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Chapter Text

Cue the sunshine.

Cue the slo-mo hair flips.

Cue the soft pastel color grading that screams, “We had a drone and a budget, and we’re not afraid to use them.”

The Phi Mu Recruitment Video opens the same way it does every year: with a sweeping drone shot gliding over Mayfair University’s historic brick quad, all golden-hour glory and legacy money. The camera swoops low toward the Phi Mu house, a white-columned temple to social clout, where girls in matching sundresses and white cowboy boots clap like they’re at a pageant… or brainwashed.

“Sisterhood. Tradition. Excellence.”

“Here at Phi Mu, we don’t just join a sorority—we join a legacy.”

Then comes the onslaught.

Matching cowboy boots stomp in sync on cobblestone. Glitter cannons explode over a squealing crowd. Hug montages, smoothie cheers, and suspiciously choreographed “candid” laughter. One girl twirls like she’s being sponsored by Taylor Swift’s PR team while a royalty-free instrumental knockoff of Beyoncé’s “Cuff It” plays in the background, somehow both inspiring and deeply cursed.

Cut to: girls journaling in perfect cursive, yoga on a rooftop at sunrise, a suspicious number of slow-motion hair flips, and posing with Sigma Chi boys like they’re in a knockoff Amazon Prime reality show called Hot Girls Don’t Cry, They Clap Back.

2.3 million views on YouTube.
67.3K likes on Instagram.
#RushPhiMu is trending again.

Francesca Bridgerton blinked at her phone screen as the video ended.

It was too much. It was always too much.

She shoved the phone under her napkin like it might infect the silverware.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

“Mail!” called their mother Violet, gliding into the dining room with a curated stack of envelopes, as though the mailman worked for Vogue.

She paused dramatically at two pastel-pink envelopes, the kind that practically glittered with embossed Phi Mu gold. Francesca felt the dread bloom in her stomach like an allergic reaction.

Violet smiled as she handed them over. “Early recruitment invitations! How lovely.”

Francesca made the mistake of glancing at her sister.

Eloise was already mouthing nope from across the table.

Eloise sighed and ripped hers open like it might bite. Inside: a glossy card that read:

“You’re cordially invited to the exclusive Phi Mu Rush Week experience—before move-in!”

Eloise squinted. “Cordially invited… or strategically poached?”

“Eloise,” Violet chided gently, just as Anthony wandered in from the kitchen, sleeves rolled and sparkling water in hand, because of course.

“Good news, huh?” he said, sitting down like he hadn’t just walked into a Greek-infused hornet’s nest.

Eloise stared him down. Francesca muttered, “Define ‘good’.”

Anthony leaned back. “Come on. Phi Mu was great for Daphne. She met lifelong friends. Built confidence. Got that duchess glow-up.”

Eloise deadpanned, “You want me to do keg stands in pearls?”

“She also made connections,” Anthony added. “People who helped her get internships. Open doors.”

“Okay, LinkedIn,” Francesca murmured.

Anthony pressed on, undeterred. “I’m just saying—college is what you make of it. Rush could be fun. You might even get over… certain things.”

He tilted his head toward Eloise, subtle as a billboard.

Eloise stabbed a crouton. “Wow. Subtle.”

“They invited you before move-in,” he continued. “That’s rare.”

“It’s not rare,” Eloise said. “It’s opportunistic. They want legacy girls early so they can slap our names on bid day banners.”

“They probably think Francesca can play piano for the ceremony,” she added, waving her fork. “And I’ll unionize the snacks table.”

Francesca raised a brow. “I could play something passive-aggressively classical. Maybe Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.”

“Girls,” Violet cut in, voice gentle but firm, “just keep an open mind. Mayfair is a new chapter.”

“I agree,” Anthony said. “Give it a shot. You might surprise yourselves.”

Eloise looked from the envelope to her overly enthusiastic brother—Mr. Capitol Hill and former Mayfair fraternity god who clearly had Phi Mu Pinterest boards saved in his heart.

She turned to Francesca.

Francesca looked back.

“Why,” Eloise said slowly, “are you so invested in this? Don’t you have a speech to draft about ‘reclaiming bipartisan respect’ or whatever your boss is yelling about this week?”

Anthony smiled. “Because I’m your brother. I want you to have a good college experience.”

Francesca tilted her head. “You also don’t want us embarrassing you at alumni events, do you?”

Anthony raised his water bottle but didn’t deny it.

Eloise leaned back, dry as ever. “Just because Daphne became a duchess doesn’t mean we’re going to gallop into Phi Mu and curtsy our way through college.”

Anthony took a long sip. “That’s the spirit.”

The last thing Eloise Bridgerton expected to feel on Rush Week was a pink-induced migraine.

Bubblegum. Blush. Ballet slipper. Salmon-adjacent. Even the balloons were aggressively ombré. Her own outfit—a pale cardigan and white skirt Violet swore made her look “respectable and approachable”—made her feel like a sentient frosted cupcake.

“I look like a human yogurt ad,” she muttered as she stepped out of the car in front of the Phi Mu house.

Francesca didn’t respond. She was too busy anxiously checking her reflection in the car window, tugging at the new golden-blonde strands of her hair.

“Do I look ridiculous?” she whispered.

“No,” Eloise said. “You look like you got ambushed by the ghost of Elle Woods. It’ll wash out.”

Francesca gave a weak laugh. “Can we go home?”

“Not until we survive the glitter gauntlet,” Eloise replied.

Then they turned toward the house.

And froze.

A sea of pink plastic perfection surged around them.

Spray tans. Waist-length waves. Sorority sashes and Southern accents as thick as buttercream. The Phi Mu lawn had been overtaken by coordinated chaos—dozens of girls posing for Instagram in front of a flower wall that screamed #PhiMuRoyalty in looping gold cursive, complete with soft-focus filters and ring lights you could see from orbit.

Francesca took a cautious step back. “Nope. Nope. This was a mistake.”

“Too late,” Eloise muttered, gripping her canvas tote like a shield. “We’ve breached enemy lines.”

She reached for Francesca’s hand. Together, they edged closer to the house, their shoes crunching the gravel of what felt less like a path and more like a red carpet made of expectation.

Ahead of them, flanking the front steps like pastel Valkyries, stood four girls in identical pink crop tops and skorts, sneakers so white they practically glowed, and hair curled with the precision of a Disney Channel promo shoot. Their gold nameplates glinted in the sunlight like badges of honor—or warning.

“Hi there!” chirped the one in the center, flashing a megawatt smile and a wave that had clearly been practiced in a mirror. “Welcome to Phi Mu! I’m Annabel, but everyone calls me Nan! And we’re…”

“The Bucks,” the others chimed.

“Short for Buccaneers,” added Conchita, with a pageant queen tilt of the head. “Because we dominate Greek Row.”

Eloise raised an eyebrow. “Not… deer? Or a subtle nod to Tom Brady’s final years in Tampa?”

Annabel blinked like she’d been personally offended. “No.”

The tallest of the group—Jinny, if her necklace was to be trusted—gave them a look of cool appraisal, the kind that could only be developed after years of judging people by their flats. “Before you enter, just a few reminders!”

“Smile a lot,” added Lizzy, with the kind of dead-eyed intensity usually reserved for cults and cheerleading nationals. “Like, even when it hurts.”

“Try not to bring up…” Conchita made a vague fluttering gesture. “Politics. Therapy. Your ex. Or, like, sad things in general.”

“And if you don’t have a TikTok,” Lizzy added sweetly, “lie.”

Francesca blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Shhh,” Eloise whispered. “Smile. Nod. Pretend you’re filming a Dior ad.”

Before they could even fake enthusiasm, the doors of Phi Mu swung open like a well-timed Broadway entrance. And there she was:

Cressida Cowper.

President of Phi Mu. Senior. Social dictator.

Wrapped in a tailored pink two-piece and glowing with the unholy charisma of Regina George, Sharpay Evans, and a bottle of overpriced self-tanner, she stepped onto the front porch with a smile that could cut glass.

“Welcome, ladies!” she beamed. “You’re not just here to rush. You’re here to be seen.”

The Bucks linked arms.

The sisters took a breath.

And together, they stepped into the lion’s den.

If the outside of Phi Mu was pink and shiny, the inside was pink and terrifying.

Every surface had been curated within an inch of its life. Neon signs. Faux-cherry blossoms. Personalized throw pillows. Scented candles labeled “Ambition.” And in every corner, pledges were being herded like caffeinated cattle into “get-to-know-you” zones that looked like set pieces from The Bachelor—complete with ring lights, fake laughter, and Bucks whispering directives like stage managers.

Francesca clutched her tote to her chest and looked like she was trying to teleport out of her own body.

Eloise tightened her grip on her sister’s arm. “Deep breaths. Count to four. Think of the French Revolution.”

Then it happened.

The Bucks pounced.

“Francesca Bridgerton, right?!” Annabel squealed, grabbing her like they’d just found a lost Kardashian. “Your sister’s a duchess, oh my god. We’re so excited you’re here!”

“She was, like, Phi Mu royalty,” added Lizzy breathlessly. “Honestly, I still follow her wedding Pinterest board.”

“Do you play piano for fun?” Conchita asked, already guiding Francesca toward a circle of pastel lawn chairs under a halo of ring lights. “Or just for, like… the Gram?”

Eloise watched in stunned silence as Francesca was pulled into the pink vortex, her blonde hair catching the light like bait.

That’s when she noticed it.

The other girls—the ones not being circled and showered in praise.

A girl in beat-up sneakers and a nervous smile being told, “Oh, sorry, we’re full right now.”

A brunette with frizzy curls being nudged aside gently but unmistakably.

A tall girl—size ten shoes, maybe eleven—being pointed at and whispered about.

And Clara Livingston, Phi Mu’s resident gossip, typing rapidly on her phone from a corner like a sniper in yoga pants.

The whole thing was a ballet of exclusion.

And Eloise could see the trap closing around Francesca, one pastel compliment at a time.

She didn’t wait.

She moved.

Striding across the room, Eloise reached out and took her sister’s hand mid-sentence.

“We’re leaving.”

Francesca blinked. “What?”

Before either could retreat, Cressida appeared, conjured like the final boss in a pink video game. Her smile had hardened into something cold and polished.

“Leaving already?” she asked sweetly.

“My sister’s not used to big crowds,” Eloise said, cool and clear. “And to be honest, I don’t think we’re a good fit.”

Cressida’s eyes narrowed. “You know, there are a lot of girls who would kill for a direct invite. Legacy. Prestige. Spotlight. You’re really just going to throw that away?”

Eloise offered a razor-thin smile. “Absolutely.”

Cressida’s tone iced over. “You realize you’re not just rejecting us. You’re rejecting every house on this campus. I can make sure of that.”

Eloise shrugged. “I’m sure the Duchess of Hastings will find a way to survive the scandal.”

The Bucks gasped.

Francesca let out a tiny laugh.

And with Eloise leading the way, the Bridgerton sisters walked out—past the ring lights, past the flower wall, past the forced smiles of girls already calculating their fall semester clout.

Across the quad, shaded under a wide tree, a woman watched it all with mild amusement and a strong coffee in hand.

Kate Sharma took a slow sip.

At her feet, a corgi with a permanent scowl and the posture of royalty stared at the Phi Mu house with unflinching judgment.

Kate tilted her head, lips twitching into a smile. “Some things never change.”

She gave the leash a tug. Newton trotted beside her like a tiny general.

Together, they turned away from Phi Mu, toward the one place on campus that still had room for the girls who didn’t fit the mold.

Chapter Text

Move-in day at Mayfair University always looked like a brochure photo that had been left out in the sun—still glossy, but with a few cracks if you knew where to look.

Forty residence halls dotted the historic campus, each with its own ecosystem. The freshmen-only towers boasted LED-lit lounges and industrial air-conditioning. Grad-student apartments had more parking than personality. And Greek Row gleamed like a gated country club—white columns, wraparound porches, and welcome tables so perfectly staged they might as well have been sponsored by Pinterest.

At the heart of it, Phi Mu’s mansion reigned over the block. Pastel balloons bobbed from its wrought-iron gate, and sisters in matching tennis skirts waved like they were on a parade float. Every smile was practiced, every iced latte positioned just right for a Boomerang clip.

And then there was Danbury Hall.

Tucked at the far end of Greek Row, the three-story colonial looked like it had been plucked from an oil painting and dropped into the 21st century with its McMansions. Since the death of Lady Soma Anderson Danbury, the home had passed through generations of residents—first all-Black, then all-minority, now anyone who fit the original spirit of her will: transfers, the underprivileged, the underrepresented, and those craving a smaller, safer start to college.

The admissions office called it “a tight-knit alternative to traditional housing.” Campus slang was less kind: last resort dorm. Translation: the place you ended up if you didn’t make Greek Row—and became the eye sore.

Kate Sharma wouldn’t have it any other way.

Since taking over as resident director two years ago, Kate had transformed Danbury into something closer to a chosen family than a consolation prize. Forty residents. A mix of freshmen, transfers, and international students. People who might not have been welcomed elsewhere but were fiercely protected here.

At 7:00 a.m., she stood in the foyer with her clipboard, surveying the welcome spread: trays of Sam’s Club cookies, jars of lemonade, a neat row of key envelopes for “her kids.” She’d already double-checked room assignments—twice. The first arrival wasn’t due until eight.

That’s when she spotted the problem.

The emergency stash of Newton’s kibble was down to crumbs. Which was unacceptable, especially on a day when Mayfair’s most discerning corgi would be conducting character assessments at the front door. Kate was sure she’d picked up more at her last Sam’s Club run. Apparently not.

“Alright, Newton,” she sighed, clipping on his leash. “Quick detour. Nobody needs to know.”

Publix at this hour was mercifully quiet, the air-conditioning a shock after the already-warm morning. Kate tossed a bag of kibble into her cart and mentally ran through the day’s checklist as she steered toward self-checkout.

Newton had other plans.

One moment he padded beside her, the next he was trotting down the coffee aisle with the single-minded determination of a royal on parade. Kate hurried after him—only to see a tall man in a perfectly cut navy suit crouch to scoop him up.

“Well, hello there,” he said to Newton, voice warm enough to melt butter. Then he looked up. Brown eyes. Easy smile. The kind of confidence that came from either knowing everyone or not caring who he didn’t. “Yours, I’m guessing?”

Kate nodded, catching her breath. “Most of the time. Today’s negotiable.”

“Strong escape game,” he said, setting Newton down with an affectionate pat. “And an early morning taste for caffeine—smart dog.”

“Smart enough to know I forgot his breakfast,” Kate said, holding up the kibble.

His smile tilted, just enough to be charming without trying. “Looks like you’ve got it handled. But for the record, I’d have chased you down if you forgot mine.”

Kate raised a brow. “Do you flirt with everyone buying kibble at dawn?”

“Only the interesting ones,” he replied, grinning.

Newton gave a sharp bark—equal parts “wrap it up” and “you’re late.” Kate shook her head, and by the time she reached self-checkout, the man was gone, coffee in hand, without offering his name.

Kate wasn’t expecting to see him again. Which was, of course, why she inevitably would.

She pulled into the Danbury lot with minutes to spare, narrowly beating the flood of minivans and SUVs already circling for curb space. Parents staked out prime unloading spots like they were defending beach territory. Across the street, Phi Mu girls in matching skorts and pearl-studded headbands waved cars into their driveway with the precision of a military drill.

Newton trotted up the porch steps ahead of her, tail wagging as if he’d orchestrated the entire grocery mission. She followed, balancing the bag of kibble against her hip, and pushed open the front door with her elbow.

The hall still had that early-morning calm—sunlight spilling across the worn wood floors, the faint scent of cookies in the air. She refilled Newton’s bowl in the tiny staff kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water from the foyer table, and downed half in one go.

Tires crunched on gravel outside.

Kate stepped onto the screened porch just as a silver sedan rolled up the driveway—New York plates, the bumper dotted with faded stickers. A lanky young man climbed out, guitar case slung over one shoulder, dark hair flopping into his eyes.

He paused, staring at Danbury Hall like he wasn’t sure if it was a dorm or the set of an indie film.

“You must be John Higgins,” Kate called, descending one step.

“Yeah,” he said, flashing a lopsided grin. “Guess the guitar gave me away?”

“That and the fact I have your name on a clipboard.”

Before she could offer a handshake, Newton bounded down the steps and gave a neat little hop against John’s leg—his official stamp of approval.

“Well,” Kate said, watching the corgi settle at John’s feet, “you’ve passed the first test.”

John glanced down at Newton, then back at her. “Do I get extra credit if I play him something?”

Kate’s mouth quirked. “Depends. He’s picky.”

A horn blared somewhere down the street. Another car. Another arrival. Move-in day had officially begun.

For the next few hours, the driveway turned into a conveyor belt of first impressions.

A beat-up hatchback rattled in first, its roof rack groaning under three mismatched suitcases and a questionable-looking cooler. Out hopped Piper Lawson in a floral skirt, flip-flops, and a smile big enough to blind traffic. She cradled a potted plant nearly taller than she was.

“His name’s Wilbur,” she announced, sweeping past Kate toward the stairs before anyone could point out the no live plants over three feet clause in the housing manual. Wilbur, apparently, was going to college too.

Two minutes later, Mateo Alvarez rolled up with his parents in a sensible sedan, toolbox in one hand, duffel in the other—the kind of bag that had survived more than one camping trip gone wrong. He handed Kate a jar of salsa with a little bow.

“From my mom,” he said, before disappearing upstairs to “check the screws” on his bedframe like a man on a mission.

Priya Natarajan and Cassie Nguyen arrived separately but ended up parking at the same time, their parents bonding instantly over complaints about I-64 traffic. Priya unpacked like she was loading a NASA shuttle—every box labeled with color-coded tape. Cassie, meanwhile, had already set up a glitter nail station on the porch railing before her mom had even finished locking the car.

Savannah Greene made her entrance in rhinestone-studded jeans, phone already in hand. Within seconds she was filming her “Dorm Tour: First Impressions” for TikTok, swiveling to catch the sunlight just so. Behind her, Leila Haddad tried to escape her cousin’s teasing while lugging in an entire case of cold brew—her form of survival gear.

By mid-morning, the porch had turned into an obstacle course of suitcases, duffels, guitar cases, and Newton weaving between ankles like the world’s most judgmental concierge.

That’s when a gleaming black SUV purred into the lot. The driver’s door opened and out stepped Michaela Stirling—oversized sunglasses, flawless curls, sundress that could go from brunch to runway without breaking stride. She didn’t walk so much as arrive.

From the passenger seat, her mother, Helen, emerged mid-sentence. “I just don’t understand why you couldn’t find a school closer to home. Toronto has plenty of—”

“—schools, yes, I know, Mom.” Michaela’s tone was light but edged, the kind of practiced patience reserved for explaining to someone, for the fifteenth time, that the earth was round. She popped the trunk, hauled out a leopard-print duffel, and slung it casually over one shoulder. “I wanted a challenge. And Virginia sounded… fun.”

Helen’s sigh carried the weight of a woman convinced “fun” was just code for “trouble.”

Newton trotted forward, sniffed Michaela’s sandal, and issued a single approving chuff.

“See?” Michaela grinned at Kate. “Your dog gets it.”

“Newton has good instincts,” Kate said, handing her the key envelope.

“I do too,” Michaela replied with a wink, heading inside like the front hall was her personal stage entrance.

From down the street, another car horn blared. Kate looked up to see a minivan pulling in, its roof stacked with enough storage bins and throw pillows to stage an HGTV dorm makeover.

The next arrival was more modest: a silver Honda with faded paint and a dented bumper, the kind of car that had clearly seen more oil changes than vacations. Richard Gun stepped out first—broad-shouldered, graying at the temples, the kind of dad who could fix a leaky faucet without Googling it. He popped the trunk and reached for boxes before his daughter had even unbuckled.

Sophie Baek followed, dark hair in a neat ponytail, cozy sweater tied at her waist despite the August heat. She smiled at Kate like they were already friends, then turned to her dad. “I wish Phillip could’ve come. It would’ve been nice to have him here.”

Richard adjusted a box against his hip, expression unreadable. “He’ll visit. In the meantime, you get to start fresh.”

Sophie sighed but nodded. “At least Rosamund and Posy will be too busy to pester me now.”

Richard’s grin turned sly. “Already put them to work—dishes, vacuuming, the whole deal.”

“Rosamund doing dishes?” Sophie laughed, shaking her head. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Newton trotted over for a thorough sniff, tail wagging like she’d passed an unspoken test.

Richard glanced down. “Looks like you’ve already made your first friend.”

Her smile softened. “Your mother would be proud of you,” he added quietly.

Sophie hugged him—quick but unshakably genuine.

The moment was cut short by the blare of a truck horn and a blast of country music so loud it made the porch windows tremble. A fire-engine-red SUV swung into the lot, towing a small U-Haul like it was entering a parade.

Out stepped Portia Featherington in a floral dress and heels wholly unsuited to gravel. Her lipstick matched the SUV exactly. “We’re here!” she announced to no one in particular, striding toward the porch with the confidence of a gala chairwoman.

From the passenger side emerged Penelope, clutching a tote covered in enamel pins and looking like she’d been bracing for this since I-81.

Newton parked himself at Kate’s side, tail flicking once in anticipation. This will be good, his posture said.

Portia clasped Penelope’s shoulders like she was presenting her to royalty. “So proud of my little girl. Not going to community college like your older sisters—no, you’re here at a real university.”

“Thanks, Maw,” Penelope muttered, giving Kate a tight smile that translated to please pretend you didn’t hear that.

“And if you ever go down to the Colonial area,” Portia added, lowering her voice like it was a state secret, “and see one of those re-enactor soldiers—give him my number.” She winked.

“Maw!”

“What? A man in tight breeches is rare these days.”

Penelope rolled her eyes and turned to Kate. “Can I just drop my stuff before I die of embarrassment?”

Kate gestured toward the porch. “Go ahead—room 206.”

Penelope slung her tote over one shoulder and reached into the back of the SUV for a milk crate stuffed with books and mismatched mugs. It was heavier than it looked. Halfway through hoisting it, she remembered her duffel was still sitting by the curb.

She pivoted to grab it—only to freeze.

A few feet away, the guy unloading boxes from the next car over could have stepped straight out of an ad for summer in New England. Broad shoulders. Tank top clinging in all the right places. Skin bronzed from actual sunlight, not a spray booth.

Penelope’s brain—normally sharp enough to dismantle a politician’s career in 280 characters—sputtered and went completely blank.

She didn’t even register the U-Haul hitch until her shin smacked into it with a clang. The crate wobbled in her arms; she lurched forward and thunked her forehead against the metal.

“Whoa—hey, you okay?”

Tank Top Ad set down his box and jogged toward her, only to have the hem of his shirt catch on a low shrub. There was a loud riiip followed by a muttered, “Oh, perfect.”

From the porch, Kate had already started down the steps, Newton trotting at her heels like he’d sensed a developing subplot.

Before she could get there, another car slid into the drive behind the ripped-shirt rescuer. The driver’s door opened to reveal a tall, willowy blonde with perfect posture and an air of faint detachment—Francesca Bridgerton. She was followed by a brunette in a thrifted blazer and Doc Martens, wearing the expression of someone prepared to critique both the move-in process and the dorm’s architectural choices—Eloise Bridgerton.

Both carried boxes, moving in unison with the kind of quiet coordination only siblings could pull off.

Colin—because of course the Tank Top Ad was a Bridgerton—straightened, gave them a lazy salute, and said, “Nice of you two to join the party.”

Eloise arched one brow. “If by party you mean the spectacle of you rescuing strangers shirtless, then yes—perfect timing.”

Newton gave a sharp bark, the canine equivalent of finally, some entertainment.

Kate slipped into the fray, handing Penelope a key envelope with professional efficiency. “Room 206. Keys, welcome packet, Wi-Fi password. Don’t lose it, or Newton will judge you.”

Newton sniffed Penelope’s shoe like a sommelier approving a vintage, then wandered off toward the cookie table.

Eloise, already halfway inside, glanced over Kate’s clipboard. “So, Francesca, which room are we in?”

Francesca adjusted the strap of her overnight bag and gave a small, diplomatic smile. “I’m in 217. It’s a single.”

“A single?” Eloise repeated, suspicion creeping in.

“Mom made arrangements in advance,” Francesca said evenly. “She thought it might help keep my anxiety from acting up.”

Eloise’s jaw tightened, an unspoken of course she did hanging in the air. Her gaze slid to the other name in 206—straight to Penelope.

“Oh,” Eloise said slowly. “We’re sharing.”

Penelope’s lips curved into a smirk. “Looks like it.”

Kate, sensing the sudden shift in air pressure, cut in with a brisk, “You’ll work it out,” before retreating toward the porch to greet the next car.

Colin, apparently unfazed by all of it, drifted past the desk like he’d been living there for weeks. He lifted the lid on a cookie tray, plucked a snickerdoodle, and took a slow bite. “If the dorms feed you like this, I might move in.”

Newton barked once, low and decisive, as if to say over my dead body.

And with that, Move-In Day at Danbury Hall had officially begun.

Chapter Text

By mid-afternoon, Danbury Hall had shifted from the chaos of move-in to a comfortable, messy hum. Doors stood propped open with flip-flops and laundry baskets, music leaked in fragments down the hall—Taylor Swift bleeding into Bad Bunny bleeding into a lo-fi study mix—and the scent of takeout containers mingled with the sharper, plasticky tang of freshly unboxed mattress toppers.

Newton made his rounds like a tiny real estate agent with a clipboard, nosing into doorways, sniffing boxes, and silently assigning his own rankings of “promising” or “hopeless.”

Hazel Orr had already staked out the desk by the window before Sophie finished unrolling her duvet. It wasn’t a land grab—it was about light. Morning sun for stretching before dance classes, Hazel explained, though she paused mid–ballet warmup when guitar chords drifted in from across the hall.

“That’s… John, right?” Sophie asked, halfway through alphabetizing a row of well-loved neuroscience textbooks.

Hazel nodded, her prosthetic forearm resting against the sill, eyes fixed on the source. John sat cross-legged on his bed, head bent over the guitar, sunlight catching in his hair like he’d been placed there by a cinematographer. His fingers coaxed notes out of the strings with the kind of concentration that made the air feel warmer.

Hazel’s lips parted just slightly, like she was catching the scent of something sweet.

“You okay?” Sophie teased, not looking up from her shelf.

Hazel blinked and straightened. “Fine. Just… appreciating the acoustics.”

From the doorway, Newton snorted in the universal language of sure you are.

Upstairs, Eloise and Penelope’s room was an organized disaster: a precarious stack of books by the window, thrifted knickknacks colonizing the dresser, and an ongoing territorial debate over which bed was superior.

“Logically,” Eloise began, arms folded, “I should have the one near the window for the light—perfect for reading.”

“And I,” Penelope countered, dropping onto the other bed to test the springs, “should have the one near the outlet—perfect for investigative journalism.”

They locked eyes like rival counsel in a courtroom drama.

“We could flip a coin,” Eloise suggested.

“Or,” Penelope said, lips curling, “we could both sleep on the same side until one of us caves from discomfort.”

Eloise’s mouth twitched despite herself. “Cruel. I respect it.”

From the hall, Newton barked once—neutral observer, unwilling to mediate.

Francesca’s single looked like an Instagram account for minimalist living: pale bedding tucked into crisp corners, sheet music stacked by height, a metronome perched precisely at the center of her desk. She sat at her keyboard running scales, posture perfect, eyes flicking toward the open doorway whenever footsteps passed.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to join the noise outside. She just… needed a minute.

Michaela’s single, by contrast, looked like a pop-up boutique had collided with an activist headquarters. One half was racks of dresses, rows of heels, and a makeup mirror ringed with warm lights; the other was protest signs, flyers, and a rainbow flag draped like a banner over her desk chair.

She sprawled on her bed, scrolling her phone, then leaned into the hall and shouted, “If anyone’s ordering pizza, I’m in!”

Down the hall, Marian Brook and Peggy Scott had already transformed their space into the coziest room in Danbury: fairy lights zigzagging above the beds, a pumpkin spice candle burning in open defiance of the no-candles rule, and a shared stash of chocolate hidden in their nightstand.

Newton lingered there longer than necessary, tail wagging in obvious bribery.

Kate leaned against the wall outside her office, clipboard tucked under one arm, taking in the symphony of move-in aftermath: drawers sliding open, laughter spilling from doorways, the faint twang of John’s guitar threading under it all.

Every bed was claimed. Every key handed out. Every new face now, at least on paper, one of hers.

She wouldn’t say it out loud—half the hall would break into hives at a heartfelt speech on day one—but she felt it: that quiet, anchoring satisfaction that came from knowing Danbury was full, and for the next year, it was their world.

Newton sat at her feet, ears alert, like he felt it too.

“Alright,” Kate murmured, rubbing his head. “Time to feed the children.”

The staff kitchen was cramped but functional, and Kate moved through it with the precision of someone who had catered more than one last-minute dorm event. Three Red Baron triple-cheese pizzas slid into the oven, the molten aroma already creeping into the hall. Two sheet pans of Sam’s Club chicken bites went on the rack beneath, and she set the timers like a general laying out troop movements.

For the salad—because someone would ask, and someone else would pretend to be health-conscious—she dragged out the biggest mixing bowl she owned and piled it high with romaine, cherry tomatoes, shredded carrots, and enough croutons to suggest ulterior motives.

By the time she was done, the counter looked like an eclectic buffet assembled from a dorm’s collective cravings.

She crouched beside Newton. “Alright, lieutenant. Round them up.”

He trotted off with all the authority of a military dog in a corgi body, barking at open doors, nudging ankles, and shepherding stragglers toward the common room for what every Danbury resident knew was the true start of the year: the first communal feast.

One by one, they trickled in. Hazel, still in her dance warmup and smelling faintly of lavender balm; Sophie, with a well-thumbed notebook tucked under her arm like it was part of her nervous system; Michaela, balancing a soda in one hand and her phone in the other, thumb flying over the screen; Penelope and Eloise, mid-spar over whether using a doorstop was a fire hazard or a sign of healthy social boundaries; Francesca, quiet as a shadow, hair tied neatly back.

Kate gestured toward the spread on the counter. “Grab a plate, find a seat. No elbowing for pizza—Newton will report you.”

Newton, having clearly appointed himself floor manager, stationed under the table with his tail sweeping rhythmically, ready to intercept any fallen chicken bites.

Plates clinked, salad tongs scraped, and somewhere down the line someone asked if there was ranch for the salad. Kate leaned against the counter, arms folded, letting the scene breathe. The cliques hadn’t formed yet. Rivalries lay dormant. For this one evening, Danbury Hall was nothing but strangers in the early stages of becoming a community—bellies filling, voices warming, the smell of baked cheese wrapping it all together.

By the time the last chicken bite vanished and the final slice of pizza was claimed in a tense three-way negotiation involving promises of future dessert runs, the residents had melted into a comfortable sprawl across the common room. Some claimed couches like they’d been born to them. Others sat cross-legged on the rug, plates balanced on their knees. A few perched on chair arms, already looking like this was their natural habitat.

Kate clapped once—not enough to startle, but enough to cut through the hum. Newton’s ears flicked in perfect sync.

“Alright, everyone,” she said, smiling at the sea of unfamiliar faces that would, soon enough, become her people. “Before the night gets away from us, we’re going to do quick introductions so we can at least pretend we’ll remember each other’s names tomorrow.”

A couple of groans, one sarcastic “Woo!” from the back.

“For those I haven’t cornered yet,” Kate continued, “I’m Kathani Sharma, but you can call me Kate. I’m originally from New Jersey, I’m a Mayfair alum, and this is my third year running Danbury Hall. My job is to keep the plumbing working, the drama to a dull roar, and all of you alive until at least finals.”

That earned a mix of laughs and knowing nods from the returning transfers.

“And,” she added, bending to scoop up the caramel-colored blur weaving between her ankles, “this is Newton—unofficial therapy dog, snack thief, and judge of character. His approval rating is higher than mine, and for good reason.”

Newton wriggled free and trotted straight to Gladys Russell. Without hesitation, he hopped onto the couch beside her, curled into her lap, and closed his eyes like he’d known her for years.

Gladys blinked, startled, then let a tentative hand rest on his back. “Oh. Hello there.”

“Congratulations,” Kate said, pointing. “First lap of the year. That’s basically a knighthood here.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the group. Even Gladys smiled—small, but there.

Kate glanced around. “Alright. We’ll go around—name, major, and one fun fact. And no, ‘I like long walks on the beach’ doesn’t count.”

Newton gave a single chuff, as if to say, your move, freshmen.

Gladys went first, her voice calm but edged with dry humor. “Gladys Russell. From the Detroit suburbs. I wanted to go to Michigan, but my mother said I could ‘do better’ and sent me here instead. It’s fine so far. I mean, not every dorm has a dog.”

Newton’s tail thumped in agreement.

Next to her, Peggy leaned forward, her smile warm enough to thaw the last of the ice. “Peggy Scott, from Brooklyn, New York. I’m an English major with an Africana Studies minor, and… I published a children’s book when I was sixteen.”

There was a collective murmur of impressed surprise, a few people craning to catch the title.

Marian followed, her voice steady—a perfect foil to Peggy’s warmth. “Marian Brook, Doylestown, Pennsylvania. I lived with my two aunts before coming here—my aunt Ada was all for me leaving the state. I’m an art education major, and I’ve been a camp counselor every summer since I was fifteen. So if anyone needs a friendship bracelet… or someone to referee a group project, I’m your girl.”

Across the circle, Jack Treacher grinned. “Jack Treacher, Fredericksburg. Engineering major. I fix things—furniture, tech, random life problems—so if your desk collapses or you can’t get the Wi-Fi to work, you know where to find me.”

Someone in the back yelled, “Hero already!” Jack grinned wider.

A few more quick intros—Leila from Arlington, rattling off her political ambitions; Hugh, grateful to not be at Liberty University; Owen, joking about being the resident theater tech but swearing he doesn’t touch lights without permission—until the focus landed on Sophie.

She sat a little straighter, hands folded over her knee. “Sophie Baek, from Annandale. My dad runs a Korean BBQ restaurant, and I just finished my associate’s degree before transferring here. I could’ve stayed closer to home for my boyfriend or my family, but… I wanted to try something different.”

Her voice stayed even, but her eyes flickered with something private—something that didn’t belong in a common room full of near-strangers.

Kate didn’t press, just nodded once. Newton, having abandoned Gladys for the moment, padded over to nudge Sophie’s ankle before settling himself in the center of the rug like a small, satisfied chaperone.

Penelope claimed her spot on the rug like it had been reserved in her name, legs crossed, tote by her side.

“Penelope Featherington, Roanoke. English major. Fun fact?” She tilted her head with a mock-innocent smile. “I run a little… online project that shall remain nameless, but let’s just say it’s community-focused.”

A few people smirked knowingly; others looked curious, mentally filing it away to Google later.

She locked eyes with Hugh, who sat two spots over with his hands folded neatly in his lap like he’d been born in a church pew. “Hugh, by midterms I plan to corrupt you with glitter bombs and Chappell Roan.”

The room broke into laughter. Hugh chuckled, though it came out half-nervous. “I… don’t know what that is, but okay?”

Michaela raised her hand like she was volunteering for something noble. “Michaela Stirling, Toronto. International Relations. Fun fact—and by ‘fun’ I mean ‘objectively excellent’—I once convinced three people to bleach their hair during a single house party. Hugh, you’re next.”

Hugh groaned but smiled. “You people are terrifying.”

“You’re welcome,” Michaela said, leaning back in her chair with the ease of someone who fully intended to make good on that promise.

Next came Eloise, who didn’t so much introduce herself as deliver a proclamation.

“Eloise Bridgerton, Falls Church. Government major. Fun fact: I am deeply relieved not to be spending my college years wearing white boots and clapping on someone’s lawn for three hours just to prove I’m worthy of sisterhood… by paying for it.”

Several heads turned instinctively toward the vague direction of Greek Row.

From beside her, Francesca spoke softly but with a touch of mischief. “Francesca Bridgerton, Falls Church. Music major. Piano.” She paused, then added dryly, “Fun fact: I do own white boots. They’re functional.”

Eloise groaned dramatically. “And yet, here you are.”

“Yes,” Francesca said, her small smile never wavering. “Here I am.”

Newton gave a quiet chuff, as if confirming that was the correct answer, before stretching out on his side—introductions, apparently, had passed his quality control.

By the time the last few went—John earning nods for his “Public Policy major with a Music minor” and Rae joking that her ever-present clipboard was “not for show”—Kate stepped back into the center of the circle.

“Alright,” she said, clapping once. “You’ve all survived Day One. Newton’s given preliminary approval to most of you, and I haven’t had to break up a fight yet. I’m calling that a win.”

Laughter rolled through the group, easy and genuine.

“Get some rest,” Kate added. “Tomorrow’s the real fun—class schedules, campus maps, and figuring out which dining hall coffee won’t make you regret your life choices.”

Newton, apparently satisfied with his shift, trotted ahead toward the staff wing. The residents drifted toward their rooms in twos and threes, conversation fading behind closing doors.

Eloise lay on her back, staring at the faint cracks in the ceiling plaster, listening to what could only be described as a blender with a deviated septum. Penelope’s snoring was both impressive and relentless.

Fantastic, she thought, dragging a pillow over her head.

Her whole life, she and Francesca had shared a room—two beds, one lamp, an unspoken truce about clothes borrowing. Exactly one year apart: close enough to fight over shoes, close enough to curl up and watch the same shows. And now, here they were, in the same building but not the same room—because Francesca had landed a single.

Eloise pressed her face into the pillow and made a silent scream.

Giving up on sleep, she reached for her phone.

Facebook: flooded with political hot takes about bills too badly written to pass. Immediate exit.

Reddit: still fighting about whether season two of Wednesday will have a satisfying ending. No thanks.

Instagram: cute, but stale.

Then—Twitter. Both #MayfairU and #MayfairMosquito trending.

Her eyebrows rose. She tapped into the Mosquito’s account. Just one tweet so far—but already swarmed with retweets, likes, and a comment section bubbling like a pot about to boil over.

Something’s rotting in Phi Mu. One sister’s sleeping with One, but in love with Another—while Another breaks sister code by sleeping with the same guy because she “thought they broke up.” 🐝 #MayfairU #MayfairMosquito

Eloise’s laugh burst out—sharp enough to wake Penelope, who blinked blearily from the other bed, hair a tangle.

“What’s so funny?”

Eloise grinned in the dark. “Oh, nothing. Just… this year’s about to get very interesting.”

Down the hall, Newton barked once, low and knowing, as if to agree: you have no idea.

Chapter Text

Benedict Bridgerton’s apartment in Newport News smelled like a painter’s studio on a hot day—faint turpentine, linseed oil, and the ghost of a half-finished landscape leaning on the far wall. He was halfway through rinsing his brushes when Anthony’s phone buzzed on the counter.

Anthony glanced at the screen. Colin.

Colin: Move-in day report: Eloise and Francesca settled in. All’s well. [image attachment]

Anthony swiped it open—and frowned. His sisters stood in what looked like the lobby of an old, charming house: scuffed wood floors, mismatched chairs, and a cookie table that looked one sneeze away from collapse. Not the white-pillared, velvet-curtained foyer of Phi Mu.

Anthony: Why aren’t they at the Phi Mu house?

Colin: …Because they’re not living there?

Anthony: What? 🤬

Another photo came through—a close-up of the cookie table with a small handwritten sign: Welcome to Danbury Hall — Please Take One (Newton is watching).

Anthony blinked. “What the hell are they doing at Danbury Hall?”

From across the room, Benedict—barefoot, a smudge of ultramarine streaking his forearm—peered over. “You’re saying that like it’s a retirement community.”

Anthony turned the phone toward him. “Apparently, it’s where our sisters are… not living in the Phi Mu house.”

Benedict studied the picture for a beat, then shrugged. “Good for them. Mayfair without Greek Row? That’s a power move. I respect it.”

“Not the point,” Anthony snapped. “This wasn’t the plan.”

“That’s because you think there was a plan.” Benedict flopped onto the couch, grinning. “You went to Mayfair for internships and to stalk Greek Row like a bird of prey. I went to UVA for—”

Anthony cut him off. “Don’t say it.”

“—a better dating pool,” Benedict finished, unbothered, “and the Dave Matthews Band lawn concerts. Excellent opportunities to charm people with my deep-cut playlist.”

Anthony shot him a look. “And the ‘more options to date as a pan man’ thing?”

Benedict grinned. “Also true.”

Anthony grabbed his jacket. “I’m driving to Mayfair.”

“Of course you are.” Benedict folded his paint rag, voice all faux sincerity. “Bring snacks and humility before you start World War Three. Those girls will eat you alive.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Mhm.”

Anthony ignored him, pocketed his keys, and left—already rehearsing the confrontation in his head. None of the scenarios ended without raised voices.

By 9:15, Danbury Hall’s common room buzzed with the twin sounds of cereal bags crinkling and gossip spreading. The culprit?

The Mayfair Mosquito.

Hazel was the first to hold up her phone like a warning flare. “Did everyone see this?” she demanded, before reading the now-viral tweet aloud for the latecomers.

A few residents leaned in over her shoulder; others thumbed frantically through their own feeds.

“Could be about literally anyone,” Savannah said from the couch, pulling her legs under her. “Half the Phi Mu girls date Sigma Chi guys. They all look the same—tan, smug, expensive dental work. Interchangeable.”

“That’s stereotyping,” Leila offered, though she didn’t sound invested in defending them.

“Accurate stereotyping,” Savannah shot back.

At the counter, Penelope nursed her coffee like she had no idea why anyone was glancing at her. “The Mosquito works fast,” she murmured.

Before anyone could press her, a shout floated through the open windows. Then another.

Cassie peeked through the sheer curtain. “Oh my God—they’re fighting.”

In seconds, half the hall crowded the windows. Across Greek Row’s perfect lawn, two Sigma Chi brothers were nose-to-nose—Theo Tintagel, all sharp edges and attitude, and Guy Thwarte, fists balled tight enough to whiten the knuckles. Every so often, another frat boy in pastel shorts tried to step between them, only to get shoved back.

“Popcorn,” Michaela declared, already rifling the pantry.

“This is better than Love Island,” Owen said, leaning against the windowsill like it was a front-row barricade.

Hugh, by the door, crossed himself. “Lord, let them remember this is a dry campus—technically.”

From the couch, Michaela called, “We need a soundtrack! Something classy. Dramatic.”

“‘You’re the Best Around’ from Karate Kid?” Mateo suggested.

“Too obvious,” Michaela said, scrolling Spotify with surgical precision.

“‘Bad Blood’?” Penelope offered without looking up.

Newton barked once—clearly voting yes for chaos.

By the time the first Phi Mu girls stormed onto their porch, shrieking “THEO!” and “GUY, STOP!”, Danbury Hall had become a rapt audience.

“Who needs cable,” Rae muttered, “when you’ve got this?”

The Mosquito wasn’t finished. Ten minutes after the fight fizzled into huffy exits and sorority damage control, two new tweets dropped:

Update: Apparently, two of the Sigma Chi brothers blame each other. Others say Phi Mu started it. Jury says… pass the mimosas. 🐝 #MayfairU #GreekRowRumble

Winner of this morning’s Sigma Chi Showdown? The rest of Greek Row and adjacent. Lawn seats, zero cover charge. 🐝

Upstairs, Francesca missed the entire thing.

Her keyboard sat by the window, but instead of looking out, she bent over her notebook, sketching a slow, measured melody. The faint notes carried just enough to mask the laughter from down the hall.

Eloise slipped in, hair windblown from sticking her head out the window earlier. “You missed it. Full-on Greek Row brawl. Better than anything Netflix has ever pushed at me.”

Francesca didn’t look up. “I’m sure someone recorded it.”

“Two someones,” Eloise corrected, flopping onto her sister’s neatly made bed. “And the Mosquito, obviously.” She hesitated. “Do you ever think we made the wrong choice? Danbury instead of Phi Mu?”

Francesca finally met her gaze. “If the alternative was standing on that porch in a tennis skirt watching a lawn brawl… yes.”

Eloise smiled faintly. “Fair.”

A knock rattled the door.

Francesca crossed to the window, parting the curtain. “Oh. It’s Anthony.”

Eloise shot upright. “Our Anthony?”

Downstairs, Owen was already halfway to the door when someone knocked. He swung it open—then froze so dramatically that John, coming up behind him, nearly collided with his back.

Owen’s voice dropped into a reverent whisper. “Oh my God. It’s the guy from Wicked and Jurassic World.”

John blinked. “What?”

Anthony Bridgerton—very much not a Broadway star, but wearing the kind of navy suit that made strangers assume he was either important or about to sell them luxury real estate—glanced past them into the lobby.

“Danbury Hall, huh?”

He stepped inside, scanning the space like he was assessing a property. “When I was here, people said this place was haunted.” His tone suggested he wasn’t entirely ruling it out. “Doesn’t look half bad, though.”

He was about to say more when a caramel blur shot down the hall.

Newton.

The corgi barreled toward him at full tilt, nails skittering against the wood floor. Anthony braced himself, but Newton launched anyway, front paws thumping against his shins like a tiny, furry battering ram.

“Whoa—!” Anthony staggered, half-laughing, half-trying to fend off an enthusiastic face-licking.

From the stairs, Eloise’s dry voice floated down. “Careful, Newton. He’s already housebroken.”

Anthony looked up at his sisters, caught between a grin and a scowl. Newton, clearly satisfied with his greeting, stationed himself at Anthony’s feet like a very small bouncer.

Anthony’s gaze landed on Eloise and Francesca halfway down the stairs.

“What,” he asked slowly, “is going on? And why am I hearing you didn’t move into the Phi Mu house?”

Eloise crossed her arms. “Because we don’t.”

Anthony frowned. “You don’t… what?”

“Want to,” Francesca supplied, stepping down a few more stairs. “They were crowding me like I’m Taylor Swift. Eloise had to come rescue me.”

“It was overwhelming,” Francesca added calmly, but with finality. “It felt like they only wanted us because of Daphne.”

Eloise wrinkled her nose at the memory. “I took two steps into that open house and it was like someone puked in Pepto-Bismol. I left before I caught it.”

Anthony dragged a hand down his face. “You realize staying here is basically social suicide, right? I don’t want that for you.”

The door behind him swung open. Kate stepped in, balancing a grocery tote on one hip—then stopped short.

Anthony turned.

It was the woman from the Publix coffee aisle.

Kate blinked, recognition flickering. “You.”

“You,” Anthony echoed, eyes narrowing slightly.

Newton, sensing a shift in the air, retreated a few steps and parked himself beside Francesca.

Kate recovered first, glancing between him and his sisters. “If they don’t want to join a sorority, they shouldn’t have to. Especially not one that only cares about their last name.”

Anthony took in the tidy foyer—the sunlight on the worn wood floors, the suitcases still lined neatly by the wall. “Alright, it’s not the haunted dump I heard about. But that doesn’t mean they won’t get frozen out socially.”

Something in his voice tugged at Kate’s memory. And then—she placed him.

Mayfair, freshman year. Sigma Chi’s welcome party.

She’d been nervous, clutching a Solo cup someone shoved at her, when she heard him—Anthony Bridgerton, two years older, laughing with his fraternity brothers.

Fresh meat, someone had said.

I’ll have a piece of half the new pledges by midterms, Anthony had replied.

Kate had steered clear, stayed useful instead of visible. She’d watched Siena Rosso get drawn in, then have to claw her way out. Kate had been relieved she’d never been part of the game.

And now here he was, in her building, questioning her residents’ choices.

Kate crossed her arms, chin tilting. “They said no. That should be the end of it. Women—your sisters included—are allowed to make their own choices.”

Anthony’s jaw tightened. “Sure. But sometimes the smart choice isn’t the comfortable one. Phi Mu opens doors—”

“—and slams them on anyone they don’t think is good enough,” Kate cut in.

“It’s tradition.”

“It’s outdated.”

Anthony stepped closer, lowering his voice like it might make his argument stick. “It’s good for them.”

“It’s good for you,” Kate countered. “For your image. Your family’s. But your sisters aren’t chess pieces—you don’t get to arrange them for better networking.”

Anthony gestured at Eloise and Francesca like they were a jury. “Do you know how much I would’ve killed for this kind of access at their age?”

Kate smirked. “You had your frat. And if I remember correctly, you did just fine.”

In the corner, Eloise had tuned them out entirely, scrolling her phone. “Oh, this is gold. The Mosquito’s got three new tweets about the Theo-Guy brawl.”

Francesca groaned, covering her ears to block both the argument and Eloise’s commentary.

From upstairs, Michaela leaned over the railing. “Fran, you good?”

Francesca glanced up. “Not really.”

“Want me to bring you noise-cancelling headphones or a bottle of wine?”

“Yes,” Francesca said dryly. “Headphones will do.”

Kate and Anthony were still in the middle of their verbal sparring match when Anthony finally exhaled hard, looking at his sisters. “Fine. You win this round. But it’s not over.”

Eloise arched a brow. “You’re making this sound like a campaign.”

