils system.

Then in July 1881, when Arthur's in New York helping Conkling's campaign, the president gets shot. By a guy who shouts, "Now Arthur will be president!" just after he fires the gun. Arthur has just spent the past four months fighting the president tooth and nail. Everyone thinks he's behind the assassination. There are lynch mobs looking to take out him and Conkling. The papers are tearing him apart.

Arthur is absolutely distraught. He rushes to Washington to speak with the president and assure him of his innocence, but the doctors won't let him in the room. He gets choked up when talking to the First Lady. Reporters find him weeping in his house in Washington. Once again, death has torn his world apart and he's not getting a chance to make amends.

Arthur goes to New York while the president is getting medical treatment, and he refuses to come to Washington and take charge because he doesn't dare to give the impression that he's looking to take over. No one wants Arthur to be president and he doesn't want to be president, and the possibility that this corrupt political lackey is about to ascend to the highest office in the land is absolutely terrifying to everyone.

Then in August, when it's becoming clear that the president is unlikely to recover, he gets a letter. From a 31-year-old invalid from New York named Julia Sand. A woman from a very politically-minded family who has been following Arthur's career for years. And she writes him this astounding letter that takes him to task for his corrupt, conniving ways, and the obsession with worldly power and prestige that has brought him wealth and fame at the cost of his own soul--and she tells him that he can do better. In the midst of a nationwide press that's tearing him apart, this one woman writes to tell him that she believes he has the capacity to be a good president and a good man if he changes his ways.

And then he does. After Garfield dies, people come to Arthur's house and find servants who tell them that Arthur is in his room weeping like a child (I told you he had big emotions), but he takes the oath of office and ascends to the presidency. And he becomes a completely different man. His first speech as president mentions that one of his top priorities is reforming the spoils system so that people will be appointed based on merit rather than getting appointed as political favors with each change in the administration. Even though this system made him president. When Conkling comes to Arthur's office telling him to appoint his people to important government positions, Arthur calls his demands outrageous, throws him out, and keeps Garfield's appointees in the positions. "He's not Chet Arthur anymore," one of his former political friends laments. "He's the president."

He loses all his former political friends. He's never trusted by the other side. Yet he sticks to his guns and continues to support spoils system reform. He prosecutes a postal service corruption case that everyone thought he would drop. He's the one who signs into law the first civil service reform bill, even though presidents have been trying to do this for more than ten years, and he's the person who's gained all his power through the spoils system. He immediately takes action to enforce this bill when he could have just dropped it. He becomes a champion of this issue even though it's the last thing anyone would have expected of him.

He oversees naval reform. He oversees a renovation of the White House. He still prefers the social duties of the presidency, but he's respectable in a way that no one expected. Possibly because Julia Sand keeps sending him letters of encouragement and advice over the next two years. But also because he's dying.

Not long after ascending to the presidency, he learns he's suffering from a terminal kidney disease. And he tells no one. He keeps going about his daily life, fulfilling his duties as president, and keeps his health problems hidden. Once again, death is upending his life, and this time it's his own death. He's lived a life he's ashamed of, and he doesn't have much time left to change. He enters the presidency as an example of the absolute worst of the political system, and leaves it as a respectable man.

He makes a token effort to seek re-election, but because of his health problems, he doesn't mind at all when someone else gets the nomination. He dies a couple of years after leaving office. The day before his death, he orders most of his papers burned, because he's ashamed of his old life--but among the things that are saved are the letters from Julia Sand, the woman who encouraged him to change his ways.

This is an astounding story full of so many twists and turns and dramatic moments. A man who falls from idealism into the worst kind of corruption and then claws his way back up to decency because of a series of devastating personal losses and unexpected opportunities to do more than he could have ever hoped to do. I just go crazy thinking about it and I need you all to understand just how amazing this story is.

[un-poeta-desenamorado]

[cameronsbabydoll]

TIED TO TRADITION — ARRANGED MARRIAGE AU

WARNINGS: not proofread but just subtle boy talk and traditional aspects

The soft sound of music playing in the background filled the space as Rose and you continued to look through table cloth options. Rose was eagerly flipping through pages of bridal magazines, throwing out suggestions about flowers and fabrics, while you were mostly nodded absently. The entire atmosphere was forced cheerfulness, a veil over the growing anxiety in your mind.

“You know, I’m so excited for this, honey! It’s going to be perfect!” Rose exclaimed, her eyes twinkling as she looked through the pages of the wedding planner. “You’ll look stunning, and Rafe will just melt when he sees you walk down the aisle.”

You offered a half-smile, but your mind wandered, thinking back to Rafe’s indifferent attitude toward the wedding. Rafe wouldn’t care, you thought, and he definitely won’t care how you look.

Rose continued chatting, oblivious to the quiet discomfort settling into your chest. You were lost in the fantasy of a perfect wedding.

—

Rafe leaned back in the lounge chair on the deck, the cool night air mixing with the warmth from the low firepit crackling in front of them. He’d kicked his shoes off, letting his feet rest on the railing as the haze of cigar smoke curled around the group. Topper, Kelce, and a couple of other guys from their circle were lounging around, each nursing a drink, laughing too loud, and making the kind of jokes that wouldn’t fly in front of his father or any of the high-society folks they mingled with.