“I’m making sure you’re not blacklisted from every party on Greek Row,” Anthony said, already heading for the door. “I’ll talk to Phi Mu. Maybe get them to reconsider. Or at least stop pretending you don’t exist.”

Francesca looked skeptical. “That sounds exhausting.”

“I’ll be back,” Anthony promised, pointing at both of them like they’d signed a contract they couldn’t see.

Kate muttered under her breath, “So will the migraines.”

Newton barked once, tail wagging like he was voting no confidence in this plan.

And then Anthony was gone, leaving only the faint trace of cologne and an argument still buzzing in the air.

The door had barely clicked shut behind Anthony when Eloise’s phone chimed again.

Her eyes lit up. “Ohhh… this one’s delicious.”

Francesca groaned without looking up from her sheet music. “Please tell me it’s not about Phi Mu.”

“Better,” Eloise said, grinning like the cat that ate the canary and posted about it. “The Mosquito just dropped a slow-mo video of Theo chucking Guy’s sunglasses into the street—caption reads: Love is dead, and so is his Ray-Ban warranty.”

Sophie wandered in, cracking open a LaCroix. “What on earth happened?”

“Greek Row civil war,” Eloise announced, as if delivering breaking news. “Two Sigma Chi guys—Theo and Guy—went at it on their front lawn. No shirtless wrestling, which was disappointing, but apparently it’s over one of the Bucks.”

Hazel poked her head out of her doorway, brows raised. “Which Buck?”

“They all look the same,” Leila called from down the hall. “Could be any of them.”

“Now who’s stereotyping?” Savannah shouted from the lounge.

“Or all of them,” Penelope added, strolling in with a cookie in each hand like she was double-fisting champagne flutes. “This is better than Love Island.”

Hugh, perched primly in the armchair, closed his eyes and folded his hands. “I’m going to say a quick prayer for their souls.”

Michaela bounced in with her Bluetooth speaker, already scrolling through playlists. “Prayer later, soundtrack now. What’s the vibe—‘Bad Blood’? ‘Hit Me With Your Best Shot’? Maybe a little Kill Bill for the drama?”

From her corner, Francesca had donned her headphones and taken refuge at her keyboard, coaxing a soft, deliberate melody into the air. “I’m playing ‘Clair de Lune’,” she murmured. “Some of us value inner peace.”

“That’s nice,” Michaela said, queuing up Billie Eilish. “This’ll go perfectly over the fight footage.”

The room dissolved into laughter, half of them reaching for their phones to refresh the Mosquito’s feed like it was election night.

“Update!” Eloise called out, scanning her screen. “Mosquito says: For those keeping score—lip’s split, buttons missing, and someone’s mother is about to get a call from the dean.”

“That’s it,” Penelope declared, flopping onto the couch and tossing her blanket over her legs. “We’re not leaving until this saga ends. Someone get popcorn.”

Newton, sensing his moment, stationed himself beside the coffee table like a small, furry sentry—ready to intercept either stray kernels or the next scandal, whichever came first.

Chapter Text

Phi Mu’s common room looked like a blush-pink war zone. Half-empty LaCroix cans formed a perimeter around the coffee table, Town & Country magazines were fanned out like propaganda leaflets, and a still-warm curling iron lay abandoned on the loveseat.

The Bucks were scattered in strategic disarray.

Conchita sat cross-legged on the floor, phone in one hand, glaring at the Mosquito’s feed like she could hex the tweets into oblivion. “The slow-mo video’s already on TikTok. With edits. Someone added The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly whistle.”

Nan, sprawled on the chaise, groaned into a throw pillow. “I told Theo not to get territorial in public. Told him!”

“You also told Guy you missed him at formal last spring,” Jinny noted, her tone light but her gaze slicing straight through her sister.

“That’s called being polite,” Nan snapped, hair falling into her face.

Lizzy, perched in the corner, muttered, “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

“Nice things?” Conchita shot back. “Half of Greek Row thinks the fight was about you and Nan.”

“Which,” Jinny added, folding her arms, “means the other half is busy speculating about Cressida.”

All eyes turned to their president.

Cressida sat in the center of the sectional like a queen on her throne—back straight, platinum hair in a perfect knot, a phone in each manicured hand. Outwardly serene, but the faint crease between her brows betrayed it: the Mosquito had gotten under her skin.

“We don’t panic,” she said at last, voice smooth as silk. “We redirect.”

Nan perked up. “A party?”

“Not just a party,” Cressida corrected, setting down one phone to sip from a crystal flute of water. “A distraction. Something so flawless that by Monday, Theo and Guy are a footnote.”

“Big or small?” Jinny asked.

“Big enough to bury the hashtags,” Cressida said. “Small enough to keep out anyone who might spin it.”

Before anyone could suggest ideas, her laptop pinged.

She opened it, scanned the email, and her expression tightened just enough for Conchita to catch it.

“What is it?”

Cressida read aloud:

Anthony Bridgerton here. I understand my sisters—Eloise and Francesca—may have been… overwhelming during rush week. I’d appreciate it if Phi Mu could keep them off any blacklist. They may have declined for now, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be persuaded later.

Lizzy snorted. “Overwhelming? That’s… generous.”

Nan leaned over to read the screen. “Is he actually asking us to give them a second chance?”

Jinny tilted her head. “He’s basically asking for a favor while we’re still sweeping up from the Theo-Guy disaster.”

Cressida closed the laptop with a decisive click. “We’ll respond when we’ve handled our own mess. Not before.”

Annabel’s grin was sly. “Or we could invite them to the distraction party.”

“God, no,” Cressida said instantly. “The last thing we need is Eloise Bridgerton making speeches about the patriarchy over cocktails.”

“But…” Jinny’s voice slowed into a strategist’s drawl, “…what if inviting them is the distraction?”

For the first time since the fight, Cressida’s eyes sparked with interest.

She tapped one manicured nail against the couch arm. “An invite could work—if it’s on our terms.”

“Meaning…?” Conchita asked.

“Meaning,” Cressida said, “we throw something public enough to feel open, private enough to control the guest list. Invite the sisters, let them see what they’re missing, and—” her smile sharpened “—let everyone else see that Phi Mu is above petty grudges.”

Nan’s grin widened. “Weaponize benevolence. I like it.”

“We’ve got the charity silent auction next month, but that’s too far out,” Jinny said, already scrolling their calendar. “What about a mixer tomorrow night? Low-stakes, great lighting, better photographer.”

“Photographer is key,” Lizzy agreed. “If they’re caught in a candid looking like they belong, people start talking. We look gracious; they squirm. Win-win.”

Conchita smirked. “And the Theo-Guy fight gets buried under a thousand reposts of Eloise awkwardly holding a Coke.”

“Or Francesca at the baby grand in the parlor,” Nan added. “Like a Christmas album cover.”

Cressida’s smile turned approving. “Exactly. No shade. No scandal. Just Phi Mu—elegant, inclusive, untouchable.”

“And the fight?” Jinny asked.

“By Sunday,” Cressida said, already picturing the seating chart, “no one will remember it. They’ll be too busy reposting photos from our event.”

“Except the Mosquito,” Lizzy murmured.

“Oh, the Mosquito will cover it,” Cressida said, settling back like she’d already won. “But on our terms. Headline: ‘Phi Mu Hosts the Most Talked-About Mixer of the Semester—Surprise Guests Included.’”

Conchita raised a brow. “You think they’ll actually show?”

“They will,” Cressida said coolly. “New girls can’t resist proving they’re not intimidated.”

For a moment, the room was silent except for the faint fizz of a LaCroix and the thrum of a phone vibrating.

Nan broke it with a laugh. “I give Eloise five minutes before she starts a fight with Stanton about feminism.”

“Three,” Lizzy countered.

“Two if she’s sober,” Conchita said.

Cressida didn’t join the bet. She just picked up her second phone and began drafting the event invite, each word sharpened to look effortless.

By the time she hit send, the Phi Mu distraction machine was in motion.

By Friday night, the invite was everywhere—Facebook, Instagram stories, even a TikTok with Cressida’s slow-motion hair flip as the thumbnail:

Phi Mu Presents: An Evening of Elegance
Tomorrow night, 8 PM — Phi Mu House
Cocktail attire. Champagne tower. Special guests.

Half the sisters knew “special guests” meant the Bridgerton sisters. The other half would find out soon enough.

In Room 206, Eloise barely glanced up from her laptop when the notification banner slid across her screen. One click, a quick scan of the blush-pink event flyer, and she hit Decline before the RSVP page even finished loading.

Francesca, perched cross-legged at the foot of Eloise’s bed with her sketchpad balanced on her knees, glanced up. “Not even a maybe?”

“Not even a ‘leave me on read,’” Eloise said, slipping her headphones back on.

The soft, deliberate tap of keys resumed—a rhythm Francesca knew meant Eloise had rejoined her preferred online habitat: a Discord server devoted to a Virginia-based D&D campaign.

It had started as a fluke—a random Thursday night last spring when Eloise had stumbled into voice chat, rolled a catastrophic perception check, and proceeded to roast the dungeon master’s map-making skills. She’d kept coming back. Now she was a fixture, trading nightly snark with MageOfSpite, DiceGremlin89, and—lately more than anyone—PlantDemonBoss.

Francesca didn’t know much about them except that Eloise’s tone shifted when their username popped up. Longer messages. In-jokes. Less “gg” and more “tell me about your day.”

“You still haven’t told me who this PlantDemon person is,” Francesca said, shading in a piano key.

“Not a person,” Eloise corrected, deadpan. “An entity. Possibly a time-traveling botanist. Could also be an AI sent here to teach me photosynthesis.”

Francesca looked up, suspicious. “You like them.”

Eloise smirked but didn’t look away from her screen. “I think they’re cool. We connect. But I’m staying single, thanks.”

Before Francesca could push, voices floated in from the hall.

“…Phi Mu’s doing it up—champagne tower, live music, probably imported cheese,” Savannah was saying.

Hazel’s laugh followed. “Only going if there’s a Theo–Guy Round Two. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

Mateo chimed in, voice echoing off the walls. “Call me when sunglasses start flying again.”

Eloise snapped her laptop shut. “See? The rest of Danbury has its priorities straight.”

Francesca tilted her head. “So… definitely not going?”

“Fran,” Eloise said, stretching out on her pillows, “the only way I’m setting foot in that house again is if they promise to play the Theo–Guy fight on a loop in the living room.”

Newton, curled on the rug, lifted his head at the word fight and gave a hopeful chuff, like he’d happily RSVP “yes” under those conditions.

The Phi Mu house glowed like a chandelier from three blocks away—fairy lights draped across the lawn, champagne flutes clinking on silver trays, the bass from an overconfident Bluetooth speaker thudding hard enough to shake the hedges.

Eloise was not there.

She sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop open, Discord’s dark-blue glow lighting her face.

PlantDemonBoss: so… not going out to enjoy your first weekend as a college student?

Eloiseal: Only if the champagne tower collapses on someone important

PlantDemonBoss: you wound me. but there’s a case for staying home and roasting these people from afar

Eloiseal: Best seat in the house. Zero risk of Pepto-Bismol contamination

The door cracked open. Kate leaned against the frame, Newton trotting in like he was on a security sweep.

“Hey,” Kate said. “Just checking in. You doing okay after yesterday’s… visit?”

Eloise smirked, forgetting to hit mute. “You mean Anthony showing up to lecture us like a senator on C-SPAN? Yeah. It’s fine. Very on brand.”

Kate raised a brow.

“When Daphne started dating the Duke,” Eloise explained, “Anthony literally drove down from D.C. to decide if he was worthy. This is just… Anthony being Anthony.”

Kate’s mouth quirked. “That sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” Eloise admitted, but her tone held more fondness than she meant it to. “Thanks for asking, though.”

Kate gave a nod and disappeared with Newton in tow.

Eloise glanced back at the screen—still unmuted.

PlantDemonBoss: so your brother is… protective?

Eloiseal: Protective like the DMV is bureaucratic. Not a personality trait—more a way of life.

Down the hall, Francesca stood before her mirror, looping an elastic around her hair. Against her better judgment, she’d decided to make an appearance at Phi Mu.

Her hand was on the doorknob when Michaela rounded the corner, eyeliner winged to razor precision, denim jacket slung over one shoulder.

“You good?” Michaela asked.

Francesca hesitated. “You mean after my brother crashed the ‘party’ yesterday?”

“Yeah,” Michaela said, falling into step beside her. “I’d have been mortified. Good thing I’m an only child.”

Francesca gave a wry smile. “I’ve had practice. Being a Bridgerton means occasionally being ambushed by… enthusiastic relatives.”

They stepped outside into the warm buzz of Friday night. Michaela bumped her shoulder lightly. “Lucky for you, I’m an excellent plus-one. And if it gets weird, I can cause a small, tasteful scene.”

Francesca’s smile softened. “Noted.”

The Phi Mu house was in full swing when Francesca and Michaela arrived—though swing might have been generous. Yes, the champagne tower glittered in the corner and the Bucks were posted like sentries at every doorway, but the crowd wasn’t mingling so much as circling, phones raised, scanning the room like nature photographers waiting for an endangered species to appear.

Near the punch table, two guys whispered like they were in a wildlife documentary.

“Think it’s happening tonight?”

“If Theo shows, maybe. Guy’s already here.”

Francesca and Michaela exchanged a glance.

“They—” Francesca started.

“Yup,” Michaela said. “Here for the rematch.”

Francesca exhaled, already picturing the hashtags. They wove through the room—past a trio filming a TikTok dance and two Sigma Chi pledges pretending to have deep thoughts about the cheese platter—until Cressida spotted them.

She was stationed dead center like she’d been born there, one hand on her hip, the other cradling a flute of prosecco. Her smile was immediate and entirely for show.

“Francesca Bridgerton,” she cooed, vowels stretched just enough to hint at judgment. “I’m so glad you returned after… Rush Week.”

Francesca’s answering smile was polite to the point of weaponized. “Overwhelmed by pink.”

Michaela, sipping her drink, looked like she’d just gotten front-row seats to a play.

Cressida’s gaze flicked to her. “And you are…?”

“Someone who doesn’t need an invitation,” Michaela said sweetly, looping her arm through Francesca’s. “But thanks for asking.”

From behind Cressida, Nan emerged as if on cue. “You just missed Guy. Theo’s on his way.” Her eyes gleamed like she was talking about a meteor shower.

“I thought this was a party,” Francesca said, “not Paul vs. Tyson 2.0 on Netflix.”

Nan shrugged. “It’s whatever gets people talking.”

Across the room, Lizzy was already filming an Instagram story: Live from Phi Mu—will we get Round Two?

Michaela leaned close. “We could make it a drinking game. One shot every time someone says ‘rematch.’”

“I’d be under the table in ten minutes,” Francesca murmured. “I’ll stick to water.”

Then the room shifted—a ripple of whispers and angled shoulders—as Theo walked in. Guy was at the snack table, jaw tightening. The crowd parted, phones lifting like periscopes. Nan and Conchita were poised by the stairs, ready to “intervene,” though their camera angles suggested otherwise.

“Not here,” Cressida’s voice sliced through the noise like a fork against crystal. She crossed the room in record time, smile fixed, eyes sharp. “Whatever this is, take it off Phi Mu property.”

Guy muttered something; Theo smirked—definitely not an apology. The collective disappointment was almost audible.

“Guess no Round Two,” Michaela murmured.

“Meh,” Francesca said, steering them toward the kitchen and away from the densest knot of phone screens.

That’s when they caught it—Lizzy and Jinny in the corner, voices low.

“…we need to pivot,” Lizzy was saying. “Mosquito’s already framing this as Phi Mu drama. If we keep feeding it, we look desperate.”

“So?” Jinny asked.

“So we leak something better. Preferably Sigma Chi. No fingerprints.”

Francesca and Michaela traded a look that said: This is ending up on the Mosquito no matter what.

Before Michaela could deliver something cutting, the front door opened again. Sophie stepped inside, phone slipping into her pocket, posture hesitant.

She didn’t get far. Clara Livingston—brunette waves, over-glossed smile—materialized in front of her like she’d been stationed there all night.

“Hi,” Clara said, voice sweet but threaded with gatekeeping. “Sorry, private event. Phi Mu only.”

Sophie frowned. “It’s on Facebook as open.”

“Mm, yes,” Clara said, tilting her head with exaggerated sympathy, “but that was… before.” She didn’t elaborate. Just smiled—a perfect blend of sugar and condescension—then turned away without waiting for a response.

Sophie stood still for a beat, jaw tight, then pivoted and left.

From the kitchen doorway, Michaela muttered, “I’d almost admire the audacity if it weren’t so gross.”

Francesca’s gaze lingered on Sophie’s retreating figure. “And they wonder why we didn’t pledge.”

Chapter Text

Penelope lingered just outside the Phi Mu house, phone in hand, waiting for the night to cough up something worthy of a post. Inside, the champagne tower still sparkled, and the Bucks worked the crowd like they were on a presidential campaign stop, but the Theo–Guy tension had deflated into nothing more than a few well-placed glares.

She was about to cut her losses when the front door opened and—speak of the devil—Theo and Guy stepped out together. Shoulders squared. Expressions unreadable.

Finally.

Except… nothing happened. No raised voices, no shoves—just two people walking down the sidewalk in a silent, synchronized retreat, like they’d agreed to move their argument somewhere with fewer camera phones.

Penelope watched them go, waiting for… well, anything.

“Anticlimactic,” she muttered, tucking her phone away.

She’d just decided to call it when a voice drifted from the direction of Sigma Chi.

“Some things never change.”

She glanced up. A tall, lean guy with messy blond hair and a denim jacket was strolling down Greek Row, shaking his head like he’d seen this show too many times.

“These parties,” he went on, “always the same—beer, cheese… never a single vegan option. No consideration for the animals or the guests.”

Penelope tilted her head, half amused. “Sorry to report that from what I saw inside, there’s nothing vegan. Just… disappointment in pink.”

He smiled faintly, stepping closer. “Sounds about right.”

“At least pink isn’t the worst color,” she said. “My mother used to dress me in yellow as a kid—bad yellow. I looked like an anemic daffodil. Truly haunting.”

That earned her a laugh, warm and easy. “I’m Al. Just got into town today. Grad program.”

“Penelope,” she said, shaking his hand before nodding at the empty patch of steps beside her. “Sit. Save me from the most boring night in Greek Row’s history. Though it is my first one. Possibly my last.”

He dropped down beside her, leaning back on his elbows. “So why hang around? Not your scene?”

“I call it research,” Penelope said. “But yes, not my scene. If I want drama, I’ll get ice cream and watch The Summer I Turned Pretty.”

They were halfway through swapping hot takes on Mayfair’s Greek life when the Phi Mu door opened again.

Sophie stepped out, shoulders tight, phone already in hand.

Penelope straightened. “Sophie—”

But Sophie didn’t slow. She walked past without a glance, disappearing into the dark with clipped, purposeful strides.

Penelope half-rose, ready to follow, but the pace made it clear Sophie wasn’t stopping for anyone. She watched her vanish down the sidewalk, the warm glow from Phi Mu’s windows stretching shadows across the lawn.

Penelope sat back beside Al, mind already spinning. Something had gone down inside.

And if she knew anything about Mayfair, she wouldn’t have to wait long before the whole campus knew exactly what.

The walk back to Danbury Hall wasn’t long—eight, maybe nine minutes at most—but it was just enough time for Clara’s syrupy before to loop in Sophie’s head until it felt like pressing on a bruise. The Phi Mu house stayed loud behind her, laughter spilling over the bassline, but already it might as well have been on another planet.

Halfway down the block, she pulled out her phone without thinking, thumb hovering over Phillip’s name.

One ring. Two. Straight to voicemail.

“Hey,” she said, trying to thread her voice with a casualness she didn’t feel, “just wanted to check in. I, uh… went to the Phi Mu thing, but—never mind. I’ll tell you later. Call me when you can.”

She hung up before the message could unravel into what it really was—disappointment dressed up in small talk.

The glow from Danbury’s common room spilled into the hall when she pushed the door open. Warm lamplight, faint music drifting from somewhere upstairs, the kind you could melt into if you let yourself. And then—like clockwork—Newton appeared. Little paws clicking against the floorboards, tail wagging like she was the best thing he’d seen all night.

“Hey, buddy,” Sophie murmured, crouching down. Newton immediately flopped onto his back, paws curled, ready for service.

She rubbed his belly, fingers sinking into the soft caramel fur. “At least you’re happy to see me,” she whispered, and Newton’s back leg started its telltale thump-thump against the rug. For a moment, Phi Mu’s front porch and Clara’s condescending smile shrank into something smaller, less sharp.

From the kitchen came the low hum of voices—Kate’s for sure, maybe Hazel’s or Rae’s—but Newton’s warm weight kept Sophie rooted on the rug, more grounded than her boyfriend’s voice had managed in weeks.

Kate emerged a moment later, tea mug in one hand, reading glasses sliding halfway down her nose. She stopped when she spotted Sophie.

“Hey,” Kate said, leaning in the doorway. “You look like someone who’s had a night.”

Sophie gave a small shrug, still scratching behind Newton’s ears. “Went to the Phi Mu thing. Didn’t make it past the door. Story of my life.”

Kate’s mouth pressed into a line. “Ah.” She set her mug on the coffee table and sank into the armchair across from her. “Do you want the you’re better off speech or the they’re not worth your time speech?”

“Neither,” Sophie said quietly. “I already know them both. Phillip thought I should try, but… one look at my socials and I was cut before Rush Week. Guess that’s on me for thinking a second try would go any differently. At least it saved me the gas money.”

Kate studied her, the kind of measured look that said she’d been there before—maybe not Phi Mu, but something like it. She reached down to give Newton a quick scratch behind the ears.

“Their loss, Baek. Those houses are a revolving door of approval. You spend all your time trying to keep up with whatever their version of ‘worthy’ is this week. It’s exhausting.”

Sophie let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Guess I’m not their type of worthy. I just thought… it’d be nice to have something extra for my résumé.”

Kate’s gaze softened. “You’re not their type, period. And that’s not a flaw.”

Sophie managed a small, crooked smile at that. Newton, apparently satisfied the conversation had reached its emotional resolution, rolled upright, licked her hand once, and padded toward the kitchen in search of crumbs.

At the Phi Mu house, the music had dipped just enough for the restless crowd to start manufacturing its own entertainment.

On the back patio, two Sigma Chi boys—neither Theo nor Guy—dragged out a keg like they were unveiling a sacred relic. Phones shot up immediately, ready to immortalize the moment.

“Watch this!” one of them slurred, gripping the tap as his buddy hoisted him up for a keg stand.

Five seconds later, his arms gave out, and he collapsed in a beer-slick heap, splashing foam across the patio. Cheers morphed into groans; someone muttered, “Lame,” and disappeared back inside.

Francesca, leaning against the porch railing with Michaela, let out a low whistle. “Peak entertainment.”

Michaela rolled her eyes. “If I wanted to watch a frat boy fail at alcohol, I’d go to literally any other party on campus.”

They exchanged a look—mutual agreement—and without bothering to find Cressida or the Bucks, slipped off the porch. The muffled bass of Phi Mu faded behind them, replaced by the hum of streetlights and the faint scuff of their shoes on the sidewalk.

“Sorry if I dragged you out early,” Francesca said after a beat, hands tucked in her coat pockets. “After tonight, I’m just… glad my sister talked me out of pledging during Open House.”

“Please,” Michaela said, smirking. “You saved me. I was two minutes away from fake-laughing at another guy who thinks doing a shotgun is a personality.”

Francesca huffed out a laugh. “Fair point.”

They walked in comfortable silence for a stretch before Michaela tilted her head. “You okay? I mean, your brother swooping in yesterday like it was his personal mission to get you Phi Mu–ified… that’s a lot.”

Francesca hesitated. “He means well. He just… treats people like an event he can manage.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Michaela said.

“It is,” Francesca admitted. “That’s why I like music. You get to set the tempo, the tone—no one barges in to rewrite your score.”

Michaela’s smile was slow but genuine. “Guess that’s why I like protests. If someone barges in, at least you know they’re on your side.”

They reached Danbury Hall’s front steps, the building glowing warm against the night.

“Thanks for walking with me,” Francesca said.

“Anytime,” Michaela replied. “Someone’s gotta make sure the piano prodigy doesn’t get kidnapped by rogue frat boys.”

Francesca shook her head, smiling faintly as she pulled the door open.

Inside, Newton trotted toward them like they’d been gone for years.

The muffled thump of Greek Row was replaced by the softer rhythms of Danbury at night—radiators humming, distant music, the creak of someone upstairs. Sophie was curled in an armchair, tablet in hand, while Kate sat opposite her with a mug of tea.

“…I just thought he’d pick up,” Sophie was saying, rubbing Newton’s head when he reached her. “It’s not like Phillip doesn’t check his phone. But… maybe he’s busy on a Saturday night.”

Kate raised a brow. “Or maybe you’re busy building your own life here. And that’s not a bad thing.”

Sophie’s lips curved into a small, almost self-conscious smile. “Maybe.”

Down the hall, Eloise emerged barefoot, thumbs flying over her phone. She didn’t look up as she padded into the kitchen for water, still chatting on Discord.

PlantDemonBoss: ok but if your bard rolls a nat 20 for persuasion, i’m making the NPC cry.

Eloiseal: do it. make him sob.

She smirked at her phone, the screen’s blue light catching in her eyes.

By the time Francesca and Michaela wandered into the common room, the house had settled into an easy hush. Kate excused herself to her apartment; Sophie drifted toward her own room. Eloise padded back down the hall, still typing.

That’s when the first ping hit every phone in the building.

@MayfairMosquito: Breaking: Tri-Deltas & Alpha Chis have decided to “settle things” with a dance battle in front of the student center on Monday. Expect “Beat It” vibes minus the leather jackets and moonwalk. 🐝 #MayfairU #GreekRowGoesBroadway

Seconds later:

@MayfairMosquito: Sources say choreography is being handled by “someone’s cousin who did a TikTok once.” God help us all. 🐝 #MayfairU #danceoff

Francesca looked up from her screen. “Please tell me we’re not going to watch that.”

Michaela grinned. “Oh, we’re going. I’m bringing popcorn.”

Newton gave a single bark, clearly voting yes.

Monday dawned with the faint smell of burnt coffee drifting through Danbury’s common room and a steady trickle of students heading out with backpacks, reusable mugs, and wildly varying levels of optimism.

The so-called Greek Row Dance Battle had—unsurprisingly—been a flop. A few Tri-Delta and Alpha Chi Omega girls had shuffled through choreography that looked stolen from a TikTok trend old enough to vote, while bystanders filmed with all the enthusiasm of people waiting for a bus.

The Mayfair Mosquito’s morning dispatch nailed it:

@MayfairMosquito: The Tri-Delt/Alpha Chi “dance battle” is over. Someone from Phi Mu just got upstaged by a guy in flip-flops holding a smoothie. I’ve seen more precision at a toddler ballet recital. 🐝 #MayfairU #GreekRowGoesBroadway

Eloise read it as she crossed the quad, latte in hand, her bag slung over one shoulder. She rolled her eyes so hard she was pretty sure she saw her own brain.

She was halfway to Curzon Hall, eyes still on her phone, when she collided with someone at the brick path’s narrow corner.

“Oh—sorry!” they said in unison.

The guy—tall, lean, with brown curls that looked artfully careless—hitched his messenger bag higher. He was balancing a stack of notebooks and a battered field journal like he’d sprinted straight out of a documentary about grad students.

“Wasn’t watching where I was going,” he said. “Greenhouse run. I’m late.”

Eloise blinked. “The greenhouse?”

“Botany lab,” he replied quickly, already glancing past her like he was calculating exactly how many seconds this conversation was costing him. “Promise I wasn’t planning to mow anyone down.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Good to know. Where’s… uh, Curzon Hall? Gov 101?”

He pointed over her shoulder. “Cut through the quad, second building on the left. White columns, bad acoustics.”

“Got it.” She stepped aside, giving him a quick nod. “Good luck with your… plant emergency.”

“Thanks,” he said, jogging off toward the glass-domed greenhouse at the far edge of campus.

Eloise watched him for all of two seconds before remembering she had her own class to get to.

Curzon Hall smelled faintly of chalk dust and old syllabi. The classroom was narrow, the high windows letting in light just bright enough to make her coffee look weaker than it was. She dropped into a seat near the back and flipped open her notebook.

Her phone buzzed.

PlantDemonBoss: have a good first day! make some friends. don’t drop your latte!

Eloiseal: you too, unless classes start later for you

PlantDemonBoss: no! it starts today! you should check if there’s a D&D club on campus!

Eloiseal: will do 🙂

At the front, the professor cleared their throat and called for attention. Eloise locked her phone, the faintest grin tugging at her mouth.

She had no idea her “PlantDemonBoss” was currently somewhere on campus, brushing greenhouse dirt off his hands and thinking about the girl he’d nearly bowled over that morning.

Chapter Text

By Wednesday afternoon, Danbury Hall had settled into its rhythm—a strange but harmonious blend of sitcom timing, soap-opera drama, and wildlife documentary footage no one asked for.

Downstairs, an acoustic guitar thrummed faintly through the hall. Hazel sat cross-legged on her bed, prosthetic forearm resting neatly on the nightstand, chin propped on her hand. Across the hall, John hunched over his guitar, running the bridge of Landslide for the fifth time like Stevie Nicks herself was waiting to judge him.

“Wow,” Hazel murmured, barely audible. Not sarcastic—just hopelessly, irreversibly smitten.

Upstairs, Eloise sat cross-legged on her comforter, The Federalist Papers open beside her laptop but losing badly to the dark-blue glow of Discord.

PlantDemonBoss: first week going well?

Eloiseal: can say that! there’s a d&d-type club on campus. meeting thursday

PlantDemonBoss: you should go! maybe meet some interesting people

Eloiseal: really?

PlantDemonBoss: never know until you show up

The flyer in question had been pinned to the campus bulletin board with a pushpin shaped like a twenty-sided die—peak nerd chic. Every time Eloise passed it, she smirked.

Out on the front lawn, Sophie trudged back from her third dance class of the week, hair damp from a post-class shower, tote bag slung over her shoulder. A folded poster peeked from the top: Mayfair Dance Team Tryouts — Friday, 5 PM. She’d pulled it from the same bulletin board as the D&D flyer and kept rereading it like the date might change if she stared hard enough. She hadn’t tried out for anything since high school, but the itch to perform still hummed under her skin.

In the lounge, Penelope had her laptop balanced on her knees, spreadsheet of potential exposé topics in one tab, the Mayfair Mosquito’s feed in another. The first week of classes was a buffet of low-stakes scandal—Greek Row hangovers, roommate meltdowns, someone setting off the dining hall smoke alarm by microwaving foil—but she was holding out for something juicier.

Her phone buzzed.

Al: hey. coffee sometime this week? maybe before i sell my soul to the anthro dept?

She blinked. She’d only met Al once—outside Phi Mu, leaning against the steps like someone morally opposed to pastel—but the message felt strangely easy.

Penelope: Thursday? Noon? The Beanery?

Al: perfect. bring your best conspiracy theories.

Her mouth curved. The Mosquito could wait. Not all trouble had to be digital.

Kate was halfway through inventory in the supply closet—pen behind her ear, clipboard balanced on a stack of bulk paper towels—when the Danbury Hall landline rang. She nearly dropped everything. Half the residents didn’t know the phone existed, and it had rung maybe three times in her tenure.

She picked up. “Danbury Hall, Kate speaking.”

“Ah. So it does still work.”

Male voice. Smooth. Just smug enough to be Anthony Bridgerton.

Kate blinked. “Anthony?”

“In the flesh—or the wires. You sound surprised.”

“That’s because you called a number I didn’t know I had.”

“It’s on the university website,” he said, like she should have guessed. “Probably hasn’t been updated since the Clinton administration.”

Kate set the clipboard aside. “So you went digging for the Danbury Hall number… why?”

“To check on my sisters,” Anthony said smoothly. “Make sure they’re settling in.”

“They’re fine,” Kate replied, even. “Survived week one without injury, scandal, or—” she let the pause sharpen—“joining a sorority.”

“That’s actually why I’m calling,” he said, voice shifting toward business. “I’ve reached out to Phi Mu to make sure Eloise and Francesca aren’t blacklisted. If they change their minds—”

“Anthony,” Kate cut in, “how would you feel if one sister refused to set foot in a Phi Mu party, and the other said she’d rather watch paint dry than stay there for five minutes?”

A pause. “…Is that what happened?”

“That’s what happened. They’re smart, capable young women who don’t need you arranging their social calendar. Let them figure it out.”

Another pause, longer. “You’re telling me to calm down.”

“Yes,” Kate said. “Professional advice. Personal advice. And plain common sense.”

A low huff that might have been a laugh. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“When it comes to Danbury?” Kate’s smile was slow. “Always.”

She hung up before he could have the last word.

The common room was drenched in late-afternoon gold from the big front windows. Eloise was sprawled sideways on a couch, laptop balanced on her knees. A muffled laugh slipped from her headphones, followed by a flurry of keystrokes.

PlantDemonBoss: seriously though. bring dice. i’ll bring snacks

Eloiseal: so you’re driving all the way to mayfair to play d&d? that’s dedication

PlantDemonBoss: mayfair isn’t that far away!

Eloiseal: hmmm 🧐

Kate perched on the couch arm. “Homework?”

Eloise tugged out one earbud. “Research. I have to prep for… a meeting.”

“A meeting that involves dice and crits?”

“That’s classified.” But her faint grin gave her away.

Upstairs, Sophie leaned against the railing, phone pressed to her ear for the second time that day. Voicemail. Again.

“Hey,” she said, her voice tighter than she wanted, “guess you’re busy. Just… call me back, okay?”

She slipped the phone into her tote and caught the smell of coffee drifting from the lounge. Penelope was at the table, hair in a loose knot, laptop open like she’d been there for hours.

“Hey,” Sophie said, hovering. “The Beanery—you’ve been, right?”

“Yeah. Great coffee. Too many screenwriters who think they’re saving cinema, but you can tune them out.”

“Good. Might check it out Friday. Before… something.”

“Something meaning dance team tryouts?”

Sophie froze. “How did you—”

“Flyer in your bag. Newton tried to chew it.”

Blush. “Right. Well… yeah. Trying out.”

Penelope’s smile turned knowing. “Good. If you need a hype woman, I’m available—unless I’m at coffee with someone new.”

“Someone new?” Sophie asked.

Penelope just sipped her tea, eyes glinting. “You’ll hear about it.”

By Thursday, Mayfair had slipped into that strange limbo between first-week novelty and the creeping grind of routine. The quad buzzed with overlapping conversations—overconfident freshmen trying to one-up each other, overcaffeinated grad students monologuing to no one, and a cappella groups recruiting like their next gig was Madison Square Garden.

At The Beanery, Penelope spotted Al instantly—tall, flannel over a vintage band tee, scanning the menu with the intensity of a midterm. She slid into the seat opposite him before he could say hello.

“Before you start,” she said, “I brought a conspiracy theory.”

His brow ticked up. “Oh?”

“Sigma Chi and Phi Mu have a shared Google Drive for blacklisting people. It’s color-coded.”

Al grinned, leaning in. “Disturbingly plausible. I like it.”

Back at Danbury, Eloise was tucking a small drawstring bag—dice, notebook, mechanical pencil—into her tote. She caught her reflection in the hall mirror, smoothing her hair like she wasn’t sure why she cared.

From the common room, Sophie called up, “Heading out?”

“Club meeting. You?”

“Dance studio. Tryouts are tomorrow.”

For a moment, their eyes met—different destinations, same hum of nerves.

Kate, passing by with Newton on his evening walk, clocked them both at the door. “You’ve got plans, Francesca’s at rehearsal, Michaela’s probably plotting a protest… this place might actually be quiet for once.”

Newton barked once. Translation: Don’t bet on it.

The flyer’s directions led Eloise down to the basement of the student center, where the air smelled like old carpet and faintly burnt popcorn.

The “Tabletop & Roleplay Club” sign was taped to the door in blocky Sharpie, slightly askew, like someone slapped it up mid-boss battle.

She pushed the door open—and froze.

A long table stretched across the room, littered with dice towers, character sheets, and alarming numbers of unopened Monster cans. Eight guys leaned over maps, arguing about initiative order. Eight guys. No other women.

Every head turned when she walked in.

“Uh… hi?” she said, hovering in the doorway.

A few mumbled greetings. One guy in a hoodie blinked like she’d stumbled into a parallel dimension.

From the far end, a tall, lean guy looked up from shuffling spell cards. Light brown curls fell across his forehead; his gaze caught hers for a beat too long.

Something about her mouth, the tilt of her eyes—he felt a flicker, like hearing a familiar voice in a crowd. No. Couldn’t be.

“Hey,” he said, standing halfway to pull out a chair. “I’m Phil. You new?”

“First meeting. Eloise.”

“Well, welcome.” He gestured to the seat beside him. “We’re short a rogue, if you’re interested.”

She slid into the chair, dropping her tote. “I’ve played before. Once or twice. Don’t worry—I’m not here to start a bard war.”

His mouth twitched. “Good to know.”

As the dungeon master launched into a recap, Phil found himself glancing at her—the way she rested her chin in her hand, the quick scan she gave the map before rolling, like she actually cared about the strategy.

Girls like her don’t usually wander into D&D night, he thought. Unless… No. Definitely not.

“Roll perception,” the DM said.

Phil rolled. Winced. “Five.”

A snort from Eloise’s side. “Wow. That’s impressively bad.”

“Careful, newbie,” he murmured. “Mock the rogue and the rogue might not save you later.”

“Vesper,” she said, patting her sorcerer sheet, “can fry her own enemies, thanks.”

“Moody pickpocket? Harsh.”

She gave him a sweet, sharp smile that pinged something in the back of his mind.

The game rolled on. At one point, her firebolt reduced an undead guard to ash.

“Not bad,” Phil said quietly. “For someone who swore off bard wars.”

“Different battlefield.”

He didn’t miss the glint in her eyes.

When the DM ended on a cliffhanger—an ominous thud at Graymarsh Keep’s main doors—Phil found himself blurting, “See you next Thursday?”

“Definitely. Vesper would be a loss to the party.”

She grinned and left without looking back. Phil drummed his fingers against the table, the question still needling him: Why does she feel so familiar?

Back in her room, Eloise flopped onto her bed and opened Discord.

Eloiseal: survived the tabletop club. barely.

PlantDemonBoss: oh? i need details. bad?

Eloiseal: just weird. only girl there.

PlantDemonBoss: lol. typical. did you play?

Eloiseal: yeah. sorcerer. named Vesper.

PlantDemonBoss: VESPER?? amazing name. how’d she do?

Eloiseal: set an undead guard on fire.

PlantDemonBoss: …marry me.

Eloiseal: lol. no elf ears, remember.

PlantDemonBoss: still no promises.

Across campus in Hanover Hall, Phil grinned at the same green dot on his screen, his field journal abandoned beside a half-drunk mug of coffee.

Eloiseal: anyway, party rogue was hilariously bad at checking for traps.

PlantDemonBoss: tragic.

Eloiseal: told him Vesper could fry enemies without him.

PlantDemonBoss: …i like her already.

Eloiseal: Vesper or me?

PlantDemonBoss: both.

Eloise chuckled, typing back without thinking. Phil leaned back, still hearing her voice in his head without knowing why it stuck.

Neither made the connection. Not yet. But somewhere in the code of their banter, the truth was sitting there, just waiting for a natural twenty.

Phil was halfway through a late-night study session when it hit him.

He’d been staring at a page of botany notes for so long the diagrams had turned into something between abstract art and Rorschach tests. His pen stilled, and instead of thinking about plant reproduction cycles, his brain replayed Eloise’s voice—sharp, quick, and amused in a way that caught and held him.

Not just her in-person voice.

Her online voice.

He shoved back his chair, pulled his laptop closer, and opened Discord. Scrolling. Skimming. Re-reading the last few weeks of messages with Eloiseal.

There it was—the exact phrasing she’d used across the table earlier, almost word for word.

“Perfectly capable of frying her own enemies without help.”

Phillip leaned back, running a hand through his hair, a half-laugh slipping out.

“No way.”

Except… it was possible. Mayfair wasn’t that big, and a freshman named Eloise showing up to his Thursday night game? That wasn’t nothing.

He opened a new message. Fingers hovered over the keys.

PlantDemonBoss: Eloiseal… or is it Eloise?

A pause. Then—

Eloiseal: 🫤

The pause stretched, long enough for him to wonder if she’d ghost him out of sheer principle. Then—

Eloiseal: oh my god. YOU’RE the rogue??

PlantDemonBoss: guilty.

Eloiseal: …wow. Phil!

PlantDemonBoss: good wow? bad wow?

Eloiseal: still deciding. after all, you did propose to me several messages ago!

Phil laughed outright, the sound breaking the stillness of his room.

PlantDemonBoss: so now that the jig is up… coffee sometime? rogue and sorcerer summit?

The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.

Eloiseal: maybe. but if you show up in elf ears, i’m leaving.

Phil grinned at the screen, leaning back in his chair.

Maybe was good. Maybe was better than good.

Maybe meant the campaign had just shifted into a far more interesting storyline—one he couldn’t wait to play out.

Chapter Text

Sophie had barely stepped into Grosvenor Arena when she spotted Hazel across the court, stretching against the far wall. Her roommate’s prosthetic arm rested easily on her hip, the other hand waving in a quick, casual hello. The easy grin she flashed was enough to cut through the knot of nerves tightening in Sophie’s stomach.

The polished maple floor gleamed under the fluorescent lights, lines for basketball, volleyball, and badminton crisscrossing in a bright, geometric patchwork. A neat row of folding chairs hugged the sideline—not for parents, but for the Phi Mu delegation. They lounged there like a self-appointed panel of judges: glossy hair, designer leggings, phones ready.

Clara was in the middle of them, scrolling idly, her smile sharp enough to draw blood.

The coach—a wiry woman in a navy Mayfair Dance tee—clapped twice for attention. “Listen up! Football season’s squad is set, but basketball season is open for new blood. Think of this as your runway. Show me why you belong here.”

Hazel shot Sophie a thumbs-up. Sophie rolled her shoulders back, matching it with a quick nod.

Warm-ups bled into choreography drills—fast, hip-hop-infused sequences meant to test both stamina and precision. Sophie counted the beats in her head, letting the rhythm drown out everything else.

Halfway through the second run, she caught it: Clara’s voice, pitched perfectly to carry.

“Mayfair usually doesn’t pick poor girls from community college for the squad.”

It wasn’t even dressed up as a joke.

The words landed like a slap, but Sophie didn’t flinch. She pushed harder—sharper angles, deeper pliés, snapping into the final jump with a smile that was pure defiance. If Clara was going to watch, she was going to watch.

When the coach called the first cut, both Sophie and Hazel’s names were still on the list. They grinned at each other—small, private, unshakable.

Round two ratcheted up the difficulty: partner work, tighter turns, stamina drills that left calves screaming. Hazel’s musicality carried her through; Sophie’s precision kept her sharp.

By the time the final names were read, Sophie’s shirt clung like a second skin, but she barely felt it.

“Sophie Baek. Hazel Orr.”

They’d made it.

Hazel whooped and crushed Sophie in a hug. For a moment, it was just joy—no politics, no Phi Mu sideline commentary.

But as Sophie gathered her bag, she glanced toward the chairs. Clara was gone. The smirk she’d worn, however, was still lodged in Sophie’s mind like a splinter.

Outside, the air was cooler, the late-afternoon sun painting gold along the rooftops. Sophie pulled out her phone and tapped Phillip’s name.

One ring. Two. Voicemail—again.

“Hey,” she said, forcing light into her voice, “I made the squad! Call me when you can.”

She hung up. The cheer in her tone evaporated before the call ended. Around her, campus pulsed with life—a band warming up in the distance, students heading to dinner—but the space beside her felt stubbornly empty.

She slipped the phone back into her bag, squared her shoulders, and kept walking. She’d celebrate tonight, even if she had to start the party herself.

Phi Mu’s section of the bleachers wasn’t a cheering section. It was a war council.

Cressida sat in the center, legs crossed, phone resting in her lap. Clara leaned in, still sour from the results.

“I’m just saying,” Clara murmured, “the dance team’s supposed to be selective. And now we’ve got—” she flicked her gaze toward the court, where Hazel was laughing with one of the captains—“transfer charity cases and bionic arm on the lineup.”

Cressida’s smile was sweet and cold all at once. “That’s ableist, Clara. That said—they won’t be in our lineup.”

The Bucks shifted forward in unison. “Meaning?” Jinny asked.

“Meaning,” Cressida said smoothly, “we cut them off. No invites. No pictures. No formals. Let them dance for the basketball crowd if they want, but they won’t be anywhere that matters.”

Nan smirked. “Social quarantine.”

“Exactly,” Cressida said. “Half the fun of the squad is the parties. Cut that off, they fade—or they burn themselves out trying to keep up.”

Conchita twirled a strand of hair, still watching Hazel. “What about the coach?”

Cressida shrugged. “Coach can’t control the guest list.”

At the far end of the row, Clara’s nails clicked against her phone screen as she began typing. But before she could send anything, her feed refreshed—

@MayfairMosquito: Rumor has it certain members of the Mayfair dance squad are upset about being upstaged by rookies at tryouts. Sources report “sour looks” and “aggressive hair flipping.” 🐝 #MayfairU #SquadGoals

Within minutes, the replies were stacking up—memes, reaction GIFs, and a slow boil of speculation about who the “rookies” were.

Cressida’s phone buzzed. She read the tweet, her smile tightening into something brittle.

“Looks like someone’s got too much time on their hands,” she said coolly.

No one in the bleachers noticed that the sting had come from just down the street at Danbury Hall—where its queen bee was currently closing her laptop with a self-satisfied grin.

In Danbury Hall’s common room, the Mosquito’s tweet had already made the rounds before Sophie even stepped through the door.

Francesca was curled on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate; Michaela was sprawled in the armchair, grinning like someone who’d just scored a front-row seat to drama.

“Uh, Sophie?” Michaela tilted her phone toward her. “Care to explain why you’re apparently Phi Mu’s public enemy number one?”

Sophie dropped her dance bag. “What?”

Francesca handed over her phone. The Mosquito’s tweet glared back—complete with a slow-motion hair-flip GIF.

Hazel, perched on the floor amid a pile of textbooks, looked up. “Guess we made an impression.”

“Oh my god,” Sophie muttered. “This is about us?”

“If the Lululemon fits,” Michaela said with a smirk.

Eloise wandered in mid-scroll, earbuds hanging around her neck. “You made Phi Mu jealous? Around here, that’s basically a varsity letter.”

“Or a target,” Sophie said, sinking beside Francesca.

From the kitchen, Penelope emerged with tea in hand, face a little too unreadable. “Well, you did outshine them,” she said lightly. “Not your fault some people can’t handle competition.”

Sophie narrowed her eyes. “You sound awfully informed for someone who wasn’t at tryouts.”

Penelope sipped. “Twitter is a magical place.”

The front door swung open. Kate walked in, Newton trotting behind her with a stick clamped proudly in his mouth. One look at the residents—clustered, phones glowing, laughter barely contained—and she asked, “Do I even want to know?”

“Dance team drama,” Michaela said. “Apparently Sophie and Hazel are now on Phi Mu’s Most Wanted list.”

Newton dropped his stick at Sophie’s feet. Kate tossed it down the hall and said, “Phi Mu can stay mad. You two made the squad. That’s what matters.”

Hazel raised her bottle. “Hear, hear.”

Francesca turned to Sophie. “So… are we celebrating or what?”

Sophie hesitated, thumb hovering over her boyfriend’s contact.

Kate caught the flicker in her expression. “Celebrate with the people who show up, Baek. You’re young—live a little.”

She glanced around the room—Francesca grinning, Hazel flashing a thumbs-up, Michaela raising a brow, Eloise smirking, Penelope hiding a smile—and felt the knot in her chest loosen.

“Okay,” she said, standing. “Let’s celebrate.”

Newton barked once, like he’d been waiting for that answer all along.

Danbury had a way of rallying. Within minutes, they’d agreed to skip Greek Row entirely and head for The Copper Lantern—a bar just far enough off-campus to dodge the frat scene. Sophie chose a short silver dress that made her stand taller; Francesca kept to black jeans and a sweater; Michaela packed noise-canceling headphones for her; Eloise’s eyeliner could cut glass; Hazel wore her best boots. Penelope scrolled her phone with the air of someone “researching” trouble.

The Copper Lantern was already humming when they arrived—golden light, the tang of beer, the jukebox flipping between 2000s throwbacks and indie covers. They claimed a corner table near the bar.

Penelope spotted him first: tall, flannel, laser-focused on a basket of peanuts.

“Al?” she said, tilting her head.

He looked up. “Well, if it isn’t Mayfair’s most notorious pink hater.”

She arched a brow. “You assuming, or do I give that impression?”

“Pretty sure you lead with it,” he said, nodding to the stool beside him.

She slid onto it. “Fine. But I’m stealing peanuts, Vegan Man.”

Francesca lasted twelve minutes before the noise pressed too close. Michaela, already tracking her, slid the headphones over. Francesca mouthed a quiet thank you.

Sophie, meanwhile, was laughing with Hazel when a guy in a varsity jacket asked her to dance. She almost said yes—until a taller figure in black stepped between them. Crooked smile. Dark eyes. The kind of confidence that assumed the answer was yes.

“Mind if I cut in?”

Her instinct said no. Her voicemail history said otherwise.

“Sure.”

She danced. The silver of her dress caught the light, and for a few minutes she forgot Phillip Cavender existed.

Back at the table, Eloise sipped her soda and checked Discord.

PlantDemonBoss: so where are you tonight?

Eloiseal: copper lantern. Dorm outing.

PlantDemonBoss: nice. hope you’re having fun.

Eloiseal: i am. one of my housemates is about to get her own rom-com subplot.

She glanced up to see John leaning against the dartboard, grinning at something Hazel said, his hand brushing her prosthetic without hesitation.

Eloiseal: definitely a rom-com subplot.

For one night, Danbury owned their corner of the bar—no pastel politics, no blacklists, just their own messy, glittering version of victory.

Kate was savoring the rarest of Danbury Hall luxuries: actual quiet.

Newton was curled against her on the couch—a warm, snoring loaf whose paws twitched like he was chasing dream squirrels. A mug of chamomile rested in one hand, a novel in the other, her legs tucked beneath her.

From the lounge came the soft undercurrent of contentment: Gladys and Ayumi in the middle of an intense chess match, Noura sketching in her spiral, Leila sprawled with earbuds in. The occasional clink of mugs, the whisper of pages turning, and Newton’s sighs were the only interruptions.

It was exactly the kind of evening she’d needed.

Until the knock.

Not the polite kind, either—firm enough to be heard over a movie, but not quite “RA emergency” territory.

She frowned, set her mug down, and padded to the door, Newton hopping down to follow like her own four-legged deputy.

The second she opened it, her eyebrows went up. “Anthony. Should I be concerned you’ve started stalking your sisters on a Friday night?”

He grinned, hands in his coat pockets. “Half right.”

Kate crossed her arms. “Not the denial I was expecting.”

“I didn’t drive down just to hover,” he said, stepping inside without the courtesy of waiting for an invitation. “I was visiting Benedict—”

“Which is a lie,” Kate cut in.

“—and thought I’d check in on my little sisters. Make sure they’re thriving as—what’s the word?—hermits.”

“They’re not hermits. They’re selective,” Kate said, closing the door. Newton immediately sniffed his shoes with the gravitas of a tiny TSA agent.

From the couch, Gladys didn’t look up from her chessboard. “Some of us like it that way.”

Anthony gave her a nod. “Point taken.”

Kate folded her arms again. “You can say a quick hello, but if you so much as hint at sorority recruitment, Newton’s on you.”

Anthony bent to scratch Newton behind the ears. “We both know he’d just lick me.”

Kate’s mouth twitched, but she didn’t give him the satisfaction of a smile.

The front door banged open, and Eloise tumbled in first, cheeks pink from the night air. Francesca followed at a slower pace, headphones around her neck, hair mussed from the evening.

Eloise stopped short. “Fantastic. We’ve graduated from stalking texts to in-person surveillance.”

Anthony spread his hands. “What, no hug for your beloved brother?”

“You’re two steps away from showing up at freshman orientation with a megaphone,” she said, hanging her coat.

Francesca slid her hands into her pockets. “Did Benedict put you up to this?”

Anthony’s smirk deepened. “No. Sadly, I came without snacks or humility. This was all me.”

Francesca rolled her eyes. “If by ‘independence’ you mean ‘finally not being within walking distance of you,’ then yes—thriving.”

Newton padded over to her and sat expectantly. Francesca crouched to scratch behind his ears. “You’re the only Bridgerton I’m happy to see,” she murmured. “Even if you’re technically not one.”

Kate took a slow sip of tea, eyes on Anthony. “See? Selective. Not hermits.”

Eloise flopped onto the opposite couch and kicked off her boots. “Now that you’ve confirmed we’re not wasting away in some sorority-less wasteland, you can head back to D.C. and let us get on with our hermit lives, right?”

Anthony leaned back, perfectly at ease. “Not until I get a full debrief on your week.”

Kate arched a brow. “That’ll be an hour of sarcasm and half-truths.”

Anthony’s grin widened. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Eloise smirked mid-yawn. “Good. Because that’s all you’re getting.”

Newton gave a short, approving chuff, clearly siding with the girls.

Chapter Text

The morning air in Danbury Hall was a heady cocktail of burnt toast and overambitious bass, courtesy of Kappa Alpha’s “pre-game” that had apparently started before 10 a.m. Mayfair’s football team was away for their season opener, but no one on campus needed an actual game to justify chaos—game day was an excuse, not a requirement.

In Room 116, Sophie hovered in that soft, lazy space between dreaming and awake, still riding the afterglow of her best week since transferring. She’d made the dance squad. She’d survived Phi Mu’s laser-beam stares. She’d even had fun—real, I-belong-here fun—at The Copper Lantern last night.

Fun… and that dance.

She didn’t know his name—tall, dark, cocky in a way that should’ve grated but didn’t. It had been easy. Effortless. The kind of unexpected connection that you file away like a found song you keep replaying in your head.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Sophie cracked one eye, groaning. Too early for her dad. And if it was her stepmother—God forbid—straight to voicemail.

She answered anyway. “Hello?”

The voice on the other end wasn’t warm. Or happy.

“Finally. You’ve been blowing up my phone.”

Her eyes flew open. “Phillip? I—yeah, I was calling to tell you I made the team—”

“You mean to tell me about dancing with another guy when you have a boyfriend.”

Her pulse stuttered. “What? How do you even—”

“It doesn’t matter how I know,” he snapped. “It’s the fact you did it. Do you have any idea how that feels? I’m here working, actually busy, and you’re… what? Frolicking with random guys?”

“Frolicking?” she repeated, incredulous. “I was at a bar with my friends. We danced. That’s it. Maybe you could’ve answered one of my calls before jumping to—”

“I’ve been busy, Sophie. Some of us don’t have the luxury of wasting time. I knew it was a bad idea to let you go to Mayfair.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. Before she could answer, the line went dead.

She stared at the phone, the glow of the screen already fading.

From across the room, Hazel stirred, shifting her prosthetic against the blanket as she rolled over. “You okay?”

Sophie forced her voice into neutral. “Yeah. Fine.”

Hazel gave her a long, skeptical look but didn’t press.

Sophie set the phone face-down and pushed a smile onto her face—one she didn’t believe in—and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Outside, the music swelled: shouts, laughter, the thump of bass. She’d been wrong. Last night’s victory was over. This morning was a different kind of fight.

Hazel sat up, stretching. “You don’t look fine,” she said in that roommate way that somehow managed to be both casual and surgical.

“I’m just tired,” Sophie murmured, tugging her hair into a messy bun.

“Mm-hm,” Hazel said, which in universal roommate language meant I’ll let this go now, but I’m not buying it. She swung her legs to the floor. “You know what’s better than sulking? Mimosas.”

Sophie gave a small laugh. “It’s ten in the morning.”

“Exactly,” Hazel said, yanking open her dresser. “Half the campus has been drunk since sunrise. The football team might be in Raleigh, but the pre-game’s here. And we should be too.”

Sophie hesitated. She could stay in—doomscroll, replay Phillip’s voice until every word calcified. Or she could not.

Hazel grinned, sensing the crack in her resolve. “Come on. We’re the newest Mayfair Dance squad members. Let’s give Phi Mu something fresh to glare at.”

Twenty minutes later, Sophie was being towed down the hall, silver hoops catching the morning light.

The common room was already alive: Michaela sprawled on the couch with her feet in Eloise’s lap, giving a dramatic monologue about the perils of Greek Row; Francesca on the rug, sorting sheet music while Newton snored like an old man beside her.

Kate looked up from the kitchenette, spoon in hand. “Where are you two off to?”

“Campus crawl,” Hazel said. “Starting at Kensington Green and seeing where the day takes us.”

Kate arched a brow. “And you’re going to behave yourselves?”

Hazel’s grin was all teeth. “We’ll behave in public.”

Kate didn’t look convinced, but Newton’s tail thumped in approval—as if he, at least, fully endorsed the plan.

Outside, the quad was already in full late-summer bloom—lawn chairs angled for maximum people-watching, tailgate tents staked like tiny kingdoms, and students in every shade of Mayfair green. By the fountain, a portable speaker pumped bass-heavy pop while someone balanced a cooler on the edge and handed out canned cocktails like communion. The air had that crisp, golden promise that made staying indoors feel like a sin.

Despite the ache Phillip’s call had left lodged somewhere under her ribs, Sophie felt herself easing into it. Hazel might actually have been right—there were worse cures for a bad morning than sunshine and petty spectacle.

Their route to Kensington Green took them right past the Phi Mu tent. A few of the Bucks lounged in curated casualness, sunglasses in place, hair perfectly glossed. Sophie got the kind of slow once-over that could sour milk. Clara’s smile was as sharp as a tack—designed to snag and draw blood.

Hazel leaned close, voice dry. “If looks could kill, we’d be in a shallow grave before lunch.”

Sophie kept her chin high. “Then let’s make sure it’s worth the trouble.”

The Green itself looked like someone had dropped a football stadium onto the cover of a college brochure. White tents lined the paths, speakers blared hype anthems from three different decades, and the smell of grilled hot dogs, funnel cakes, and kettle corn tangled together in the breeze. The team might have been in North Carolina, but Mayfair was in full game-day mode anyway.

Hazel slowed a beat when she spotted John across the lawn, laughing with Jack and a couple of other Danbury residents, a paper cup in his guitar-callused hands. Her usual unshakable confidence wavered for half a second.

Sophie caught it instantly. “You going over?”

Hazel shook her head, gaze lingering anyway. “We literally talked last night. No need to look desperate.”

“Right,” Sophie said, fighting a smirk.

They looped around the fountain and nearly collided with Penelope, who was propped against the railing of a pop-up bar, holding court with Al. He was in flannel and sunglasses, nodding like she was divulging state secrets—or the definitive ranking of every Jane Austen adaptation.

“Is it me,” Sophie murmured, “or does this feel like we walked into an episode of College GameDay?”

Hazel’s eyes skimmed the crowd—Mayfair green everywhere, a football being tossed between tents, a photographer snapping candids of sorority girls posing like it was contractually required. “If College GameDay had a JV budget, a losing record, and the fans didn’t care, then yeah.”

Mayfair’s football devotion was almost charming, if charming meant grown adults painting their faces for a team sitting at two wins and three losses.

They didn’t have long to linger before a small squad of Sigmas ambled over, radiating the kind of territorial confidence that came with expensive sunglasses and never waiting in line at the bar. Albert Fife led the pack—tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing his fraternity letters like they were an actual title.

“Well, well,” he drawled, grin easy enough to belong in a recruitment ad. “The Danbury delegation, gracing us with their presence.”

Hazel muttered under her breath, “Ah yes, the National Park Service of frat boys—marking their territory.”

Sophie smiled politely. “Out here recruiting for Sigma?”

“Always,” Fife said, clasping Jack’s hand like they’d once won a championship together. “Gotta keep the energy up when the team’s away.”

He was halfway into a breakdown of Mayfair’s playoff odds when Maggie Goring appeared—Phi Mu sophomore, all glossed blonde hair and precision-smoothed confidence.

“Oh, hey!” she chirped, sliding neatly between Sophie and Fife like she’d just cut in on a dance floor. One hand landed on his arm with proprietary ease. “Didn’t know you were hanging out here.”

Her gaze skimmed Sophie, quick and assessing, and settled into something smug. “Just so you know, the Sigmas are… well, let’s call it Phi Mu property.”

Hazel’s brows shot up. “Property?”

Maggie’s smile never shifted. “It’s tradition. Social tradition.”

Sophie’s first instinct was to laugh, but she kept her tone even. “Funny, I didn’t see any fences. Or name tags.”

Fife looked caught between amusement and resignation. “Maggie…”

She ignored him, tilting her head with the benevolence of someone explaining the rules to a particularly slow transfer student. “Don’t take it personally. You’re new. We’ll let it slide.”

Sophie’s smile stayed pleasant, bright as glass. “How generous of you.”

Hazel coughed into her drink, loud and not remotely subtle.

The tension stretched a beat too long before Penelope’s voice cut across from the pop-up bar. “Hey, Sophie! Hazel! You want a drink or are you just here for the drama?”

Maggie let the pause hang just long enough before looping her arm through Fife’s and steering him back toward the Phi Mu tent.

Hazel exhaled. “Well. That was… educational.”

Sophie shrugged, pulse still running faster than she liked. “Guess the social rules here come with a playbook.”

“Good thing,” Hazel said, “we’re not playing their game.”

And together they turned toward Penelope and Al, leaving Phi Mu’s imaginary property lines—and its guard dogs—behind.

Eloise had claimed her usual throne—the battered armchair in the corner—phone pressed to her ear, one leg hooked lazily over the armrest.

“No, Phil, I’m telling you—your rogue wouldn’t have made it five feet into Graymarsh without Vesper,” she said, grinning at the indignant squawk on the other end. “You rolled a five. That’s not a perception check. That’s a cry for help.”

Across the room, Francesca was at the upright piano, coaxing something slow and meditative from the keys, the kind of melody that floated at the edges of thought. It made Eloise’s gleeful verbal combat sound like banter in the soundtrack of a black-and-white screwball comedy.

The peace broke when Michaela burst in from the hallway, waving her phone like a breaking news alert.

“Emergency gossip drop!” She flopped onto the couch so hard Francesca’s playing hiccupped. “The Mosquito just posted a double sting.”

Eloise cupped her hand over the phone’s mic. “How do you always get these first?”

“It’s a gift,” Michaela said gravely, already scrolling. “Item one—Phi Mu says they ‘own’ Sigma Chi.”

Francesca snorted. “Own?”

“Yep. Except the Sigmas apparently didn’t get the memo. They’ve been spotted with Kappa Delta girls, Alpha Chis, and—” Michaela shot Eloise a look—“‘outsiders.’ Their word, not mine.”

Eloise smirked. “Oh, they’re going to handle that well.”

“They’re not,” Michaela confirmed. “Rumor is Phi Mu’s threatening a retaliatory mixer ban.”

Francesca sighed from the piano bench. “It’s not the Cold War.”

“Item two,” Eloise said, leaning forward. “The second sting?”

Michaela grinned. “Video of a Sigma slip-and-slide gone wrong. They set it up between tents on The Green… forgot about the gravel underneath.”

She hit play. The three of them winced in unison as a frat boy hit the bump, went airborne, and landed flat on his back.

“Ouch,” Francesca said, though her mouth twitched.

Eloise laughed outright. “And they wonder why I avoid Greek Row.”

Just then, Kate emerged from the staff apartment, Newton trotting behind with a half-chewed rope toy. She took one look at the huddle. “Do I want to know?”

“GameDay chaos,” Michaela said. “Phi Mu turf wars, Sigmas fraternizing with the enemy, and one guy who probably needs a chiropractor.”

Kate raised a brow. “And the team’s not even here today?”

Eloise gestured at the phone. “Mayfair makes its own entertainment.”

Kate’s mouth curved. “Maybe we should, too.”

Hazel, passing with her laundry basket, paused. “Too… what?”

“Danbury GameDay,” Kate said. “Our rules. No pep rallies, no politics, and no Pat McAfee forcing field goals. Just… fun.”

Michaela sat up, grinning. “I’m in. Let’s make Phi Mu jealous they weren’t invited.”

Eloise clicked off speaker. “Phil, gotta go. Danbury’s starting a tradition.”

“Uh-oh,” he said.

“Yes,” Eloise replied. “The good kind.”

By the time Sophie, Hazel, and Penelope came back, the distant crowd roar had been replaced by something wilder—shouting, laughter, and the splat of something wet hitting pavement.

They rounded the corner and stopped dead.

Danbury’s backyard had turned into summer camp for agents of chaos. Water balloons flew in arcs, shaving cream pies met unsuspecting faces, and a dizzy-bat race in the middle claimed a new victim every thirty seconds. Francesca clutched Newton like he was the MVP; Michaela wielded a half-filled balloon like a scepter.

“Okay,” Penelope said slowly, “this is like Banana Ball. But with fewer rules.”

Kate appeared, spotless despite the carnage. “Perfect timing. Group picture.”

Groans, shuffles, and one last shaving cream hit later, Kate held her phone high.

“One, two, three—”

Everyone yelled: “We’re not hermits!”

Click.

Kate glanced at the photo, satisfied, then turned to Francesca with a glint in her eye. “Think I should send this to Anthony? Just to prove my point?”

Francesca didn’t blink. “Absolutely. With the caption, ‘Hermits, my ass.’”

Newton barked once—clearly in favor.

Kate smirked, thumbs already flying. “Done.”

And somewhere in D.C., Anthony Bridgerton’s phone lit up.

Chapter Text

Anthony was halfway through a glass of Pinot Noir and, by his own private metric, halfway through one of the most promising first dates he’d had in months.

The restaurant—one of those Capitol Hill institutions where the bread arrived on its own slate like it had been curated—was lit in that perfect, flattering, dim way that made everyone look like they had better bone structure. Across from him, Scarlett was mid-story about getting a Congressman to admit he didn’t know what a carbon offset was.

Anthony was listening. Mostly.

Then his phone—face-down on the table—buzzed. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.

Scarlett arched an eyebrow over her wine glass. “Important?”

Anthony gave the polite half-smile of a man who was sure it could wait, but… maybe not. He flipped it over.

📸 Kate: Hermits, my ass.

Attached: chaos incarnate. His sisters, grinning like the gremlins they were, flanked by Danbury Hall residents armed with water balloons and streaked in shaving cream. Newton sat front and center in what looked like a victory pose, smug as a monarch who’d just conquered Westminster.

Anthony blinked once.

A second text followed before he could process the first:

Kate: Tell your sisters I’m proud. Tell you… well, we’ll get to that later.

Scarlett leaned in, curious. “Friends?”

“My…” Anthony paused, because what exactly did you call Kate Sharma? “Family. And their… handler.”

“Handler?”

He shoved the phone face-down again like it might detonate. “Long story.”

Scarlett laughed softly. “You’ve gone pale. Is it bad news?”

“No,” Anthony said, stabbing at his bread with more force than necessary. “Worse. They’re having fun without me.”

Buzz.

Francesca: You’d hate it here. Too loud. Too wet. Newton’s thriving.

Anthony’s jaw flexed. Scarlett was still talking about bipartisan environmental wins, but all he could picture was Kate sending that photo with a smirk, knowing exactly how much it would needle him.

Buzz.

Eloise: You’re welcome for the proof of life, Big Brother.

Buzz.

Newton: 🐾🐾woof (hermit)

Anthony set the phone down like it had personally insulted him, took a long pull of wine, and gave Scarlett his most composed everything’s fine smile.

“So,” she said, “what’s your family like?”

“Oh,” Anthony replied lightly, “I’m sure you’ll meet them someday. Assuming I don’t throttle them first.”

The phone buzzed again—harder this time, like it knew he was bluffing. He tried to ignore it. Lasted a full thirty seconds. Then caved.

Kate: Oh, and Francesca just beat Michaela at dizzy bat. Crowd went wild.

Anthony: Glad to see the hermits are thriving. Should I send medals or rabies shots?

The dots appeared immediately.

Kate: Rabies? From a corgi? Shows how much you know.

Buzz.

Eloise: Frannie’s posting Newton’s halftime show on Instagram. You should like it so she knows you’re alive.

Anthony’s eyebrow twitched. Halftime show?

He clicked the link and instantly regretted it. Newton was parading across the Danbury lawn in a tiny Mayfair jersey while Francesca lobbed him mini tennis balls like it was the Puppy Bowl. The crowd was chanting his name.

Scarlett peered. “That’s your dog?”

Anthony cleared his throat. “Technically, no. Long story.”

Her smile was indulgent, but her eyes were sharp. “Sounds like a fun family.”

“Fun,” Anthony echoed flatly. “That’s one word for them.”

Buzz.

Kate: PSA: Francesca says hi. Eloise says ‘mind your own business.’ Newton says ‘fetch.’

Scarlett grinned at his scowl. “Wow. That bad?”

“I wouldn’t say bad,” Anthony said carefully. “More… suspicious. It’s too quiet when I’m not there. And when it’s not quiet—” He gestured to the phone. “—it’s this.”

Buzz.

Kate: Oh, and apparently your old frat is now the property of Phi Mu. Face it—your sisters and new friends are making enemies faster than you ever did.

Anthony set his wine glass down hard enough to thunk.

Scarlett tilted her head. “You look like you’re about to abandon a date to do something reckless.”

He blinked. “What? No. That’s absurd.”

Buzz.

Newton: 🐾🐾*woof woof (hermit who?)*

Anthony exhaled slowly. “Okay, fine. Maybe. Hypothetically.”

Scarlett smiled, pushing her plate toward him. “Finish my fries first. Then go save your hermits.”

By the time the last water balloon burst and the final shaving-cream pie splatted, Danbury Hall looked like the aftermath of a food fight staged for a detergent commercial.

Kate stood in the yard, hands on her hips, surveying the damp, foamy battlefield while Newton trotted proudly between puddles like a four-legged quality-control inspector.

“Well,” she said, “I’d call that a success.”

Leila wrung out the hem of her T-shirt. “If this is what we do during an away game, I can’t wait to see a home game.”

“Can’t wait” was optimistic, judging by the groans of the half-dozen residents hauling trash bags to the dumpster—but the spirit was there.

Upstairs, the second-floor common room had shifted into recovery mode. Francesca had claimed the loveseat, earbuds in, head tipped back as a piano-and-rain playlist rinsed the last two hours of chaos from her mind.

Across the room, Sophie curled in an armchair, legs tucked under her, scrolling her phone without really seeing the screen. She’d laughed and played along all afternoon, but now that the noise had faded, Phillip’s voice was back in her head—sharp, clipped, accusing.

Eloise wandered in mid-granola-bar, took one look at Sophie’s slouch, and said, “Why do you look like someone just told you Newton’s retiring?”

From the couch, Hazel didn’t even glance up from folding laundry. “Her boyfriend Phillip called this morning. It… wasn’t great.”

Eloise’s eyebrows shot up. “Not great as in ‘he misses you,’ or not great as in ‘he’s being an ass’?”

Sophie hesitated. “He didn’t like that I danced with someone at the bar last night.”

Eloise snorted. “Oh no, you committed the cardinal sin of… having a good time. Alert the Vatican—Pope Leo’s probably on line one.”

Sophie winced. “It wasn’t like that—”

“No, it was like that,” Eloise cut in, dropping into the armchair opposite. “He’s acting like he owns the lease on your social life. Either he butts out, or he jumps off a cliff. Small one. But still.”

“…Wow.” Sophie blinked.

“What? I’m serious.” Eloise leaned forward, voice sharper now. “You have every right to enjoy yourself. Dancing with someone else isn’t cheating—it’s breathing. From the way you talk about him, he’s been gaslighting you into nun-level purity while he gets to… what? Be ‘busy’?”

Hazel gave a little nod. “She’s not wrong. You’ve said yourself he barely calls you back since you’ve been here.”

Sophie traced the edge of her phone case with her thumb. Eloise’s bluntness stung—but like antiseptic on a cut.

Francesca slid one earbud out just long enough to say, “If he makes you feel smaller instead of bigger, that’s not a relationship. It’s a shoe that doesn’t fit.”

Eloise pointed. “Exactly. And bad shoes give blisters. Don’t be like Cinderella’s stepsisters—they literally cut off their toes in the original.”

Sophie cracked a faint smile. “You guys are terrible at subtlety.”

Hazel grinned. “And you love us for it.” She tilted her head. “By the way, what’s that movie you keep quoting?”

“The Ugly Stepsister,” Sophie said with a shrug. “It’s Norwegian. Add tapeworm eggs and 1800s plastic surgery, and you’ve got the vibe.”

From down the hall, Kate’s voice floated up, calling for recycling help. Francesca popped her earbud back in, Eloise finished her granola bar, and Sophie—just for a moment—felt lighter. Phillip’s voice still lingered, but so did theirs.

She glanced at Eloise. “Okay, I have to ask—why is your brother so obsessed with Phi Mu? He acts like it’s a survival requirement.”

Eloise rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle she didn’t strain something. “Anthony thinks Phi Mu is peak Mayfair social life because Daphne was in it. He conveniently ignores the fact that the rest of us have zero interest in pledging allegiance to a pastel dictatorship.”

Sophie snorted. “Well, I wouldn’t have had the chance even if I wanted to. I got rejected before Rush Week even started.”

Eloise blinked. “They can do that?”

“Oh, they can,” Sophie said dryly. “Apparently I was too ‘off-brand.’ Which is code for ‘poor.’ My dad owns a popular restaurant, but we’re not old money. I didn’t grow up in matching seersucker sets for family photos. Guess they prefer Golden Gooses to New Balances.”

Hazel set down her folded shirt. “I didn’t even get the rejection email. Let’s be honest—have they ever picked someone with a disability? Doesn’t fit the Instagram aesthetic.”

From the hallway, Michaela’s voice rang out, dripping with mock drama. “Please. They took one look at me before open house and decided I was a threat. Apparently, a lesbian with a fab TikTok is more terrifying than climate change.” She plopped onto the arm of Francesca’s chair. “Their loss. I would’ve been the best-dressed in every composite photo.”

Eloise and Francesca traded a look over Michaela’s head. They knew perfectly well why they’d gotten as far as they had—Daphne. The golden Bridgerton stamp.

Eloise leaned back. “Honestly, I’m curious—who here hasn’t been rejected by Phi Mu before open house?”

It didn’t take long. Hands went up. Heads nodded. A low chorus of “yep”s circled the room.

That’s when Penelope walked in, tea in one hand, phone in the other. She stopped mid-step at the sight of everyone looking her way. “What?”

“You’re not in Phi Mu,” Michaela said flatly. “That kind of answers the question.”

Penelope blinked, then crossed the room and sat. “Well. Guess that makes me part of the club.”

Sophie smirked. “Welcome to the rejects’ lounge. No matching T-shirts, but the snacks are better.”

“And the friendships are free,” Hazel added.

Michaela grinned. “Plus, no pastel dress code.”

Penelope sipped her tea, eyes sweeping the circle. “Sounds like an upgrade.”

Eloise, still draped sideways in the armchair like a cat claiming prime real estate, steered the conversation back with all the subtlety of a bus merging without a blinker.

“Anyway, back to the real issue—your boyfriend. Show me a picture.”

Sophie hesitated, scrolling through her photos like she was flipping through mildly incriminating evidence, before finally holding the phone out.

Eloise took one look and didn’t even bother with tact. “Oh my God. He looks like a Jersey Shore reject—minus even a single molecule of The Situation’s charisma.”

From her perch by the window, Francesca leaned in for a quick glance. “He actually looks like Taylor’s ex from The Summer I Turned Pretty—but worse. And that guy was already a walking cautionary tale.”

Sophie laughed despite herself. “Okay, okay—he has his good moments.”

Michaela raised one unimpressed brow. “When was the last good moment? And don’t say the time he didn’t complain about the restaurant bill. If he cared, he’d have been here on move-in day—helping you and your dad carry boxes, hang fairy lights, and argue about where the mini-fridge goes. Not phoning in to interrogate you about a dance.”

The laughter softened, but Sophie’s grip on her phone tightened. She tried to summon a moment that made her feel… seen. Nothing came quickly. The pause said more than she meant it to.

Before anyone could press, the doorbell rang.

Sophie’s stomach dipped. “Oh God. What if it’s him?”

Michaela’s grin went positively feral. “Then I call dibs on telling him off.”

Kate’s voice floated up from the stairs. “Relax, it’s not your personal soap opera.”

A beat later, the front door swung open—and in walked a very familiar smirk.

Anthony stepped inside like he owned the place, hands spread in mock grandeur. “It’s everyone’s favorite big brother, who apparently can’t stay away for more than twenty-four hours.”

Eloise groaned theatrically. “And just like that, the vibe is dead.”

Francesca muttered, “I’m buying a lock for that door.”

Newton barked from the kitchen—whether in welcome or warning was up for debate.

Chapter Text

Anthony didn’t just visit Danbury Hall—he staged a tactical occupation.

Five minutes after walking through the door, his jacket was draped over the banister like a flag claiming new territory. His shoes were parked in the exact middle of the traffic path where someone was guaranteed to trip. And the prime armchair in the common room? Claimed, sprawled in, and defended with the casual entitlement of a man settling into the Speaker’s chair in Congress. All he needed was a gavel and a camera crew.

Kate lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing the wary expression of someone watching a raccoon dig through their pantry—too unpredictable to approach, too dangerous to ignore. Newton sat at her feet, ears pricked, gaze fixed on Anthony as if running a background check. Every time Anthony laughed too loud or gestured too wide, Newton’s growl rumbled low, like distant thunder.

“Your dog doesn’t like me,” Anthony observed, mid-monologue.

Kate didn’t blink. “He’s territorial. He can smell you’re here to disrupt the peace.”

If Anthony heard her, he didn’t care. He was already holding court like the keynote speaker at AnthonyCon 2025.

“So,” he told Sophie, “the problem isn’t that you danced with another guy—it’s that you picked the wrong guy. You want someone with humor, an edge… a musician.” He pointed at John, who was quietly tuning his guitar in the corner. “Write her a song, and boom—you’re golden. Bonus points if you take her to Charlottesville. Dave Matthews Band still sells out. That whole ‘Crash Into Me’ vibe? Catnip.”

John looked up, alarmed. “…Thanks?”

Anthony pivoted to Jack. “Mechanical engineering, right? Rolex is desperate for engineers. Swiss watchmakers are losing their minds over Apple Watches. Send them your résumé.”

Jack glanced at his Apple Watch. “Uh… okay?”

By the time Eloise and Francesca wandered in, Anthony had moved on to sports commentary.

“One game in and our offensive line’s toast by midseason,” he declared. “Also, Belly should just go to Paris. Forget Conrad and Jeremiah—Jeremiah cheated over spring break, and Conrad’s waited too late to say anything. Neither of them’s worth the screen time.”

Eloise groaned. “He’s doing the thing.”

Sophie leaned over. “What thing?”

“The thing where he acts like the moderator of a ‘VIP’—Very Important Panel,” Eloise muttered.

Kate passed through with her coffee. “The Cult of Anthony is forming, and I can’t stop it.”

She wasn’t wrong—a semicircle of Danbury residents had gathered like disciples.

“Baby 222?” Anthony went on. “She’d go full influencer within six months and buy herself a boy band. And if Stranger Things drags on any longer, Gregory and Hyacinth will be middle-aged by the finale. At least One Piece knows how to pace itself.”

Mateo perked up. “You watch One Piece?”

Kate froze mid-step. “Oh no.”

Anthony grinned. “Best world-building in anime. And you—” he pointed at Mateo, “—you look like Luffy.”

Kate sighed. “Fantastic. My sister Edwina’s a One Piece fan. Congratulations. You’ve recruited your first apostle.”

Newton barked—unclear if it was a warning or a pledge of loyalty.

Anthony leaned back like a general surveying conquered land. “So, what’s next on the agenda?”

Kate narrowed her eyes. “The part where you go home.”

He just grinned. “Mm. Pass.”

She didn’t bother arguing. She turned toward the kitchenette, the silent your time here is limited trailing behind her. Naturally, Anthony followed.

By the time she reached the counter, he was leaning against it—smug angles, crossed arms—like a magazine spread titled “How to Annoy Your Ex in Ten Easy Steps”.

“You leaving before I have to fumigate?” she asked, reaching for the coffee tin.

He tilted his head. “Hm… no. But thanks for the warm welcome, Hermit Queen.”

Her jaw tightened. “Call me that again and Newton will hand-deliver your left shoe to your doorstep.”

Anthony smirked, leaning in just enough to make it dangerous. “You sent me a group photo mid-date just to get under my skin. Not very hermit behavior.”

Kate poured coffee like she was imagining it over his head. “I sent it because you were busy lecturing your sisters about their social lives. Consider it proof of thriving.”

“Thriving,” he repeated. “In a backyard water balloon war? Very dignified. I’m proud.”

She shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Says the man who played dizzy bat in his frat days.”

“And won,” Anthony said, grinning.

Kate brushed past him for a mug, shoulder grazing his. “Congratulations. Your legacy is secure.”

From the hallway came a stifled giggle.

They turned to find the women of Danbury peeking in like an unsubtle Greek chorus.

Eloise whispered—loudly—“Five bucks says Kate kicks him out in under ten minutes.”

Michaela shook her head. “Nah. Too much unresolved tension. This is going full enemies-to-lovers.”

Francesca, deadpan: “Gross. Stop.”

Gladys tilted her head. “Do you think he’s about to launch into a monologue about how DC is still not far enough because she’s the bane of his existence and the object of all his desires?”

Half the group just stared at her.

Kate ignored the Greek chorus and reached for the sugar. Anthony, of course, swooped in first, sliding it just out of reach with the reflexes of a man who lived to be inconvenient.

“You could say please,” he said, lips twitching.

She arched a brow. “I could also say leave.”

Instead of retreating, he set the sugar on the counter between them, leaning in so close Newton’s low, warning growl started up again from the corner.

“You’re a lot bossier in person than over text,” Anthony said, voice all mock admiration.

Kate’s smile was pure sweetness—and about as safe as raw pufferfish. “And you’re exactly as irritating as I remember.”

From the doorway, Sophie stage-whispered, “We should sell tickets.”

Anthony finally straightened, palms up in faux surrender. “Fine. I’ll let you get back to your… coffee-making empire.”

Kate didn’t even glance up. “You do that.”

He took two steps toward the door, then paused, a glint in his eye that should’ve come with a warning label. “But you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

She met his gaze, cool as winter rain. “Only if I need someone to reach the top shelf.”

The Greek chorus of Danbury Hall lost it—Eloise snorted, Francesca groaned—and scattered just before Kate’s glare hit full strength.

Kate turned back to her coffee, telling herself she might—might—get through the next hour without further Anthony interference. That fragile hope shattered the second the coat rack in the hall crashed to the floor.

“Uh… Kate?” Jack’s voice followed.

Without looking up: “If it’s Newton stealing socks again, handle it.”

Jack appeared in the doorway, wearing the apologetic face of a man about to request a bad favor. “It’s… bigger than socks. The projector for movie night? Dead. Backup one’s also dead. And by ‘dead,’ I mean smoking. Oh, and the screen’s jammed halfway down.”

Kate sighed. “Call maintenance.”

“They’re at the post-game party,” Jack said. “Off-campus. In Norfolk.”

She muttered something in Tamil that could peel paint—and caught the faintly smug glint in Anthony’s eyes.

“Oh no,” she said immediately. “Don’t even think about it.”

“What?” Anthony asked, already squaring his shoulders like a man about to roll up his sleeves. “I know my way around a jammed screen. Years in student government, fixing what the administration wouldn’t pay for.”

“You are not using this as an excuse to play hero.”

“Oh, come on.” He leaned against the counter, pure charm and provocation. “You’ve got forty residents—including my sisters—ready to riot over their double feature. The only thing between you and chaos is me.”

From the hall, Eloise called, “For once, he’s not exaggerating. He saved Hyacinth’s Girl Scout movie night once. Prevented a full cookie mutiny.”

Kate shot her a look that could have cut glass. “You’re not helping.”

Anthony was already striding toward the common room. “Relax, Sharma. I’ll even let you take the credit.”

“You’ll what?” she called after him, following despite herself.

The common room looked like a low-budget disaster movie—Gladys glaring at the inert projector, Hazel clutching popcorn like a talisman, Mateo on a chair poking the screen with all the finesse of a toddler with a stick.

Anthony took one glance, shrugged out of his dress shirt so he was down to a fitted white tee, and said, “Alright. Hand me a screwdriver.”

Francesca leaned toward Eloise. “This is either going to be a heroic rescue or a live OSHA violation.”

Hazel murmured, “Five bucks says he electrocutes himself before the opening credits.”

Marian smirked. “Ten says he fixes it and never shuts up about it.”

Anthony knelt, screwdriver in hand, Newton stationed beside him like a judgmental foreman.

“First step,” Anthony announced, “is not panicking.”

“Step two,” Michaela stage-whispered, “flex your biceps so everyone knows you mean business.”

Kate crossed her arms. “If this thing ends up more broken, you’re paying for a new one.”

“That’s confidence talking,” Anthony shot back, prying open the casing.

Mateo peered down from his chair. “I think he actually knows what he’s doing.”

Gladys shook her head. “Or he’s just doing it loudly. That’s half of leadership.”

A collective ooh rippled through the room as the jammed screen inched downward.

Eloise nudged Sophie. “This is how it starts. First the projector, then he’s crowned King of Danbury Hall.”

“Don’t encourage him or he’ll go full Brandon Walsh,” Francesca warned. “And no one wants to live through that.”

Sophie grinned. “So we’d all have to pay tribute in coffee beans and sarcasm?”

Newton barked once, right as the projector flickered to life.

Anthony rose, wiping his hands like he’d just defused a bomb. “Ladies and gentlemen, your double feature is saved.”

Applause broke out; Hazel tossed him a popcorn piece like a medal.

Gladys, grudgingly impressed, said, “Fine. He can stay. For now.”

Kate muttered, “The Cult of Anthony lives on.”

Anthony leaned against the wall, smug as sin. “Told you—accidental teamwork.”

By the time Rudy’s credits rolled, Danbury Hall had settled into its usual late-night sprawl—half the residents cocooned under mismatched blankets, the other half raiding the kitchenette like raccoons with a Sam’s Club membership card.

Over by the couch, Mateo was already in full ESPN commentator mode.

“I’m telling you, the form on that screwdriver grip was textbook. Straight wrist, steady torque. The man could moonlight as an A/V repair god.”

Hazel, working through her second popcorn refill, nodded gravely. “And that screen drop? Pure drama. He could’ve just lowered it all at once, but no—he teased it. Let the crowd feel the tension.”

“Classic misdirection,” Michaela said from the loveseat, arms stretched like she’d just finished yoga. “Makes you think he’s about to fail spectacularly, then—bam! Projector springs back to life. Theatrical and effective.”

Eloise smirked from her perch on the armrest. “Please. You’re all acting like he just won the Super Bowl. He fixed a piece of campus equipment. Send him a thank-you card and move on.”

Gladys—now firmly in Anthony’s camp—waved her popcorn bowl like a gavel. “No, no—this was a turning point. Before tonight, Anthony was just El and Fran’s overbearing older brother. Now? He’s the man who kept movie night from devolving into anarchy.”

Sophie grinned. “Congratulations. The Cult of Anthony has its founding myth.”

“Which makes Kate…?” Hazel tilted her head toward the kitchen.

“The lone voice of reason,” Michaela said. “Or the rebel leader. Hard to say.”

From the corner, Newton gave a single, deliberate bark—like he was voting.

Kate reappeared with fresh coffee, catching their conspiratorial grins mid-plot. “Whatever you’re saying,” she warned, “stop.”

Eloise didn’t even flinch. “Too late. We’re already designing the banner for the next projector emergency.”

Kate rolled her eyes but let it drop. She had the sinking feeling this was one of those stories that would outlive everyone in the room—told alongside “The Great Finals Week Fire Alarm” and “The Midnight Yoga Coup of Sophomore Year”.

And judging by Anthony’s smug, half-smile across the room, he knew it too.

By Monday, the Cult of Anthony was in full bloom.

Sunday, 8:42 AM – Two freshmen at Pall Mall Dining Hall, whispering over omelets:

“I heard Anthony Bridgerton rebuilt the projector from scratch using only a paperclip and his sheer willpower. Total MacGyver.”

Sunday, 11:10 AM – Phi Mu porch, Winnie sipping her iced latte:

“Apparently, he hotwired the thing. Like—rewired the entire electrical system in ten minutes.”

“While shirtless,” Anne added, purely for dramatic flair.

Sunday, 2:37 PM – Sigma Chi common room, Guy retelling it like a war story:

“Danbury was on the brink of mutiny. Then he strolls in, takes one look, and boom—projector works. Dude’s a legend.”

Sunday, 5:30 PM – Fitness center, Owen to Michaela (loud enough for the treadmills to hear):

“He didn’t just fix it. He upgraded it. Picture’s so sharp now it could fix bad vision.”

Sunday, 8:22 PM – Sidewalk outside Danbury, Marian to Gladys:

“Next time the Wi-Fi’s down, we’ll just light the Anthony Signal.”

Sunday, 10:26 PM – Penelope, in bed while Eloise slept:

BREAKING: Capitol Hill staffer saves Mayfair movie night. Sources say he’s considering a run for RA in 2026. — @MayfairMosquito

Monday, 6:19 AM – Quad, overheard during Kate and Newton’s walk:

“That’s his dog now, right?”

“Obviously. Projector rescue = custody rights.”

Kate just tightened her grip on Newton’s leash.

Newton didn’t comment—though, in Kate’s opinion, his tail wag was far too noncommittal.

Chapter Text

Three weeks after the “Cult of Anthony” incident—still capitalized in conversation, still inexplicably thriving—Danbury Hall had mostly slipped back into its standard chaos.

Mostly.

Thursday night D&D had survived the upheaval, though Eloise and Phil had graduated from the safety of Discord avatars—PlantDemonBoss and Eloiseal—to trading verbal jabs across an actual table. The snark was unchanged; the sidelong glances were new. And dangerous.

Midway through the session, the DM was describing an ancient library when Phil leaned across his character sheet, tasting her name like a test spell.

“So… Eloise. You planning to loot the shelves again, or should I prep another rescue?”

She didn’t glance up. “Funny. I don’t recall needing rescuing—unless you mean the time you set off that mimic trap like a complete amateur.”

“Strategic sacrifice,” he said smoothly. “You’re welcome.”

Her eyes finally met his—sharp, amused. “That’s what you’re calling it? Because I distinctly remember screaming.”

“That,” Phil corrected with infuriating calm, “was a tactical yell. Alerted the party, didn’t it?”

“Mm-hm.” Her dice clattered—natural 20. She smiled without looking away. “See? Some of us don’t need theatrics to win.”

Phil’s brow twitched, but instead of rising to the bait, he jotted something on his notepad and shielded it with his hand.

Suspicious, she narrowed her eyes. “What are you plotting?”

“Planning ahead,” he said lightly. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Which was the problem—she would find out. Eventually. Until then, the secret sat between them like a live wire, humming louder every time she caught him smirking at his notes.

By the time the party reached the library’s hidden vault, she’d had enough.

“Eloiseal’s in front,” she declared before the DM could speak. “Checking floors, walls, ceilings—if there’s a deadly dust bunny, I’m finding it first.”

Phil’s mouth curved. “Overcompensating?”

“Learning from your mistakes.”

“Bold of you to assume I make mistakes.”

“Oh, I don’t assume.” She rolled—seventeen. “I know.”

The table broke into laughter as the DM narrated her progress, while Phil leaned back, eyes glittering like he already had the upper hand.

When the vault door finally creaked open, the DM revealed the treasure hoard—guarded by a dragon. The groan around the table was unanimous.

Except Phil’s.

“That’s… convenient.” He flipped his notepad to reveal a perfectly smug, crown-wearing dragon with a banner reading: Property of PlantDemonBoss.

Eloise stared. “You knew?”

“Might have had a word with the DM earlier.”

“That’s cheating.”

“That’s strategy. And I’m willing to split the loot.”

“I’d rather fight the dragon alone.”

“Perfect.” His smirk sharpened. “Let’s see if you can.”

The DM sighed, already sensing incoming chaos. The rest of the table settled in like it was pay-per-view night.

And Eloise—damn it—felt her pulse quicken.

Penelope, by means of charm, timing, and what may have been an entire semester’s worth of strategic glances across lecture halls, had acquired the official title of Al Debling’s girlfriend.

It came with undeniable perks: warm hands that never failed to find hers on frigid walks to class, conversation that could leap from Oscar Wilde to urban planning without ever feeling like homework, and a frankly suspicious level of knowledge about turn-of-the-century poetry. He quoted Christina Rossetti the way other guys quoted The Office—offhand, fond, and just a bit smug when she caught the reference.

There was, however, one small complication: every single date was vegan.

Not “sometimes vegan,” not “this place just happens to have a plant-based menu,” but committed vegan. The man had a Google Map dotted with tofu temples and chickpea shrines like a pilgrim trail. She had gamely made her way through crispy tempeh tacos, jackfruit pulled “pork,” and a chickpea-based ice cream that was… shockingly decent, though she would take that truth to her grave.

She hadn’t complained yet—not because she was afraid to hurt his feelings, but because Al’s smile made even oat milk foam feel romantic.

Still, she tested the waters one Friday night over a plate of beet carpaccio.

“Next time,” she ventured, “can we maybe—hypothetically—eat something that once had a face?”

Al didn’t even blink. “Sure. We can get a potato. Potatoes have eyes.”

She groaned. “Mr. Potato Head humor? That’s what I get for dating you?”

“You like that about me.”

“Do I?” she teased, spearing another beet slice. “Or am I just dazzled by your ability to make lentils sound sexy?”

He leaned in, chin in hand, all mock innocence. “Is it working?”

…Unfortunately for her, it was.

Their next date took them to a retro diner in Richmond that, according to Al, “serves vegan milkshakes that will change your worldview.” Penelope had already Googled the menu and discovered that everything—even the whipped cream—was coconut-based.

She played along at first, nodding as Al waxed poetic about cashew cheese, until a waitress drifted past carrying what could only be a real chocolate milkshake to the booth behind them—frosted glass, condensation beads, and a swirl of dairy whipped cream like a holy vision.

Penelope stared at it like a soldier watching a lover step off the train.

Waiting until Al was mid-story about hidden Marxist themes in Edwardian poetry, she flagged down the waitress with the stealth of a Cold War operative.

“Any chance you… y’know… serve the other kind?” she whispered.

The waitress glanced over her shoulder like they were swapping contraband. “You mean dairy?”

Penelope nodded fervently.

From across the table, Al’s voice landed without missing a beat. “She means the kind that comes with lactose, guilt, and the silent screams of a thousand cows.”

She jumped, guiltily snapping her menu shut. “I was just curious. For research.”

“Purely academic,” he said, smirking. “You weren’t about to go rogue and smuggle in a dairy milkshake, were you?”

Her cheeks warmed. “Maybe I was. What are you going to do—confiscate it?”

“Tempting,” he said, eyes glinting. “Or maybe I’ll just make you feel so guilty you can’t enjoy it.”

“You underestimate my ability to enjoy forbidden snacks,” she shot back.

In the end, they compromised: one towering vegan cookies-and-cream shake with two straws. Penelope took the first sip, bracing for disappointment… and almost choked on how good it was.

Catching Al’s maddening half-smile, she sighed. “Fine. It’s… not bad.”

He lifted his straw like a toast. “One step closer to liberation.”

She laughed, clinking her straw against his. “We’ll see. I still dream about mozzarella.”

Francesca was still quiet, still reserved—the kind of quiet that felt intentional, like she’d made peace with leaving space in the air. But Michaela’s visits had become as much a fixture of her week as piano practice.

Officially, Michaela claimed she came for the view—“best sunset on campus, no contest”—and for the excuse to hijack the piano bench as a makeshift desk. She’d wander in with a coffee, toss her bag on the floor, and settle in without asking.

Unofficially? Michaela knew better. She liked Francesca’s company in a way she didn’t like anyone else’s—aware, watchful, the kind of presence that made a half-smile feel like it had weight. It was infuriating. And addictive.

She told herself it was harmless—a crush, one of those inconvenient college things you collect like parking tickets or bad tattoos. Harmless… mostly. Except harmless crushes weren’t supposed to make you lose your train of thought when she tucked her hair behind her ear, or memorize the shape of her hands when she played, or sit pretending to read while really listening for the rare sound of her laugh.

And Francesca never called her out for lingering. She just let her stay. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes Michaela wondered if Francesca liked the quiet between them just as much.

Sometimes—when Francesca’s gaze lingered over the rim of her teacup—Michaela thought maybe she wasn’t imagining it.

This time, Michaela was “working,” which meant staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes while Francesca played something soft and deliberate.

“You know,” Michaela said at last, “you’ve got the range of a Bond villain soundtrack.”

Francesca didn’t look up. “Meaning?”

“Meaning all these slow, moody pieces. Very someone’s-about-to-find-a-body-in-the-study energy.”

The corner of Francesca’s mouth twitched—barely—but Michaela saw it. “It’s called nuance.”

“It’s called I’m falling asleep,” Michaela countered, hopping off the bench she’d claimed. “Play something with a pulse. Elton John, Stevie Wonder… hell, even Vanessa Carlton. Anything that doesn’t sound like you’re plotting an assassination.”

Francesca’s hands stilled. “If you think you can do better, be my guest.”

An invitation like that? No way Michaela was walking away. She slid in beside her without hesitation, their knees brushing. Francesca didn’t move.

“I took three years of lessons,” Michaela declared, flexing her fingers like a pro. “Basically a prodigy.”