He exhaled a plume of smoke and took a long sip from his glass, the burn of whiskey soothing the tension he’d been carrying all day. It wasn’t about the marriage—well, not exactly. It was more about how his father had handled it. He’d felt like a puppet, strings pulled by the men who had been shaping his life since he was a kid. But right now, with his friends and a few drinks in his system, the whole thing seemed... bearable.

Kelce kicked his feet up, letting his beer bottle rest on his stomach, his eyes drifting toward the house. “So, what’s the deal with the wedding? They’re really putting it all together, huh?”

Topper let out a laugh, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, I heard they’ve got the venue locked down. You’re really gonna settle down with this one, huh?”

Rafe smirked, his mind drifting to you. He didn’t really know you that well—at least not the way he knew women he’d had fun with in the past. But he knew enough. You were the perfect match for what his family expected. Sweet. Polite. The daughter of a man who only wore Ralph Lauren and made small talk over scotch and cigars at the country club. You’d fit right into the role of a wife.

“You’ll make her a good wife, Rafe,” Kelce said, his tone shifting to something more playful. “She’s perfect for that.”

Rafe shot him a look, his lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but not a frown either. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

Topper leaned in, his fingers tapping his cigarette against the ashtray. “She’s got that... whole, you know, sheltered vibe. Looks like a poster girl for ‘good wife’ material. Your dad’s gotta be thrilled.”

Rafe exhaled a laugh, swirling his drink. “I’m sure he is. Everything’s lining up the way he wanted.”

Kelce grinned, clearly enjoying the conversation. “I’ve seen her around the club a few times. Definitely fits the bill. She’s all about that ‘traditional’ look. You know, the quiet type.”

The more they spoke, the more Rafe felt his mood shift, not to irritation, but to something darker—something like... amusement. It wasn’t so much the marriage that had him feeling tense anymore. It was the fact that they all saw it the same way: a transaction. Something that made sense on paper.

“You’re not worried about the whole... settling down thing?” Topper asked, the grin not leaving his face. “You’ve had your fun. I know you’re not a one-woman kind of guy.”

Rafe took another drink, the burn of the alcohol feeling right for the moment. “No,” he said, with a hint of cockiness, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not worried.”

“I bet she’s a good girl, though. Just what your dad wanted. She’s probably gonna make your life nice and easy. You know, get the house in order, keep the family dinners perfect.”

Rafe’s lips twitched again, his thoughts drifting to you. Maybe you were all of that and more. But he wasn’t going to admit it to them. Not yet, anyway.

“You think she’s gonna be a real dutiful wife?” Kelce teased, raising an eyebrow.

Rafe rolled his eyes, taking in the scene. “I don’t know. She’s in there planning the whole wedding with Rose, doing all that ‘girly’ shit. So, yeah, I guess.”

“Damn,” Topper said, sitting up straighter, the light from the fire casting shadows on his face. “You’re really getting the full package, huh? She’s gonna be good at playing the part. You know, the kind that knows when to smile, when to be quiet, and when to look like she’s got it all together.”

There was a silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Rafe didn’t even need to answer. He knew how they all saw it. He could picture you in the kitchen right now, making something like tea or whatever, fitting the image of what everyone expected.

“She’s good for you, man,” Kelce said, his voice a little softer now. “She’s got the looks, the family backing, and she’ll keep your world from falling apart.”

Rafe leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring into the fire. “Yeah,” he said, his voice lower now, thoughtful. “She’ll keep things... in line.”

—

The conversation on the deck shifted as the guys continued to drink and laugh, the noise growing fainter as the night wore on. Rafe sat back in his chair, half-listening, his thoughts drifting to the house. To you.

Inside, the soft glow of the living room lamp illuminated the space where you were curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, your head resting gently against the cushions. Rose had long since gone to bed, leaving you to your thoughts and the faint hum of a rom-com playing softly on the TV.

You weren’t really watching, your eyes half-lidded, the weight of the day finally catching up with you. You’d been running around planning, discussing details, and putting everything together—everything his family wanted. And now, with the house quiet and no one around to expect anything from you, it felt nice to just... relax.

Your breathing evened out, your eyelids fluttering closed as you slowly drifted off, still wrapped in your blanket, the TV’s soft chatter the only sound in the room.

It wasn’t long before Rafe quietly entered the room, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the carpet. He glanced over at you, his gaze softening at the sight of you slumped against the couch, the blanket bunched around your shoulders.

He walked over, bending down with a quiet grunt to scoop you up in his arms, careful not to disturb your peaceful slumber. You barely stirred, your head resting against his chest as he carried you toward the bedroom, the warmth of his body a comforting contrast to the chill in the house.

“You’re really going to make this easy on me, huh?” he muttered, more to himself than to you as he made his way down the hall, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He gently laid you down on the bed, pulling the blanket over you, his gaze lingering for just a moment before he stood up and walked out, leaving you to sleep undisturbed.

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