“Should I be impressed now or later?”

“I’ll prove it.” She promptly fumbled the first bars of “Chopsticks”.

Francesca shot her a sidelong look—equal parts fond and unimpressed. “Prodigy, huh?”

“It’s called having fun,” Michaela said, grinning.

“You’re a menace.”

“You like it.”

For a beat, neither moved. Francesca’s hand hovered over the high keys, Michaela’s over the low, their shoulders close enough that each breath felt shared.

Then Francesca broke the moment—not with words, but by starting a bright, playful waltz. Michaela scrambled to keep up, their hands darting and overlapping in a messy duet. She laughed, Francesca smiled, and the air stayed charged—like they were both waiting to see if this was still music or something else entirely.

That’s when Paloma stuck her head in.

“Oh, mamma mia,” she said, eyes alight. “Is this a duet or a prelude to kissing? Hard to tell with you two.”

Michaela froze mid-chord. Francesca’s fingers landed in something that might’ve been a jazzy flourish or pure panic.

“We’re practicing,” Francesca said quickly.

“Practicing what?” Paloma smirked. “Slow-burn romance?”

Michaela recovered first, grinning. “You want in as backup vocals?”

“Only if there’s wine.” Paloma winked and vanished, leaving perfume and chaos in her wake.

Francesca cleared her throat and kept playing. Michaela caught the faintest pink in her cheeks—and didn’t bother hiding her smirk.

Sophie had discovered that Phillip’s post-call passive-aggressive texts were good for one thing—fueling her productivity to Olympic levels. Every eye-roll and every “just saying” got poured into her coursework and dance practice. Her GPA had never looked shinier, and her pirouettes were now sharp enough to slice fruit.

But you could only spend so many hours perfecting your double turns before your brain went looking for extracurricular mischief.

Which is how she started noticing Hazel and John.

Hazel somehow always “happened” to show up in the common room with a book just as John strolled in with his guitar. She always sat diagonally across from him—close enough to talk, far enough to pretend she wasn’t there for him. And John? He tuned that guitar for twelve geological eras if Hazel was around, as if a perfectly crisp G chord might summon courage.

Sophie, multitasker extraordinaire, began mentally choreographing “Operation Hazelnut & Strings”. Step one: engineer a “study group” that just so happened to overlap with John’s jam nights. Step two: casually ask John to help Hazel carry a stack of books tall enough to qualify as a health hazard. She could already hear the future wedding toast: And to think, it all started because Sophie was bored and a little petty.

For now, though, she sat back in her armchair and enjoyed the slow-burn awkwardness like it was live theatre. Slow, awkward theatre. But theatre nonetheless.

Then Thursday happened. Two lab write-ups, a stack of dance notation homework, and a group chat melting down over fall showcase costumes had her brain wound tighter than a rehearsal bun.

Enter Bridget—Danbury’s soft-spoken chaos dealer—waltzing in with a tray of still-warm brownies.

“Don’t ask what’s in them,” Bridget said, smiling in a way that was equal parts sweet and suspicious.

Sophie didn’t ask. She was too busy inhaling one square… then another… then a third. Somewhere between brownie three and four, the edges of the world went pleasantly fuzzy.

She didn’t mean to call Phillip. Honestly. But her phone was suddenly in her hand, her heart was done with everything he stood for, and next thing she knew, she was hearing her own voice say:

“Phillip? Heyyy, so—I’m done with you. No, no, don’t talk, just listen. I’m strong enough to live without you. Strong enough and I quit crying… I’m thriving. I’m… so happy right now.” She paused, then giggled. “Also, I might be very, very high.”

From the other end of the couch came Hugh’s unholy bark of laughter—loud, joyous, and zero percent helpful. The preacher’s kid was halfway through his own brownie, sprawled like a man without a single worry.

Phillip’s voice went sharp. “Who’s that?”

Sophie squinted over at Hugh. “That’s Hugh,” she said honestly, then added, “He’s great. Very supportive. Blessed by Jesus!”

In the corner, Hazel froze mid-sip. Across the room, Rae mouthed oh no.

“Supportive,” Phillip repeated in that insecure, interrogative way she knew too well.

Which is when Hugh decided to shout toward the kitchenette, “Sophie! You want me to grab you another brownie while quoting Cher, babe?”

Sophie cracked up, which—shockingly—did not soothe Phillip’s nerves.

By the time she hung up, Hugh was doubled over, Hazel was hiding behind her mug, and Rae was whispering to Rose, “This is going to be a rumor by breakfast.”

Sophie just melted into the couch, eyes half-lidded. “If Phillip wants to think I’m living my best life without him… well, he’s not wrong.”

Hugh raised his brownie in salute. “To freedom.”

“And to Bridget’s legally questionable baking,” Sophie added, grinning.

Kate returned from her Sam’s Club run with a bulk box of coffee filters balanced on one hip and Newton trotting faithfully at her side, already picturing the bliss of collapsing into her office chair and ignoring her inbox until it begged for mercy.

Instead, she found two residents stationed in the common room doorway like overeager student reporters.

“When’s Anthony coming back?”

“Is it true he’s here for Homecoming?”

Kate stopped mid-step. “Why?”

One freshman glanced at the other for backup. “Uh… the projector might need him again?”

She gave them a look—three full seconds of silent, unimpressed glare—then stepped past without a word. The click of her office door shutting carried the finality of a judge’s gavel.

Newton flopped onto the floor with a sigh so deep it might as well have been subtitled same.

Of course Anthony would show up for Homecoming. And of course he’d walk in like some elected official of Danbury Hall, shaking hands and kissing babies—or, in his case, fixing electronics and collecting disciples.

Kate took a slow sip of coffee, eyes drifting toward the to-do list on her desk.

Homecoming was five days away.

Which meant—if she was lucky—she had four days left before the “Mayor of Danbury” came strutting back into her jurisdiction.

Maybe.

Chapter Text

The front lawn of Danbury Hall didn’t look like a residence hall anymore—it looked like a fully funded campaign rally. Two freshmen were sprawled on the pavement, chalking WELCOME BACK MAYOR ANTHONY in bubble letters so massive they could probably be read from a passing drone. Someone had strung fairy lights over the entrance despite it being nine in the morning. And Newton—her Newton—was trotting across the grass with a bright blue ribbon tied to his collar like an overzealous campaign mascot, tail wagging at a frankly unpatriotic speed.

Kate stopped dead on the sidewalk, clutching her coffee like a riot shield.

“Traitor,” she muttered.

Newton, unbothered, wagged harder and jogged over to greet her like she was a long-lost constituent here to pledge her vote.

From inside came the sound of applause. Not polite applause. Cheering.

Kate stepped through the doorway just in time to see Anthony—dressed like he’d just sauntered off the set of a fall fashion editorial, all rolled sleeves and expensive-smelling cologne—shaking hands with Gladys as if she were the mayor’s spouse at a ribbon-cutting ceremony.

“Mayor of Danbury,” Eloise announced from the stairwell, her tone somewhere between proud sibling and disaster documentarian. “Right on schedule.”

Kate drained the rest of her coffee in two gulps. She was going to need the entire caffeine supply of Virginia to make it through the day.

By the time she reached the common room, Anthony was already in full campaign mode. He’d somehow acquired a steaming mug of coffee—probably pilfered from her private stash—was perched on the arm of the couch like it was his personal throne, and holding court as if Danbury Hall had convened a press conference just for him.

“Mayor Anthony,” Mateo began, flipping through a spiral notebook like a seasoned investigative journalist, “how do you respond to allegations that you only fixed the projector for personal gain?”

Anthony gave a humble shrug, grin firmly in place. “I think the people of Danbury Hall know where I stand—on the side of functioning movie nights and superior picture quality.”

“That’s a non-answer!” Michaela shouted from the kitchenette, where she was unapologetically making avocado toast with Kate’s avocados.

“Better than some answers,” Anthony shot back, smirk widening.

Newton promptly flopped at Anthony’s feet, belly up in shameless betrayal. Kate narrowed her eyes. “You bribed my dog.”

“Your dog has free will,” Anthony said smoothly, crouching to scratch Newton’s belly. “And impeccable judgment of character.”

Eloise appeared at Kate’s elbow, sipping tea like she was narrating Planet Earth. “Observe: the Bridgerton male in his natural habitat—charming every female, roommate, and household pet in a three-mile radius.”

Kate folded her arms. “Not me.”

Anthony straightened, eyes glinting pure trouble. “Yet.”

Before she could lob the retort sitting on her tongue, Gladys marched in with a clipboard so oversized it could have been borrowed from NASA. “We need you for the Homecoming decorating committee. You’re tall. Ladder duty.”

Anthony’s grin brightened like she’d just handed him a Nobel Prize. “Lead the way.”

What followed was a blur of Anthony everywhere. Stringing porch lights. Hauling crates of apple cider like they were paper bags. Pausing mid-task to sweet-talk a passing alum into making a “small donation” to the Danbury Hall improvement fund. By the time the Homecoming picnic started, Kate was 80% sure half the guests believed Anthony was the new Resident Director—and 100% sure he’d win if there were an actual vote.

The moment that sealed it came just after the first wave of alums settled onto picnic blankets. Newton emerged wearing a tiny sash—crafted from Eloise’s glitter stash—reading: FIRST DOG OF DANBURY.

Anthony crouched, whispered something conspiratorial in Newton’s ear, and the dog bounded into the crowd, tail wagging like a furry, four-legged PR rep working the donor circuit.

Kate groaned into her cider. “I hate to say it, but I think he just secured re-election.”

By the time the afternoon sun hit peak “everyone’s regretting wearing jeans” levels, the Homecoming picnic was in full swing—music drifting from tinny speakers, cider sweating in plastic cups, and Anthony operating at maximum wattage.

Kate first spotted him on the lawn, emceeing the cornhole tournament like it was the Kentucky Derby.

“And here comes Bridget to the board—and she sticks the landing! Truly, folks, a champion in the making. Do we think she’s bribing the judges? Yes. Do we respect it? Also yes.”

From there, he migrated to the food tables, somehow self-appointing as “Unofficial Cider Quality Control Officer”. Clipboard—clearly stolen from Gladys—tucked under one arm, he swirled his plastic cup like it was a fine Burgundy.

“Just ensuring all batches meet Danbury standards,” he told Kate solemnly, before turning to Owen. “Mark this one as ‘potential crowd favorite.’”

Newton worked the crowd like a seasoned campaign aide—still wearing his sash—delivering cocktail napkins to picnic blankets and collecting ear scritches as tips. Children squealed. Alumni cooed. At least three people tried to take selfies with him.

Kate, meanwhile, clung to the event schedule like it was a flotation device. Speeches. Class photos. Raffle. She was determined to keep the day from dissolving into pure circus. But every time she stepped up to the mic, Anthony appeared beside her like a grinning political opponent ready with a rebuttal.

“Alright, folks, we’re drawing the raffle—”

“And if you don’t win,” Anthony cut in smoothly, “remember, projector repairs are available in exchange for baked goods and public praise.”

“—please ignore him—”

“You can’t ignore the mayor, Sharma. It’s in the bylaws.”

By late afternoon, she’d given up on control and shifted to damage mitigation. When Hazel won the gift basket, Anthony insisted on “presenting it on behalf of the people of Danbury Hall,” complete with a mock handshake, a faux acceptance speech, and a photo op Eloise gleefully posted before Kate could confiscate her phone.

And yet… scanning the lawn—residents laughing, alumni lingering, strangers bonding over cornhole strategy—she had to admit the mood was lighter, warmer, better than she’d dared hope. Which, of course, was infuriating.

As golden hour settled over the lawn, Anthony appeared at her elbow, cider in hand, close enough to breach emotional personal space without quite crossing physical personal space.

“Not bad, huh?”

Kate sipped her coffee like it was a tranquilizer. “Don’t get comfortable. You’re still a guest.”

“And yet,” he said with that vote-winning smile, “still the people’s choice.”

The cornhole crowd broke into another Mayor Anthony chant. He didn’t even try to hide the look—smug enough to be illegal. Kate exhaled through her nose. She was thirty seconds away from staging a coup.

Her mug came down on the picnic table with a thud that made Newton’s ears perk.

“Alright. That’s it. I have had—” She gestured broadly at him, at the lawn, at the chalked WELCOME BACK MAYOR ANTHONY—“enough of this campaign rally you’ve turned Homecoming into.”

Conversations stuttered to silence. Alumni glanced over. Residents froze mid-bite. Eloise and Francesca straightened like theatre-goers when the orchestra hits that dun dun dun before intermission.

“Popcorn?” Eloise murmured.

Francesca was already at the snack table. “Way ahead of you.”

Across the lawn, Penelope’s thumbs were flying.

“BREAKING: Resident Director Sharma publicly challenges Mayor Anthony. Developing…” — @MayfairMosquito

Anthony, maddeningly unruffled, sipped his cider.

“What exactly are you accusing me of, Sharma? Being too… beloved?”

“You are not beloved. You are overexposed,” she shot back. “You’ve been here less than six hours and turned Homecoming into Anthony Con.”

“Some might call that community building.”

“Some might call it showboating.”

“Potato, potahto. And you don’t want to do this here. Not with your residents watching.”

“Do it where it counts!” Hazel called from her picnic blanket.

“Yeah,” Mateo added. “Settle it like real adults—Super Smash Bros Ultimate. Winner gets bragging rights for the rest of the semester.”

Michaela leaned out from the cider line. “Loser has to MC next week’s Danbury karaoke night.”

The murmurs turned electric. Football might be the official Homecoming sport, but a Danbury grudge match in Smash? That was blood sport.

Anthony tilted his head, smirk sharp.

“What do you say, Sharma? Ready to see if you can actually beat me at something?”

Kate’s jaw tightened. Even Newton seemed to know this was personal. The crowd was already migrating toward the hall, Eloise and Francesca walking backward to keep prime spectator angles.

“Oh, this is going to be delicious,” Eloise grinned.

Francesca passed her the popcorn. “We’re not moving until somebody cries.”

Kate grabbed her coffee and stood.

“Fine. When you lose, Mr. Mayor, you’re taking down every piece of Homecoming décor you put up today.”

“And when you lose, Ms. Sharma, you’re co-hosting next month’s Danbury talent show with me—in costume.”

Penelope’s phone pinged:

“Local government showdown moves from cornhole to console. Stakes: pride, popcorn, and possible cosplay.”

Controllers were handed out. The crowd pressed in. The noise of the picnic faded into the tense, humming quiet of a campus about to witness history.

The migration from lawn to common room looked less like students casually heading indoors and more like a medieval village trailing its chosen champions into the arena.

Michaela had the Bluetooth speaker blasting a sweeping, cinematic score—the kind that belonged at the climax of Gladiator—as Newton trotted faithfully at Anthony’s heels, tail wagging like a ceremonial standard. Eloise and Francesca flanked Kate with the solemn air of royal seconds escorting their duelist to the field, right down to Eloise murmuring, “Don’t let him get in your head,” like this was life-or-death.

Inside, the scene was already pure bedlam. Mateo was shoving beanbags out of the way to clear prime floor seating. Hazel had claimed the corner of the couch for “better tactical visibility” and was adjusting her hoodie like she was going into sniper mode. Paloma was shaking mocktails in Solo cups, announcing they were “for hydration breaks and emotional support.”

The Switch screen lit up, Smash Bros Ultimate logo glowing like the sign of destiny.

“Alright,” Owen said, presenting Kate with a controller like it was a sacred relic, “three-stock, random stage, no items… unless they’re funny.”

“Define funny,” Kate said, testing the buttons.

“Banana guns, exploding Poké Balls, and maybe the cursed hammer,” Owen replied without hesitation.

Anthony took his own controller with a flourish, twirling it once before locking eyes with her. “Winner’s circle is on the left side of the couch. Just so you know where you’ll end up.”

“You’ll be sitting on the floor when I’m done with you,” Kate shot back, her voice low enough to make a few nearby residents gasp.

Francesca, settling into her popcorn, leaned toward Eloise. “Ten bucks says she mains Zelda.”

“She’s giving strong Zelda energy,” Eloise agreed, eyes never leaving the stage-select screen.

Without breaking eye contact, Kate scrolled… and selected Kirby.

The room erupted into a chorus of “Ooooooh.”

“Oh, she’s petty,” Michaela said from her perch on the couch arm. “She’s float petty.”

Anthony smirked and picked Captain Falcon, the self-satisfied expression of a man who had been waiting his entire life to land a Falcon Punch in front of a bloodthirsty crowd.

Penelope’s thumbs blurred over her phone:

“BREAKING: Danbury’s Mayor vs. Resident Director showdown begins. Fighters: Kirby vs. Captain Falcon. Crowd: feral.”

“Best of three,” Owen announced, leaning forward like he was about to narrate for ESPN. “Winner takes bragging rights, loser gets humiliation duties. Ready…”

The room hushed, the music swelled, and Newton hopped onto the couch between them like an official mascot witnessing history.

“GO!”

Chapter Text

The match didn’t so much begin as explode—Kate’s Kirby immediately floated out of range like a smug little balloon on a mission from God.

“Ohhh, she’s stalling!” Mateo yelled from the floor, clutching a Solo cup like a sports commentator on his fifth espresso.

“It’s called strategy,” Kate replied, serenely drifting like she had all day and all the airspace in the world.

Anthony narrowed his eyes. “Enjoy the altitude, Sharma. Sooner or later, gravity wins.”

Newton let out a perfectly timed bark—the official signal, apparently—and the Danbury common room descended into battle frenzy.

Kirby vs. Captain Falcon. Chaos vs. Ego.

Owen provided full-throttle commentary: “Kirby’s going for the inhale—could this be—NO! Captain Falcon’s still—wait—FALCON PUNCH! SHE’S GONE, SHE’S GONE!”

The room erupted. Francesca nearly fell off the couch laughing. Paloma popped confetti from God knows where. Even Bridget’s brownies seemed to cheer.

Sophie, however, didn’t move. Her phone had buzzed mid-round, and the name on the screen—Phillip—was a mood killer.

“Oh no,” Michaela said, immediately tuning in like a human emergency alert system. “Is this about the call?”

Sophie mouthed probably and reluctantly answered. She lasted twelve seconds before mouthing again: He’s bringing up the brownie call.

Hazel leaned in like a gremlin. “Put him on speaker.”

Instead, Anthony—still playing—extended a hand. “Gimme.”

“What?”

“Phone,” he said again, eyes on the screen. “I’ll handle it.”

Too stunned to object, Sophie passed him the phone. Anthony pressed it to his ear like a mic drop mid-match.

“Phillip, hi. Anthony Bridgerton here—yes, that one. Just wanted to let you know that if you’re still hung up on one dance, you might be compost. Actual compost. The biodegradable kind even the recycling bin wouldn’t touch.”

Kate’s head snapped toward him. “Are you seriously—?”

“One second,” he said, holding up a finger.

“And FYI,” he added smoothly, “Sophie’s got friends, killer pirouettes, and questionable brownies. She’s doing great. You? Not so much.”

Eloise was crying with laughter. Kate, to her credit, didn’t break—but her mouth twitched.

“You enjoyed that,” she muttered.

“Oh, Sharma,” Anthony said, handing the phone back with a wink, “That was just the pre-show.”

Round two: Link vs. Donkey Kong. Precision vs. Power.

Kate’s eyes narrowed. “Link’s a tactician. You wouldn’t understand.”

Anthony’s smile was pure sin. “Donkey Kong is intimidation and vibes.”

The match was chaos—shields breaking, bombs flying, DK yeeting Link off cliffs while Owen narrated like a man possessed.

“Textbook spin attack! Oh, but DK’s not done yet—WHAT A THROW! WHO TAUGHT HIM THAT?”

Francesca leaned forward. “Forget football. This is our Homecoming.”

Eloise nodded solemnly. “Mayfair’s true blood sport.”

Penelope’s thumbs were flying again:

BREAKING: Homecoming devolves into pixelated warfare. RD and Mayor clash while First Dog of Danbury refuses to take sides.

Newton, bored of neutrality, stole Hazel’s popcorn and trotted off like a victorious general.

And then—Link’s final slash hit. Donkey Kong tumbled off the platform.

“One-one,” Kate said, like it was nothing. But her smirk said otherwise.

“Tiebreaker,” Anthony replied, rolling his shoulders like he was walking into a prize fight.

Round Three.

Lights dimmed “for drama.” Mateo cued up “You’re the Best Around” on a portable speaker. Newton climbed onto Anthony’s lap like a pint-sized coach sent to bless the round.

Kate picked Solid Snake. Anthony, with a flair only he could justify, picked Princess Peach.

Nobody laughed.

Everyone understood.

Final stock. High damage. One final hit… and somehow, both characters launched. Double KO.

Silence.

“No way!” Owen gasped.

“Sudden death!” Bridget shrieked, waving a brownie tray like a battle flag.

The common room was breathless.

“Draw?” Kate asked, voice even.

Anthony leaned in close, eyes twinkling. “Only if you admit you had fun.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “One percent. Maybe two.”

“That’s a start.”

Penelope’s final post hit Twitter within seconds:

FINAL SCORE: Sharma 1, Bridgerton 1, Newton 0 (but still adorable). Smash Bros officially replaces football as Mayfair’s Homecoming tradition. #GamingOverPigskin

By the time the crowd filtered out, the common room looked like post-battle Rivendell: crushed popcorn, cider rings, and a lone Joy-Con under the couch like a fallen sword.

Kate stayed to clean—partly out of duty, mostly to avoid Anthony’s smugness. Newton snored under the table.

Then her phone buzzed:

@MayfairMosquito: Rumor has it the rematch is set for Valentine’s Day. #MayorAnthonyVsTheRD

Kate groaned. “Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes,” came a familiar voice.

Anthony was leaning in the doorway, sleeves still rolled, expression still maddening.

“You’ve got fans now. Can’t deprive the people.”

“This isn’t a rivalry.”

He stepped inside, grinning. “Mateo’s running brackets. Michaela’s designing commentary overlays. Francesca’s making a playlist. It’s happening.”

“No, it’s not.”

He took a slow step closer. “Question is… do you forfeit to the Mayor? Or train for the tiebreaker?”

Kate folded her arms, but the grin tugging at her mouth betrayed her. “I tied with the Mayor.”

Anthony tilted his head. “Which means you’ve got something to prove.”

A pause.

Then he added, almost gently, “I’ll see you at training, Sharma.”

She didn’t say yes.

But she didn’t say no, either.

And outside the common room, the chants were already starting:

“Rematch! Rematch! Rematch!”

By the time the last rogue popcorn kernel had been swept up and the cider mugs stacked in precarious towers, the Danbury common room looked almost—almost—civilized again.

Kate had conscripted Eloise, Francesca, and Owen into a speed-cleaning crew, mostly to avoid standing still long enough to replay the look on Anthony’s face when he said see you at training. That smirk had been engineered in a lab for maximum smugness.

Anthony, naturally, hadn’t left. He was leaning in the kitchenette doorway, sleeves still rolled, sipping cider like he’d hosted the event instead of hijacking it.

“You missed a spot,” he said, nodding toward a sad little plastic cup on the floor.

Kate didn’t even glance up. “Feel free to bend down and get it, Mayor.”

“I would,” he said, unbothered, “but I’m more of a delegator.”

“You’re more of a menace.”

Still, he picked it up—only for Newton to pounce, steal the cup, and strut around with it like it was the Stanley Cup.

Across the room, Eloise hummed while stacking mugs, her smile softer than her usual post-event thank-God-it’s-over smirk. She looked—dare Kate say it—happy. Suspicious.

The knock at the front door broke the rhythm. Eloise opened it with a bright “Coming!”—and froze mid-step. Not long, just a beat. But Kate clocked it.

“Oh. Hi,” Eloise said.

Phil Crane stood outside, hoodie sleeves shoved into his pockets, hair tousled like the wind had done its worst and then apologized.

“Hey,” he said, peering into the common room. “Saw something on Twitter about a ‘Mayor Anthony vs. Resident Director death match’? Thought I’d come check out the wreckage.”

Eloise laughed—actually laughed—and stepped aside. “Depends on how you define wreckage. Come in.”

Anthony turned at the unfamiliar voice. He clocked Phil immediately. The golden-brown hair. The not-unhandsome face. The very specific way his gaze flicked to Eloise and softened around the edges.

It took half a second for the Big Brother Radar to activate.

“And you are…?” Anthony asked, pushing off the doorframe with a politician’s casual menace.

Phil paused mid-step. “Phil. Crane. I’m the RA at Hanover Hall.”

Anthony’s eyes narrowed the exact degree reserved for suspicious legislation. “Hanover, huh? What brings you across the Quad, Phil Crane?”

Phil blinked, glancing between Anthony and Eloise like he’d accidentally walked into a job interview.

“I… saw the tweets. Thought I’d drop in. Maybe hang out.”

Anthony’s eyebrows inched upward like he’d just heard maybe date your sister.

Eloise shot him a warning look so sharp it could’ve punctured drywall.

Anthony ignored it. Arms crossed. Neutral stance. Predator energy.

Phil, either too brave or too oblivious, turned to Eloise with a crooked grin. “Got any popcorn left?”

From the couch, Francesca spoke without looking up. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Anthony didn’t budge. “You know,” he said far too casually, “I should’ve invited my brothers along. Benedict and Colin love a good spectacle.”

Eloise rolled her eyes. “They’re UVA alums. They’d pretend Mayfair was a gas station.”

“Fair,” Anthony allowed. “Besides, someone has to keep Gregory out of trouble—and far away from the undergrads.” His gaze snapped back to Phil. “Which is why I step in when necessary.”

Phil’s brow furrowed. “Step in… how?”

Anthony’s grin returned like a threat wrapped in tweed. “A duel, of course.”

Eloise groaned. “Don’t start.”

Phil blinked. “Uh… what kind of duel?”

Anthony pointed toward the TV. “Smash Bros rematch? Or Mario Kart? We can use Newton as the flag.”

Phil scratched the back of his neck. “Actually… I’m more of a board game guy.”

Anthony stared at him like he’d confessed to enjoying cold soup. “Board games.”

Phil brightened slightly. “Yeah. I run a D&D campaign Thursday nights. And I’ve got a mono-blue Magic: The Gathering deck. Control-based. It’s kinda my thing.”

Anthony’s expression went blank in that dangerous way that meant he was processing… and plotting. “So, you spend your evenings pretending to be a wizard. With dice.”

Eloise groaned. “Oh no. This is just like Theo all over again.”

Phil’s ears perked. “Theo?”

Eloise turned away. “Drop it.”

But Anthony, digging through the mental Rolodex, snapped his fingers. “Theo. Bowl cut. Wore blazers in ninth grade. Tried to impress me with a fun fact about Nancy Pelosi.”

“It was freshman social studies!” Eloise shouted. “And you grilled him for forty-five minutes about the Affordable Care Act and her wardrobe!”

“I needed to know if he respected the legislative process and a well-structured blazer,” Anthony replied.

Phil opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Should I leave… or are we all just circling this?”

Anthony gestured to the coffee table. “Field of battle. Your choice.”

Eloise slapped a hand over her eyes. “I’m going to need therapy.”

Francesca popped another piece of popcorn. “I’m going to need a front-row seat.”

Phil, hesitating only a second, unzipped his backpack. “Well… I do have my deck. Was heading to Hanover anyway.”

Anthony leaned forward like he’d just been dealt pocket aces. “Perfect. Let’s see what kind of wizard you are.”

And as Phil laid out his Magic deck with the reverence of a man initiating sacred ritual, Anthony sat across from him like a senator preparing to filibuster.

“I assume,” Anthony said, casually shuffling Phil’s Magic: The Gathering cards with the ease of a man who had once negotiated a government shutdown over lunch, “that you’re aware I’ve never lost a debate in my life.”

Phil, unfazed, smiled. “This isn’t a debate. It’s strategy.”

The common room filled again like a tide rolling back in—Owen dragged in a beanbag for “optimal line of sight,” Michaela reclaimed her post as “Official Battle Announcer,” and Francesca glided into a chair with the serenity of someone about to witness a spiritual reckoning.

By the time the first land card hit the table, the vibe had returned to peak Smash Bros chaos. Someone even cued up a fantasy soundtrack on the Bluetooth speaker—lush, dramatic, and one unicorn away from a LARP convention.

Kate re-entered from the hall with a trash bag, paused in the doorway, and groaned. “Absolutely not. I am not hosting two tournaments in one day.”

“Take it up with the fans,” Anthony said without looking up.

“The fans,” Eloise muttered, flopping into a chair, “need a constitutional amendment.”

“Magic is a constitutional hobby,” Phil offered, without irony.

Eloise just covered her face and whispered something about Nancy Pelosi and trauma.

Newton parked himself under the table like an ancient judge awaiting a verdict—and snacks.

Across campus, Cressida lounged on Phi Mu’s pristine cream velvet couch, a half-empty flute of celebratory champagne on the table and her phone in hand. The Bucks were scattered around the room in various poses of post-Homecoming glamour, nibbling at the remains of a charcuterie board curated for Instagram.

“Tell me,” Cressida said sweetly, holding up her phone like it personally offended her, “why my feed is full of Danbury Hall.”

Nan leaned over, squinting. “What even is that? Some sort of… gamer rave?”

Jinny was scrolling with increasing alarm. “It’s some kind of video game tournament. Smash Bros, I think? And… wait—is that Anthony Bridgerton?”

“Ugh,” Conchita groaned. “I thought he was still in D.C. Where he belongs.”

“He was,” Cressida said coolly, narrowing her eyes at a particularly smug photo: Kate laughing mid-match, Anthony right beside her, eyes lit up, hand on a controller. Welcome Back Mayor Anthony, chalked in bubble letters on the sidewalk behind them.

Now they had ambiance and branding?

Lizzy’s voice went breathy. “They’re getting so many likes.”

“That,” Cressida said sharply, tossing her phone down just hard enough to rattle the champagne glasses, “is the problem.”

Annabel raised a perfectly shaped brow. “You’re mad because a dorm full of transfers and Freshmen is trending?”

“No,” Cressida replied, voice like velvet with a razor blade underneath. “I’m mad because they turned our Homecoming into their underdog circus. We were supposed to be the story this weekend. Not Kate Sharma. Not the Danbury freak show. And definitely not Anthony Bridgerton playing Mario Party with peasants.”

The Bucks exchanged a glance.

Oh no.

They knew that look.

Lizzy clutched her charcuterie toothpick like a dagger. “So… what do we do?”

Cressida’s smile returned, sharp and glittering.

“We remind this campus who sets the narrative.”

She stood, brushed a nonexistent wrinkle from her silk pantsuit, and took a sip of champagne.

“Danbury Hall wants a spotlight?” she said. “Let’s burn them alive in it.”

Chapter Text

For once, Penelope Featherington had found silence—and it was glorious.

Tucked into the most coveted armchair in the quad-facing student lounge, she sat curled like a satisfied housecat: legs folded beneath her, one hand wrapped around a perfectly frothy matcha, the other resting lightly on Al’s knee. He sat beside her on the bench, sketchbook balanced across one thigh, pencil moving in slow, deliberate sweeps like the page had all the time in the world.

It was that golden lull between classes when expectations dropped, hustle paused, and even the campus trees seemed to take a breath.

Penelope was mid-rant—dramatically reenacting how someone in her creative writing seminar had confidently declared Taylor Swift invented metaphor—when she noticed Al was grinning.

“Don’t laugh. He meant it,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“I’m not laughing,” Al said, his eyes betraying him as he fought back a smile. “I’m marveling at the boldness of it.”

Penelope snorted into her cup. “Let’s see if he’s that bold when he reads his poem about ‘capitalist werewolves in a neoliberal moonscape’ next week.”

Al chuckled, still sketching. “You’re scarier than you realize, you know.”

“I’m five-foot-two and my tote bag says Introverts Against the Machine,” she deadpanned. “I strike fear into no one.”

“You strike me,” he said, “as brilliant.”

That did it. Penelope’s fingers stilled around her cup. A breath caught somewhere in her chest before she could think of a quip—or any response at all.

And then—

“Al?” came a voice like a champagne flute shattering on marble. “Alfred Debling?”

Penelope looked up—and immediately wished she hadn’t.

Framed in the doorway like the heroine of a perfume commercial stood Cressida: platinum waves perfectly in place, cream trousers unwrinkled, a pale pink cashmere sweater draped just-so over her shoulders like it had been styled by a lifestyle blog named Pastel Aristocracy. Her coffee was clearly not from the student center. Her smile was a masterclass in elegance with a minor in condescension.

“Hi,” she said, gaze skimming right over Penelope like a decorative lamp before landing on Al. “Sorry to interrupt.”

Al blinked. “Oh—hey. Cressida, right?”

What.

Cressida and Al? Cressida, the same girl Al had once described as “a walking Instagram filter with Bluetooth teeth whitening”? Since when did Phi Mu’s platinum princess remember people not on her RSVP list?

“We had Human Anthropology of the Self together last spring,” Cressida offered breezily. “You sat by the window.”

Al tilted his head. “Right. For the lighting.”

She gave a tinkling laugh like he’d said something deeply insightful. “Exactly. Natural light is essential when you’re looking inward.”

Penelope watched with narrowed eyes over the rim of her drink. Since when did Cressida believe in introspection that didn’t involve a ring light and a PR-trained apology?

“I thought I saw you at the Homecoming picnic,” Cressida continued, stepping fully into the room like this was a casual catch-up and not a surgical strike. “But you looked busy. All that buzz around the Mayor of Danbury.”

“It was… spirited,” Al said, cautious.

And then—like a switch—Cressida turned to Penelope.

“And you must be Penelope,” she said, with a smile that would’ve looked great under glass at the Smithsonian. “I’ve heard things.”

“Hopefully spelled correctly,” Penelope replied, sweetness like arsenic in her voice.

Al coughed.

“I was just wondering,” Cressida said, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve, “if you two were planning to attend the Coffeehouse reading next week? I usually skip them—they’re so twee—but someone said you might be reading, Penelope?”

Penelope blinked. “I didn’t sign up.”

“Oh. My mistake,” Cressida chirped. “Well, if you do, I’ll try to swing by. I’m all about supporting student creativity.” She said it like student creativity was a skin condition.

Then, turning back to Al, her smile softened like a pageant contestant accepting flowers. “Let me know if you ever want to grab coffee. Talk anthropology. Or dismantle the patriarchy. That class really changed my perspective.”

Al nodded, slow and unsure. “Um… sure?”

“Lovely,” Cressida beamed. “So nice to see you both.” And just like that, she turned on a heel and floated out, trailing the scent of expensive toner and implied superiority.

Silence.

Then Penelope turned to Al. “What the hell was that?”

Al blinked. “I think… we were just hit by a drive-by.”

“Correction: I was hit. You got flirted with by the ghost of a J.Crew editorial.”

“She remembered my seat placement,” Al murmured, stunned.

“She invited you for coffee and ideological rebellion in one breath,” Penelope muttered. “And smiled at me like I was the TA who forgot to email her final grade.”

Al shook his head. “I swear we never even spoke in that class. She said Freud was ‘an aesthetic’ once and I mentally blocked everything after.”

Penelope leaned her head onto his shoulder with a sigh. “Brace yourself, Debling. You’re officially on the Phi Mu radar.”

He glanced down at her, brows raised. “Should I be worried?”

“Only mildly,” she said, smirking. “But you’re dating a first-year journalist with a vendetta, a spreadsheet, and a folder labeled ‘Cowper Schemes’. You’ll make it.”

Francesca’s fingers drifted across the piano like she was coaxing light through fog.

Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” floated from the worn conservatory upright, each note soft, aching—suspended in the air like a held breath. For once, she was alone. Blessedly, exquisitely alone.

Until she wasn’t.

A knock at the open practice room door fractured the spell like a stone through glass. Francesca turned, slow and reluctant, to see Mary Ann Hallewell—Phi Mu junior, art history major, and Mayfair’s unofficial gossip column in motion—leaning in the doorway, her smile polished to a shine.

“I always forget how beautifully you play,” Mary Ann said, stepping in uninvited. “It must be… freeing, living in a different dorm from Eloise. Gives you space to be your own person.”

Francesca blinked. “I’ve always been my own person. And she lives two doors down.”

Mary Ann’s laugh was the kind you heard right before someone slid a note under your door saying maybe don’t wear that again. “Of course. Still… some girls just shine brighter when they’re not in someone else’s shadow.”

Francesca turned back to the keys and let her hands fall again—louder this time, enough to drown the implication.

Mary Ann lingered just a second too long, then left with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

As the door clicked shut, Francesca leaned into the piano and muttered,

“Gross.”

Across campus, Eloise was mid-scroll, mid-sip, and mid-eye-roll when Brayden Morrison—Sigma Chi junior, emotionally unassembled action figure, jawline like an ad campaign—wandered into her view.

“Hey, Bridgerton,” he said, grinning like a man who had definitely practiced that in a mirror. “Heard you’re single. Now that Lizzy and I are… you know. Her loss.”

Eloise looked up slowly, brow arching with the grace of a professor grading nonsense. “So let me get this straight. You’re here because Lizzy dumped you? Or because Nan’s DMs were full?”

Brayden blinked. “Not exactly. I just figured… you’re smart, funny, got that sarcastic-glasses vibe.”

“And you’ve got… what? A pulse and a working car?”

He shrugged. “Worth a shot?”

“Barely.”

He retreated, wounded pride in tow. Eloise took another sip of iced coffee and pulled out her phone.

Eloise (to Penelope): If one more Phi Mu castoff flirts with me, I’m starting a newsletter. Working title: Boy, Bye.

Two miles into a sunrise run, Michaela was flanked by Sigma Chi himbos like a gladiator at a protein powder convention.

Fife, Wilding, and Stanton were all gasping through what they called cardio and what Michaela called light bullying with sneakers.

“We’re saying it’s hard,” Stanton wheezed. “Phi Mu girls keep showing up.”

“They said you got blackballed because you were too hot to handle,” Fife added. “Like… a threat.”

“To what?” Michaela asked, not even breathless. “Their mascara quota?”

Wilding, clutching his side, glanced over. “No. To their dating pool. Someone literally said, ‘She’s gonna steal your girl and look hot doing it.’”

Michaela just grinned. “I mean… they’re not wrong.”

In the dance studio, Sophie was still catching her breath—post-rehearsal adrenaline humming through her limbs—when Clara Livingston appeared, fresh from a hot yoga class and full of unsolicited commentary.

Clara tossed her a water bottle like a bribe. “You were amazing. So expressive. But have you ever thought about going lighter?”

Sophie frowned. “Lighter?”

“Your hair. I know a girl in Richmond who does incredible dark-to-blonde transitions. Very natural. You’d pop more onstage.”

Sophie dabbed her neck with a towel. “I’ve seen how natural those transitions end. Orange. They end in orange.”

Clara gave a syrupy laugh. “You’d stand out.”

“I already do,” Sophie said coolly. “And I happen to like my hair and my identity. In that order.”

Clara’s smile faltered. “Right. Just… trying to help.”

Sophie took a long drink of water and walked past her without a word.

Back at Danbury, the girls returned like veterans from a battlefield, collapsing into the common room.

The popcorn bowl was back. Shoes were off. Sarcasm was currency.

Penelope was first to speak. “Okay. Roll call. Who got Phi Mu’ed today?”

Francesca raised a hand. “Mary Ann tried to neg Eloise. Through me.”

Eloise looked affronted. “How was I negged from across campus?”

“Sorcery,” Penelope said.

Michaela dropped her gym bag with a thud. “Someone called me a threat again. I almost sent a thank-you note.”

Sophie, hair still damp and braided, flopped onto the armrest beside Hazel. “Clara suggested I bleach my hair to ‘pop more.’”

The groans were immediate.

“I told her I like my hair. And myself.”

“I told Brayden Morrison I like my self-respect more than his cheekbones,” Eloise added.

Michaela smirked. “We are deeply unserious people.”

“No,” Francesca said, lifting her chin. “We’re not unserious. We’re targets.”

Hazel snorted. “Good.”

At that moment, Kate passed through the lounge, Newton trotting proudly behind her with a stolen slipper dangling from his mouth like a war trophy.

She gave the room a look. “Whatever you’re planning—if it involves glitter, fire, or long-term emotional damage—I need twenty-four hours’ notice.”

Sophie grinned. “Define emotional damage.”

Penelope was in her element.

Blanket draped over her shoulders like a cape, laptop balanced just so, fingers flying across the keys with the grace of a woman both caffeinated and on a mission. The campus had given the Mayfair Mosquito chaos. She simply gave it narrative.

@MayfairMosquito: BREAKING: Lizzy Elmsworth allegedly holds the Phi Mu record for most “borrowed” boyfriends. Sources claim at least three of them didn’t know they were in relationships until after Rush Week. #SisterhoodIsConditional

@MayfairMosquito: Brayden Morrison: “I’m a feminist, but women get too emotional about cheating.” Please. Someone revoke this man’s GroupMe privileges.

@MayfairMosquito: In other news: Mayfair’s football team continues its historic streak of almost winning. Coaches say morale is high. Spectators say they came for the free t-shirts. #FridayNightMeh

@MayfairMosquito: Latest poll: 72% of campus agrees the true Homecoming MVPs were Newton and the Smash Bros tournament. The other 28% are clearly afraid of Phi Mu.

With a satisfied tap, she hit post.

In the common room, Francesca was half-watching Friends reruns with the air of someone who could recite every line. Michaela was peeling an orange like it owed her money. Hazel, curled up on the beanbag, was texting someone saved as “NotJohn 🥺”.

Perfect. Time for some matchmaking.

Down the hall, Sophie was mid-heist.

She’d just slid a plate of warm, slightly-too-gooey snickerdoodles onto John’s nightstand in Room 114. Taped to the Saran wrap, in Hazel’s loopy handwriting:

For a sweet person who plays sweet music
— 💜 Hazel

John wasn’t home, which was ideal. The surprise was part of the operation.

Sophie surveyed the scene like a war general proud of her stealth. She’d even fluffed the comforter for extra ambiance. With any luck, he’d think Hazel just happened to drop off cookies—not that Sophie had orchestrated a cinnamon-fueled campaign of romantic espionage.

“Good luck, you dorks,” she whispered, slipping out the door like a rom-com fairy godmother.

Back in the common room, Francesca was contemplating the eternal question—tea or popcorn?—when the doorbell buzzed.

Unusual. Danbury was more of a “walk in and yell hello” kind of building.

Barefoot and wearing one of Michaela’s oversized crewnecks, she padded across the entryway and pulled open the door.

A delivery driver stood there, holding a slim navy envelope… on a silver tray.

“A delivery for Francesca Bridgerton,” he said. “From Lady Danbury’s office.”

Francesca blinked. “Seriously?”

The guy handed it over and bolted, clearly on the run from campus parking enforcement.

The envelope was heavy, the paper thick and creamy. A lion’s head seal shimmered in gold wax. Real calligraphy. No expense spared.

Inside:

You are cordially invited to an evening recital at the Danbury Salon. Please arrive no later than 7:15 PM.

Attire: Elegant.

Music: Yours.

No signature. Just the seal.

Francesca read it twice. Her pulse ticked up just slightly. Then she smiled. Slowly.

“Gross,” she whispered. “I love it.”

Chapter Text

The Danbury Salon didn’t host many performances anymore.

Once the formal drawing room of the original estate, it now wore its history like a velvet cloak—discreet overhead lighting, wine-colored drapes, and acoustics so precise that every note sounded like it had a destination. The space still smelled faintly of polish and paperbacks, like someone had dusted with a library.

Francesca sat at the grand piano near the bay windows, fingers poised just above the keys. Her breath was shallow. Her focus, razor-sharp.

Then a soft creak from the back row broke the spell.

Of course. Anthony.

Punctual as ever—especially when he hadn’t been invited—he strolled in wearing a navy jacket and that familiar smirk that made Francesca wish Newton had a more aggressive bark.

And naturally, he hadn’t come alone.

Colin followed, hair wind-tousled and camera bag slung over one shoulder like he’d just sprinted here from a travel vlog. Behind him came Benedict, sleeves rolled, canvas portfolio under one arm and a stack of ungraded theory essays tucked under the other like casual accessories.

Francesca blinked. “Seriously? You brought the whole trifecta?”

Anthony grinned. “We’re a supportive family.”

“You’re a dramatic family.”

“Same thing,” Colin said, already scouting angles for a behind-the-scenes shot.

Benedict leaned down to kiss her cheek. “You look radiant. Nervous?”

“No. Just hoping Anthony doesn’t try to clap in rhythm again.”

Anthony huffed. “I was helping.”

“You clapped on the one and the three.”

Before he could defend his rhythm crimes, the salon doors creaked open again—and in came the Danbury crowd.

Michaela in a suit jacket over bike shorts. Eloise and Penelope mid-bicker over whether Chopin was overrated. Hazel and Sophie entering like flower girls at a tiny gay wedding, bouquets in hand. Owen bringing both the programs and Newton, who wore a bowtie and the solemn air of a page boy.

Phil slipped in beside Eloise, hands raised in surrender. “No strategy. I come in peace.”

Penelope entered next, tugging along Al, who looked like the world’s most attractive forest librarian in a corduroy jacket. She was mid-scan of the room when her eyes snagged on Colin. He looked significantly more dressed than the last time she’d seen him. Also cleaner. And inexplicably… adorable.

“Oh no,” she whispered into her latte.

Al raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Just a YouTuber. I mean hazard.”

“You want to switch seats?”

“Maybe.”

Meanwhile, Francesca turned back to the keys.

No introduction needed.

Silence fell like a velvet curtain as she began. Mendelssohn—elegant, aching, composed. The music didn’t just fill the space. It transformed it.

Even Anthony stopped fidgeting.

Even Newton, usually a sucker for dramatic entrances, stayed perfectly still under the piano.

Even Colin lowered his camera.

By the final movement, the air in the salon was heavy with reverence. When the last note lifted into silence, no one moved. Not right away.

Then—

Applause.

Loud. Real. Full-throated and heartfelt.

Francesca stood slowly, cheeks flushed but posture steady, and gave a small, composed bow. Her eyes scanned the room, catching the ones that mattered:

Kate, near the back, radiant with quiet pride.

Michaela, definitely not crying—just blinking a lot.

Phil, clapping with the reverence of someone who understood beauty when he heard it.

And Anthony—who simply gave her a nod. No smirk. No joke. Just a rare, respectful acknowledgment.

That, she thought, was worth more than a standing ovation.

The after-recital reception was held in the adjoining gallery—a long, echoing room lined with ancestral portraits from Lady Danbury’s lineage and one suspiciously detailed oil painting of Newton above the fireplace. No one could confirm who commissioned it. No one dared take it down.

Crystal punch bowls gleamed on white-linen tables, flanked by precariously arranged cheese boards that dared to pair brie and cheddar with candied pecans and rosemary crackers. The cloth napkins were folded—somewhat successfully—into the shape of musical notes.

Francesca slipped out as the crowd began to thin, the swell of polite conversation and cider refills fading behind her. She leaned against the cool hallway wall, just for a breath, just for quiet.

“That was…”

The voice came from behind.

She turned.

Colin stood there, camera forgotten at his side, eyes fixed on her like she was still playing.

“…incredible,” he finished, softer this time. “You don’t just play. You make people listen.”

Francesca tilted her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Why play at all, otherwise?”

He chuckled. “Good. Because I think that performance just earned its own episode.”

Her brow arched. “Episode of what?”

He lifted his phone slightly. “Colin Across the Commonwealth. It’s sort of a hybrid: travel series meets lifestyle docuseries meets… weird cousin who asks too many questions. Normally it’s chefs, hikers, local legends. But tonight? Music. You.”

Francesca blinked. “You want to interview me?”

“If you’ll let me,” he said, suddenly earnest, all the charm dialed down to sincerity. “No pressure. But you’ve got the kind of sound that reminds people what it means to be still for five minutes.”

She studied him, uncertain whether to laugh or run. Then: “One condition.”

“Name it.”

“No rhythm clapping.”

He laughed. “Deal.”

Sophie had just reached the cider table—black midi dress hugging her frame, low-heeled boots clicking softly against the floor—when she saw him.

One of Francesca’s brothers.

He stood just to the left of the gallery’s long window, mid-laugh, a sketchpad tucked under one arm and his shirt sleeves rolled like he’d helped build the piano himself. Something about his posture—casual, open, curious—pulled at her. It had the early-morning stillness of a meet-cute waiting to happen.

She took a step toward him.

Then her phone buzzed.

She checked it—habit, reflex—and instantly regretted remembering her unlock code.

Phillip Cavender.

Her stomach sank.

But… she’d blocked him. On everything. How did—?

Buzz.

New number.

“Please just talk to me. One minute. That’s all I’m asking. You owe me that.”

She stared at the screen as the words chilled her.

By the time she looked up, Benedict was gone—swept into some conversation, likely trapped by a philosophy major with an acoustic guitar and bad opinions about postmodernism.

Sophie lowered her cider. The bubbles fizzled, and so did her mood.

Anthony stood near the fireplace, arms folded, watching his siblings move through the gallery like planets orbiting a particularly chaotic sun. Newton was curled at his feet, bowtie askew, still basking in the applause.

He turned slightly as Kate approached, taking up post beside him like they were co-captains of the event, which—technically—they were not.

“You didn’t heckle,” she noted, arms crossed.

“I’m evolving.”

She side-eyed him. “You brought backup.”

“I call it emotional infrastructure.”

Kate gave him a long look, then glanced down at Newton. “You know your brother is amassing a fan base of his own, right?”

Anthony followed her gaze—Colin chatting animatedly with Penelope about podcast hosting and poetry as Al tried to look unbothered.

Anthony groaned. “I leave campus for five minutes…”

Kate smirked. “And Mayfair becomes a Bridgerton reality show.”

He turned to her, tone mock-serious. “Promise me one thing?”

“What’s that?”

“If any of them try to run for student government… stop them.”

“No promises,” she said. “But I’ll charge them campaign fees.”

They stood there, side by side, watching the room glow with life and soft laughter and post-performance buzz—Newton still asleep, the crowd mellowing, cider refills turning to goodbyes.

Cressida swept into the gallery exactly twenty-two minutes late, her arrival choreographed down to the last rhinestone. She wore a red dress so audacious it should’ve come with a warning label. Or a permit.

The heels. The hair. The vaguely aristocratic slouch of someone who grew up learning how to glide rather than walk.

“Wow,” Michaela murmured behind a paper cup of punch. “She’s dressed like the recital is her dramatic monologue.”

“She probably thinks it is,” Penelope replied—then stopped mid-sip. And mid-breath.

Because he was walking toward her.

Colin Bridgerton.

Forest-green blazer over a cream henley, sleeves pushed up like he’d just finished painting a barn or composing a sonnet or whatever else handsome, secretly-sensitive men did in movies. The grin was crooked. The approach was casual. The effect was deeply unfair.

“Hi,” he said, stopping in front of her. “Penelope, right? We sort of met—on the quad?”

Penelope blinked. “Yes. And by ‘met,’ you mean you were shirtless, and I walked into a U-Haul.”

He winced, laughing. “Right. That. I was hoping you’d forgotten.”

“I was hoping you had,” she said, smile tugging at the corners of her mouth despite herself.

Al, still within earshot and now deeply invested in the exchange, raised his eyebrows—but stayed respectfully silent. Penelope’s cheeks were warm, but not because of the cider.

Colin glanced toward the refreshments table, then leaned in a little. “So… do you want to maybe talk? Away from the girl currently auditioning for Gone with the Wind: The Prestige Miniseries?”

Penelope hesitated—not because she didn’t want to, but because her brain had decided to play elevator music instead of forming coherent thoughts.

She turned to Al.

He gave her a knowing smile and gently tugged the edge of the blanket still draped around her shoulders. “I’ll hold this. And your moral superiority.”

She gave him a grateful look and stood, still not entirely sure if this was flirting or if she was about to become a B-roll interview on Colin Across the Commonwealth.

“Lead the way,” she said, falling into step beside him.

Whatever this was—an ambush, a setup, a plot twist—it was definitely not in the program.

Back near the fireplace, Newton had claimed his post at Benedict’s feet like a knighted footstool, surrounded by a semicircle of Danbury girls who’d subtly formed a protective barrier around Sophie.

“She doesn’t need him,” Michaela whispered, arms crossed.

“She wants him,” Hazel replied, not looking up from her phone.

“She’s getting another text,” Eloise muttered darkly. “This is why we need a landline. So I can rip it out dramatically.”

Across the room, Anthony was nursing his cider and squinting with open suspicion at the sight of Phil making Eloise laugh—something about The West Wing and spell slots.

“You see that?” he asked, nodding sharply.

Kate barely looked up. “See what?”

“That man,” he gestured with his cup like it was a monocle, “is trying to out-charm me and casually drop Wizards of the Coast references. That’s… calculated.”

Kate hummed. “You’re not in competition. She’s allowed to like someone who doesn’t flirt like he’s running for governor of Virginia.”

Anthony frowned. “That feels pointed.”

“If the bootlicking fits.”

Meanwhile, Cressida had resumed her circuit of the room like she was campaigning for Homecoming Queen of a Jane Austen adaptation.

To her credit, she played it well—complimenting the catering, murmuring something about how “underrated” chamber music was, and even offering Francesca a half-hug that looked like it physically pained her.

“You’re so real,” she said, lips glossy. “That’s your appeal.”

Francesca smiled sweetly. “You’re so red. That’s your theme.”

Unbothered, Cressida floated toward the punch bowl, phone in hand.

Five minutes later, Mayfair Mosquito posted:

@MayfairMosquito: SPOTTED: Danbury Hall crashes its own recital. Sources confirm Francesca Bridgerton’s performance made even Phi Mu latecomers look underdressed. Bold move, Cowper. #RedDressCode #ClairDeDrama

The crowd began to thin. Crystal platters were cleared, Newton had vanquished two napkins and a rogue grape, and Francesca was finally eating a cookie like she’d earned it through bloodshed.

Outside, on the wide stone steps behind the gallery, Eloise and Phil stood side by side in the hush of the October night, their cups of cider still warm between their hands.

“She was incredible,” Phil said softly, glancing back toward the door. “She played like she could summon weather.”

Eloise smiled—quiet, genuine. “She always plays like that. It’s how she speaks when the world gets too noisy.”

Phil turned to her. “And you—you’re the one who reminds her what she sounds like?”

Eloise shrugged, a little bashful. “Being a Bridgerton means you’re always someone’s something—someone’s sister, someone’s twin, someone’s fourth emergency contact. Francesca never asks for the spotlight. So I try to keep it warm for her when it shows up.”

Phil blinked. “That’s the most poetic thing I’ve heard all night. And someone inside literally said ‘a sonata of shadows’ with a straight face.”

Eloise laughed. Phil smiled, looked down at his cup, then back up. “Eloise, I was wondering if maybe sometime we could—”

“Interrupt something beautiful?” said a voice behind them.

They turned to find Benedict, perfectly lit in the doorway like a man allergic to timing.

“Apologies,” he added, stepping out with theatrical flair. “I didn’t mean to ruin the rom-com beat. If this were a movie, I’d be the eccentric older brother who makes a sardonic quip and then wanders off to chase a mime through Paris.”

“You’re just in time to ruin everything,” Eloise deadpanned.

Benedict looked pleased. “Consistency is key.”

Phil, recovering, offered a handshake. “Phil Crane.”

“Benedict Bridgerton. The slightly-less-terrifying one. You’ve probably met Anthony—thinks he’s the main character of a war memoir—and Colin’s somewhere in here monologuing for views.”

Eloise exhaled through her nose. “You’re all exhausting.”

“And yet,” Benedict gestured grandly to the stars, “here we are. Gathered together by art, cider, and the scent of undercooked cheese cubes.”

Phil couldn’t tell if he’d just been welcomed or challenged to a duel. Possibly both.

Benedict clapped him on the shoulder like a blessing and sauntered back inside—pausing only to steal a cookie with the skill of someone who had never paid for one in his life.

Phil turned back to Eloise, bemused. “So that’s Benedict.”

“The artist. The chaos. The wildcard.”

“And he’s the sane one?”

“Oh, easily. That’s what makes it terrifying.”

Phil raised his cup in mock-toast. “To sisters who play like rainstorms. And to you—for being the bridge.”

Eloise clinked her cup to his. “And to boys who ask before they interrupt.”

Phil’s eyes sparkled. “I haven’t officially asked yet.”

Eloise leaned in, voice quiet. “Then I’m listening.”

The door clicked shut behind them, muting the hum of laughter and chamber music and whatever new incident Cressida was about to cause—leaving just the two of them, side by side, in the quiet ache of night.

Back inside, as the reception wound down, Francesca wandered back to the piano. She didn’t play—just let her fingers drift along the keys like she was still listening for echoes.

Sophie passed by and paused. “You were brilliant.”

Francesca smiled, softer now. “Thanks. Didn’t feel like enough.”

“It was,” Sophie said simply, sitting down beside her.

They let the silence stretch, comfortable and full, until Francesca glanced over. “You okay?”

Sophie hesitated. Then nodded. “Missed a moment. But it’s alright. I’ll catch the next one.”

Francesca didn’t push. She just nodded once, and that was enough.

Across the room, Penelope had returned to her throne—cider in one hand, phone in the other. She opened a blank tweet and typed:

@MayfairMosquito: BREAKING: Tonight, red wasn’t the boldest color in the room. It was whatever shade of brilliance Francesca Bridgerton played in.

She hit post.

Then she smiled.

Chapter Text

Francesca returned to Danbury with wind-kissed curls, cheeks flushed, and an expression that wasn’t quite a smile—but hovered there anyway, soft and secret. Draped over her arm was another bouquet: cream roses, pale hydrangeas, and just a whisper of freesia, wrapped in satin ribbon like something curated for an art exhibit.

It wasn’t the first one.

It wouldn’t be the last.

She clutched the flowers a little tighter as she stepped into the common room—only to be met with a whistle sharp enough to etch glass.

“Well damn,” Michaela said, sprawled across the couch, laptop perched like a throne. “Either your secret admirer has taste and money, or someone’s auditioning for Love Is Blind: Post-Recital Edition.”

Francesca rolled her eyes but didn’t put the bouquet down.

Hazel, curled like a contented cat in the beanbag, tilted her head. “Same note style?”

Francesca nodded, already pulling the envelope free. “Same handwriting. Same wax seal. Just—” She cleared her throat and read, “‘For the hands that play what the heart won’t say.’”

Penelope, cocooned in a blanket and mid-scroll, didn’t even look up. “Ugh. I hate how poetic that is.”

“I hate that I love it,” Michaela groaned.

Francesca allowed herself a small, reluctant smile. “Yeah. Me too.”

There was no signature. No initials. No return address. Just that graceful script—looped and elegant, maddeningly familiar in the way that dreams sometimes are. The kind of mystery that made her fingers itch for the piano bench and a new sonata.

She set the flowers gently on the coffee table, like they were a coded message or a lyric that hadn’t found its melody.

Penelope finally looked up. “What if it’s Cressida?”

The room stilled.

Penelope shrugged. “What? She does love drama.”

“Not enough to spend this much money on florals and metaphors,” Francesca replied flatly.

“Not unless it came with a scepter and a hashtag,” Michaela added.

The girls laughed, but Francesca’s eyes lingered on the bouquet.

No name. No clue.

Just beauty. And enigma.

Her two favorite things—alongside Mendelssohn.

And maybe a nap.

But this? This was something else.

Something she wasn’t quite ready to name.

Not yet.

Upstairs, in the second-floor lounge, Eloise was pacing like a woman about to filibuster. Arms folded. Jaw set. The sleeves of her sweatshirt pushed up like she was prepping for rhetorical combat—possibly with herself.

Phil sat on the arm of the couch, legs bouncing slightly, paper cup clutched in both hands like it was shielding him from enemy fire. He looked calm enough—but everything about him screamed, I’ve rehearsed this speech in the mirror five times and still feel like I’m going to be voted off the island.

“So,” he began, gently, “when I asked if you wanted to get dinner—like, just dinner, lowercase ‘d,’ no hidden agenda—I wasn’t trying to be clever or pushy. It was just… honesty. Lightly roasted.”

Eloise stopped mid-pace, let out a slow exhale, and crossed her arms tighter. “I know.”

Phil nodded. “Okay. And?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t know if I want dinner.”

“You don’t know if you want dinner?”

“I don’t know if I want to want dinner,” she said, wincing at her own words. “That sounded slightly less tragic in my head.”

Phil cracked a smile. “Still better than half the stuff I’ve overheard at the Writing Center this week. You’re crushing it.”

She laughed, just a little, and finally dropped beside him on the couch. Not too close. But close enough.

“It’s just…” she ran a hand through her hair, frustrated. “Theo was messy. Messy and dramatic and… exhausting. One second I was all in, the next I was googling how to emotionally ghost someone without changing my number. I haven’t had a breather. I don’t want to fall back into something complicated just because someone offered me a cup of cider and a nice face.”

Phil nodded, slower this time. “That’s fair. Really fair. I’m not asking you to fall back into anything. I’m not even asking you to trip slightly.”

She gave him a look.

He smiled. “We eat. We talk about the institutional failings of higher education and the suspicious power of pumpkin spice. No pressure. No vibes unless you want there to be. Just sarcasm, solidarity, and carbs.”

Eloise tilted her head. “Feelings optional?”

“Strong opinions mandatory.”

She smirked. “I can work with that.”

Phil raised his coffee cup like a solemn offering. “To righteous indignation.”

She clinked hers against his. “To well-timed hesitation.”

Their cups met with a satisfying thunk—and for the first time in a while, Eloise didn’t feel like running.

Across campus, the Phi Mu house hummed like a hive—if the bees wore mascara and passive aggression like armor.

The Halloween soirée was days away, but the buzz of curling irons, lash glue, and whispers already ricocheted down the hallways like gossip grenades.

Upstairs, however, in the executive bathroom—home to marble counters, gilded sconces, and an unspoken ban on drugstore products—the air was quieter. Cooler. Sterile. The tension smelled faintly of dry shampoo and steel.

Cressida leaned over the vanity, her reflection backlit to perfection as she dabbed powder across her already-matte cheekbones. Her expression was unreadable—composed with the same precision as her winged eyeliner.

Behind her, Clara stood fiddling with her French braid, fingers twitching with nerves.

“She’s good,” Clara murmured finally. “Like… really good.”

Cressida didn’t look up. “She’s a soloist. And when the spotlight finds her, everyone forgets there was ever a team.”

Her tone was quiet. Clinical. A scalpel wrapped in silk.

Clara’s gaze dropped to the small, unremarkable box on the counter between them. White. Generic. The kind of thing you might toss in your cart at Dollar Tree without a second thought.

The kind of brand someone like Sophie Baek—practical, unassuming—might actually use. The kind no one would question if it showed up in the wrong pouch.

“You’re sure this’ll work?” Clara asked, voice low, uncertain.

Cressida snapped her compact closed with a crisp click. The sound echoed like a verdict.

“Some tampons are made with bleach. Rayon. Glue. A cocktail of irritation. If she’s sensitive, it’ll be enough—itching, swelling, cramps. Nothing serious. Just… inconvenient.”

She smiled then—tight, sharp, merciless.

“Enough to knock her out of a rehearsal. Maybe the showcase. Maybe the whole season, if we’re lucky.”

Clara swallowed. The box suddenly felt like it might detonate.

“She won’t know it was us?”

“She won’t know it at all. Just that her body gave out.” Cressida picked up the box and slipped it into Clara’s tote bag with a delicacy that made it feel ceremonial. “You know what to do.”

At Grosvenor Arena, Sophie moved like a machine—graceful, practiced, but detached.

Her leotard clung to her skin, already damp beneath the arms, the nape of her neck prickling before warmups had even ended. The metallic taste of adrenaline gathered behind her teeth like storm clouds.

She ducked into the locker room mid-rehearsal, hoping to get ahead of a cramp. Her period had hit right on schedule—a small mercy. Her floral pouch waited in its usual spot in her locker, zipped and ready.

Routine. Reassuring.

She unwrapped a tampon with muscle memory ease—until—

“Hey, Soph? Have you seen my Stanley cup?” Hazel’s voice chirped through the locker room like a songbird with tragic timing.

Startled, Sophie flinched.

Plop.

The tampon dropped from her fingers and fell into the toilet bowl with a heartbreaking splash.

“Hazel,” she snapped. “Not now.”

A pause. Then a sheepish, “Shit. Sorry! Do you need—?”

“Yeah. New tampon. Pad. Anything.”

Hazel scrambled to help, pulling a fresh one from Sophie’s pouch and passing it over. Sophie grabbed it, slammed the stall shut, and finished the change without thinking. Nothing felt wrong.

She washed her hands, tied back her hair, and glanced in the mirror. The lights buzzed overhead. Her cue was coming.

She headed back into the studio.

The rehearsal space throbbed with the metronome of discipline.

Point shoes tapped like thunder over polished floors, and the choreographer’s voice sliced through the music with clipped commands.

Sophie moved on instinct, pushing through her usual routine. Her solo was in two weeks. The fall showcase, the basketball season, the choreographic review—it all came down to precision. Endurance. Control.

She didn’t have time for distractions.

And yet—

The itch started as a whisper. A mild discomfort. But by the second diagonal across the floor, it had bloomed into something else—something wrong.

She spun once. Twice.

On the third turn, her ankle wobbled. She caught herself, chest heaving.

“You okay?” someone called.

“Yeah,” Sophie said too quickly. “Just need water.”

She peeled out of formation, every step stinging. Her thighs burned. Her back throbbed. And the itching—God, the itching—was like fire under her skin.

She reached the locker room at a near-run, slammed open her locker, and unzipped the floral pouch.

That’s when she saw it.

Super Plus. Generic.

Her usual? Organic cotton, always. Non-toxic. Fragrance-free. Bought in bulk and guarded like gold.

Her heart dropped. The blood drained from her face.

She didn’t pack these.

Not ever. Not since eighth grade, when a budget-brand had left her with a rash so bad her dad had to take her to urgent care. She’d sworn off them forever except when she needs them to dance. That’s when she only use organic tampons. 

Now someone had switched them. And she’d used one.

Why?

Her hands trembled as she ripped open a pad and changed, wincing against the soreness now blooming like bruises. The reaction was already happening. Her legs itched. Her stomach rolled. Her vision tunneled with each deep breath.

She grabbed her phone.

Sophie: Hey. I think I’m having a reaction. Can I step out? It’s bad.

A buzz. Immediate.

Coach Trowbridge: Go lie down. Lucy’s bringing Benadryl. You’re done for today.

She barely made it to the bench before curling in on herself. Her skin felt tight. Her ribs ached. The ache was more than physical now—disappointment rising in her throat like bile.

Lucy slipped in moments later, pressing a water bottle and two pink pills into her palm.

“Here,” she said gently. “Do you need to go to Health Services?”

Sophie shook her head. “Not yet.”

She took the pills. Drank. Pressed her head back against the cool cushion.

The world kept spinning—music and movement, girls leaping through choreography, coaches giving corrections.

And Sophie Baek—who had worked too hard and stayed too quiet—dozed off on a studio bench, body betrayed, debut possibly postponed.

The overhead light glowed dim and warm, casting a soft halo over Sophie, who lay bundled in a blanket burrito on her bed. Her cheeks were blotchy, her eyes heavy from the Benadryl, and the quiet hum of a heating pad rose and fell against her stomach. She wasn’t quite asleep—but close.

At the foot of the bed sat a makeshift snack altar: Sour Patch Kids, peanut M&Ms, a sleeve of shortbread cookies, and two contraband Capri Suns Hazel had liberated from Savannah’s fridge.

Hazel herself was stationed in Kate’s old rocking chair, knitting something violently pink and pretending it wasn’t fueled by fury and stress.

“You know,” she said into the quiet, “they say sugar helps with histamine recovery. No clue who ‘they’ are, but their TikTok seemed legit.”

Sophie managed a faint smile. “Thanks, Hazel.”

“You’re welcome. Also, you’re officially banned from dying, getting sabotaged, or missing your solo. We’re adding it to the hall constitution.”

Before Sophie could answer, there was a soft knock.

Penelope peeked in first. “Is it okay if we come in?”

Francesca and Michaela followed, each with offerings—Francesca brought water; Michaela cradled a fuzzy rainbow blanket she swore had been blessed by a gay oracle at Pride.

Sophie nodded slowly. “Yeah. Come in.”

They settled cross-legged on the floor like a coven convening at midnight, quiet at first. Sophie sipped her water. Hazel resumed knitting. It was Penelope who finally spoke.

“So… we think it wasn’t random.”

Sophie blinked. “What?”

Michaela leaned forward. “Those weren’t your tampons. Hazel checked the box in your drawer. Someone swapped them.”

Francesca added, “And it’s not just that. It’s… everything. The bouquets. The timing. The ‘you’re so real’ comment from Cressida at the recital. They’re playing games.”

“Phi Mu’s been sniffing around Danbury all week,” Penelope said grimly. “Flattering Hazel’s hair, inviting Rae to brunch, pretending to know Bridget from Orientation—”

“They flirted with Owen,” Michaela added, aghast. “Owen. The man’s gayer than Newton’s Pride bowtie.”

“That’s when we knew,” Penelope muttered. “This isn’t casual.”

Sophie sat up straighter, despite the weight of drowsiness. “So what does that mean? That they sabotaged me to… make a point?”

“They’re trying to divide us,” Hazel said quietly. “To make Danbury look weak. Unsafe. Unstable. Like you can’t trust anyone here.”

Francesca’s jaw clenched. “And when subtle manipulation didn’t work? They tried brute-force embarrassment. They wanted you rattled. And they wanted us watching.”

“Phi Mu’s in defense mode,” Michaela said. “The Mayfair Mosquito hit a nerve. We didn’t chase clout. We didn’t beg to be included. So now? They’re rewriting the story.”

“And Sigma’s helping,” Penelope added darkly. “Fife, Guy, Theo—they’re not just bored. They’re bait. Coordinated bait.”

Francesca leaned forward, voice quiet but resolute. “They’re playing chess. But I’m not interested in being someone’s pawn anymore.”

A heavy silence followed. Then Sophie, voice soft but sure, said:

“We need to tell Kate.”

Kate was midway through revising Marian’s essay—Why Greek Life Isn’t Toxic If You’re Hot and Charitable—when the knock came.

She opened the door to find five Danbury girls standing in formation like the most serious a cappella group the university had ever seen.

“This ends with protest signs or someone asking to borrow my immersion blender,” Kate said flatly.

Penelope stepped forward. “We need to talk. Like… revolution talk.”

Kate stepped aside. “Come in.”

Hazel ducked her head. “Sorry to drop a conspiracy theory on a weeknight, but something’s seriously off.”

As they filed into the room, Newton bounded down from the couch and trotted directly to Sophie, tail wagging wildly before curling up beside her like a loyal knight.

Kate closed her laptop. “Start from the top.”

Francesca did. “We’re seeing a pattern. The sabotage, the phony outreach, the weird invites. Sophie’s things were tampered with. It’s not just petty drama anymore. It’s planned.”

Sophie, still pale but steady, nodded. “They didn’t want me on that stage.”

Kate’s face shifted—calm melting into sharp-edged concern. “Let me guess. Cressida’s in the middle?”

“Centerpiece,” Penelope confirmed. “And the Bucks are the matching tableware. Clara’s been nervous all week, and Conchita called me ‘refreshingly quirky’ like she was test-driving the phrase.”

Kate rubbed her temples. “All right. Here’s what we do. You write everything down—names, dates, incidents. I’ll bring it to Student Life and Health Services. Tampering with health products? That’s serious. If we build the case right, they’ll have to act.”

Hazel’s eyes lit up. “You really think the university will do something?”

“If we document a pattern and show harm? Yes,” Kate said. “Phi Mu may run the socials, but the administration listens to paperwork.”

Newton gave a supportive woof. Penelope offered him a shortbread cookie as tribute.

Sophie nodded. “Then I’m in.”

“Danbury Girls assemble?” Michaela grinned.

Francesca rolled her eyes. “Please don’t make that a thing.”

But it was a thing now.

Because as the girls leaned in—scribbling details, connecting dots, threading patterns from pain—it became clear:

The sabotage was the spark.

But this?

This was the start of the fire.

And this time, they were ready to burn the system down.

Chapter Text

It started with the whiteboards.

Sometime between midnight and 6 AM, every door on the second and third floors of Danbury Hall—without exception—was tagged with the same eerie message, scrawled in oddly elegant cursive:

“Please write your clothing sizes below. Trust the process!”

No signature. No explanation. Just the message, neat as a printed invitation, like some secret society RSVP.

Shirt. Pants. Shoes. Each with a colon and a blank space waiting to be filled.

Bridget was the first to spot it—barefoot, bleary-eyed, and armed with a toothbrush. She paused, squinted, and muttered, “Okay, this is either festive or deeply serial killer-coded.”

By breakfast, Danbury was humming with speculation.

“It’s probably for merch,” Rae offered around a toasted bagel. “Like hoodies or something.”

“Or a coordinated abduction,” Michaela said, deadpan. “Hard to tell the difference lately.”

“It’s the handwriting for me,” Penelope added. “Nobody under 60 writes cursive like that unless they’re summoning demons or running Greek Life.”

Hazel had already crossed hers out in thick black Sharpie and written instead:

“My size is ‘mind your business.’ Cheers.”

Only one thing was clear: this wasn’t random.

And Kate Sharma knew it the moment she saw it.

Kate started her morning like usual—two espresso shots, a breakfast bar Newton tried to swipe, and an inbox full of residential chaos. But when she passed Rae and Rose’s whiteboard and clocked the handwriting, her stomach dropped.

She knew that script.

The looping S. The tight little tail on the P. The clean, slightly showy slant.

It was Phi Mu script.

Once upon a time, she’d written notes just like it—thank-you cards, invitations, recruitment packets—all handwritten to “preserve sisterhood tradition.” Back then, it had meant something.

Phi Mu had meant something.

And now?

Now Kate found herself standing outside the sorority’s white-columned house for the first time in years, heels clicking against the brick path like she was haunting her own past. Even Newton hesitated on the porch.

She hadn’t been back since grad school. Since the polite email that read, in essence: Thanks for your leadership, but we’re going in a different direction.

Apparently that “direction” was brand deals, curated aesthetic feeds, and a total abandonment of community service.

Phi Mu used to lead coat drives and read-a-thons. Now their Instagram linked to collagen gummies and affiliate codes. The living room looked less like a home and more like a sorority-themed Airbnb—LED mirrors, ring lights, and Polaroids plastered with captions like #RushTokRoyalty and Flawless Since Bid Day.

Kate was already halfway to turning around when she heard it: the unmistakable click of stilettos descending the stairs.

And then there she was.

Cressida, flanked by her Bucks like a formation of beige apology letters—Jinny, Conchita, and Lizzy—each styled to perfection and chillingly on-brand.

Cressida’s smile was sugarcoated steel. “Well, well. If it isn’t our former Madam President. Come back to pay tribute to the hive?”

Kate returned the smile, cool and sharp. “Just checking in. Wanted to see what survived.”

“We’ve modernized,” Cressida said sweetly. “Got to keep up with what resonates.”

Kate glanced around. “So I see. Replaced service hours with Sephora links.”

Conchita stiffened, but Cressida stayed sugary. “Relevance is a kind of service. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Not if it’s the only one you offer.”

Jinny started to speak, but Cressida cut her off with a subtle wave.

Kate’s eyes flicked to her nails—flawless shellac, no trace of calluses or flyer stapling. No signs of labor, only lifestyle.

“I assume this is about Danbury?” Cressida asked.

“I assume you already know exactly what it’s about,” Kate replied. “So I’ll be blunt. If I find out Phi Mu—or anyone affiliated with it—is involved in tampering, harassment, or sabotage, it won’t be a slap on the wrist. It’ll be policy. On record.”

Lizzy scoffed. “You don’t have proof.”

Kate didn’t blink. “Not yet.”

Cressida’s smile didn’t budge. “Like I said… times change.”

Kate took one last look around the house she used to call home. It was all polish now. All polish, no heart.

She turned on her heel, Newton at her side.

And this time, she didn’t look back.

Back at Danbury, another note had appeared.

This one wasn’t handwritten—it was printed, bold serif font, taped crookedly to the stairwell bulletin board.

“Not everyone who knocks is looking for a door. Some are measuring the frame. 👻”

Hazel was the first to read it and deadpanned, “Okay. That’s a threat.”

Penelope nodded. “Or a metaphor. But yeah. Mostly a threat.”

Francesca stared at it, eyes narrowing. “They’re planning something.”

And Sophie, still curled on the couch with her tea and a heating pad under her hoodie, murmured: “Then so are we.”

By 5:00 PM, Danbury Hall was humming with suspicion.

The cryptic messages had returned—this time updated on every whiteboard across both upper floors. The new note, still penned in that unnervingly elegant cursive, simply read:

“Meet at the yard at 7 sharp”

No punctuation. No emoji. No explanation. Just… ominous clarity.

“Is it a trap?” Rae asked, hovering near the lounge with a granola bar and her pepper spray.

“Or a seance,” Emma offered. “I’d honestly go either way.”

“It’s probably the Danbury Ghoul,” Bridget muttered, crossing herself for good measure.

“That’s not real,” Hazel replied, still knitting what looked like a small ghost-shaped sweater for Newton.

“Neither is my passing grade in Calc,” Paloma said. “But we live.”

In the corner, John strummed a slow, eerie tune on his guitar.

Hazel looked over. “You’re not… accidentally summoning things, right?”

John shrugged. “Only exes.”

“Close enough,” Hazel muttered.

At exactly 6:59, the back lawn of Danbury filled with pajama pants, slippers, and cider cups.

Eloise wore her signature combat boots. Michaela brought snacks in a tote bag labeled ‘My Emotional Support Cheese.’ Sophie shuffled out wrapped in her coat and heating pad like a Victorian ghost. Even Newton stood at attention, tail wagging like a metronome of mischief.

The clock hit 7.

And out stepped Gladys.

She wore a sweeping black cape over a floor-length vintage gown, opera gloves, and a string of pearls that shimmered like a curse. Standing atop a wooden crate like a theatrical town crier, she raised one gloved hand with imperial flair.

Everyone stared.

“Hi,” she said brightly. “I’m Gladys. You might know me as the Medieval Studies major whose mom forced her to come here. I also like soup.”

Hazel squinted. “Wait… you wrote the notes?”

“Yes,” Gladys confirmed cheerfully. “Apologies for the cryptic energy. I was going for ‘intrigue,’ but I realize it landed somewhere between ‘ghost prank’ and ‘light cult recruitment.’ My bad.”

She adjusted her gloves with flair. “I just wanted to build a little suspense. And maybe get you all… excited.”

“Excited for what?” Francesca asked.

Gladys grinned. “A party.”

Penelope blinked. “What kind of party?”

“The kind that makes Phi Mu nervous just by existing,” Gladys declared. “One that makes Homecoming look like a PTA mixer.”

A ripple of curiosity ran through the crowd.

“I call it: The Danbury Ghoul Gala.”

Michaela choked on an apple slice. “I’m sorry—what?”

“Theme: Ghosts. Ghouls. Glamour. Grunge. Think ‘Haunted Couture.’ Halloween, but with cheekbones.”

Paloma gasped. “Keep talking.”

Gladys stepped off the crate like a CEO descending the steps of her private jet. “My mother—Bertha Russell—once turned a failing public golf course into the hottest social club north of Lake St. Clair. There were brunches. There was a mime. There was a koi pond shaped like Michigan.”

Hazel blinked. “That sounds like a fever dream.”

“It was iconic,” Gladys insisted. “The point is—she made a space they couldn’t ignore. So should we.”

She raised a hand dramatically. “We don’t crash Phi Mu’s party. We outshine it. We build our own stage.”

A pause. Then Bridget raised her hand. “Wait… was that what the clothing sizes were for?”

Gladys lit up. “Yes! Custom ghost couture. Sponsored by: two Etsy sellers who used to date my brother Larry, one fashion student with poor boundaries, and Hazel—if she agrees.”

Hazel blinked. “We’re sewing haunted dresses?”

“With pockets,” Gladys confirmed.

The mood shifted.

“This could actually work,” Michaela murmured. “If we host it the Friday before Halloween, it beats Phi Mu’s party by 24 hours.”

“And we control the invite list,” Francesca added. “Cool people only. No creeps. No Sigma plants.”

John raised a hand from the edge of the crowd. “Is there food?”

Gladys beamed. “Chocolate skull fountain. Cursed cider. Possibly a fog machine.”

Hazel lowered her knitting needles. “Say less. I’m in.”

Gladys raised both arms like a conductor summoning ghosts.

“So what do you say, Danbury? Are we ready to haunt the hell out of this campus?”

Sophie straightened her posture, a slow fire in her eyes. “Let’s give them something to scream about.”

Eloise clinked her cider against Michaela’s. “Long live the Ghoul Gala.”

And with perfect timing, Newton let out a single, triumphant bark.

Planning began immediately—

With the kind of deranged, sleep-deprived brilliance only Danbury Hall could summon between midterms, cramps, and the lingering sting of sabotage.

A committee was formed on instinct—equal parts chaos and competence—complete with whiteboard diagrams, Post-it mosaics, and a color-coded Google Doc titled:

“Operation: Spooky, Sexy, Sublime.”

Meetings took place in the second-floor lounge beneath Newton, who now wore a velvet cape and a solemn expression befitting his new role as Honorary Mascot of the Revolution.

Gladys ran point like a haunted cruise director.

“This will not be basic,” she announced, already gesturing like a stage manager. “If anyone says ‘boo,’ it better be followed by a metaphor. Or a monologue.”

Penelope claimed social strategy with military precision.

“I’m talking invite graphics with neon fonts and cursed elegance. We’re going to soft drop a teaser so subtle it haunts their group chats.”

Sophie, still recovering but radiant with vengeance, volunteered to choreograph the event’s opening performance.

“Picture Pavlova meets Wednesday Addams,” she said, sketching ghostly silhouettes on the back of her biology quiz.

Michaela took on playlist curation.

“It’s not Monster Mash, it’s vibe elevation. Think: Florence. Early Lorde. Billie’s haunted stuff. And yes—Ghost. Duh.”

Hazel became Head of Costume Production, draped in muslin and menace.

“I’m thinking crushed velvet, spiderweb appliqués, detachable capes. Dramatic, but breathable.”

Even Bridget got involved, securing a popcorn machine and calling in a favor from her cousin at Colonial Williamsburg to borrow antique candelabras.

“They’re historically inaccurate,” she said, sipping cider like a woman with connections, “but aesthetically sacred.”

By the week’s end, there was a full vision board.

Venue: the yard.
Theme: The Gilded Graveyard.
Tagline: Dress to kill. Or haunt.

The first sign of trouble arrived like a digital curse.

At exactly 4:47 PM on a Thursday, Phi Mu dropped an Instagram carousel titled:

“Soirée Season Sneak Peek 🖤👻✨”

• Faux-gothic foyer decor

• Cressida in a black satin mini dress and cathedral-length veil

• A caption that read: “Ghouls just wanna have fun… stay tuned for the real Halloween bash, Phi Mu-style 💋🕯️ #HouseOfHaunt2025”

The comments exploded:

@lizzy_elmsworth: “Yesss haunted hotties 💀💅”

@guythwarte99: “Say less 😈”

@danburyhallstan: “Hold up… y’all stealing the Danbury theme?”

And then Newton—via his very official Danbury Hall account—posted a subtweet so clean it practically hissed:

@danburyhall: “Imitation is the sincerest form of panic.” 🐾

Back in the lounge, the reaction was nuclear.

“They’re stealing it,” Penelope hissed, already hammering at her keyboard. “They saw something original and now they’re going to dip it in Sephora highlighter and call it culture.”

“They’re trying to dilute the aesthetic,” Michaela snapped. “Corporate. Ghoul.”

Gladys rose slowly from her armchair, fire in her eyes and her pearls slightly askew.

“My mother once beat the Junior League to an opera gala by hosting a dinner on a gondola covered in hydrangeas. And I—” she cracked her knuckles—“am my mother’s daughter.”

Francesca sipped her tea, serene but deadly.

“Then it’s time for escalation.”

Sophie looked around warily. “Do we… ban them?”

“Worse,” Penelope said. “We outclass them.”

The new plan had teeth. And velvet gloves.

1. Hard-copy invites, sealed in black wax, delivered by hand only to people actually worth inviting. No digital RSVPs. No random frat boys.
   
   
2. A secret entry password: “New money, old souls.” (Michaela’s suggestion. Approved unanimously.)
   
   
3. Penelope’s pièce de résistance: A limited-edition teaser zine titled “Ghoul Talk”—an underground print drop packed with short horror stories, campus gossip written like urban legend, and deliciously veiled Phi Mu takedowns. Copies would appear in laundry rooms, cafés, and library desks like cursed Vogue issues.
   
   
4. A live ghost story performance, penned by John and narrated in full Edwardian widow realness by Sophie—complete with veil, candlelight, and a piano underscore.

They weren’t just throwing a party anymore.

They were crafting a legend.

A myth wrapped in velvet, soaked in eyeliner, and stitched together with spite and sisterhood.

And somewhere in her mirror-lined lair, Cressida felt the shift in the air—a change in the current.

The ghosts of Danbury were rising.

And they came dressed to kill.

Chapter Text

By 4:00 p.m., Danbury Hall had fully morphed into a glittering, ghost-lit operation of unholy joy.

The yard looked like a scene from Tim Burton’s Pinterest board: paper lanterns floated from tree branches like spectral jellyfish, their flickering lights casting rippling shadows across the lawn. Fog machines curled mist around the tombstones Bridget and Rae had painted during office hours. One read R.I.P. Toxic Greek Life; another simply said Here Lies Subtlety.

Hazel, perched on a step ladder she’d borrowed from Facilities and sworn to return “eventually,” was mid-struggle with a tangled strand of twinkle lights.

“If I die,” she muttered, looping wires like a woman possessed, “bury me in velvet. And make sure my scissors get donated to someone with taste.”

Sophie, now mostly recovered and wrapped in a floor-length wrap coat like a noir heroine, ran final sound checks with Michaela. Newton trotted between them in a custom-fitted tuxedo, complete with a skull-print bowtie and a surprising command of stage geography.

The DJ—a former Danbury resident named Sage, now sporting three nose rings and a Bluetooth turntable—had just arrived. She took one look at Newton and gasped, “Is that a corgi in formalwear?!”

She then promptly waived her fee for the extra hour. “I will die for this event.”

Inside, Penelope was finishing the final round of zine drops like a guerilla journalist with a vendetta.

“This one goes to the librarian who helped me find that scandalous 1970s yearbook with the Phi Mu arrest record. She deserves joy.”

At the gate, Eloise—dressed like a Regency banshee with Doc Martens—coordinated fog machine placement with Phil, who was holding a clipboard and looking mildly terrified.

“You’re doing great,” Eloise said, then squinted at a cider stand. “But move that four inches left. The symmetry is off.”

Backstage, Francesca applied her final layer of lip gloss with the steady grace of a concert pianist preparing for war.

“Camp and gravitas,” she reminded herself, adjusting her gloves. “Haunt with elegance.”

Hazel, now back on solid ground and glitter-covered from head to toe, took in the scene: the lanterns swaying in the wind, the fog, the soft strains of Florence + the Machine echoing from the speakers.

“It’s… actually beautiful,” she whispered.

“Of course it is,” Gladys declared, swanning past in a tulle cape covered in hand-embroidered ghosts. “We don’t throw parties, darling. We stage revolutions.”

Meanwhile, across Greek Row… the vibe had curdled.

At Phi Mu, something was off.

Cressida stood at her second-floor window in full glam and full panic, chewing the edge of a manicured nail that had never known anxiety until this moment.

Below, students were walking—not toward Phi Mu’s perfectly curated “House of Haunt” setup, but past it. In clusters. With purpose.

“Are they… walking away from us?” she asked aloud, her voice edged with disbelief—the kind of disbelief reserved for girls who had never been ignored on Halloween weekend in their lives.

Jinny, peering through a different window with military-grade scrutiny, narrowed her eyes.

“I thought their party was tomorrow.”

“It was,” Lizzy muttered, furiously refreshing Instagram like her life depended on it. “But Delta Theta’s social chair just posted a selfie in full corpse couture tagged #GhoulGala.”

Cressida stormed across the room in a cloud of silk and fury, yanking the phone from Lizzy’s hand.

“Delta Theta was ours.”

Conchita didn’t look up. “Lambda Nu’s president just tagged Danbury Hall. She’s wearing a powdered wig and ghost makeup. Caption says: Marie Antoinette but make it vengeance.”

The room exploded.

“They stole our look—”

“They stole our night—”

“They’re stealing our guest list!”

Cressida whirled on her heel like a vengeful pageant queen, her silk robe billowing behind her.

“This is mutiny. This is theft. This is sabotage.”

Nan, hovering in the corner with a phone and a chai latte, offered nervously:

“Maybe we… post something? Like, now? Just to spin the narrative?”

Cressida’s eyes blazed. “Lizzy—post a pic of the drink table. Make it look expensive. Conchita, silver dress. I want behind-the-scenes content. I’ll fake a candid of me sipping the sangria while saying something about elevated events for elevated women—”

“But the party’s tomorrow,” Lizzy said meekly.

“We fake it,” Cressida snapped. “Or we die trying.”

Back at Danbury, Sophie stood poised with her fellow dancers at the edge of the lawn, the grass cool beneath their satin slippers and fog curling gently around their ankles like mist summoned on cue. The first eerie swell of piano and strings drifted from the speakers—haunting, delicate, like moonlight given sound.

She took a breath, centering herself.

Then her foot slid forward in time with the music, and she began to move—graceful, grounded, ghostly.

A soft smile touched her lips.

Around her wrist, a pale ribbon fluttered with each motion—Hazel’s handiwork, tied tight for luck. In the pocket of her gauzy skirt, a tiny glass charm clinked faintly against her hip—Francesca’s contribution, a talisman “blessed by camp and chaos,” she’d said. The crowd had already begun to gather in a loose semicircle around them, cider cups in hand, wrapped in blankets and wonder.

The air smelled of cloves, apples, and possibility. Zines flitted through fingertips like paper spells, pages aglow in the lantern light. Somewhere behind the trees, Newton barked once—as if in approval.

And Sophie? She felt it in her bones.

She was no longer the girl shaken by sabotage or silenced by shame.

She was exactly where she was meant to be—dancing under the October moon, ribbon-wrapped, charm-armored, and absolutely alive.

By 9:00 p.m., the Ghoul Gala was no longer just a party.

It was a spectacle. A legend in real time.

A glitter-laced, fog-drenched, cider-scented fever dream that would be whispered about in dorm lounges and over late-night mozzarella sticks for semesters to come.

No, it wasn’t trending on TikTok’s For You Page—not yet.

But on Mayfair’s campus? It was gospel.

The kind that spread faster than freshman mono and with far superior lighting.

The greenhouse venue had fallen through at the last minute, but no one noticed anymore—because Danbury Yard had become a gothic fairytale on caffeine and spite. Paper lanterns bobbed like spectral jellyfish in the trees. Fog machines hissed dramatically on cue like trained serpents. Twinkle lights blinked like fireflies that had unionized under a glitter union. A ghostly banner hung above the arbor: “Dress to Kill (Or Haunt)” in hand-painted silver ink.

The soundtrack was a masterclass in controlled chaos—haunted waltzes segued into indie bops, which crashed into melancholic pop ballads with the emotional gravity of a séance hosted by Lorde. From her office window, Professor Agatha Danbury sipped her nightly tea and tapped her slippered foot in quiet approval.

The cider was piping hot. The vegan chili was—according to four meat-eaters and one shocked Sigma Chi brother—“illegally delicious.” The popcorn machine hissed like it was possessed, and everyone agreed it was “cursed in a fun way.”

And in the center of it all, cloaked in moonlight and theatrical defiance, the Mayfair Mosquito posted her pièce de résistance:

@MayfairMosquito: BREAKING: The Bucks are in full meltdown as Delta Theta & Lambda Nu ghost Phi Mu in favor of the Danbury Yard. Sources confirm glitter tears and Veilgate 2025. #GhoulGala #PhiMuPanic

Screenshots were shared like contraband. TikToks were uploading in real time. Even the student newspaper’s arts editor—dressed as a Victorian vampire in Docs—was spotted taking notes beneath a cauldron-shaped light fixture.

Meanwhile, Kate stood sentry on the porch with a warm mug of cider and the serene gaze of a battle-hardened general watching her troops thrive. Clipboard in one hand, backup Band-Aids in the other, she scanned the yard like a benevolent hawk in Danskos.

And what she saw?

Pure, unfiltered Danbury magic.

Near the arbor wrapped in haunted tulle and string lights, Piper and Oliver were making out like extras in a vampire period drama. Newton padded past in his tuxedo and skull bowtie, casting a judgmental glance before moving on.

By the back bench, Marian and Peggy had hijacked Gladys’s phone for a FaceTime call with the one and only Bertha Russell—still in silk pajamas, sipping from a crystal goblet.

“This,” Bertha declared from the screen, “is the finest act of social rebellion I’ve witnessed since I personally dismantled the Grosse Pointe Garden Club.”

“Mom,” Gladys said off-screen, “we’ve been over this.”

“Begonias don’t belong next to hydrangeas. They had it coming.”

Over on the makeshift dance floor, Bridget and Jack were slow dancing to a melancholy, cello-heavy cover of “Toxic.” She rested her head on his shoulder, lost in the kind of moment she would normally overthink to death—but tonight, she just let it be.

A few feet away, Savannah had somehow convinced Mateo—adorable, cautious, straight-A Mateo—to climb onto a table and join the self-declared “Ghouls Mafia”, chanting like a possessed football cheer squad.

“I don’t know what this is!” Mateo cried, half-dancing.

“That’s the point!” Savannah yelled back.

Owen filmed it all with the calm focus of someone preparing future memes, blackmail content, or both.

Francesca—once the phantom of every party, hovering just outside the glow—now stood in the center of it all. Draped in velvet and eyeliner, cheeks flushed, she laughed mid-conversation with a circle of arts majors, sipping a glitter-rimmed mocktail like she’d always belonged there.

Emma, who normally treated flirty boys like raw eggs in a minefield, was actually smiling at Charles from Sigma Chi. They sat on the stone steps, leaning in slightly, gesturing toward Newton like he was the key to world peace.

The party wasn’t just thriving—it was transcending.

Danbury Hall had officially gone from underdog to icon. Not because of any invite list. Not because of influencers or frat affiliations. But because it had created something no one else dared to:

A space that was defiant and warm, spooky and safe, unpolished and unforgettable.

Kate took one last sip of cider, heart full, clipboard forgotten.

Let Phi Mu wear their matching veils.

And then—

“Why,” Sophie said flatly, “is there a man in a sash walking across the lawn?”

Kate turned.

And there he was.

Anthony Bridgerton.

Wearing a top hat.

Draped in a velvet cape lined with silver, sash slung across his chest like he’d lost a bet at a Regency-themed Halloween party. In ornate calligraphy, it read:

MAYOR GHOUL.

He looked like Tuxedo Mask had wandered off from a Sailor Moon cosplay meetup and stumbled into a fog machine in Williamsburg.

Newton barked once—gleefully.

Kate blinked. Once. Twice.

Then muttered, “I take it back. I am getting a citation tonight. For homicide.”

Anthony, naturally, grinned like he’d just delivered the final line of a romantic comedy no one had written but him. “Evening, Madam Director,” he said, bowing with theatrical flair. “I heard there was an unsanctioned supernatural uprising on university property and thought I’d check in. For, you know, public safety.”

Kate stared, arms crossed. “You’re lucky it’s not a full moon. I’d have hexed you into a ghost story by now.”

He swept an arm toward the glowing chaos of the party. “Thought you’d want to know—half of Greek Row’s migrated, someone’s DJing with a Ouija board, and I just stopped a freshman from stringing a bat-shaped piñata off the Phi Mu sign.”

Kate straightened. “I’m sorry—what?”

“I stopped them,” he said casually. “For now. But the piñata may or may not have been filled with glitter bombs and jello shots.”

She gave him a look sharp enough to slice fog. “Are you here to help? Or just to deliver your signature brand of smug?”

He handed her a cup of cider—steaming, fragrant, annoyingly well-balanced.

“I’m here,” he said simply, “because this is the best thing this campus has seen since Homecoming 2015. And I didn’t want to miss history.”

Kate took the cup. Sipped. It was good. Too good.

Newton plopped down between them like a Victorian ghost sidekick, cape fluttering, ears alert.

The party buzzed around them: glowing lights, moody music, someone doing interpretive dance with bones on strings, others snapping selfies with the cursed popcorn machine.

It was chaos—but curated, joyful chaos.

And somehow—despite everything—Kate found herself smiling.

Even—with him here.

Maybe especially.

Anthony leaned in, voice just loud enough for her to hear. “Still haven’t answered my question.”

She sipped again. “What question?”

“Why a fully grown woman would voluntarily host an unsanctioned Halloween gala for students when she could be home watching The Haunting of Hill House with a weighted blanket and a bottle of red?”

Kate gave him a withering glance. “You drove here from D.C. in a velvet cape because you wanted to cosplay Sailor Moon’s estranged sugar daddy. Don’t start.”

He smirked. “Technically, I ghosted in.”

“Oh my god, do you hear yourself?”

Unbothered, he took another sip. “By the way—#GhoulGala is trending campus-wide. Someone posted a photo of Newton judging the cider fountain. It’s already got four thousand likes. I came for the vibes.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “So… FOMO and Newton thirst traps. Got it.”

“And community engagement,” Anthony said smoothly. “Obviously.”

Then, casually, he extended a hand. “Dance with me?”

Kate blinked. “You do realize every time you show up, it feels like a cursed prophecy is unfolding, right? One minute we’re throwing a spooky soirée, next thing I know we’re bantering in the apocalypse.”

He didn’t drop his hand. “Might as well dance while the world burns.”

Instead of answering, Kate reached for a candy apple from the nearby table. Glossy red. Too perfect.

She took a bite—slow, deliberate, never breaking eye contact.

Anthony’s smirk twitched.

Just slightly.

Enough.

Kate tilted her head. “What?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes darted to the apple. Then to her. Then back again.

“…Is there something wrong with it?” she asked, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “Because if so, Newton’s about to inherit it.”

Anthony opened his mouth—hesitated—

And then—

A scream split the night.

High. Sharp.

Too real.

The music stopped.

The lights flickered.

Newton shot to his feet, ears up, growling low.

Kate dropped the apple.

Anthony swore under his breath.

Because just beyond the arbor—

Something moved.

And it wasn’t wearing a costume.

Chapter Text

It started, as most campus-wide catastrophes do, with a truly terrible idea.

The kind of idea born not of malice, but of unchecked curiosity, too much caffeine, and just enough unresolved romantic tension to cause structural damage.

Tucked behind the arbor—mercifully out of sight from adult supervision and the Danbury party committee—Eloise and Phil had decided that their banter deserved… escalation.

So naturally, they organized a Screaming Contest.

Yes. A shriek duel. A banshee-off. A “may the loudest lungs win” showdown.

“It’s about texture,” Eloise insisted, arms crossed like a diva director delivering notes before curtain. “Mine has banshee undertones. A Celtic death trill. It’s giving Haunting in the Highlands.”

Phil, chewing on the one fake fang he hadn’t lost, raised an eyebrow. “You sound like a goose being electrocuted.”

“Exactly,” Eloise beamed. “Authenticity.”

Phil cracked his neck, stepped back, and inhaled like he was about to sprint the 400-meter dash into hell.

“Prepare to be spiritually unmoored.”

Then—he screamed.

Not just a scream.

A revelation.

The kind of sound that starts in the soles of your shoes, claws its way up, and barrels out of you like it’s been trapped for centuries. It was half demon growl, half exorcism aria, finishing with the flourish of a haunted calliope crashing into a kettle whistle.

Newton spun in a full circle.

The DJ dropped his phone.

A fog machine coughed once and died.

And across the lawn—

someone screamed back.

Only this time, it wasn’t ironic.

The music cut.

Conversations died mid-sentence.

Popcorn scattered like cursed confetti.

A paper lantern swung violently, as though possessed.

From the center of the yard, Gladys turned in slow motion, cape swirling. “What in Bertha Russell’s bouffant was that?!”

Eloise froze. Her eyes widened with dawning horror, as if realizing this might not have been extra credit but the final exam.

“Oh no.”

Phil blinked. “Okay, maybe I… went too method?”

“You think?” Eloise hissed, grabbing his collar. “Crane, did you just accidentally stage a panic drill with your inner soprano?!”

Across the yard, Sophie shot Phil a look that could only be translated as wow, dude.

Phil lifted his hands weakly. “Technically? Yes.”

From the porch, Kate had just lifted a candy apple to her lips when the scream cleaved the air.

She froze—apple poised, dread pooling instantly in her chest.

She lowered it. Exhaled slowly.

“This,” she muttered, “is why I banned haunted karaoke.”

Anthony, beside her, hadn’t moved. Not because of the scream—because he was staring at the half-eaten apple like it was radioactive.

Kate noticed his jaw, tight as stone. His shoulders locked.

“Anthony?” she asked carefully, tossing the apple in a nearby bin. “You okay?”

His throat worked. “I thought that was glazed in raw honey.”

Kate blinked. “…You thought I poisoned myself at my own party?”

“I have anaphylaxis-based trauma,” he said, halfway between scandalized and ghostly.

“It’s cinnamon glaze,” Kate replied firmly. “Farmers’ market. Booth twelve. The woman with the lemon hair clip.”

Anthony didn’t relax. “That doesn’t rule out pollen.”

Kate pressed her hand lightly to his chest, steady. “Breathe. In through your nose… out through your mouth.”

He obeyed.

Once. Twice. Newton, who had been braced like a canine EMT, finally sat down with a sigh.

“Better?” Kate asked.

Anthony nodded, grudging. “Less like I need poison control. Slightly.”

“Progress.”

And then—sirens.

At first distant. Then swelling. That unmistakable Doppler wail that did not pair well with fairy lights and cursed cider.

The crowd turned toward the sound. The yard fell silent.

Eloise came sprinting across the lawn, Phil right behind. “Um. Do we have… like, an evacuation plan? Because I may have screamed loud enough to summon the fire department, and now a freshman’s crying into a glow stick.”

Gladys swirled into the porch, cape aflutter. “Do we flee, or do we pose dramatically and then flee?”

Kate raised a single hand, cutting the panic like a sorceress commanding stillness. “No one flees.”

“But—” Francesca shouted from the gate, phone raised, “they’re parking on the sidewalk.”

Kate drew a bracing breath. “I’ll handle it.”

Anthony stepped forward. “Do you want backup?”

Kate didn’t hesitate. “You’re wearing a cape and a sash that says Mayor Ghoul. Your job is to keep morale up and redirect the spotlight.”

He opened his mouth to argue. She was already gone, striding toward the gate with the authority of a woman fully prepared to win an argument with a deputy.

The music remained silent.

The cider untouched.

And beyond the gate, red and blue lights bled through the trees.

Newton barked once.

Anthony swore softly.

And somewhere near the cider vat, a lone freshman clutched a papier-mâché bat piñata and whispered:

“…Do I… put this down?”

Kate crossed the yard with purpose, her coat sweeping behind her like a war general’s cape—except this battle was fog-machine-fueled and glitter-stained. The red-and-blue glow grew sharper with every step, bouncing off Danbury Hall’s stone gateposts like an omen.

Two campus security officers waited just beyond the property line, arms folded, radios crackling. Officer Tolman was already unclipping a pen and clipboard, every inch the bureaucratic executioner. His partner, Officer Diaz, looked marginally more sympathetic—but only marginally.

“Evening, officers,” Kate said evenly. “Noise complaint?”

“Correct,” Tolman replied, flat as concrete. “At 9:12 p.m., dispatch logged a report of sustained disturbance—music, crowd noise, screaming.”

Kate arched a brow. “Screaming? That may have been… interpretive.”

Neither officer laughed. Neither blinked.

She pressed on. “Look. We’re winding down anyway. No alcohol. No vandalism. Just fog, lights, and one overzealous soprano auditioning for the afterlife.”

Diaz cleared his throat. “We’re going to need this party shut down.”

The smile slid from Kate’s face like a dropped curtain. “Seriously?”

“It’s too loud,” Tolman said. “And the complaint originated from the Greek Council.”

That was when Kate saw it. Just beyond the patrol car: a gleaming luxury sedan, purring like a cat that owned the block. Tinted windows down just enough to showcase four familiar silhouettes.

Cressida, platinum-blonde halo blazing under the streetlight, sat smugly in the back like a general surveying the battlefield. Jinny and Nan flanked her, Lizzy perched forward with a vape clutched like a microphone. And in the passenger seat? Conchita, phone raised, filming every second.

Of course she was.

Kate exhaled slowly. Shifted tactics. “With all due respect—Danbury isn’t the only place with music tonight. Kappa Sig is blasting EDM two houses over. Phi Mu’s backyard? Kegs, louder speakers, actual violations. But we’re the problem?”

“That may be true,” Tolman said after a beat, “but this is the call we were dispatched to.”

“So let me get this straight,” Kate countered, folding her arms. “A non-Greek hall throws one successful event, and suddenly enforcement shows up with a clipboard. Feels selective, doesn’t it?”

Diaz hesitated. “Look, I get it. But if we don’t respond, it looks like we’re ignoring complaints. If you close things down now, we’ll leave it at that. No citation.”

Kate’s jaw tightened. Behind her, she could feel the pulse of the yard still alive—the faint buzz of suspended music, cider steam curling into the fog, students waiting like a spell half-broken.

She looked back at the car.

Cressida raised her phone.

And smiled.

Kate closed her eyes. Nodded once. “I’ll tell them.”

Back inside, the murmurs had returned, fragile relief replacing panic—but only for a heartbeat. Kate stepped onto the patio, lifted her hands, and the yard hushed. Newton padded at her side, tail low.

“Hi everyone,” she called, her voice carrying like a bell. “You’ve been incredible tonight. Truly. But I’m afraid we need to wrap this up a little early.”

A ripple of groans. Sighs.

A lone “noooo” from somewhere near the cider vat.

“I know,” Kate said, smile tight but kind. “It was too good to be true, wasn’t it?”

“Zombie conga line was about to start!” someone shouted.

“This was better than Homecoming,” another muttered.

Gladys lifted her cider cup like a salute. “Ghoul Gala forever.”

Kate gave a final wave, the weight of it bittersweet. Not defeat. Just the certainty that what they’d built was real—and that someone had been terrified enough to try and crush it.

Guests trickled toward the sidewalk, trailing glitter and satin, snapping last photos under twinkle lights like pilgrims clinging to relics. Francesca hugged Sophie, whispering something that drew a reluctant smile. Michaela grumbled about institutional sabotage while hauling bins with Hazel. Phil cracked jokes as he herded Hanover freshmen toward the gates.

Near the zine table, Penelope crossed her arms. “I give it twelve minutes before Cressida posts about ‘restoring order.’”

“Ten,” Eloise said grimly. “She drafted the caption when the car pulled up.”

Newton whimpered softly as the music died, pressing against Kate’s leg until she crouched and rubbed behind his ears. “I know, buddy,” she whispered. “You were the best part of tonight.”

Anthony appeared then, arms crossed, expression taut with quiet fury. “They called it in, didn’t they?”

Kate didn’t look at him. “No proof.”

“There’s video. They’ll spin it to make you look like you lost control.”

“I know.”

His jaw flexed. “You don’t deserve that.”

Kate rose, brushing off her coat. “Neither did they. Not the kids. Not Newton. Not even the fog machine.”

Anthony hesitated. “If you want me to talk to the Dean—”

“No.” Her tone was steel. “We did something good. They hate that. Let them.”

He studied her. “So what now?”

Kate’s eyes swept the yard: lanterns glowing faintly, dew-damp grass stamped with footprints, ghost stickers peeling from capes like shed skin.

And then she smiled—small, dangerous.

“We rebuild. We clean up. We regroup. And then we throw something even bigger.”

Anthony’s brow rose. “Promise?”

Kate’s eyes gleamed. “Threat.”

He chuckled, low. “That’s my girl.”

Kate rolled her eyes—but she didn’t deny it.

Back on Greek Row, in a bedroom lined with vanity lights, curling irons, and enough hair extensions to costume a full Broadway tour, Cressida reviewed the footage on Conchita’s phone with the precision of a director cutting scenes from a documentary about her own greatness.

She paused the reel on Kate’s face—mid-sigh, mid-defeat. “There. That’s the angle,” she said coolly. “She looks frazzled. Weak.”

Jinny, sprawled across a velvet throw with the air of someone who’d seen too many of Cressida’s plans go nuclear, raised a brow. “You don’t think this could backfire? Students liked that party. If anything, Danbury finally looked… alive.”

“It won’t,” Cressida said, tone flat, absolute. “People don’t crave authenticity. They crave control. Danbury looked chaotic. Unsupervised. That reads as dangerous. We? We look curated. Polished.”

Lizzy, cross-legged on the floor, flipped through one of the glossy zines she’d snatched on her way out. Her frown deepened. “Annoyingly, it’s… good. Like actually good. This one’s about housing policy and—ugh—it has footnotes.”

“Which is why it has to go,” Cressida said sharply. “Ideas are contagious. Control is the cure.”

On the edge of the bed, Conchita was already trimming the clip. Adding captions, cutting pauses, setting it to a moody track that would make Danbury’s ‘magic’ look like amateur hour. “We’ll post in the morning,” she said, thumbs flying. “Let it marinate overnight. By brunch, the narrative will be clear: Danbury threw an illegal rave, got caught, and played victim.”

Cressida smirked, turning toward the mirror, lashes fanned like wings as she perfected her reflection. “And tomorrow night, when Phi Mu hosts ‘Haunted House’? We’ll show them how a real event is done. Controlled. Exclusive. Untouchable.”

Jinny swirled her pumpkin martini, skepticism lacing her tone. “You really think you’ve won?”

Cressida adjusted her lash line with surgical care, lips curving into a predator’s smile. “I don’t think. I know. I always win.”

But over at Danbury, as fog thinned and the last clusters of students drifted off into the night, Penelope Featherington lingered by the front steps. Her coat smelled faintly of cider and popcorn, her eyes still lit with the kind of mischief that didn’t fade with a police shutdown.

On her way inside, she stopped by Kate’s mailbox. Slipped in a folded square of heavy black cardstock. Embossed in silver ink, sharp as a promise.

Two words. Elegant cursive.

GAME ON!

Chapter Text

The yard was nearly empty by the time Anthony dragged a folding chair toward the patio steps. Newton had claimed the spot first, naturally—flopped across the wood planks with his tiny cape askew like a knight felled in battle—but Anthony wedged the chair in anyway.

Kate was nearby, stacking cider cups into precarious towers, her coat still buttoned against the October chill. She didn’t glance up when she said, “You don’t have to help. You don’t even live here.”

“I want to,” Anthony replied simply, brushing glitter from his sleeve like it might ever come off. “Besides, it’s a distraction. Keeps me from replaying the moment I thought cinnamon glaze was raw honey.”

Kate chuckled, low and unexpected. “You’re not the only one prone to overreaction in this building.”

For a while, silence settled between them—the good kind. A pause, not an absence. Plastic bowls stacked. Lantern cords untangled. Somewhere down Greek Row, a sorority playlist still thumped, faint as a heartbeat.

Anthony broke first. “When I said ‘trauma,’ I wasn’t exaggerating.” His voice had shifted—quieter, careful. “It’s not just paranoia about desserts.”

Kate straightened, zines gathered in her arms. She studied him, her expression soft. “I know,” she said gently. “About your father.”

Anthony’s head snapped up.

“Francesca told me once,” Kate explained, shifting her grip on the papers. “During one of her endless piano sessions. I think she meant it as a warning about your… intensity. She mentioned he was stung. That you were there.” She hesitated. “Don’t hold it against her. She was just… playing scales and talking.”

Anthony’s jaw tightened. He looked down at his hands, still sticky with cider. “There’s more to him than that,” he murmured. “More than the runner. More than the—” He gave a humorless laugh. “The so-called ‘normal dork’ who fell for a Phi Mu girl at college.”

Kate set the zines on the table, leaning back against it, the porch light catching on the angles of her face. She didn’t press, didn’t prod. Just waited.

“You miss him,” she said softly.

Anthony swallowed. “Every day.”

For a moment—just a moment—the chaos of the night receded. No fog machine. No sirens. Just the two of them, side by side in the fragile stillness after a storm.

Kate let her fingers skim the cardstock, as though grounding herself. “I get it,” she said finally. “My dad died when I was a sophomore. I almost transferred. Thought maybe I should be back in Jersey, helping my mom, looking after my sister. Pretend Mayfair was a chapter I didn’t need to finish.”

Anthony’s gaze snapped to her.

“They told me to stay,” she continued. “Not just because it was what he would’ve wanted. But because it was what I wanted—even if I couldn’t see it then.” She exhaled. “But it wasn’t quick, like your father. It was… slow. Watching the Titanic sink in real time. Every day a little less of him, and you can’t stop it. You keep showing up anyway, because that’s what love looks like. But it doesn’t make the drowning easier.”

Her voice caught. She blinked hard, steadying herself. “I wouldn’t have made it through without my sisters. They carried me when I couldn’t.”

Anthony frowned. “Sisters?”

Kate’s smile was small, wry. “I was a Phi Mu girl. Not this version,” she added, nodding vaguely toward Greek Row, as if Cressida’s shadow lingered there still. “Back then it was… different. Service, community, actual sisterhood. Daphne joined during my senior year, when I was president. We were messy, but in the good way.”

Anthony went still. Processing. Kate leaned against the railing, lamplight catching the tired curve of her smile.

“So, yeah,” she finished softly. “Different kinds of loss. Same emptiness.”

Anthony leaned his elbows on the railing, staring out at the fog thinning over the lawn. His voice, when it came, was almost a whisper.

“You know… that’s what I’m afraid of.”

Kate’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“She rushed Phi Mu when you were president,” Anthony said at last. His voice carried that taut edge she’d begun to recognize—the one he used when he wanted to sound composed but the words betrayed him. “She talks about it like it’s legacy. Tradition. Dad would’ve been proud. And maybe he would’ve.” His jaw worked once, hard. “But…”

Kate tilted her head. “But?” she prompted gently.

Anthony exhaled through his nose, sharp as a blade. “I can’t shake the feeling she’s following the same pattern. Dad was—” He stopped, as though the air itself resisted him. His hand curled into a fist against the railing. “He was… everything. And he kept giving it away. Piece by piece, until one sting—one stupid sting—was enough to end it.”

Kate stayed quiet. Listening.

Anthony rubbed at his temple, as though steadying himself. “Daphne’s brilliant. Too brilliant to waste herself chasing someone else’s mold. But I watch her lean into that image—perfect daughter, perfect sister, perfect sorority girl—and I think: God, she’s going to end up like him. Loved, admired… but hollowed out by it.”

Kate’s throat tightened. She wanted to argue, to soften the ache in his voice, but the rawness stopped her. Instead, she reached across the railing and laid her fingers lightly over his hand.

“You’re not your father,” she said softly. “And Daphne isn’t him, either. She did okay for herself. Married a Duke, moved to England, found her own version of… whatever that is.”

Anthony’s eyes flicked to hers—dark, searching, as though trying to measure the truth of her words.

Kate went on. “You see cracks because you’ve lived through them. That doesn’t mean she’s doomed to repeat them. And if she ever does feel that weight—you’re there. She’s lucky to have a brother who won’t let her drown.”

His throat worked, an unspoken knot caught there. For once, Anthony Bridgerton had no quip. No retort. Just a long, quiet look at the woman beside him, as though she’d just cut through something he hadn’t realized was strangling him.

Newton, sprawled like a shaggy sentinel at their feet, gave a sudden huff, the sound oddly deliberate.

Anthony let out a gravelly laugh—small, tired, but real. “Leave it to you to make an RD pep talk sound like scripture.”

Kate squeezed his hand once before pulling back. “Don’t flatter me, Bridgerton. I save the gospel for freshmen who forget how to use the laundry room.”

His hand lingered a beat longer on the railing, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. When he looked at her, really looked, it was as if he were memorizing her face in the glitter-dusted light.

Kate didn’t flinch. She met his gaze head-on. For the briefest moment, the world around them—the folding tables, the flickering lanterns, the tired students—blurred, leaving only this suspended quiet between them.

Anthony’s voice dropped low. “You know, you’re the first person who’s ever said that to me.”

Kate tilted her head. “What, that you’re not your father?”

“That… and that I might actually be good at holding someone else up. Most people think I’m the one who needs rescuing.”

Her smile was faint, wry, steady. “Maybe both can be true.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, like he wanted to laugh but couldn’t quite manage it. Instead, he leaned in—closer, close enough that Kate caught the faint trace of cider and clove on his breath.

Her pulse kicked.

Anthony opened his mouth, the air between them buzzing with inevitability.

And then—

BARK!

Newton shot between them, tail wagging like a drumbeat, a damp tennis ball clamped triumphantly in his mouth as though he’d just solved world peace.

Kate startled, half laughing, half groaning. “Really? Now?”

Anthony chuckled, stepping back. “I think your sidekick’s making a statement.”

Newton dropped the ball squarely at Anthony’s polished shoes and barked again.

Kate rubbed her temples. “Translation: ‘Stop flirting with my human and play fetch, loser.’”

Anthony bent, scooping up the slobbery ball. “He’s got excellent timing. Terrible wingman, though.”

Kate smiled—soft, rueful, almost grateful for the interruption. “Maybe that’s exactly what I need.”

Anthony looked at her for another beat, something unspoken flickering in his eyes, before launching the ball into the fog. Newton bolted after it, a blur of cape and corgi determination.

The moment lingered anyway. Fragile. Undeniable.

Kate sighed, grabbing a trash bag. “Come on, Bridgerton. Let’s finish cleaning before your fan club comes back for an encore.”

Anthony smirked. “Lead the way, Madam Director.”

Kate glanced at the yard—half-fog, half-silence, still carrying the ghost of what had been. She shook her head, as if remembering something obvious.

“You know,” she said, “you don’t have to drive back to D.C. tonight.”

Anthony arched a brow. “Are you suggesting I risk the scandal of staying in a freshman dorm?”

“I’m suggesting,” Kate corrected, “that you take one of the spare rooms in my quarters. Bed, bathroom, and blessedly no undergrads fighting over shower caddies at seven a.m.”

His grin spread, slow and crooked. “Sounds almost luxurious.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she warned. “Newton’s territorial about the TV. He thinks every streaming password belongs to him.”

As if summoned, the corgi trotted back, dropped the ball at Anthony’s feet, and barked sharply.

Anthony scratched behind his ears. “I think we’ll manage.”

Kate narrowed her eyes. “One condition. The second I hear from Eloise or Francesca that you snuck down the hall to deliver one of your pompous speeches about ‘good young adults,’ I’m kicking you out. No appeals.”

Anthony put a hand to his chest in mock offense. “You wound me. I’d never.”

“You absolutely would.”

“Not tonight,” he said, still grinning. “Scout’s honor.”

Kate rolled her eyes, though the corners of her mouth betrayed her. “Fine. But don’t test me, Bridgerton.”

Newton barked again—whether in warning or approval, no one could say.

Kate handed Anthony a ring of keys, pointing toward the narrow stairwell tucked beside her office door—the one that led up to the small staff suite above.

“Third door on the left,” she instructed. “Spare room’s got clean sheets, bathroom’s down the hall. And if Newton beats you to the couch, don’t argue—he always wins.”

Anthony accepted the keys with mock gravity, glancing at them as though she’d just handed over state secrets. “For a temporary billet, this is remarkably generous.”

“It’s not generous,” Kate said dryly. “It’s strategic. This way I know exactly where you are—and more importantly, where you aren’t.”

His smirk deepened, but she was already crossing toward the mail slots by the entryway. Her fingers flicked idly through the usual detritus of dorm life: faded flyers, RA forms, the latest campus bulletin.

And then she saw it.

Not another announcement about flu shots. Not another lost-and-found notice.

A single piece of thick, black cardstock.

Kate plucked it free, frowning. The porch light glinted off the surface, catching the embossed silver ink. Two words, written in looping cursive bold enough to sneer:

GAME ON.

Her brow knit, the rest of the world blurring for a beat.

“Everything alright?” Anthony asked from halfway up the stairs, voice casual but threaded with curiosity.

“Fine,” she said quickly, closing her hand around the card. But her mind was already moving fast.

Phi Mu? Theatrics were certainly their specialty.

Or maybe just some smug partygoer playing creative after one too many ciders.

Or—worse—the Mayfair Mosquito, lurking closer than anyone guessed.

She slipped the card into her coat pocket, smoothing her face back into something neutral.

“Go on,” she called up, lighter now, forcing a smile into her tone. “Bed’s waiting.”

Anthony paused, watching her for a moment longer, as if sensing the unspoken weight in her voice. But then he nodded and continued upstairs, Newton scampering after him like an eager little guard dog.

Kate stayed where she was. Alone in the doorway, coat collar brushing her cheek, hand pressed to the pocket that held the card.

Fog curled lazily back into the yard, swallowing the last scraps of glitter and lantern light. Across the street, Greek Row still thumped with music, alive and unbothered. But here—here in the hushed bones of Danbury Hall—she could feel it.

A shift. A challenge.

Her pulse steadied, sharp and deliberate.

“Game on,” she murmured under her breath, the words not fear but promise.

And with that, Kate Sharma, Madam Director, locked the front door behind her.

Chapter Text

Morning crept into Danbury not like sunshine, but like a collective hangover in pajama pants.

The glitter was still ground into the carpet. The fog machine sulked in the corner like a retired dragon. Empty cider cups and popcorn kernels lingered in defiance of gravity. And morale? Somewhere between tragic and terminal.

Residents trickled into the common room one by one, clutching mismatched mugs of coffee and chewing through cereal with the hollow-eyed energy of soldiers after battle. Nobody said the words shut down. Not out loud. The silence did it for them.

Francesca spotted him first.

Her brother.

In Danbury.

Anthony, leaning against the kitchenette counter like he’d been born there, pouring coffee with Newton parked loyally at his feet. His shirt sleeves were already crisp, his posture already smug.

Her eyes widened. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Good morning to you too,” Anthony replied smoothly. “Coffee?”

Eloise appeared on the stairwell seconds later, froze mid-step, and groaned like she’d just walked into a horror sequel. “No. Absolutely not. You did not spend the night.”

Anthony lifted his cup, unbothered. “And yet… here I am. Fully caffeinated, impeccably pressed, and, I’ll have you know, I refrained from lecturing anyone on their life choices before 10 AM. That’s growth.”

Francesca crossed her arms. “You promised to stop badgering us about Greek life.”

“I did,” Anthony said, raising both hands in mock surrender. He gestured toward the coffeepot. “This? This is my treaty offering. No Phi Mu speeches. No legacy sermons. Just caffeine and peace.”

The sisters traded skeptical looks but didn’t press—for now. Breakfast etiquette demanded tolerance, at least until second cups.

One by one, Danbury filled in. Hazel curled into the beanbag with her knitting, Owen humming around a bagel, Penelope scrolling furiously through her phone. Michaela dragged in a mixing bowl of oatmeal like it was a weapon. Sophie slipped in last, braid loose, tea clutched in both hands like a fragile shield.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen—and froze.

Another text. Another new number.

Phillip: Saw the videos from last night. You look like a trot trying to prance. Do you even hear yourself when you breathe that hard?

Sophie’s stomach dropped. She angled the phone away, pasted on a neutral face. But Anthony—watchful even mid-sip—caught the flash of panic in her eyes.

“Problem?” he asked.

Sophie shook her head too fast. “Spam.” She lifted her tea and drank, the steam veiling her lie.

Anthony didn’t push. Not yet. But his gaze lingered.

Before he could dwell, Penelope let out a strangled gasp. “Oh no. Oh no.”

Eloise nearly toppled off the couch. “What? What now?”

Penelope turned her phone. “It’s out.”

There it was.

The reel. Last night’s footage, edited and weaponized. Kate, framed in the glow of patrol car lights, looking tired, cornered, frazzled. The caption scrolled across the bottom in glossy Phi Mu font:

“Some parties end in chaos. Some leaders can’t handle the heat. ✨ #HauntedHouseOfPhiMu #OrderRestored”

The common room went still. Then it erupted.

Michaela stabbed her oatmeal so hard it splattered. Adelheid muttered a curse in German. Eloise swore loudly enough to make Newton bark. Even Anthony swore under his breath, which made Francesca’s brows shoot up.

Kate, entering with clipboard in one hand and her own coffee in the other, didn’t even flinch. She just sighed. “Good morning to you too.”

The table looked like a war council in sweatpants—half-eaten cereal, laptops, cider mugs, Newton sprawled at their feet like a furry general.

“This is garbage,” Michaela snapped. “They made you look like you were about to cry into your clipboard.”

Kate calmly buttered toast, unbothered. “Spin only works if people believe it.”

“Yeah, well,” Eloise muttered, arms folded, “half this campus worships Phi Mu like they’re the Vatican of spray tans. They’ll eat it up.”

“Dry shampoo doesn’t deserve this slander,” Hazel mumbled without looking up.

Francesca scrolled through the comments, lips pressed thin. “They’ve already got reposts. Likes in the hundreds. Delta and Sigma are amplifying it.”

Anthony leaned against the counter, mug in hand, expression sharp. “Then don’t fight their story. Replace it.”

Penelope’s eyes gleamed. “I could. Screenshots. Counter-edits. Hashtags sharp enough to draw blood.”

Kate shook her head. “Not yet. Retaliation only feeds them. We let people miss it, ache for it. Make Phi Mu look like the killjoys they are.”

Sophie, pale, stirred honey into her tea but didn’t drink. Her voice was low. “They don’t want to outshine us. They want to erase us.”

The room fell quiet. Heavy.

Anthony looked at her, at the shadow in her eyes. He thought again of Francesca’s quiet fire, of Eloise’s defiance, and now Sophie—bracing herself against a ghost she didn’t name.

He hated that she was shrinking while Phi Mu strutted louder. He hated it enough to wonder if he could fix it. Push her toward someone who deserved her. Someone here. Someone safe. Maybe one of his brothers can help. Colin is single and close to her age. Benedict lives nearby. Anyone better than the parasite still haunting her phone.

Francesca finally broke the silence, chin lifting. “They can post reels and captions all they want. But they’ll never have what we had last night.”

Newton barked once, sharp and decisive, as if seconding the motion.

Meanwhile, over on Greek Row, Phi Mu’s kitchen gleamed like a curated Instagram grid.

Marble counters. Pumpkin-spice candles. Rose-gold utensils arranged like props. The fridge was a shrine of LaCroix, stacked so high it could hydrate the entire Colonial Williamsburg cast for a week.

Cressida presided at the breakfast island like a monarch at court—silk robe draped just so, black coffee in hand, lashes still perfect from the night before. Around her, the Bucks operated like lieutenants: Conchita with her laptop open, editing reel metrics like a surgeon; Jinny scrolling TikTok for live reactions; Lizzy twirling her vape and smirking as if the cloud itself was applause; Nan color-coding printouts of Ghoul Gala outfits with a highlighter, muttering critiques like she was hosting Project Runway: Undead Edition.

“They folded early,” Cressida said at last, her voice smooth, amused, lethal. She gestured toward Conchita’s screen where Kate’s face froze mid-sentence in the reel. “That’s the headline. Danbury couldn’t hold their own.”

“Two thousand plays in under twelve hours,” Conchita reported, tapping at her keyboard. “Comments are fifty-fifty, but that’s good. Controversy drives engagement. Half of campus is already arguing, which means all of campus is watching.”

“Tonight will seal it,” Jinny added, eyes still on her phone. “The Haunted House of Phi Mu—controlled, photogenic, no surprises. We deliver one perfect night, and Danbury’s little costume carnival is forgotten.”

Lizzy sauntered over from the prep table, holding up a mocktail in a crystal glass. “Toast to the first sorority on campus to trend before their party even starts.”

They clinked glasses. The sound rang sharp, glittering in the morning light.

Cressida leaned back in her chair, smile sharp as a blade. Her nails tapped against her coffee mug—three deliberate clicks that echoed like a countdown.

“Let them sulk. Let them lick their wounds,” she said softly. “Tomorrow night, no one will even remember Danbury’s name.”

Her gaze flicked to the window, where the street outside lay calm and empty, as though the war for Mayfair’s soul weren’t already underway.

“Our reign,” she finished, her voice velvet and steel, “is permanent.”

The Phi Mu house glowed like a magazine spread—every detail curated for maximum envy. String lights cascaded from the porch like a constellation on demand. Velvet ropes marked the entrance as though Vogue itself might cover the door check. And in the living room, Cressida stood at the epicenter, framed by chandeliers, dressed in black satin and veiled drama, every inch the monarch awaiting coronation.

The Bucks flanked her like jeweled sentries—sequins catching the light, mocktails raised, laughter pitched just loud enough to be overheard.

But by 9:30, the cracks were showing.

The music pulsed, the decor sparkled, the fog machine hissed like an obedient pet—but the crowd? Thin. A drip of Sigma Chi guys clumping by the drink cart. A smattering of Greek Council reps fulfilling political obligations. A handful of sophomores angling for photos. The usual tide of admirers, sycophants, and hangers-on? Missing.

“Maybe people are just late,” Jinny said, clutch pressed tight in her hands as if it were a talisman.

“They will come,” Cressida said crisply, raising her glass with a smile lacquered into place. “This is Phi Mu. We don’t get ignored.”

But Lizzy’s eyes flicked nervously toward the door. “There should be more by now. At the Gala, people were already—” She stopped, biting her lip too late.

“Don’t,” Conchita snapped, phone twitching in her hand. “This isn’t about them. This is our night.”

By 10 PM, the silence between songs was louder than the bassline. Conversations stuttered, laughter felt rehearsed, and the curated glamour smelled faintly of pumpkin candles and panic. Cressida smiled harder, posed longer, tilted her chin higher whenever a camera appeared. But her knuckles whitened on the glass stem with each passing minute.

“They’ll show,” she repeated, almost to herself. “They have to.”

The Bucks, usually unflappable, began to shift in place—sequins scratching against nerves. Their whispers hummed under the music like static.

By 11 PM, the truth was undeniable. The living room gleamed—LED-lit bar cart, selfie wall perfectly staged, fog machine humming under the grand staircase—but the party never swelled. A few Sigma stragglers hung by the playlist. Two Delta girls arrived, snapped selfies at the décor wall, and were gone in under ten minutes.

“This is worse than empty,” Lizzy whispered harshly. “They’re coming just to leave.”

Nan stabbed her phone with her highlighter. “And they’re posting about it. Look—#HouseOfHaunt already has Danbury tags attached.”

“That’s impossible,” Conchita hissed. “We trademarked the aesthetic.”

“Apparently not,” Jinny muttered, eyes darting to Cressida.

Cressida stayed rooted in the center like a statue, veil adjusted with surgical care, chin lifted as though Versailles were watching. “They’ll remember the photos,” she said tightly. “Not the numbers.”

But the photos weren’t saving them. Already, TikTok split-screens were spreading: Phi Mu’s pristine, staged soirée against Danbury’s chaotic brilliance. Captions cut like knives: Corporate goth vs. grassroots ghoul. Phi Mu staged Halloween. Danbury lived it.

Jinny paled, screen glowing in her hand. “Cressida… they’re laughing at us.”

The words landed like glass breaking. For a beat, Cressida didn’t move. Her nails dug crescents into crystal. When she finally spoke, her voice was steel wrapped in silk.

“Then we don’t give them the satisfaction.”

She rose taller, commanding the Bucks with brittle grandeur. “Smile. Dance. Post. Make them believe they missed history. Tonight doesn’t end until I say it does.”

So they rallied, laughing too loudly, twirling too fast, glitter flashing under lights. But the hollowness seeped through the cracks—empty air disguised as glamour. 

Phi Mu wasn’t roaring.

It was rattling.

And for the first time in three years, Cressida Cowper felt her crown slip.

Back at Danbury, the night wound down in the only way it could: pajama pants, popcorn crumbs, and the soft glow of string lights humming against the walls.

Newton was sprawled on his back in the middle of the rug, cape tangled around his paws, snoring like the last act of a haunted opera. Francesca stretched across the couch with her phone, scrolling through piano memes with the same serene composure she’d shown at the recital. Michaela perched upside down in the armchair, orange peels stacked into a tiny crown on the armrest.

And in the corner, Penelope’s blanket throne pulsed with quiet ferocity—laptop open, fingers flying. The Mayfair Mosquito was merciless tonight, post after post landing like carefully sharpened darts.

Every sting sent the room into fresh waves of laughter—Hazel snorting into her knitting, Eloise wheezing over her tea, Sophie smiling despite the heating pad still strapped beneath her hoodie.

Even Francesca laughed when the “polite cough in the distance” post went live.

For once, there were no plans, no defenses to plot, no sabotage to unravel. Just the rare sweetness of a shared win, their small, stubborn hall glowing in the afterglow of its own rebellion.

Newton gave a sleepy bark, like an exclamation point.

Michaela raised her makeshift crown. “To Danbury,” she said.

They all echoed it—soft, tired, but certain.

And for the first time in weeks, the room didn’t feel like a war room.

It felt like home.

Chapter Text

By Sunday afternoon, Danbury had scrubbed itself back into normalcy. Posters were re-taped to walls, popcorn kernels vacuumed from the carpet, and Newton had reclaimed his favorite post beside the radiator like nothing extraordinary had ever happened. Only the faint shimmer of glitter in the grout lines betrayed that the Ghoul Gala had lived there.

Anthony stood in the doorway with his overnight bag slung across his shoulder, already back in polished D.C. mode. The velvet cape and “Mayor Ghoul” sash were gone, replaced by pressed shirtsleeves and a jawline set to Serious. The transformation was so complete it almost hurt.

“You know,” he said, glancing at Eloise and Francesca as they hovered nearby, “I like visiting. I like seeing you both. But this—” he gestured vaguely at the building, at Newton’s wagging tail, at the faint fog-fluid smell clinging stubbornly to the curtains—“this isn’t supposed to be about me. You need to focus on your lives here, not… replaying my college years.”

“Classic hypocrisy,” Eloise muttered, crossing her arms. But Francesca just hugged him, quick and quiet, and promised to text when she needed advice about anything other than piano.

And then it was only Kate.

For her, the absence already pinched. She’d grown used to him being around—not just as Newton’s favorite distraction or Danbury’s honorary “Mayor,” but as himself. The man who carried his grief like an extra organ, heavy but beating, and still showed up anyway.

He lingered, as though he knew. “If you ever want a break from… all this,” he said, softer now, “I could show you my world. Dinner in D.C. A gallery. A Smithsonian afternoon. There’s a wine bar near the Hill that doesn’t card half the interns—you’d blend right in.”

Kate nearly laughed. Nearly. “Tempting. But what happens if I go and Danbury burns down while I’m gone? Emergencies don’t wait for wine bars and free museums.”

Anthony’s grin was slow, deliberate. “Then let them text me. I’m very good in a crisis.”

She raised a brow. “Debatable.”

“Then consider it a date,” he said anyway, voice dipping low.

Her pulse betrayed her, hitching in a way that made her want to scold herself. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to know what it felt like to step outside these walls, outside the role of “Responsible Resident Director”, and just… be. With him.

But Danbury didn’t pause. Students didn’t stop locking themselves out or crying at 1 AM or calling her name through the walls just because she wanted one night of selfishness. Danbury was hers. And responsibility always won.

So she tucked the want away, deep into that corner where impractical wishes lived.

Newton padded up with his leash in his mouth, tail wagging like he was personally escorting Anthony back to D.C. Kate sighed, masking the ache with her usual dry wit. “Drive safe, Bridgerton.”

Anthony smirked like he’d won something anyway. “I’ll call about that gallery.”

He walked out. Newton trotted behind, loyal guard turned gleeful chauffeur.

And Kate stayed too long on the porch, staring at the glitter caught in the cracks of the stone. Wondering—not for the first time—if maybe, just maybe, responsibility could lose.

Kate had almost convinced herself to file the “gallery date” under things Anthony would never mention again.

But later that night—after her last rounds, after Newton curled against her leg, after Danbury finally slipped into that post-chaos hush that only came when forty students collapsed into collective exhaustion—her phone buzzed.

Anthony: Made it back to D.C. in one piece. Newton misses you. Or me. Probably you.

Another buzz.

Anthony: Also—Saturday. Phillips Collection. New exhibit. Dinner after. My treat. Consider it research for your “cultural literacy as community engagement” speech.

Kate stared at the screen, thumb hovering. A slow, reluctant smile tugged at her mouth despite her best efforts. He remembered. He wasn’t bluffing.

She typed, deleted, retyped. Settled on the safest out.

Kate: I’ll think about it. If Danbury survives that long. Who knows if a certain sorority plans a total invasion in my absence.

The reply came instantly.

Anthony: Danbury will survive. It’s run by a woman who terrifies me more than Congress, the Cabinet, and our “dear supreme leader”… COMBINED.

Kate dropped the phone onto her comforter and buried her face in her pillow with a groan. Newton lifted his head, blinked, thumped his tail once like he approved, and promptly went back to sleep.

“God help me if I actually say yes,” Kate whispered into the dark.

An hour later, chamomile in hand, she drifted back through the second-floor lounge for one last sweep. The common room was unusually still—the vending machine humming softly, string lights still glowing faintly around the window, the carpet holding the faintest shimmer of last night’s glitter. For once, no laughter, no bickering, no half-baked ukulele covers. Just quiet.

She almost collapsed onto the couch for five blessed minutes of nothing.

That’s when she saw it.

A laptop. Left open on the coffee table. Cursor blinking. The kind of reckless mistake most Danbury residents only made once before Newton chewed through their charger.

Kate leaned in, meaning to close the lid. And froze.

The page glared up at her. Bold. Unmistakable.

The Mayfair Mosquito account dashboard.

Her breath caught. Tabs were still open—half-finished drafts, a meme folder labeled sting ops, a DM inbox crowded with tips. On the screen, the latest post sat mid-edit: a dagger disguised as a joke about Phi Mu’s fog machine.

Kate’s mind spun. Not an alum. Not a Sigma mole. Not an anonymous grad with too much time.

The Mosquito was here.

In Danbury.

Her Danbury.

A shuffle at the doorway snapped her upright.

Penelope stood there, hair tousled, blanket still wrapped around her shoulders like she’d wandered out of bed. Her eyes went wide the instant she saw where Kate was sitting.

“Uh—hi,” Penelope said weakly, voice wobbling. “Forgot my laptop.”

Kate closed the laptop with deliberate care, like sealing evidence in an airtight bag. Then she straightened—arms folded, chin lifted, every inch the Resident Director who had seen one prank too many.

Penelope froze in the doorway. Color drained from her face.

Newton, sprawled on the rug, lifted his head and gave a single, emphatic boof! The sound landed like a gavel.

For a moment, Penelope looked exactly like a freshman who’d wandered into the wrong lecture hall on the first day of classes—caught, small, and desperate for an exit.

Kate didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Her words came calm, precise, with the edge of someone who knew the power of stillness.

“So,” she said evenly, “the Mayfair Mosquito breeds here. Ready for her next sting.”

Penelope squeaked. Actually squeaked. “I—it’s not what it looks like.”

Kate arched a brow. “Really? Because it looks a lot like I just caught you running a one-woman media empire out of my common room. Unless I’m misremembering that ‘little project’ you mentioned when we met—the one that was supposedly community-based?”

Newton barked again, short and sharp. Guilty.

Penelope wilted, her blanket sliding down one shoulder like surrender. “Okay. Yes. It’s me. But in my defense, do you see what they post? If Phi Mu gets to spin everything with ring lights and sequins, then somebody has to—”

Kate raised a hand. Just a hand. Sharp enough to cut her off. “Save it. I’m not saying you’re wrong. But Penelope…” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you could land in if the wrong person connects those dots? We’re not talking about a slap on the wrist. We’re talking harassment charges. Retaliation. Your name dragged through the mud.”

Penelope swallowed, eyes wide but stubborn. “So… I should stop?”

Kate studied her for a long beat. Then sighed. “No. I’m saying if you’re going to keep running this operation, you need to stop being sloppy. Leaving your laptop open in the middle of the lounge? Amateur hour.”

Penelope blinked. “Wait. You’re… not shutting me down?”

Kate’s mouth curved—barely. “I should. But what I am going to do is confiscate your Wi-Fi if you don’t promise me three things: One—never post anything you can’t back up with receipts. Two—don’t name anyone who isn’t already playing the public villain. And three—” she nodded at Newton, who had planted himself loyally between them—“keep the corgi out of it. He’s a terrible secret keeper.”

Newton sneezed, as if in agreement.

For the first time since being caught, Penelope let out a shaky laugh. “So… you’re in on it?”

Kate shook her head. “No. I’m not in on it. But I’m not blind either. This campus has needed someone to hold up a mirror for a long time. Just don’t forget—mirrors shatter. And you are not indestructible, Featherington. Gossip Girl. Lady Whistledown. Perez Hilton. TMZ. Every one of them took a fall, fictional or not.”

Penelope hugged her blanket tighter, cheeks pink, but she nodded. “Understood.”

Kate let the silence linger a beat longer, enough for the weight of it to settle, then finally stepped aside. “Now grab your laptop before Newton decides to chew on civic journalism.”

Penelope shuffled forward, scooping it up like contraband. At the base of the stairs, she turned back. Her voice was small but earnest. “Kate?”

“Yes?”

“You won’t… tell?”

Kate’s face was unreadable in the soft light. She sipped her tea, calm as ever, and answered with two words that made Penelope’s pulse skip:

“Game on.”

By the next morning, the common room looked like a graveyard of snacks and glitter. Empty chip bags slumped across the coffee table. Popcorn kernels clung stubbornly to the carpet. Newton was sprawled in the middle of it all, cape twisted around him like a fallen hero of the revolution.

The Danbury girls shuffled in wearing pajama pants and yesterday’s eyeliner, nursing mismatched mugs of coffee like they were hooked up to IV drips. Hazel abandoned her knitting mid-row, Francesca set her tea down, Michaela froze with a spoonful of Cheerios halfway to her mouth. One by one, silence settled.

Kate stood at the front, clipboard tucked under her arm, surveying the wreckage with the cool authority of someone who’d seen both dorm floods and fire alarms at 3 in the morning. She let the silence hang until even Newton lifted his head.

“Last weekend was…” She paused, a flicker of pride softening her expression. “Epic. You built something real. Something this campus won’t forget anytime soon.”

A hum of pride rippled through the room. Even the tired smiles felt earned.

“But—” her voice cut sharper now, “this is still a residence hall. Not Nevermore Academy where you get to wage your little revenge fantasies.” Her gaze flicked—deliberately—toward Penelope, who shrank into her blanket fortress. “You’re here for school. For classes, recitals, labs, midterms. Not for turning this house into a war machine every time Phi Mu bruises your ego.”

A low murmur of protest rose, but Kate’s hand went up, commanding stillness.

“I’m not saying stop being yourselves,” she continued. “I’m saying don’t lose sight of why you’re here. One epic party and a Mario Kart battle doesn’t pay tuition. And as satisfying as it might be to watch Phi Mu panic, it’s not worth burning yourselves out—or blowing up your futures over it.”

Newton punctuated the speech with a single sharp bark, like a gavel strike.

“Clear?” Kate asked.

The room nodded, subdued but listening. Eloise muttered about capitalism. Hazel muttered about sorority sabotage. But no one challenged her.

Kate’s tone softened. “Good. Now clean up your mugs and head to class before I start charging rent for abandoned dishware.”

Laughter scattered through the exhaustion. The chatter rose again, clinking mugs and crumpling wrappers, the warning settling into their bones.

Kate lingered by the mail slots, pulling her phone from her pocket. A new text blinked across the screen:

Anthony: Having thoughts about that exhibit? Or maybe a Commanders game? They’re playing the Lions… unless you’d rather watch the Eagles around Christmas. Your choice if you change your mind.

Kate stared, thumb hovering. She could already see it: a night in D.C., a gallery, dinner. And here, the chaos waiting while she was gone. Emergencies had a way of finding her. They always did.

But then she thought of the Ghoul Gala—the glow of lanterns, the sound of Francesca’s laughter, the fact that they had survived Cressida’s sabotage and still made something beautiful. Maybe she could step away. Maybe she deserved to.

She typed quickly, before she could overthink it:

Kate: Okay. But only if you promise not to wear the cape or the mayor sash. 😅

She slipped the phone back into her pocket, just as Newton padded over, tail thumping approval.

Kate bent to rub his ears, her voice low but sure.

“Guess I’m saying yes.”

Chapter Text

The common room had transformed into an impromptu concert hall.

John sat perched on the arm of the couch, guitar balanced on his knee, fingers moving with the kind of ease that made it look less like practice and more like breathing. Jack, meanwhile, surprised everyone—not just drumming on the edge of the coffee table, but singing. Really singing. His voice was warm, steady, unexpectedly magnetic, filling the room with a richness that made Sophie blink twice and glance sidelong at Hazel.

“Did you know he could sing like that?” Sophie whispered.

Hazel, already pink, shook her head. “Absolutely not. If I did, I would’ve—sat closer.”

“Or asked him out,” Sophie teased.

Hazel elbowed her, mortified, but couldn’t drag her gaze away from John, who was grinning at Jack like the two had been harmonizing forever instead of sharing a half-broken amp down the hall.

Before Sophie could stir the pot further, the door creaked open. Bridget slipped inside, clutching a history textbook to her chest. The second she heard Jack’s voice, she froze.

“Wait—you sing?” she asked, stepping closer, textbook forgotten.

Jack ducked his head modestly, still strumming. “A little.”

Bridget’s smile was instant, soft, glowing in a way that made Sophie glance at Hazel with raised brows and mouth the words Ohhh. Hazel bit her lip. A new development. The plot thickened.

Francesca appeared next, gliding down the stairs like she’d been summoned by the music. She paused at the bottom step, arms crossed, taking in the scene: Hazel and Sophie crouched like gossips behind the armchair; Bridget leaning into Jack’s orbit; John plucking away, oblivious.

“You’re spying,” Francesca said dryly.

Hazel didn’t even deny it. “Have you seen him? He’s hot.”

Francesca blinked. Then shrugged. “He’s just a guy. They both are.”

Sophie looked personally offended. “Just a guy? That voice is illegal. Maybe the three of you should form a band. Hazel can knit the merch.”

Hazel opened her mouth to hiss something back—only for Sophie to sneeze. Loudly. Spectacularly.

The music stopped.

Four heads swiveled toward the corner.

Hazel and Sophie froze like guilty deer. Francesca pinched the bridge of her nose.

And just like that, the jam session had an audience.

John was the first to break the silence, setting his guitar aside with a grin. “Were you… spying on us?”

Hazel flailed. “No! Well—maybe. More like… appreciating from afar.” She fanned herself with her prosthetic hand, which only made her blush worse.

Jack chuckled. “Guess that makes us performance art.”

Bridget leaned in, eyes bright. “If you didn’t want an audience, you shouldn’t sound that good.”

John arched a brow at Hazel. “Hot, huh?”

Hazel nearly combusted on the spot.

Sophie, panicking on her friend’s behalf, blurted the one sentence that guaranteed social annihilation:

“Hazel has a crush on John!”

The words landed like a cymbal crash.

Hazel went rigid. Francesca groaned. Bridget laughed into her sleeve. John blinked, stunned.

Hazel squeaked—a noise halfway between a battle cry and a mouse—and bolted. Sophie shrieked “BYE!” after her and scrambled out too, abandoning ship.

The room fell quiet again. Jack strummed a lazy chord to fill the void. Francesca muttered, “Danbury Hall: more drama than a German soap opera.”

John leaned back, eyes glinting as he looked at the empty doorway where Hazel had fled. Then, with the faintest grin, he called out into the silence:

“So… if that’s how you think of me, why don’t you just ask me out?”

Hazel’s voice floated weakly back from the hall. “Coffee?”

John stood, pulling on his sweater. “Perfect. Best ideas shouldn’t wait. Let’s go.”

Hazel peeked back in, still red but smiling this time, and slipped out beside him. Newton scrambled after them like a self-appointed chaperone.

Jack and Bridget exchanged giddy looks. Francesca just sighed, arms crossed but lips twitching at the corners.

“Well,” Bridget said softly, nudging Jack, “looks like we’ve got a couple now.”

“Guess Danbury’s officially off the market,” Jack teased.

Francesca only shook her head, sweeping toward the stairs. “Don’t bother with me. My lover is the piano. At least it never argues.”

Jack called after her, grinning. “We’ll see about that!”

Her voice floated back, cool and resolute:

“Chopin is a far better companion than any frat boy.”

The second-floor lounge sat in half-dark, the only glow coming from a desk lamp Penelope had dragged onto the coffee table. Newton was passed out on the beanbag like a retired knight, cape askew, while Al sat cross-legged on the rug with his oddball snacks: dehydrated seaweed and peanut-butter-stuffed dates.

Penelope, wrapped in her blanket cocoon, barely glanced up from her laptop. Fingers flying, sharpening another Mayfair Mosquito sting.

Al chewed thoughtfully. “So, I applied to a semester in Alaska.”

That was enough to make her pause—briefly. “Alaska. As in moose and icebergs and Sarah Palin?”

“More moose than people,” he said, tone steady. Not a joke. “I want to go past Nome. Beyond Fairbanks. Somewhere the stars feel like they’re right above your head. Where it’s just… you.”

Penelope’s eyebrows flicked upward, but her eyes stayed glued to the screen. She typed, scrolled, deleted, re-typed. “That’s… not the Lower 48.”

“That’s the point.” He plucked another date from the jar. “I want to see someplace that makes Mayfair feel small.”

“Everything makes Mayfair feel small,” she muttered absently, cursor blinking. A new draft stared back at her:

@MayfairMosquito: BREAKING: Phi Mu’s Haunted House attendance so low even Alaska’s moose passed.

Al leaned back against the couch, watching her. “You didn’t hear me.”

“I did,” she said quickly, but the words rang thin.

He let it drop—for now. The crunch of seaweed filled the quiet while the blue glow of her laptop washed over her face. Half amused. Half furious at her own cleverness. And he wondered—not for the first time—if she’d ever look up from her words long enough to notice the way he looked at her.

After a beat, he tried again. “You ever think about leaving Mayfair? For real. Not just a summer. For good.”

That made her fingers falter. She’d been about to hit “post,” but the question cracked her focus. Slowly, she tilted her head, blanket slipping from one shoulder.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Mayfair’s… where the stories are. Where the mess is. Where I—” she caught herself before saying where I matter. “Besides, where would I go?”

“Anywhere,” Al said simply. “Alaska, maybe. Or somewhere no one expects. You don’t have to narrate the same circus forever.”

She gave a soft laugh, but it sounded more like armor. “You’d be lost without my circus commentary.”

“Maybe,” he said. His eyes held hers. “But I’d follow it. Wherever you went.”

That pulled her up short. She looked at him—really looked—and her pulse stuttered. The laptop screen dimmed on its own, tweet unsent.

Al leaned forward, elbows on his knees, close enough now that Newton stirred, lifting his head like a witness.

“I’m serious, Pen. You deserve more than hiding behind posts while the world eats popcorn. You deserve someone who actually sees you.”

The air between them bent, tight and humming. Penelope’s mouth opened—then closed. She snapped the laptop shut like a shield. “I should… save this draft.”

Al eased back, giving her space, though his eyes never left her. “Save it. Just don’t forget what I said.”

She tucked deeper into her blanket, chin down, heart hammering. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to bolt upstairs or lean closer.

The silence stretched. Newton let out a heavy corgi sigh, cape sliding off like even he was tired of waiting.

Outside the window, the campus lights flickered faintly—like Mayfair itself was holding its breath.

Dice clattered across the table, soda cans hissed open, and someone was already arguing about initiative order before the DM had even finished describing the tavern. The weekly campaign was in full swing—or at least, it was trying to be.

Half the group was still buzzing about the Ghoul Gala, swapping stories about Newton’s tuxedo cape, the fog machine’s “dramatic death,” and whether Phi Mu’s fog really had died of shame.

But Eloise wasn’t listening.

Not really.

Across from her, Phil leaned over the map, adjusting his glasses with one absent-minded push up the bridge of his nose. His mop of brown hair flopped stubbornly into his eyes, and this time he didn’t even bother smoothing it back. The “I 🪴 Plants” shirt he wore had seen better days, and yet… Eloise found herself staring. Longer than she should. Caught in that frustrating loop of you already said no, don’t you dare and but he’s so bloody cute.

And then—damn him—he glanced up. Just for a second. Just long enough for the corner of his mouth to twitch into a smile.

Her stomach executed the kind of flip a gymnast would envy.

Eloise took a breath, her pulse tripping. Seize the moment, Bridgerton. Before you overthink yourself into a shallow grave.

“So,” she blurted, louder than intended, “do you… want to go to the basketball home opener tomorrow night with me?”

The table froze. Dice in midair. Soda cans half-opened. The silence that followed was the kind that came right before a thunderclap—or an earthquake.

Phil blinked. For a second, Eloise thought she’d detonated the wrong spell. Then his face broke into a wide, warm smile. Easy. Unbothered.

“I’d love to,” he said. “Especially if we get to see Sophie and Hazel’s debut with the dance team.”

Eloise tried not to beam. She failed so badly she could’ve powered the fog machine herself. “Right. Exactly. That’s… exactly what I was thinking.”

From down the table, one of the other players leaned in with a smirk. “Wait, Sophie’s on the team? Is she single?”

Eloise’s eyebrow shot up like a guillotine. “She’s busy,” she said crisply, flipping her character sheet like it was a weapon. “With practice. And with her life. And with not dating you.”

The table erupted into laughter, Phil included. Eloise leaned back, cheeks warm, heart hammering like a war drum. For once, she didn’t mind the chaos—the dice rolling, the bickering, the soda fizzing—because tucked between initiative orders and saving throws, she’d made her move.

And he’d said yes.

Kate stood at her desk, staring at the clipboard she’d left behind like it was a field manual for survival. Trash duty schedule: neat. Hanover Hall contact: double underlined. And at the bottom, a sticky note scrawled in bold, all-caps:

NO FOG MACHINES. NO OUIJA BOARDS. NO EXCEPTIONS.

She told herself it was fine. One night away wouldn’t burn Danbury down. One weekend wouldn’t undo the fragile balance she’d built. Besides—Anthony had already spent a night under this roof, sash and all. If the universe had survived that, surely it could survive her driving three hours north for… whatever this was.

Her phone buzzed.

Anthony: Don’t worry. Already confirmed backup for you while you’re gone. Danbury won’t implode. Promise.

Kate rolled her eyes but smiled anyway, sliding the phone into her bag. Of course he would phrase it like “backup,” as if Danbury Hall were Capitol Hill and her residents were wayward subcommittees.

Newton trotted over, nudging her knee like he, too, was waiting for orders. Kate crouched to scratch behind his ears. “Francesca’s in charge tonight. Be good. No overthrowing the government while I’m gone.”

“Excuse me?” Francesca’s voice carried from the doorway. She leaned against the frame, arms folded, eyebrow arched.

“You’re dogsitting,” Kate said simply, passing her Newton’s leash. “Dinner at six, walk at seven, and if he eats Marian’s leftover Thai food again, I’m holding you responsible.”

Francesca accepted the leash with the solemn gravity of someone given nuclear launch codes. “Fine. But if he runs over to Sigma to referee Theo and Guy’s latest screaming match about Nan or Lizzy, that’s on him.”

Kate groaned. “They’re still at that?”

“Apparently love triangles never die,” Francesca deadpanned.

Keys in hand, Kate gave Newton one last pat before heading out. Moments later, she was in her car, engine humming, November dusk stretching wide and uncertain before her. The city—and Anthony—waited.

Back at Danbury, the quiet didn’t last.

The doorbell rang.

Eloise, barefoot and muttering about capitalism, padded across the entryway. She tugged the door open, already expecting Phil with his dice bag or maybe Hazel carrying fabric scraps.

Instead, she froze.

Two very familiar faces stood on the porch, framed in the lamplight, grinning like they owned the place.

“Evening, little sister,” Benedict said with a dramatic bow, faint streaks of paint smudged on his sleeve.

Colin lifted a hand in a casual wave, camera bag slung across his shoulder. “We heard Danbury’s the hottest ticket in town.”

Eloise dragged a hand down her face, groaning. “Oh no. Absolutely not. You two cannot possibly be here.”

But they were. And from the look on their faces, they weren’t leaving anytime soon.

Chapter Text

Colin had already colonized the couch. Shoes off, camera bag flung aside, he was scrolling through his SD card like Danbury Hall was just another pit stop in his travel vlog. Benedict sprawled diagonally across the armchair, one leg dangling, eating someone else’s trail mix with the languid air of a man who believed art appreciation extended to commandeering snacks.

Eloise stood over them, arms crossed, jaw tight. “You do realize this is not home. You cannot simply appear, squat, and assume residency.”

Colin grinned without shame. “Squat? No, no, no. I’m enhancing the cultural experience. Look at this place—it hums with content. Even the dog is wearing a bowtie. Subscribers eat this stuff up.”

“As cute as Newton is, he does not have media consent,” Eloise snapped. “And thank Michaela for the bowtie. Hazel is currently knitting a matching sweater. He’ll be better dressed than half of Greek Row by finals.”

Benedict tilted his head, studying her. “Hold on. Are you wearing—lipstick?”

Eloise froze mid-step, ballet flats in hand. “Observation noted. I’m going to the basketball home opener.”

The silence that followed was so dramatic it could’ve been scored by a string quartet. Then Benedict bolted upright, scandalized.

“You? At a sporting event?” His voice went full Shakespearean betrayal. “Did they bribe you with free popcorn? We can barely get you to endure tennis, and that at least involves manners and uniforms.”

“It’s not about the basketball,” Eloise hissed, cheeks pinking. “It’s about solidarity. One of the Danbury residents is on the team, two others are on the dance squad. I am supporting them. That is all.”

Colin raised a brow. “So you boycott sororities but make friends with cheerleaders? Who are you, and where is our sister?”

“They’re not cheerleaders!” Eloise snapped, ears pinker now. “They’re dancers. Athletes. It’s choreography!”

Benedict smirked, folding his arms. “Next thing we know, you’ll be painting your face, waving foam fingers, and featured on the jumbotron.”

Colin leaned back lazily. “I only care about nachos. Does Mayfair do real ones? UVA nachos were a war crime. If your concession stand passes muster, I’ll consider fandom.”

Before Eloise could strangle them both, Francesca appeared in the doorway, Newton’s leash in hand. The corgi padded behind her, smug after his post-dinner walk.

“Perfect timing,” she said flatly. “Anthony returns to D.C., and now you two show up like chaos replacements. Tell me—how soon until you vanish back to your galleries, jungles, or Icelandic artist communes?”

“Rude,” Benedict muttered.

“Necessary,” Francesca shot back.

A knock at the door spared Eloise from further humiliation. She darted to open it—expecting Phil with his dice bag or maybe Hazel dropping off fabric scraps.

Instead—

Phil Crane stood there. Earnest. Jacket neat over his “I 🪴 Plants” shirt. His hair slightly rumpled, his smile soft.

“Hi,” he said. “Ready for the game? Also—Kate asked me to check if anyone needed anything while she’s gone.”

Benedict’s head snapped toward him, recognition dawning. “Wait. You’re going on a date with the plant guy?”

Phil blinked. “Uh… yes?”

Benedict let out a delighted bark of laughter. “Oh, this is rich. Did you ever rematch Anthony at Magic? He still whines about losing to a deck called… what was it? Flaming Weasels?”

Phil’s ears turned crimson. “Molten Badgers,” he corrected. “And no. No rematch.”

Colin nearly fell off the couch laughing. Eloise pinched the bridge of her nose, wishing the carpet would open up and swallow her whole. Francesca sighed, leash dangling from her wrist.

“This,” she muttered, “is going to be a very long night.”

And Phil, still smiling at Eloise with absolutely no idea what storm he’d walked into, had just been drafted into the Bridgerton circus.

Grosvenor Arena pulsed with noise and neon.

The pep band blared, brass cutting through the chatter. Banners unfurled from the rafters. Freshmen were already spilling popcorn down their sweatshirts, shrieking every time the t-shirt cannon launched a freebie into the stands.

Eloise tugged Phil through the crowd with grim determination, Benedict and Colin trailing behind like they’d been deputized as her very worst chaperones.

Naturally, Colin was the first to detour. He emerged from the concession stand balancing a tray of nachos so orange they nearly glowed. He took one dramatic bite, chewed with solemnity, and pronounced, “Better than Wawa. Worse than UVA’s. Barely edible, but edible.”

Eloise groaned. “Nobody asked for your culinary TED Talk, Colin.”

“Excuse you,” Colin said, juggling both cheese dip and authority. “Food reviews are content. People want authenticity. Hashtag truth bites.”

Benedict, sliding into his seat with professorial calm, tucked his phone away and straightened his glasses. “For the record,” he said smoothly, “I graded everything before coming. Even the extra-credit essays. Which means this weekend, I am guilt-free. You’re welcome.”

“You graded papers before invading my dorm?” Eloise deadpanned.

“Responsibility first, chaos second,” Benedict quipped, peeling off his jacket to reveal a simple red button-down over a paint-stained tee. He gestured broadly between Eloise and Phil. “And don’t worry. While Anthony is off playing statesman in D.C., we’ll be on our best behavior.”

Eloise’s look was pure skepticism. Phil, ever earnest, smiled anyway.

It took Benedict about thirty seconds to pounce. “So, Phil,” he said, tilting his head like an interrogator softening up a suspect. “Tell me something real. Who are you?”

Phil straightened, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Well—I’m from Newport News. My brother George is in the Army. He and his wife Marina have twins, Amanda and Oliver. They’re seven now—wild, but hilarious.” His voice softened. “Best kids I’ve ever met.”

Eloise blinked. She hadn’t expected warmth like that—not in front of her brothers, and not so easily given.

Phil continued, almost shyly, “I got into plants because of my grandparents. They had a greenhouse. Every time we visited, it felt… magical. Like walking into another world. I wanted to know how everything grew, how it all worked together.”

Eloise’s chest tightened. It wasn’t flashy. But it was real.

Phil chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “And, uh, the D&D thing? Blame Stranger Things. I liked Magic: The Gathering more when I was younger. Though mostly because my cousin always bought booster packs and I just—”

“Say no more,” Colin interrupted, already cackling. “You remember that South Park episode—Cock Magic?”

Phil winced, laughing despite himself. “Where Kenny’s a MTG prodigy, but Randy thinks it’s an actual magic show—”

“—and ends up doing tricks with his—”

“Yes, that one,” Phil said quickly, ears pink.

“Classic!” Colin crowed, nearly spilling nacho cheese down his shirt.

Eloise slapped her palm over her face. “I cannot believe I am on a date listening to you bond over Randy Marsh’s ween magic.”

Benedict leaned back smugly. “A date, she admits. Finally, confirmation.”

Eloise glared daggers at him, but before she could strangle him with her scarf, the section filled in around them. And with it—trouble.

The Bucks.

Lizzy and Jinny swept in, all glossy hair and sharpened smiles. Lizzy immediately zeroed in on Benedict, perching on the row like a cat about to pounce. “Well, well,” she purred. “Didn’t know you still hung around campus. Sitting with raging feminists and plant boys, no less.”

Benedict didn’t blink. “Didn’t know Mayfair admitted girls who peaked at seventeen.” His smile was cold. “Insult my sister again and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Lizzy giggled, twirling her hair. “Feisty. I like it.”

Eloise gagged audibly.

Meanwhile, Jinny leaned forward toward Phil, her smile smooth as glass. “So you’re the plant guy everyone whispers about. Cute and eco-friendly. Mayfair could use more of that.”

Phil turned pink. Eloise turned scarlet.

And Colin? He leaned back, nachos in hand, grinning like he’d just tuned into the juiciest reality show of the season. “Anyone want cheese dip?”

The pep band swelled, brass cutting through the tension. The announcer’s voice boomed across the arena:

“Please welcome… your Mayfair Dance Team!”

The bleachers shook as the crowd erupted. Stomping, clapping, the pep band blasting like it had a vendetta against silence. Then—out they came. Hazel, Sophie, and the squad burst onto the court, formation snapping into perfect lines under the white-hot arena lights.

For thirty whole seconds, even the Sigma guys went quiet.

“Go Clara!” Lizzy shrieked from their section, voice carrying like a warhorn. Jinny followed suit, screaming even louder, both of them laser-locked on Clara Livingston as she beamed mid-routine. Their favorite. Their pawn. Their pick.

But their cheers rang hollow, because the moment Clara hit her mark, the Bucks’ focus snapped right back to the Bridgerton in their row.

Lizzy leaned in, brushing “stray glitter” off Benedict’s sleeve like she’d just saved him from a fashion emergency. Jinny tipped her head, smiling slyly. “So tell me—are you as demanding as your brother? Or is that just the Bridgerton brand of foreplay?”

Benedict, polite but unbothered, hummed a vague answer. But his eyes? They weren’t on them at all.

They were locked on the short brunette at the left of the formation. The one with a neat bow in her hair, expression steady, every movement sharp and precise. Something about her pulled at him—familiar and foreign all at once. He caught himself smiling as she spun into the final pose, applause swallowing the floor.

Phil clapped like he’d just seen a Broadway premiere. Colin, meanwhile, was already back to running commentary between bites of nachos. “No, but seriously—the new South Park episode? The Devil at Mar-a-Lago? It’s giving Fantasy Island, but with bad golf carts and worse cocktails.”

Phil laughed. “Yeah, and when the Veep showed up like he’s Tattoo? I couldn’t stop picturing the ghost of the actor who played him filing a complaint.”

Eloise pinched the bridge of her nose. “God grant me patience. Or at least Frannie’s noise-cancelling headphones.”

Before she could spiral further, the row creaked as two more bodies squeezed in—Penelope and Al, armed with a tub of popcorn and a bag of vegan jerky.

Penelope nearly dropped the popcorn. Because there he was. Colin. Nachos in hand, grin crooked, like it was the most natural thing in the world to reappear in her orbit without warning.

“Hi,” Colin said casually, chip dangling mid-air.

Penelope blinked. Her cheeks flamed pink. “Oh. Um. Hello.”

Al, blissfully oblivious, stuck out his hand across the row. “Al. Penelope’s boyfriend. Anthropology major. Vegan. Currently regretting the smell of those nachos.”

Colin shook his hand, amused. “Colin Bridgerton. UVA survivor. And you’re right—definitely not vegan-friendly.” He tilted the tray anyway. “Want one?”

Al chuckled, waving him off. “Kind offer. Still no.”

Eloise leaned forward, hissing under her breath, eyes darting between Penelope’s blush and Colin’s raised brow. “Oh no. Absolutely not. We are not doing this subplot right now.”

But Colin had already turned back to Penelope, grin widening, as if he’d just stumbled into a better story than basketball.

And Penelope—caught between her popcorn, her blanket-throne instincts, and the sharp tilt of his smile—suddenly couldn’t tell if her heart was racing from the pep band or from him.

The scoreboard buzzed, sneakers squeaked across polished wood, and chants rolled through Grosvenor like thunder. From their post behind Mayfair’s net, Hazel and Sophie huddled together—faces flushed, glitter catching the light, adrenaline humming in their bones.

Hazel’s gaze wasn’t on the court. Not really. Every few seconds her eyes drifted upward, scanning the bleachers. There he was—John—sitting with the rest of Danbury, cheering like this was March Madness instead of a November opener.

Sophie noticed. She always noticed. A sly elbow nudged Hazel’s ribs. “You’ve been blushing since that coffee date.”

Hazel nearly fumbled her poms. “I have not.”

“You have,” Sophie teased, spinning her poms. “Operation Hazelnut & Strings is in its next phase. You’re welcome.”

Hazel groaned. “I still haven’t forgiven you for blurting it out in front of him.”

“Subtlety’s overrated,” Sophie said brightly, before sliding into formation.

But her own focus slipped a moment later. Her eyes swept the crowd: Eloise and Phil Crane, bent close in debate; Penelope and Al bickering over popcorn vs. vegan jerky. Normal. Familiar. Until her gaze landed two seats over—Colin Bridgerton. The one always eating, always narrating, always larger than life. He was halfway through a tray of nachos, gesturing at the scoreboard like he was breaking down Premier League highlights.

A flicker of a thought hit Sophie, sharp and uninvited. She wished the other brother was there. The one she’d seen only briefly at Francesca’s recital, the one she’d wanted to meet properly before Phillip Cavender’s suffocating text yanked her away. What was his name again? Bennett? Benoit? No—Eloise had said it once. Benedict.

“Ugh, I need to get laid,” Clara Livingston moaned during a free throw, leaning into Hazel’s ear. “Do you think that nacho guy next to Al Debling’s girlfriend is single?”

Hazel rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t sparkle out of her head. Sophie snapped forward, refusing to indulge Phi Mu gossip, locking herself on the game clock as it bled toward halftime.

The buzzer split the air. Lights dimmed just enough to shift the mood, the crowd buzzing with anticipation. The Mayfair dance team stormed the floor in sleek blue and gold, music pulsing through the rafters.

From the stairs, Benedict froze.

The dancers snapped into lines, every kick sharp, every turn a perfect blade of motion. And there—second from the left—was her. The brunette with the bow. The one who caught light differently, who moved like choreography was just a suggestion. Fierce one beat, fluid the next, pulling eyes without trying.

Benedict leaned forward, the roar of the crowd fading to static. For once, the artist wasn’t critiquing. He wasn’t studying form or imagining brush strokes. He was just… watching. Mesmerized.

Colin noticed. Of course he noticed. He jabbed him with the edge of his nacho tray. “Well, well. Look who just got smitten. Careful, Ben. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your silver-dress mystery girl already. The one you’ve been brooding about for weeks?”

Benedict didn’t flinch. His jaw stayed tight, his gaze locked. His voice came low, almost reverent. “This is different.”

“Different how?” Colin pressed, amused.

But Benedict didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He was already leaning in as the music swelled, as she spun with a ribbon of hair that caught the spotlight like a flame.

The crowd roared when the dancers hit their final pose, arms lifted, chests heaving. Applause thundered around him, but Benedict clapped slower, eyes still fixed on her—as if he’d just witnessed something no one else in the arena could possibly understand.

Colin shook his head, crunching another nacho. “God help us. He’s in trouble.”

Chapter Text

Union Station gleamed under its vaulted ceiling, all marble and echo, the constant shuffle of travelers dragging suitcases across polished floors. Anthony stood at the base of the escalators, immaculate in a tailored coat, a small bouquet of tulips held like he wasn’t sure whether it was an apology, a bribe, or a dare.

Kate spotted him before he saw her—leaning against a column, his phone tucked away for once. She slowed her steps, tugging her scarf tighter, wondering why her stomach had chosen this exact moment to tie itself into sailor’s knots.

Then he turned. And that grin—easy, unguarded—hit like he’d been waiting just for her.

“You made it.” Anthony lifted the bouquet, sheepish despite himself. “Neutral ground. Tulips don’t send mixed signals, right?”

Kate arched a brow but took them, careful, her fingers brushing his. “I’ll allow it.”

He exhaled, like he’d passed an exam no one else knew he’d been taking. “Good. Exhibit first, dinner after—unless you’re starving already.”

“I grabbed drive-thru on the way up,” she said. “Dinner can wait.”

“Efficient,” Anthony said approvingly, though his glance flicked back to the tulips like he was silently thanking them for winning out over french fries.

They moved together toward the Metro, Kate slipping the flowers against her tote. “Before you ask—Newton’s fine. Francesca’s dogsitting. Crane’s on RA standby. And the rest of Danbury’s under orders strict enough to terrify even Eloise.”

Anthony’s brow lifted. “Strict rules? At Danbury? I’ll believe that the day pigs rush Phi Mu.”

“That’s rich from someone who tried to persuade his sisters to join,” Kate shot back. “Besides, with the basketball opener happening, they’ve got enough distractions.”

His smile curved—half smug, half something warmer. “Which means I get you. Undistracted. For once.”

Kate didn’t answer, just tightened her grip on the tulips as they rode the escalator down, telling herself this was fine. Just a museum. Just dinner. Just one night.

The Metro carried them through the city, spitting them out into Dupont Circle’s autumn dusk. The Phillips Collection rose ahead—red brick, white trim, stately but unpretentious, tucked into the street like it had been waiting there for them.

Anthony swept an arm toward it. “Welcome to the Phillips. Prepare yourself. I am, after all, a renowned art critic.”

Kate’s brows climbed. “You?”

“Of course.” He held the door with mock solemnity. “Once, in college, I gave a thirty-minute speech about how Van Gogh’s brush strokes were inspired by the stress of Greek life. My fraternity didn’t buy it, but brilliance rarely gets its due.”

Kate laughed before she could stop herself. “Let me guess—Benedict’s the real art scholar.”

Anthony grimaced. “Tragically. He’ll turn a casual phone call into a lecture on chiaroscuro versus sfumato.”

The museum’s hush fell around them as they stepped inside. Kate’s smile lingered, but her voice softened. “It’s been a while for me. Museums. Or…” She hesitated, as though the word cost her. “Dates.”

Anthony slowed, really looking at her, the light catching at the edge of her scarf. “Then we’ll count this as both,” he said gently. “And we’ll make it a good one.”

Her eyes flicked to his, warmth sparking despite herself. “That’s a lot of confidence.”

“I’m a Bridgerton,” he said dryly. “Overconfidence is hereditary.”

Kate rolled her eyes, but the smile stayed. And as they stepped into the gallery—walls blooming with color and silence—she felt, for the first time in months, that maybe she could set Danbury down for an evening.

If only for tonight.

Anthony clasped his hands behind his back, strolling into the first gallery like he’d been personally commissioned to lead the tour.

“Now this—” he gestured broadly at a wall of Rothkos, all brooding reds and bruised purples—“is clearly an allegory for… bad mood lighting in freshman dorms.”

Kate tilted her head, lips twitching. “Bold interpretation. Your brother would be weeping into his paint palette.”

“I can hold my own,” Anthony protested, narrowing his eyes at a block of deep crimson. “This one? Obviously the perils of a late-night Taco Bell run.”

Kate’s laugh slipped out, light against the gallery hush. “So you’re saying you’ve had… experience with those?”

“More than a few runs,” he admitted, unashamed.

They drifted room to room, Anthony narrating with mock-seriousness—“Mondrian, the original interior decorator,” “Picasso clearly inventing the group project excuse”—until Kate’s cheeks ached from trying not to laugh out loud in a museum.

But when they stepped into a quieter corner lined with portraits, her pace slowed. She stopped in front of one canvas: a woman at a piano, hands hovering just above the keys. The light was soft, unfinished, as though the painter had been called away mid-brushstroke. The woman’s smile was poised, polite. But her eyes—lonely, aching—arrested Kate where she stood.

Anthony noticed the shift in her expression, his usual quips dying on his tongue. “What is it?”

Kate swallowed. “She looks like… she knows exactly what she’s supposed to do. Sit. Play. Be lovely. Perform. But her eyes—” Kate’s voice faltered, softening. “Her eyes say she’d rather run out the door.”

Anthony studied the painting again, slower this time. “You see all that?”

“I lived it,” Kate murmured. “Sorority dinners. Family banquets. Endless smiling. You play the role. Perfect posture. Perfect manners. Even when all you want is… out.”

Her voice caught—barely, but enough for him to hear it.

For once, Anthony didn’t reach for humor. He stood beside her, silent but steady, giving her room to breathe.

Finally, she exhaled. “It’s been a long time since I actually stopped to look at something. Really look.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Anthony said quietly. “Stopping. Looking. Letting yourself feel it, instead of carrying it like armor.”

Kate turned her head, startled by the softness in his tone. For a suspended moment, the gallery wasn’t marble and paintings at all—it was just the two of them, side by side before a woman frozen in expectation.

Her mouth curved into a rueful smile. “I came here ready to mock your Taco Bell art analysis. Not… this.”

Anthony’s lips quirked. “Surprise. I’m multitalented.”

Her laugh returned—lighter now. She shook her head, stepping back. “Come on, Mr. Expert. Show me what other profound truths you can squeeze out of the next room.”

He followed her, but not before sneaking a last look at her profile, still softened by the painting’s spell. And he thought—not for the first time—that Kate Sharma was far more complex than any brushstroke could capture.

When they left the museum, November night pressed cool and sharp beyond the glass doors. The tulips were tucked safely in Kate’s tote, a splash of color against the dark.

“So,” Anthony asked as they descended the steps, his tone playful again, “riddle me this: why didn’t we actually meet back at Mayfair? I was there. You were there. Feels like fate dropped the ball.”

Kate’s laugh was short, sharp. “Oh, we could’ve met. If you hadn’t opened your mouth at that barbecue during Rush Week.”

Anthony frowned, wary. “What did I say?”

“You don’t remember?”

He searched his memory, came up empty.

Kate stopped at the curb, eyes flashing. “You said—and I quote—you’d ‘bed every piece of fresh meat by midterms.’”

Anthony groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh God.”

“Yeah,” Kate said dryly. “Not exactly the kind of line that makes a girl want to introduce herself.”

He exhaled, embarrassed but owning it. “That was… more than a little sexist.”

“A little?”

“Fine,” he muttered. “Really sexist. And desperate. I’d just lost my dad that spring—I was a mess. Drowning it in beer, girls, frat nonsense. And when Benedict went to UVA, I felt like… the screw-up who stayed. So I played the idiot role a little too well.”

Kate studied him, his voice stripped of its usual bravado. He wasn’t hiding. Just telling her the raw truth.

“That doesn’t excuse it,” he added. “It just… explains why I was one.”

For a beat, neither of them spoke. The city hummed around them, laughter spilling from the restaurants up the block.

Finally, Kate’s mouth curved into a small smile. “I was expecting Taco Bell metaphors. Instead, you’ve given me honesty.”

Anthony’s grin returned, sheepish but genuine. “Rothko can still be about Taco Bell. Chalupa Supreme. Extra sour cream.”

Kate laughed, shaking her head. “Let’s eat before you start turning Renoir into a Chipotle ad.”

Anthony stepped aside with a flourish, letting her choose. And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like he had to perform. Just… be.

The place Anthony picked wasn’t flashy. Not one of the power-lunch spots near the Hill, not a polished wine bar with menus written in cursive. Instead, it was a narrow taquería wedged between a laundromat and a record store, glowing under red paper lanterns with the smell of lime, cumin, and sizzling tortillas rolling out the door.

Kate slowed on the threshold, scarf tugged closer around her neck. “I expected… cabernet, political gossip, maybe an overpriced steakhouse with interns lurking at the bar.”

Anthony grinned, pulling her chair out with exaggerated formality. “What can I say? My tastes are humble. And the enchiladas here have ruined me for all others. No offense to Taco Bell.”

Kate let out a quiet laugh as she sat. “If I get food poisoning, I’ll add it to the long list of things I blame you for.”

Menus half-opened, Anthony leaned forward across the table, voice pitched low and teasing. “You know, I was braced for interrogation tonight. But instead, you’ve been… almost flirtatious.”

Kate lifted her glass of water like it was a shield. “Almost.”

His smile widened. “So there’s hope.”

She ignored the warmth in her cheeks by swerving the subject. “Speaking of hope—Newton’s been single-handedly keeping morale alive at Danbury. Or… single-pawed.”

Anthony chuckled, settling back. “The legend himself. I once saw him referee a karaoke night—pure statesmanship.”

Kate’s tone softened, professional veneer giving way. “He was supposed to be mine, you know? Emotional support while I figured out grad school. But somewhere along the way, he stopped being just mine. He sits with homesick freshmen. Walks girls back from late study sessions. Hazel knit him a Halloween cape. He’s… theirs now. Ours.”

Anthony tilted his head, studying her more intently than she liked. “You sound proud of that.”

Kate hesitated, twirling her straw. “I am. But sometimes I think I hide behind him. Easier to talk about Newton than myself.”

“Maybe,” Anthony said gently. “But if Newton’s the glue, you’re the reason it sticks. Dogs don’t raise legends. People do.”

Kate ducked her head, flustered. “You really are trying to make me blush, aren’t you?”

Anthony smirked, raising his glass of horchata in a toast. “Guilty. But only because it’s working.”

She clinked her glass against his, shaking her head, smile tugging despite herself. For once, it didn’t feel like she was the one carrying the weight of everyone else’s night.

Anthony excused himself with a half-grin, muttering, “Try not to order the entire dessert menu while I’m gone.”

Kate smirked, swirling the last of her horchata, but the quiet gave her space to glance at her phone. No new emails. No panicked texts. No emergencies. Just blessed silence.

Meanwhile, in the men’s room, Anthony leaned against the sink, scrolling through his notifications. A new message lit the screen from Benedict:

Benedict: Don’t panic, but I think I just found my muse at the basketball game. Will explain later. Also—tell Kate not to murder you. Or at least not before dessert.

Anthony snorted, shaking his head as he thumbed back a reply.

Anthony: Please don’t start a romantic subplot during a timeout. Also, stop texting me when I’m on a date.

He slid his phone away, washed his hands, and headed back to the table still chuckling.

Kate looked up as he returned. “What’s funny?”

“Ben,” Anthony said, dropping into his chair. “Apparently, he’s found his muse at a basketball game.” He made air quotes. “The tortured artist routine never dies.”

Kate’s lips curved. “At least it keeps him out of trouble.”

They let the conversation drift—bad dorm art, Newton’s side career as a hall monitor, the eternal debate over which Smithsonian exhibit had the best air conditioning. Kate laughed more than she meant to, the kind of laugh that loosened the set of her shoulders. Anthony leaned back, watching her, pleased to see the armor slip.

Then her phone rang.

She glanced at the screen. Mom.

Her stomach tightened. She answered fast. “Hi, Amma—what’s wrong?”

Mary Sharma’s voice came frazzled, layered with the rush of running water. “Kate, the downstairs bathroom is flooding again! Mr. Rossi’s in Florida for his niece’s wedding, I can’t get the valve, and the towels aren’t holding—”

Kate’s pulse spiked. “Okay, slow down. Did you shut off the water valve?”

“I—what valve?”

Before Kate could launch into frantic plumbing instructions, Anthony reached across the table and took the phone gently from her hand. His tone was calm, steady, almost professional.

“Mrs. Sharma? Hi, it’s Anthony Bridgerton. Do me a favor—look under the sink. You should see a small knob. Turn it clockwise. Yes, keep turning. The water should stop in a few seconds.”

A pause. Then, relief crackled down the line. “Oh—it stopped! Thank God.”

Anthony smiled. “Perfect. Now, I’ll text you a couple of plumbers near your area who can be there on short notice. Keep the towels down, and you’ll be fine until they arrive.”

Mary’s voice softened. “Thank you, Anthony. You’re very kind. Kate, you picked a good one.”

Kate, stunned, could only stare as he handed the phone back.

Anthony raised his brows, smug but not unkind. “See? I’m good for more than bad jokes and velvet capes.”

“You just solved my mom’s plumbing crisis. From a taquería,” Kate said, dazed.

Anthony tilted his glass with a half-smile. “Like I told you—Congress, clogged sinks, sorority drama. I adapt.”

Kate shook her head, still reeling. “You’re insufferable.”

“And indispensable,” he countered, eyes catching hers.

For once, Kate didn’t argue. She just sat back, staring across the table at the man who’d managed—against all odds—to disarm her.

And maybe, she thought, that was the most dangerous part of all.

Chapter Text

The buzzer blared, the scoreboard froze at 74–69, and Mayfair’s student section erupted like they’d just won the national championship instead of a season opener. The pep band blasted a triumphant fight song, the dance team shook their pom-poms, and confetti cannons spit out streamers someone had clearly forgotten to test beforehand.

From the Danbury seats, Eloise exhaled like she’d just been handed parole. Both Colin and Benedict had drifted off—Colin down the aisle with his nachos talking to Penelope and her boyfriend, Benedict pacing near the stairs as if waiting for divine artistic intervention. Which meant she and Phil were finally, finally, alone.

“Good game,” Phil said, bumping her shoulder with his. His smile was boyishly earnest, glasses slightly fogged from the crowd’s body heat. “Want to celebrate with a Wawa run? Nothing says victory like a late night hoagie and mac.”

Eloise grinned despite herself. “You had me at Wawa. If you buy me a soft pretzel, I might even forgive you for rolling a one on initiative last week.”

“Deal,” he said, eyes bright.

Down the row, Penelope was in a completely different headspace. On paper, she was sitting beside Al—half-sharing popcorn, half-listening to him critique the ethics of halftime sponsorship deals. In reality? Her mind was nowhere safe.

Because Colin was there. Right there. Casual grin, easy slouch, fingers licking nacho cheese off his thumb like he hadn’t just sauntered back into her orbit unannounced. Al was talking—sweet, clever Al, who liked seaweed snacks and anthropology lectures—but Penelope’s thoughts kept skittering toward Colin in ways that would’ve made her mother faint straight into a fainting couch.

Two futures, one seat apart, and she couldn’t look either of them in the eye without her pulse betraying her.

Colin leaned forward, flashing Al a conspiratorial grin. “So, anthropology. Ever figure out why nachos at college games are universally bad? Some kind of cultural curse?”

Al chuckled, good-natured. “Or maybe the real ritual is suffering. Shared hardship makes stronger bonds.”

“See, that’s brilliant,” Colin said, pointing at him with a chip. “I should have you on my channel. People love smart travel theories. The ‘ritual nacho experience’ could be huge.”

Penelope nearly choked on her popcorn. Was Colin actually… impressed by Al? Was this some slow-motion torture devised by the gods?

She forced her face neutral, even as her imagination betrayed her with daydreams that had nothing to do with nachos and everything to do with Colin’s hands, Al’s patience, and her own traitorous curiosity.

Benedict hadn’t heard a word of the nacho debates or Eloise’s Wawa negotiations. He stood transfixed at the railing, a small notepad loose in his hands, eyes locked on the court where the dancers were bowing their final bow.

There she was again. The brunette with the ribbon. Not the flashiest, not the loudest—but precise. Grounded. Modest smile, careful lines, every gesture so clean it felt deliberate in ways most dancers couldn’t fake. His chest tightened as though someone had drawn a line between them without his consent.

He could paint her. He could see it already: blue and gold streaks radiating outward, the ribbon in her hair a single brushstroke of defiance, her body captured mid-spin like a note held too long. But how, exactly, did one walk up to a muse you’d barely met and say hello without sounding mad?

So he stayed rooted as the crowd surged for the exits, torn between two impulses: stride down toward the court and risk foolishness—or leave quietly before the spell cracked.

The arena buzzed even as the pep band’s last triumphant chord faded. Students spilled into the night, chanting Mayfair’s name as though a season opener were a championship. The dance team filed off the floor in glitter and sweat, flushed with adrenaline, poms still catching the light.

“After-party at the Quad!” someone shouted, and half the squad cheered in agreement.

Hazel tugged her bow loose, cheeks pink, grin sheepish. “You’re going?” she asked Sophie.

Sophie hesitated, clutching her duffel bag. She wanted to. God, she wanted to—to laugh and belong and soak in the afterglow. But the glitter hairspray itching her collarbone whispered for a shower and silence instead.

“You should,” Hazel said, nudging her. But Hazel’s eyes had already wandered—to the stands. To John, waiting at the railing, guitar-boy grin easy as ever. Hazel’s pulse jumped.

“I think I’ve got other plans,” she murmured, fiddling with her pom.

Sophie smirked knowingly. “Tell him not to write a ballad until after coffee, at least.”

Hazel flushed scarlet. “Shut up,” she whispered, but she was smiling as she slipped toward the stairs.

Sophie lingered, braid slipping against her shoulder. She was just adjusting her duffel when—

“Sophie?”

Her head snapped up.

And there—just a few rows above the court—stood a face she hadn’t expected to see in a thousand years.

“Dad!”

Her bag tumbled to the floor as she bolted, sneakers squeaking against polished wood, weaving through the stragglers. Richard Gun caught her in a bear hug, lifting her clean off the ground.

“You were incredible,” he said, voice rough with pride.

Tears pricked her eyes. “You came… all the way here? For me?”

“Wouldn’t miss your debut,” Richard said, smiling despite the tired lines carved into his face. “Besides, your sisters insisted.”

Two figures appeared behind him—Posy, bright-eyed, practically vibrating, and Rosamund, trying very hard to look unimpressed and failing.

“Posy!” Sophie squealed, hugging her so tightly Posy laughed into her shoulder.

Rosamund folded her arms. “Don’t make it weird. I’m just here because Dad needed a second driver.”

“Uh-huh,” Sophie said, grinning through the sting in her chest. Rosamund was still Rosamund—sharp edges, hard to please—but she was here. And that mattered.

“Araminta stayed behind,” Richard added quietly. “Said someone had to mind the restaurant.”

Of course she had. Sophie forced a nod, swallowing the familiar ache. But standing here, Posy glowing beside her, Rosamund hiding her pride badly, her father’s arms warm around her—she felt something rare. Home. Spilling out across arena bleachers, glitter and all.

For once, she let herself bask in it.

Up above, Benedict lingered long after the crowd thinned, notepad balanced on his hand. His gaze tracked the brunette across the court—just in time to watch her collapse into her father’s arms, younger sisters orbiting close.

The moment was too private to breach. A tableau of family, untouchable. Benedict knew art well enough to recognize when a door wasn’t open to him. Not yet.

He snapped the book shut, frustration simmering. And then—

“Ben, right?”

He turned. Clara Livingston, glitter still streaking her cheeks, leaned against the railing in her dance uniform. Her smile was sugared, sharp.

“Thought I’d say hi,” she purred. “Maybe see if you’re up for a nightcap. I know a place off campus—”

“Thank you,” Benedict said quickly, polite but firm. “But no.”

Clara’s smile faltered, then hardened. “Suit yourself.” She spun on her heel, phone already in hand, heels clicking away.

Benedict exhaled, gaze drifting back to the court. The family was still clustered there, tight as gravity around the girl with the ribbon. She was radiant, unreachable. And yet—she’d already carved herself into his mind like brushstrokes on canvas.

Colin and Al had somehow fallen into a rhythm so easy it was almost disorienting. The arena seats emptied around them, but the two were still locked in conversation—first ranking concession-stand nachos like they were Michelin critics, then swapping travel horror stories, then spiraling into anthropology versus editing philosophy.

“You actually declined to eat guinea pig in Ecuador?” Colin asked, leaning forward, horrified but fascinated.

“Cuy,” Al corrected, grinning. “It’s a delicacy. But I passed. Poor rodents. Anyway, if you’re going to talk about culture, you should live it. Not just film it.”

Colin snorted. “Fair. But my subscribers probably draw the line at guinea pig mukbang.”

The two of them laughed, the sound weirdly in sync. Like they’d been friends longer than the length of one basketball game.

Penelope, however, wasn’t laughing. Not exactly.

She’d slipped her phone into her lap, blanket-throne instincts alive even in the middle of a crowded arena. Her thumbs were already flying, her mind split between their banter and the sting she needed to deliver.

@MayfairMosquito: BREAKING: Mayfair wins home opener. Dance team = flawless. Sigma guys = irrelevant. Phi Mu Bucks spotted courtside doing more hair flips than cheers. #Priorities #BleacherDesperation

She smirked faintly, but quickly queued another—softened, balanced, just enough to avoid being obvious:

@MayfairMosquito: Shoutout to the pep band for playing like it was MSG. And to Newton, who—rumor confirms—snored through the third quarter. #CampusIcons

Her fingers flew again, chasing the rhythm:

@MayfairMosquito: Tonight’s concession nachos = a crime scene. Can someone please get this school a decent cheese supplier? #MayfairProblems

Satisfied, she hit send, tucking the phone against her thigh. Diversions. Balance. The right mix of bite and banter. Enough smoke and mirrors to keep Phi Mu guessing and her cover intact.

Still, her thoughts wandered. Not to the Mosquito. Not to Cressida’s inevitable meltdown when she saw the posts.

To Colin.

The easy grin. The way he tossed jokes out like he had an endless supply. The way he’d looked at her earlier—like she wasn’t invisible, like she wasn’t the forgotten Featherington trailing behind shinier sisters.

Her heart betrayed her with a dangerous little tug.

Al was still talking—smart, kind, steady Al, with his jars of vegan snacks and his big-picture dreams about Alaska—but her imagination was drifting elsewhere. To Colin’s hands, careless with nacho cheese. To the kind of curiosity her mother would have called dangerous, sinful, faint-worthy.

Two different futures sat side by side. And Penelope—traitorous, restless Penelope—wasn’t sure which one she wanted more.

The plates were cleared, the last of Kate’s horchata drained to a sweet memory, and for once she felt… lighter. Not careless, never that—but unburdened. Maybe it was the food, maybe the laughter, maybe the fact that Anthony Bridgerton had, against all odds, managed to listen instead of bulldoze. Whatever it was, she knew the spell couldn’t last forever.

Kate slid her scarf back over her shoulders, brushing a stubborn fleck of glitter from her sleeve as if even Mayfair insisted on clinging to her. “I should head back. Mayfair has a talent for combusting the second I’m off campus.”

Anthony leaned back in his chair, coat folded against him, eyes steady on her like he wasn’t ready to let the night dissolve. “You could. Drive two and a half hours, roll into Danbury well past midnight, and pray no one set off the smoke alarm reheating ramen.”

She arched a brow. “That’s the job.”

“Or—” he leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, his voice shifting to something softer, more deliberate—“you could stay. Here. In town.”

Kate’s brow shot up. “Oh, really?”

“Not like that,” he said quickly, though the twitch of a smirk gave him away. “I’m not angling for some rom-com hotel disaster. Not unless you want one.” His grin flickered, then softened into something careful. “I mean it—one night. No RA knock at your door. No panicked freshmen crying over lost IDs. Just you.”

Kate hesitated, tugging her scarf tighter, the tug-of-war plain across her face. Duty on one side, desire on the other.

Anthony’s tone gentled again. “I’ll book a hotel. Separate rooms if you want. Or one with two beds. Whatever makes you comfortable. I’d just… like more time with you. Without the clipboard. Without Phi Mu plotting in the background.”

The city noise drifted faintly through the restaurant windows—traffic, laughter, a bass line from a bar down the street. Kate’s heart pressed tight against her ribs. She wanted to say no, wanted to be sensible, the ever-responsible resident director who didn’t waver. But the idea of climbing into her car, headlights slicing through dark highway all the way back to Danbury, filled her with a bone-deep weariness.

Anthony’s voice was low now, almost vulnerable. “You’ve carried everyone else long enough. Let me carry tonight. Just tonight.”

Kate exhaled slowly, fighting a smile that tugged at her mouth despite her better instincts. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Anthony said, rising with that crooked grin, “you’re still here.”

She let him see the hesitation, let him see the wheels turning—and then finally, she blew out a breath. “Fine. One night. But only because I’d rather not hit a deer on I-95 at midnight.”

His grin came slow and satisfied, though he didn’t gloat. “Practical. I respect that.”

They stepped into the crisp November air, Dupont Circle buzzing with weekend chatter. Anthony kept his hands tucked in his coat pockets, deliberately giving her space, not crowding. “Hotel’s two blocks up. Comfortable. Nothing dramatic. And I promise—no velvet capes, no campaign speeches.”

Kate shot him a side-eye. “You can’t help yourself with the speeches.”

“Only when the stakes are high.”

They walked past glowing lampposts and café patios, Kate clutching the tulips against her coat. For once, she didn’t feel like Mayfair’s director, the one holding the scaffolding together. She felt—simply—like herself.

Anthony opened the hotel door with mock formality. “After you, Madam Director.”

The lobby hummed with late check-ins and the faint smell of coffee grounds. Kate lingered while Anthony handled the desk—his voice calm, efficient, like booking a hotel was just another negotiation.

Two key cards slid across the counter. He passed one to her, fingers brushing hers. “Separate rooms. Third floor. Unless you want to trade for a suite with a minibar.”

“This is fine,” Kate said, tucking the card away.

Anthony’s smile softened. “Good. Because I meant it, Kate. Tonight isn’t about winning. It’s just… time. With you.”

Her throat tightened. She covered it with a scoff, though the smile slipped through anyway. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he murmured, eyes glinting, “you said yes.”

She rolled her eyes, stepping into the elevator beside him. They stood in silence as the numbers climbed, the quiet thick with things unsaid.

On the third floor, they stopped at neighboring doors, neither moving right away. Anthony tapped his card against his palm, studying her. “Sleep well, Kate.”

She lifted the tulips with a faint smile. “If Newton doesn’t overthrow the government while I’m gone, maybe I will.”

Her door clicked shut behind her, leaving Anthony in the hall. He exhaled, slow and steady, then slipped into his own room—smiling faintly at the thought that, for once, Kate Sharma hadn’t just given him her glare.

She’d given him her trust.

Chapter Text

Benedict found Colin lingering near the arena doors, balancing a tray with the last of his nachos like a man who believed basketball existed solely to justify processed cheese.

“Lost her,” Benedict muttered as he slumped into the seat beside him, eyes still tracking the concourse where the last of the dancers disappeared into the night—folded into teammates, laughter, and the arms of waiting family.

Colin arched an eyebrow, crunching loudly. “Your mysterious muse?”

“She was right there,” Benedict said, gesturing vaguely as though he could summon her back by hand alone. “And then—gone. Father, sisters, reunion. I couldn’t exactly cut through a family embrace with, ‘Hello, I’m a tortured artist, please stand still while I immortalize your soul in oils.’”

Colin snorted. “Probably wise. Nothing ruins the mood like interrupting someone’s dad hug with a destiny speech.”

Benedict groaned into his hands. “Do you ever tire of being the voice of reason?”

“Never,” Colin said cheerfully, brushing nacho dust from his shirt. His gaze flicked across the arena, toward the opposite exit where Penelope and Al sat finishing their snacks. “Besides, I’ve been occupied watching Mayfair’s latest subplot unfold. The anthropology major and the girl who may or may not be singlehandedly propping up the Mosquito fanbase.”

Benedict followed his gaze, a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth. “You’re telling me you’re interested in a freshman with a boyfriend?”

“Not interested,” Colin corrected smoothly, popping the last soggy chip into his mouth. “Observant. Big difference. Though I will say—vegan jerky and dreams of Alaska in subzero temperatures? That boy’s either a noble idealist or absolutely mad.”

“Or both,” Benedict muttered.

“Or both,” Colin agreed, grinning.

The brothers stepped out into the Williamsburg night, the crowd thinning around them as the pep band’s echo faded into the dark. One carried nacho grease on his fingers, the other carried the ghost of a girl with a ribbon in her hair.

Benedict sighed heavily, pulling his coat tighter. “Remind me again why we came to Mayfair?”

Colin tilted his head, smug. “Content, brother. Always content. And tonight? I think we just struck gold.”

The Phi Mu house still smelled faintly of cinnamon candles and curated cocktails when Lizzy and Jinny pushed through the front door, heels clicking against marble. They stopped dead in the foyer.

Nan St. George—every strand of hair in place, smirk like a signature—was tangled up with Guy Thwarte against the wall as if the grand staircase were a soap opera set built just for them.

“Really?” Lizzy deadpanned, setting her clutch on the console table. “The foyer? You couldn’t even bother with the den?”

Nan didn’t break away. Guy just grinned against her neck, entirely unbothered.

Lizzy turned to Jinny with the weariness of someone watching a car crash in slow motion. “And they wonder why everyone calls us insufferable.”

Jinny rolled her eyes, already veering toward the kitchen. “Please. I need carbs before I deal with this melodrama.”

Inside, the kitchen was still buzzing faintly—two sophomores half-asleep over mocktails, another scrolling aimlessly, gossip exhaustion heavy in the air. Jinny went straight to the fridge, pouring herself sparkling water like she was self-medicating. She had barely taken her first sip when the back door banged open.

Clara stumbled in, glitter in her hair and outrage crackling off her like static.

“You will not believe this!” she announced, clutching the counter as though the entire sorority needed to bear witness. “I was rejected. Rejected—by Eloise Bridgerton’s other brother!”

The room gasped like a choir. Lizzy, who had followed her in, let out a sharp snort. “Relax, Clara. You’re not the only one licking wounds tonight.” She shot Jinny a sly look.

Jinny smirked into her glass.

Clara pouted, dropping her purse with a theatrical thud. “Do you know how humiliating that is? Me—turned down by a Bridgerton! And not even Anthony—the other one. The one who’s hotter! It’s cruel.”

The temperature in the room shifted when Cressida swept in. Robe cinched tight, hair immaculate, expression sharp as crystal. She didn’t just enter; she presided.

“If you’re going to make a spectacle,” she said coolly, “at least make it worth listening to. Leave the theatrics to those who can carry them.”

Clara’s jaw fell open. “Excuse me?”

Cressida ignored her entirely, crossing to the sink with the slow assurance of a queen inspecting her court. She poured a glass of water, every motion deliberate, then turned back to the room with a faint, dangerous smile.

“If Anthony Bridgerton is unavailable, one of the others will do. Benedict, Colin—it hardly matters. Men are pawns, darlings. The trick is knowing when to move them.”

Lizzy’s eyes lit up with wicked amusement. “So you’re planning to seduce one of them?”

Cressida took a slow sip, the smirk curling like smoke. “Not planning. Promising.”

Whispers rippled through the kitchen like wind through silk. Clara bristled, Jinny rolled her eyes, Lizzy leaned back against the counter with a grin that said she was suddenly very entertained.

Phi Mu might have been rattled by Danbury’s chaos and their own lackluster showing. But one thing was clear: Cressida Cowper wasn’t surrendering her crown. She was sharpening her game.

Danbury was finally quiet.

The common room lights were dimmed, shadows stretching long across the rug, the only glow coming from the flicker of the TV. Francesca had claimed the couch, curled beneath a throw blanket, a mug of chamomile sending gentle steam rings into the air. On-screen, the grainy black-and-white frames of Jules et Jim spilled French dialogue into the room, the voices curling like smoke in the hush.

For once, she felt her shoulders loosen. The kind of stillness she rarely allowed herself.

The peace didn’t last.

Michaela padded in barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, hair mussed from the crush of the basketball crowd. She stopped in her tracks, squinting at the TV like it had personally offended her.

“Why,” Michaela asked flatly, “are you watching a movie in French?”

Francesca smirked without looking away. “Saw an Emily in Paris episode where she and her coworker went to see it. Thought I’d investigate.”

Michaela groaned, collapsing beside her with theatrical defeat. “Of course. The Bridgerton sisters and their tragic, obscure references. All I know is this one ends with a throuple going sideways. Spoiler: not happily.”

“Neither did Romeo and Juliet,” Francesca murmured, eyes still on the screen. “Didn’t stop people from watching that, either.”

Michaela rolled her eyes but stayed put, sinking into the cushions. Within minutes, she’d stopped protesting, their shoulders brushing. By the time the first act ended, their hands had found each other almost absentmindedly—brushing once, twice, then finally settling in the quiet space between them. Neither commented. Neither moved away.

The front door banged open.

Laughter and chatter spilled in like a flood. Jack and Bridget first, Bridget shushing him through her giggles; Hazel came in glowing pink beside John, his voice still buzzing from game-night adrenaline. Newton bounded past all of them, tail wagging, basking in victory like he’d been the one running plays.

And then—two more.

Colin, grin wide, energized as though the whole evening had been filmed for his channel. Benedict, by contrast, dragged his feet, shoulders hunched, eyes shadowed with something far heavier.

“My muse,” Benedict muttered as Colin tried to rib him. “My muse… gone.”

Colin snorted, dropping onto the beanbag with leftover popcorn. “You sound like Gollum moaning ‘my precious.’” He whipped out his phone, recording his brother’s misery with glee.

Benedict slumped deeper into the armchair, silent and defeated, while Colin narrated with nacho-stained fingers.

On the couch, Francesca and Michaela didn’t move, their fingers still linked, silent witnesses to the circus flooding the room. The French voices on the screen tumbled on, unheard, as Danbury’s familiar chaos swallowed the night again.

And yet—for Francesca—it didn’t feel ruined. Not with Michaela’s hand still warm in hers, steady against the flicker of the TV, like a secret no one else needed to see.

The diner just off Richmond Road hummed with post-game energy—forks clattering, booths packed with students still riding the high of Mayfair’s home opener win. The air smelled like fryer oil and coffee grounds, the kind of mix that felt permanent.

Sophie slid into the booth beside Posy, both of them reaching for a plate of disco fries drowning in gravy and cheese. Across the table, Rosamund picked at her obligatory side salad like it had personally offended her. Richard, steady behind his mug of black coffee, took in the sight of his daughter with quiet pride.

“You look lighter, Soph. Happier,” he said, voice warm. “I can see it. Mayfair’s been good for you.”

Sophie’s smile was small but real. She stabbed a fry. “It has been. I’m… figuring it out.”

Richard nodded, though his brow creased. “I did run into Phillip last week. He seemed… upset.”

Rosamund snorted, stabbing her lettuce. “Upset? Please. More like sulking because the universe didn’t orbit him for five minutes. My money says he’s already ‘moved on.’”

Sophie leaned back with a sigh. “Rosamund, thank you for your insight, but I’d rather not make this dinner about him. Honestly, it’s for the best. I want to enjoy my life. Make friends. Dance. I’m not going to apologize for that.”

Richard frowned, though his tone stayed gentle. “I just want to be sure you didn’t make that decision in the heat of the moment. That you’re not—”

“Dad.” Sophie cut him off firmly, though not unkindly. “I didn’t run off and elope. I danced with one person. One. After making the team. That’s it. No Vegas chapel, no shotgun wedding. Just a dance. And he acted like I committed treason.”

Before Richard could reply, Posy perked up, eyes darting to the door. “Ooh—who’s that?”

A boy had just walked in, tall, dark-haired, still in his Mayfair hoodie. Her whole face lit up like she’d spotted a boyband member ordering waffles.

Sophie turned—and nearly choked on her soda. “Hugh?”

Sure enough, Hugh Woodson—eighteen, earnest as ever, Danbury’s resident philosopher—was scanning the room. His face lit up when he spotted her. He waved, then wandered over, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hey, Sophie,” he said, smiling. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Same,” Sophie said, smiling back. “This is my dad, Richard. My stepsisters, Posy and Rosamund.”

Richard leaned across the table to shake his hand. “Nice to meet you, son.”

But Posy had already leaned forward, chin in her hands, eyes wide. “Hi,” she breathed, starstruck.

Hugh blinked, startled. Then blushed. “Uh. Hi.”

Sophie’s jaw dropped. “Oh no. Posy. He’s—” She swung back to Hugh, deadpan. “She’s sixteen.”

Hugh went pale, then red, then pale again. He straightened so quickly he nearly knocked over the sugar caddy. “Oh! No—I didn’t—oh God—no, of course not—” His hands went up like he was being frisked.

Rosamund leaned back in her seat, smirking into her salad. “This is better than dessert.”

Sophie groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Kill me now.”

Richard, amused but kind, cleared his throat and motioned to the booth. “Relax, son. Pull up a chair. Grab a milkshake. Clearly, you’ve made an impression on at least one of my daughters.”

Posy giggled into her fries. Hugh flushed even deeper. Sophie stabbed another fry like it was Phillip’s smug face.

The fluorescent hum of Wawa’s lights made the parking lot glow like its own strange little stage. Eloise and Phil leaned against the hood of his car, the remains of a turkey hoagie between them, wrapper crinkled and spotted with mustard.

Eloise took another bite, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’ll admit it—campaign strategy sessions should always involve food this good. Forget war rooms and whiteboards. Give me hoagies and a parking lot.”

Phil grinned around his own bite. “I’ll pitch it at our next meeting: ‘Phase One—bribery with Italian shortis.’ Revolutionary.”

They ate in easy silence. Cars pulled in, headlights sweeping, students drifted through automatic doors with snacks and caffeine fixes. The quiet wasn’t awkward—it was steady, companionable. And that unsettled her more than chaos ever could.

She broke it first. “Earlier—you mentioned Amanda and Oliver. Your brother’s twins?”

Phil’s face softened instantly. “Yeah. Seven now. Pure chaos. Amanda thinks she’s Simone Biles because she can cartwheel across the living room. Oliver’s in his magician phase. Last time I visited, he made my keys ‘disappear’—by flushing them.”

Eloise laughed so hard she almost dropped her sandwich. “That’s diabolical. And genius. Remind me never to let him near my houseplants.”

“They drive me mad,” Phil admitted, smiling anyway, “but they make life feel… grounded. Real.”

Eloise leaned back on her elbows, gazing up at the washed-out glow of the lamps overhead. “Real’s one word. My family at the holidays is… something else.”

Phil arched a brow. “Define ‘something else.’”

“Picture this,” Eloise said, gesturing with her sandwich. “A Duchess. A Duke. A mother obsessed with carols and table settings. Three older brothers who turn Christmas into contact sport. Baby siblings who stage Nerf-gun ambushes. Another who hides in the attic to avoid it all. It’s less ‘holiday’ and more ‘war zone.’”

Phil laughed, unrestrained. “That’s not a family gathering—that’s a Netflix special.”

“It’s a competition,” Eloise shot back. “Survive without a breakdown or getting tackled into the Christmas tree and you’ve won.”

Their laughter spilled across the lot, warm and sharp. And Eloise felt it—dangerous, curling inside her. Someone wasn’t laughing at her. Phil was laughing with her. Like she wasn’t too much. Like she was exactly enough.

Phil nudged the last bite of hoagie toward her. “Truce? Next holiday, I’ll swap you—two days with Amanda and Oliver for two days at Casa Bridgerton.”

Eloise wrinkled her nose, though the smile betrayed her. “Neither of us would survive.”

They cracked up again, loud enough to turn a few heads in the lot. For once, there was no Phi Mu, no Mosquito, no clipboard of duties waiting at Danbury. Just the two of them, the quiet, and a crinkled sandwich wrapper glowing under Wawa’s lights.

And Eloise, who had sworn she wasn’t the type to catch feelings, realized with a jolt that she might already be halfway there.

Phil shifted, hands in his pockets, still smiling at her like she was easy to know. “So… next week? Another campaign strategy meeting. Same time, same Wawa?”

Eloise tilted her head, pulse skipping. She smirked to cover it. “Only if you promise not to flush my keys.”

“Deal.”

Chapter Text

Neither of them slept.

Kate lay in the hotel bed staring at the ceiling, tulips in a glass of tap water on the nightstand, the HVAC’s hum filling the silence. She shifted, punched the pillow, rolled to the other side. Nothing. Rest wouldn’t come.

Down the hall, Anthony was no better—pacing the narrow carpet, jacket slung over the desk chair, tie tugged loose, restlessness written in every step.

Eventually, both surrendered.

Their doors cracked open at the same time. They froze, caught in the absurd symmetry.

“You too?” Anthony asked, voice low in the hush of the hall.

Kate huffed a laugh. “Apparently.”

Neither moved toward the other’s room. For a beat, they just stood there—two adults stalled in teenage uncertainty. Finally, Kate jerked her chin toward the elevator. “Lobby?”

“Lobby,” Anthony agreed.

The hotel lobby was still, washed in lamplight and the faint tick of a clock over the concierge desk. The night clerk stifled a yawn, pretending not to notice them. Free city maps gathered dust in a rack by the door.

Kate curled into one armchair, Anthony into the other, angled just enough toward each other to turn the space into a confessional. Newton would have sprawled across both their feet if he’d been there. Instead, only the quiet glow softened the edges between them.

Anthony broke the silence. “Tell me about him. Your father.”

Kate blinked. “That’s… sudden.”

“You listened to me last time,” Anthony said simply. “Seems fair I return the favor.”

Kate folded her arms like she needed armor, then let out a breath. She stared past him, into the glass doors where the city’s lights blurred faintly.

“He was from Tamil Nadu. Southern India. Came here in the late eighties. Married my mom—my first mom. She died when I was three months old. Hemorrhage.” Kate’s throat worked. “So it was just him and me, for years. Until he met Mary.”

Anthony leaned forward, elbows on his knees, listening without interruption.

“Mary adopted me when I was still little. I don’t remember the signatures, just the lunches with notes tucked inside. Fevers with her sitting up all night beside me. She was… good. Solid. Then Edwina came along. My half-sister, technically, but we never used that word. She was just Edwina. My best friend. We were loud, messy, four of us squeezed into one house, and it was good.”

Her voice softened. Then wavered. “Until cancer.”

Anthony’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t move.

“He kept it quiet at first. Didn’t want me to worry. Didn’t want me to drop out. By the time I knew, it was already bad. So I lived split in half—lectures and exams on one side, hospitals and hospice on the other. And I don’t regret it. Not a second. Even when it was ugly. Even when it felt like I was just… holding his hand while the ship went under.”

Anthony’s chest ached at her words. His father had gone in an instant; hers had been taken piece by piece. Two different cruelties, the same hollow after.

Kate gave a shaky laugh. “It’s been years. Still, some mornings I wake up and swear I smell chai on the stove, hear his laugh. And then—just silence.”

The clock ticked faintly.

Anthony said quietly, “You carry him with you. That doesn’t fade.”

Kate turned, startled by the certainty in his voice. “You sound like someone who knows.”

“I do,” Anthony admitted.

The memory flickered: honey jars, spring runs, a bee sting, and the weight of a body that should have stood forever. He hadn’t spoken this plainly in years.

For a long moment, grief braided between them—different strands, same cord. Not competing. Just shared.

Finally Kate exhaled, leaning back. “Well. That was uplifting.”

Anthony’s mouth curved, rueful. “Better than insomnia.”

“Debatable,” she murmured. But her lips softened into something like a smile.

Anthony leaned back too, eyes fixed somewhere above her shoulder. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter than she’d ever heard it.

“My dad—Edmund. He was supposed to go to West Point. All the Bridgerton men did. Discipline, legacy. But he chose Mayfair instead. Ran cross-country. Strong, steady. People said nothing could shake him.” His voice caught faintly. “One day, on a jog, he collided—literally ran into—a Phi Mu girl. My mother. Violet. He swore he knew the second she laughed.”

Kate smiled faintly at the picture.

“They had eight kids. He never lost his patience. He carried everything. The kind of strong you think lasts forever.” Anthony’s hands tightened against his knees. “Until the spring of my senior year. We were in the garden. He got stung. A bee. He’d been stung dozens of times before. But that time—” He broke off, swallowing hard. “That time was different.”

Kate didn’t move, didn’t interrupt.

“I called 911. Tried the EpiPen. Held him in my lap while…” His jaw clenched. He forced the words. “By the time we reached the hospital, he was gone. Just like that.”

The clock ticked again, loud in the silence they shared.

Anthony forced out a bitter laugh. “I don’t know what was worse—telling my mother, or pretending I was strong enough to hold everyone else up. Less than two weeks before graduation, and suddenly I was the adult. Or had to be. I studied harder, partied harder, pretended harder. And every other weekend I drove home just to check—make sure they were breathing, eating, surviving.”

Kate’s throat tightened. The impulse to reach across, to steady his hands, to shoulder even a fraction of it—God, it nearly undid her. But instead, she said softly, “You were still a boy. And you carried all of that.”

Anthony shook his head, eyes flicking to hers. “What else could I do? I was the oldest. It had to be me.”

Kate’s voice sharpened, gentle but fierce. “That doesn’t mean it should have been.”

The words lingered between them, heavy and strangely healing.

Anthony exhaled, slow and uneven. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ve been running ever since. Mayfair. Law school. D.C. Every achievement—just me trying to fill the space he left. And failing.”

Kate’s hand twitched against the armrest, caught between instinct and hesitation. Instead she leaned forward, her gaze steady, grounding. “You didn’t fail. You kept your family standing. That matters. More than you think.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was shared, a thread stretched between two lives shaped by different kinds of loss, binding instead of isolating.

Anthony rubbed his jaw, the heaviness still clinging. Then, after a long pause, he exhaled something lighter—a faint laugh.

“You know… we never had a pet. Eight kids was circus enough. My mother always said if we added a dog, the house would officially qualify as a three-ring act.”

Kate smiled despite herself.

“But my dad—” Anthony’s grin tugged crooked, almost boyish now. “He would’ve loved Newton. Strong little thing, loyal, judgmental in the right ways. He’d have said, ‘Now there’s a dog that knows how to keep a family in line.’”

Kate laughed under her breath, the ache in her chest easing just a little. “Newton does take his job very seriously.”

“Exactly,” Anthony said. “My dad would’ve given him his own chair at the dinner table. Probably slipped him more scraps than all of you combined.”

Kate shook her head, smiling fully now. “Careful. If Newton hears that, he’ll start lobbying for his own Bridgerton place setting at Sunday lunch.”

Anthony leaned back, eyes soft, the weight between them eased but not erased. “Maybe that’s how it should’ve been.”

For the first time all night, Kate didn’t feel like they were circling ghosts. Just life. Messy, ordinary, and brighter for being spoken out loud.

The lobby was nearly deserted—only the night clerk yawning at the desk, the faint hum of the vending machine filling the quiet. Kate tucked her knees up slightly, cradling her coffee like a shield.

“I should probably confess my fatal flaw,” she said.

Anthony tilted his head. “You? Flaws? Impossible.”

She gave him a look. “Thunderstorms. Hate them. Always have. Every time the sky cracks open, I’m twelve again, hiding under the covers, convinced the lightning’s after me personally.”

Anthony leaned back, smirking. “Good to know. Madam Director—slayer of sororities, master of dorm chaos—terrified of weather.”

“Don’t mock me,” Kate warned, pointing her coffee at him. “Thunderstorms are legitimately dangerous. What’s your irrational fear?”

His smirk faltered. “Clowns.”

Kate blinked—then dissolved into laughter. “Clowns? Really?”

“Don’t laugh,” Anthony insisted, though he was chuckling too. “Six years old, friend’s birthday party. Clown shows up with balloon swords, trips, face-first into the cake, and still grins through the frosting with blood coming out of his nose. That’s nightmare fuel.”

Kate was laughing so hard she nearly spilled her coffee. “That is… the most Bridgerton story I’ve ever heard.”

“Mock all you want,” Anthony said, crossing his arms. “But if Pennywise shows up in Danbury, don’t expect me to save you.”

Kate grinned, still breathless with laughter. “Fine. You take thunderstorms, I’ll take clowns.”

Anthony tilted his head, considering. “Deal. Between us, I think we’ve got the apocalypse covered.”

They fell into silence again, but this time it wasn’t sharp or heavy—it was warm. Companionable. The kind of silence that held rather than pressed. Outside, the city hummed faintly, headlights sweeping past, while the lobby around them stretched into its late-night hush. For once, neither of them felt the pull to retreat back to their separate rooms.

Kate stretched her legs out, balancing her empty coffee cup on the arm of her chair. “So that’s our pact, then—storms and clowns. Division of labor for the end of days.”

Anthony leaned back, folding his arms with exaggerated gravitas, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You realize what this means, don’t you? We’re basically co-commanders of the apocalypse.”

Kate snorted. “Please. You’d last ten minutes before Newton staged a coup.”

“Unfair,” Anthony countered smoothly. “I’d last at least fifteen. Maybe twenty if snacks were included.”

Their laughter rippled easily through the quiet lobby, light and unforced. Even the vending machine seemed to hum along, approving.

Kate shook her head, still smiling despite herself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” Anthony said, mock solemn now, “I am officially your anti-thunderstorm defense system. It’s binding. Lobby oath.”

Kate lifted her empty cup like a toast. “Fine. But only if you promise never to bring balloon animals into Danbury. Ever.”

Anthony pressed a hand to his chest. “Cross my heart. Never again.”

The night clerk glanced up at their laughter, then went back to his crossword, uninterested in whatever oath was being sworn in the corner armchairs. Outside, the city lights flickered faintly against the glass, stretching long shadows across the carpet.

For once—for both of them—the weight of family, duty, and memory eased just enough to let them breathe.

Newton would have approved.

A few hours later, the lobby was nearly empty, the hum of the vending machine the only sound keeping the night company. The desk clerk stretched, abandoned his crossword, and wandered past the armchairs to switch off one of the lamps.

He paused.

There they were—Anthony and Kate. Both slumped sideways in their chairs, coats draped loosely, heads tipped back at matching angles. Their hands had slipped together somewhere between laughter and exhaustion, fingers barely touching on the armrest between them.

The clerk smiled, quiet and knowing, before turning back to the desk. He didn’t disturb them. Some things—like two people finally finding rest—were better left untouched.

Outside, the first gray light of morning brushed against the windows. And for once, Kate Sharma wasn’t carrying the night alone.

Chapter Text

Eloise woke smiling. That in itself was suspicious.

No dreams of Phi Mu fog machines rising from the dead, no nightmares about midterms, no panicked visions of Newton running for Student Government president. Just… Phil Crane, a Wawa parking lot, and laughter that still hummed faintly in her chest.

The rare good mood cracked when she rolled over to find Penelope’s bed neatly made. Too neatly. A quick glance at her phone confirmed it:

Penelope: Spent the night at Al’s. Don’t wait up.

“Shocking,” Eloise muttered, tossing the phone aside. “Anthropology over loyalty. Typical.”

She shoved her feet into slippers, tugged a cardigan tight against the early chill, and padded down the hall.

The first casualty of morning was in the common room: Benedict, draped across the sofa like a Renaissance painting gone wrong. A sketchbook lay open on his chest, page filled with a bow-tied dancer rendered in frantic, reverent lines. Eloise leaned closer, unimpressed.

“Tragic,” she whispered. “Even asleep, he’s pining. Wonder what Sophie would say about her being your muse.”

She shook her head and pressed on toward the kitchen, bracing for chaos.

Chaos delivered.

Colin was holding court at the counter, bowl of Lucky Charms in hand, milk already dripping perilously close to his cuff. Hazel clicked knitting needles at the table, Rae hunched over cereal, Jack poured orange juice like he was auditioning for a commercial—and all of them were laughing at whatever nonsense Colin had just spun.

“Marshmallow-to-grain ratio,” Colin announced as Eloise entered, spoon raised like a prophet, “is Mayfair’s greatest contribution to civilization. Peak innovation. Accept no substitutes.”

Hazel didn’t even look up. “Newton’s legacy is stronger. At least he doesn’t spill milk on the counter.”

Sure enough, Newton was beneath the table, tail thumping, already licking up Colin’s mess. Betrayal never wagged so happily.

“Traitor,” Colin muttered, slipping him another marshmallow anyway.

Before Eloise could unleash the scathing remark perched on her tongue, the back door swung open.

Francesca entered first, leash looped neatly around her wrist, Newton’s “leaf medal” still clinging to his fur. Calm as ever, she set the kettle on. And behind her—

Phil. Jacket zipped, hair still mussed, smile soft in the way that made Eloise’s pulse skip treacherously.

She froze, mug halfway to the counter. He smiled at her, easy and unbothered. “Good morning.”

“Barely,” she replied—too fast, too flat. But her lips betrayed her, twitching upward anyway.

Colin caught it instantly, spoon poised like a conductor’s baton. “Oh-ho. Look at this. Morning just got very interesting.”

Eloise shot him a death glare hot enough to curdle milk, cheeks warming in spite of herself.

Francesca poured tea without missing a beat. “What’s happening is Eloise has breakfast, Phil has breakfast, and you,” she said coolly, “are about five bites away from a sugar coma.”

“Deflection,” Colin declared, pointing his spoon dramatically. “Classic Bridgerton tactic. Mark my words—romance is brewing here.”

Newton barked once, as if seconding the motion. Rae yelped, orange juice splattering across the counter. Hazel sighed, setting her knitting aside to grab a towel.

And Eloise, scowling into her tea while Phil’s smile lingered across the table, wondered if maybe—just maybe—her brother wasn’t entirely wrong.

Phil ducked his head, fighting a laugh, while Eloise buried her face in her mug. The tips of her ears glowed pink, and she muttered into the steam, “Next time, we’re meeting at Wawa.”

Phil’s smile widened. “Deal.”

And amid the clatter of spoons, Rae’s juice argument, and Newton’s tail drumming the floor like a timpani, Eloise thought—just for a second—that maybe chaos wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

The volume in the kitchen climbed another notch when the back door creaked open.

Penelope slipped in—hair tousled, cardigan buttoned crooked, tote bag hugged to her chest like a shield. The air shifted instantly.

Colin, never one to miss an entrance, lit up like Christmas had come early. “Well, well. Sleeping Beauty returns. Or should I say—Beauty who didn’t sleep in her own bed.”

Newton barked once, tail thumping, as if seconding the charge.

Penelope froze, cheeks blooming pink. “I—was at Al’s. We watched documentaries. Educational. Entirely innocent.”

Hazel nearly choked on her tea. “Educational? At his apartment?”

“About climate change!” Penelope snapped, flinging her tote onto the counter. “Very moving. Lots of glaciers. Very cold.”

“Mm.” Francesca didn’t even glance up from her tea. “It’s 2025, Penelope. Own it. Everyone can tell you just did the walk of shame.”

Phil, bless him, tried valiantly to break the tension. “Morning, Penelope.”

“Morning,” she said quickly, too quickly—avoiding his gaze. The mistake was fatal. Colin’s grin sharpened like a shark catching blood in the water.

“Morning, indeed,” he drawled. “Tell me—does Al serve vegan jerky with breakfast, or is that a special amenity?”

Penelope hurled a dish towel at him. “Shut up!”

Colin caught it with a laugh. Eloise smirked behind her mug. Francesca sipped serenely. The room dissolved back into chatter: Hazel and Rae arguing toast toppings, Jack stealing the orange juice, Newton barking whenever a crumb hit the floor.

But Penelope stayed anchored at the counter, heat prickling her face. Last night was supposed to be quiet. Simple. Instead, walking back into Danbury felt like stepping onto a stage where everyone already knew the twist.

And worst of all, one pair of Bridgerton eyes—blue, amused, impossible to ignore—kept finding hers through the noise.

Colin leaned back, spoon dangling, grin lazy and dangerous. “So,” he said low, pitched for her alone. “Documentaries and glaciers, huh?”

Penelope nearly inhaled her tea. “It was educational,” she hissed, cheeks burning. “And you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think I do,” Colin murmured, resting his elbow on the table like he had all day. “You walked in glowing like Times Square. Either climate change documentaries are a lot sexier than I realized… or someone’s not telling the whole story.”

She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Not when it’s this entertaining,” he shot back, grin softening just enough to sting. “Besides, your boyfriend’s perfectly nice. Very… vegan. Very committed. He looks like he could survive in the Alaskan wilderness with nothing but moss and good intentions.”

Her mug hit the counter harder than intended. “He’s more than nice. He’s kind. Smart. Real.”

Colin’s grin eased, eyes glinting, still locked on hers. “I don’t doubt it. But…” He leaned forward, voice dropping. “…he’s not the one making you blush right now.”

Penelope’s breath caught, a protest half-formed—then Newton barreled between them, plopping his chin on her knee like a furry referee.

Colin chuckled, scratching behind the corgi’s ears. “See? Even Newton knows when things are getting interesting.”

Penelope glared, trying to smother the treacherous smile tugging at her mouth. But with Colin watching her like that, and Newton sitting smugly at her side, she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep pretending.

Benedict stirred with a groan, sketchpad sliding from his chest to the rug as he blinked awake on the Danbury sofa. The page lay open in the morning light—a dancer mid-spin, ribbon in her hair, caught in restless strokes that carried too much tenderness to be casual.

Eloise leaned lazily over the armrest, tea steaming in her hand, eyes bright with mischief. “Ah yes—the tortured artist at rest. Tell me, Ben, did your muse tuck you in last night or simply haunt your dreams?”

Benedict rubbed his face, voice gravelly. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“On the contrary,” Eloise replied sweetly. “You’ve fallen for posture, good lighting, and a hair accessory. A tale as old as art school.”

Before he could muster a retort, the stairs groaned. Hugh bounded down, radiant with misplaced confidence.

“Good morning, everyone! Behold—the man who met his future wife last night.”

The room stilled. Francesca arched one brow over her book. “That’s ambitious before breakfast.”

“She was radiant,” Hugh declared, puffing his chest. “Grace in motion. I just know.”

John plucked a lazy chord on his guitar. “Who’s the unlucky soul?”

“Posy Li Gun,” Hugh answered proudly. “Sophie’s stepsister.”

Eloise nearly spit her tea. “Hugh, she’s still in high school.”

The color drained from Hugh’s face. He clutched his chest like a Shakespearean hero betrayed by fate. “I know. Which is why I’ll wait. At least two years. Love demands patience.”

Laughter rippled through the room. Even Francesca’s lips twitched.

Trying to save face, Hugh stooped to pick up Benedict’s sketch. He turned it over, eyes widening. “Nice drawing, Ben. You caught her perfectly.”

Benedict’s head snapped up. “Her?”

“Sophie,” Hugh said easily, oblivious. “She was electric out there.”

The name struck like a spark. Benedict stilled, tasting it silently—Sophie.

Memory surged: a bar weeks ago, a silver dress flashing in low light, her laugh cutting clear through the noise. They had shared one dance—just one—and he’d carried it like an unfinished sketch ever since.

Now he had her name. Sophie.

“She’s here with her family,” Hugh went on cheerfully. “Probably still in town.”

Benedict closed the sketchbook slowly, fingers lingering on the cover as if to protect something fragile. He didn’t answer Eloise’s barbs, didn’t rise to her grin. His expression had shifted—faraway, softened, lit by something only he could see.

Eloise tilted her head, poised to needle him again—but stopped. The look on his face wasn’t teasing fodder. It was something else. For once, she let the silence hold.

The common room carried on—Newton snuffling after crumbs, Francesca flipping her page, John humming to his guitar—but Benedict sat apart, a quiet thread tugging at him stronger than the laughter around him.

A sketch. A name. And a thought he wasn’t ready to speak aloud.

Sophie.

The cobblestones of Duke of Gloucester Street echoed beneath Sophie’s sneakers, lanterns swaying in the crisp November air as horse-drawn carriages rattled past. Posy darted ahead, snapping photos beside a wagon like she’d stumbled into a period drama, while Rosamund dragged her Uggs as though each step were its own personal punishment.

Richard walked close to Sophie, his arm brushing hers now and then—a quiet tether. “You seem… different,” he said at last, his voice low, steady, watching her in the shifting light. “Lighter. Happier. Mayfair’s been good for you.”

Sophie tugged her scarf tighter, a smile flickering in the lantern glow. “It has. But it’s not all cider and cobblestones. There are still lab reports, rehearsals, deadlines. Even dancers have to go back to the grind eventually.”

Richard chuckled, the sound warm against the night. “Balance isn’t easy. But you’re doing more than I ever imagined.” His voice softened. “I’m proud of you, Soph.”

The words sank deep, lodging in her chest. She wanted to stitch them there like armor. Because even at Mayfair—even surrounded by Danbury’s messy, magical chaos—part of her still felt like the girl bussing tables at the restaurant, never quite belonging in a hall named for royalty.

Up ahead, Rosamund’s voice cut sharp through the colonial calm. “I wonder what Mother’s doing right now. Probably bored. Wouldn’t it be something if Phillip showed up at the door, begging?”

Sophie froze. The name scraped against her ribs like glass. Before she could answer, Richard’s tone snapped firm: “That’s enough.”

Rosamund fell silent, though her eye-roll said everything.

Sophie exhaled, guilt tangling with relief. Phillip’s absence was still a bruise she didn’t want pressed. He had left her doubting her worth, her choices, herself. And standing here—wrapped in her father’s quiet pride, Posy’s starry-eyed crush talk, even Rosamund’s barbed edges—she knew she didn’t want that doubt anymore.

“Dad?” she said softly, breaking the fragile quiet between them. “I know I’ve made choices you might not always understand. But I’m… finding my place. I want to stand on my own. Not through someone else. Not through Phillip.”

Richard looked down at her, eyes lined with weariness but glowing with belief. “Then you’ve already done more than I could ever ask. Just don’t forget—we’re behind you. Always.”

Her throat tightened, but she nodded. Posy skipped ahead, humming tunelessly; Rosamund walked behind, shoulders sharp but not as sharp as her words. And Sophie let herself think, for the first time, that she wasn’t split between two lives anymore. She was building one of her own.

They walked further down the street, past taverns spilling firelight and shops lit with candles, the air sharp with woodsmoke and cider. Sophie slowed her steps to match her father’s, letting the rhythm anchor her.

For once, she wasn’t fractured—student, daughter, dancer, sister. She was simply herself, her footsteps joining centuries of others along the worn cobblestones. She drew a deep breath, the chill stinging her lungs, and felt a steadiness she hadn’t realized she was missing.

Richard glanced at her, his gaze carrying her mother’s quiet strength, and she tucked the moment away like a pressed flower in a book—fragile but lasting. She knew she would need it later: when exams piled high, when rehearsals stretched long, when Mayfair felt too heavy to bear. This reminder, this truth—that she had a family rooting for her, and that she could stand on her own.

Sophie smiled then, soft and unguarded, as Colonial Williamsburg went about its day, lanterns glowing, carriage wheels creaking, history humming beneath her feet.

Chapter Text

The first thing Kate registered was warmth. Not the stiff upholstery of the lobby chair, not the kink in her neck from sleeping upright, but the weight of another hand brushing hers. She blinked into the half-light and saw Anthony half-slouched in the armchair opposite—tie loosened, hair mussed, still absurdly dignified even in sleep.

For one suspended moment, she allowed herself to notice—the crease of his jaw, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way their fingers had drifted together in the night like magnets. Then instinct took over. She pulled back, stretching her arms with forced nonchalance.

“Well,” she said dryly, “that’s money well spent. Two hotel rooms, and we end up sleeping in the lobby like undergrads who missed the last train.”

Anthony stirred, rubbing his eyes before flashing a lazy grin. “Worth every penny. Lobby naps build character.” He cracked his neck, stretching like he owned the place. “You don’t get ambience like this every day.”

Kate rolled her eyes, though a reluctant smile tugged at her mouth. “We could’ve just extended checkout last night. Saved the chairs the trauma.”

“Then let’s do it now,” Anthony countered, already fishing his phone from his pocket. “Another couple of hours upstairs, real beds, and then we text when we’re human again.”

Kate arched a brow. “And then what? You planning to drag me through the rain for more bad Rothko interpretations?”

Anthony glanced toward the wide hotel windows where rain streaked steadily down the glass, softening the city into watercolor. “Hm. Good point.” He shrugged into his jacket with a practiced sweep. “Rain calls for improvisation. Museums, bookstores, questionable coffee shops—I’ll think of something. Trust me.”

Kate gathered her tote, scarf slipping loose around her neck. “Trust you? That’s a dangerous proposition.”

“And yet,” Anthony said as they walked toward the elevators, “you’re still here. In D.C. With me.”

The elevator doors slid open, spilling them into the hushed hallway. They looked rumpled, weary, and yet—lighter, as though some unspoken weight had eased overnight. Outside, the rain drummed against the windows like a reminder the world could wait a little longer.

“Go sleep,” Anthony said, voice softer now, almost coaxing. “We’ll make the rest of the day count.”

Kate hesitated, tulips still cradled close against her coat. “Fine. But only if you promise one thing.”

Anthony smirked. “No balloon animals?”

“No balloon animals,” she confirmed, fighting a smile.

They stopped at their neighboring doors, the air between them charged but steady. The soft click of their locks echoed down the hall as they disappeared into their rooms, the promise of the day lingering with the quiet drum of rain against the glass.

The door clicked shut behind Eloise as she tugged her sweater over her head and tossed it onto her desk chair. Penelope was already cocooned on her bed, laptop pushed aside, blanket wrapped so tightly it looked like she was bracing for a storm.

For a long moment, the room was quiet—the low hum of the radiator, the faint chatter drifting from down the hall. Finally, Eloise broke it.

“Phil’s back to his plants. Colin’s dragging Ben out for anti-muse therapy. Which means it’s just us. You can stop doing your best Victorian widow impression and spill.”

Penelope groaned into her pillow. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” Eloise said firmly, flopping onto her own bed. “Preferably before Newton barges in and starts sniffing out scandal.”

A beat. Then Penelope peeked out, cheeks pink. “Fine. It was… good. Al was considerate. Kind. Textbook considerate. Made sure he had protection. But…” She trailed off, clutching the blanket tighter.

Eloise arched a brow. “But?”

Penelope sighed. “I thought it would feel… different. Romantic. Like every ridiculous movie montage rolled into one. Instead, it was just… fine. Nice. Like checking a box off a list. And I don’t know if that’s because of me or because…” Her voice dipped to a whisper. “…I’m not actually sure I’m in love with him.”

Eloise’s sharp edges softened. She leaned back, studying her friend. “That’s not stupid, Pen. That’s honest.”

Penelope bit her lip. “He asked me to come with him. To Alaska. A whole semester. Stars, caribou, endless wilderness. And I…” She glanced around their cluttered dorm room—the posters, the pile of mugs, glitter still caught in the carpet from the Gala. “…I like it here. As messy as it is. I think I need to figure out who I am before I follow anyone else into the tundra.”

Eloise set her tea down, her voice gentler than usual. “Then there’s your answer. You don’t owe him Alaska. You owe yourself time. Space. To be Penelope, without footnotes.”

Penelope gave a weak laugh. “Footnotes are kind of my specialty.”

“Not anymore,” Eloise said, suddenly fierce. “From now on, you’re the headline.”

Penelope’s smile was small but real. Then, after a pause, she asked, “What about you? You’ve never really… talked about your first time.”

Eloise groaned. “Must you pry?”

“Yes,” Penelope said immediately. “Equal exchange. That’s the deal.”

“Fine.” Eloise flopped back against her pillows. “His name was Theo Sharpe. High school sweetheart. Virgins. Clueless. We figured it out together. And honestly? It was… good. Not magical, not life-altering. Just… safe. Comfortable.”

She turned her head, softer now. “We dated for two years. Everyone assumed forever. He even barely survived the ‘Anthony Bridgerton Test’. But he was bound for Berkeley, I was bound for Mayfair. We both knew we’d unravel. And after we slept together, I felt… overwhelmed. Like I’d opened a door I wasn’t ready to walk through. They don’t tell you that part in health class—how emotional it can be. He didn’t get it, I couldn’t explain it, and by prom night… we knew.”

Penelope tilted her head. “And now?”

Eloise stared into her mug, cheeks warming. “Now I tell myself I don’t need another entanglement. That I should focus on school, protests, surviving capitalism. But then…” She hesitated. “…then there’s Phil.”

Penelope’s lips curved. “You light up when he’s around. It’s impossible not to notice.”

Eloise groaned, hiding behind her mug. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious,” Penelope pressed. “You’re sharper, sure, but softer too. Like he doesn’t just hear you—he listens.”

Eloise lowered the mug, troubled. “That’s what scares me. I don’t want to drown in someone else again.”

Penelope’s voice was steadier than her own heartbeat. “Then don’t. You’re not sixteen anymore, Eloise. You’re stronger now. Smarter. If you fall, it won’t erase you. It’ll add to you.”

Eloise blinked, caught off guard, then smirked faintly. “When did you get so wise? Before or after the vegan jerky date?”

“Both,” Penelope deadpanned, but she smiled.

The room fell into that rare hush—honest, unguarded, the kind they’d been avoiding. For once, Eloise didn’t feel like she had to perform cynicism. And Penelope didn’t feel like she had to armor herself in sarcasm. Just two girls, fumbling through love, mistakes, and maybes.

After a stretch of companionable silence, Eloise arched a brow. “So if you did run off to Alaska, what’s the look? Parkas and eyeliner? Flannel chic? Moose couture?”

“Moose glam,” Penelope shot back instantly, tugging her blanket tighter. “Trend-setting.”

Eloise snorted into her tea. “Yes, devastating. Greek Row would crumble the second you show up in antlers.”

Penelope laughed, grabbed a pillow, and lobbed it at her. Eloise swatted it aside with theatrical dignity, both of them dissolving into laughter.

For now, that was enough—confessions, banter, and the reminder that whatever came next, neither of them had to face it alone.

The November air on Mayfair’s quad carried that crisp, woodsmoke bite that made even the old brick seem to glow. Colin stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, head tilted back to take in the colonial cupolas and lampposts already strung with early wreaths.

“Got to hand it to them,” he said. “Campus looks a hell of a lot nicer than anything we trudged through at UVA.”

Benedict gave a rueful smile. “True. Charlottesville never had this kind of theater. Even the squirrels here look aristocratic.”

Colin barked a laugh. “Or maybe just fatter. Nobility by way of leftover pizza crust.”

They reached a bench under a sprawling oak, branches still dripping from the morning drizzle. Benedict sank onto the wood, gaze inevitably sliding toward the arts building in the distance. Colin plopped down beside him, unwrapping a granola bar like penance for last night’s nachos.

That was when the sharp click of heels cut across the path.

“Excuse me—oh!”

Cressida, immaculate even at eleven in the morning, swept toward them and collapsed with a practiced sigh against the arm of their bench. One hand clutched her calf, eyes wide with performance. “Charley horse. Dreadful timing. Could one of you…?” Her lashes fluttered. “Help me?”

Colin blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding—”

But before he could finish, she extended her leg like Juliet waiting for rescue. Against all sense, Colin reached out and began massaging her calf through silk stockings, muttering, “This is not in my job description.”

Cressida let out a sigh worthy of a stage actress. “Oh, thank you. Such strong hands. A true hero.”

Benedict raised one unimpressed brow. “Is he?”

“Yes,” she purred, straightening with sudden ease. She leaned between them, eyes glittering with intent. “In fact, you’re both heroes. Brothers. Handsome. Accomplished. Why not make this morning a little more… memorable?”

Her smile left little room for misinterpretation.

Colin shot Benedict a look that screamed kill me now. He gently set her leg back on the ground and dusted off his hands as if he’d just handled toxic waste. “Right. Well. As flattering as that is, I think I’m about three minutes away from a sugar crash, and the only thing I’m flirting with is a nap.”

Cressida’s lips parted in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

Benedict snapped his sketchbook shut, his voice cool and even. “Too much Lucky Charms.” He stood, slipping the book under his arm. “As for me—I’ll pass as well. I prefer brunettes.”

His tone was matter-of-fact, but his eyes were already elsewhere—drawn past the drizzle, toward the direction of the arts building, toward a dancer with a bow in her hair who had haunted his thoughts all night.

Cressida blinked, her mask faltering for just a beat. “Brunettes?”

“Brunettes,” Benedict confirmed, already rising from the bench.

Colin yawned extravagantly, stretching like a cat. “Better luck next time. Eat more bananas.”

Her heels clicked sharply against the cobblestones as the brothers strolled away, their dismissal unraveling her carefully staged scene.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath.

But neither Bridgerton looked back.

Cressida’s heels clicked furiously against the marble of the Phi Mu foyer as she stormed back inside, each step echoing her humiliation like a drumbeat. The Cowper composure never cracked in public—never—but here, in the sanctuary of her house with sisters draped across velvet couches, the mask slipped.

Lizzy glanced up from a gossip magazine, smirk curling. “Well? Did you manage to snag yourself a Bridgerton?”

Cressida froze mid-step, lips curling. “They rejected me.”

The word burned her tongue. She yanked off her gloves one finger at a time, each snap sharp with fury she refused to let tremble.

“Rejected?” Nan repeated, sitting upright. “Both of them?”

“Yes, both!” Cressida spat, tossing her gloves onto the console table. “One muttered something about Lucky Charms, the other had the audacity to say he prefers brunettes. Brunettes!” She hissed the word like it was poison.

Lizzy tilted her head, unbothered. “If it helps, he rejected me and Clara too. And last I checked, we’re both brunettes.”

Conchita arched a brow. “So they didn’t fall at your feet in worship. You’ll survive.”

Cressida spun on her, eyes glittering. “You don’t understand. It isn’t about survival—it’s about winning. A Cowper does not get brushed off like some nameless freshman begging for a bid.”

Lizzy’s smirk widened. “Looks like a freshman pledge is exactly what they thought you were.”

The jab landed. Cressida’s jaw tightened, her pride seared raw. She drew a long breath, smoothing her hair until every golden strand lay perfectly in place, sculpting her face back into control.

“Fine,” she said, voice cold enough to chill the room. “If they think they can dismiss me, then I’ll remind them exactly who rules this campus. Benedict wants to pine for brunettes? Let him. Colin wants to toy with Danbury rejects? So be it. Because when I’m finished, they’ll both learn the price of crossing me.”

She sank gracefully into the nearest chair, posture regal—but her fingers clamped the armrest white-knuckled, betraying the quake beneath.

For the first time in years, Cressida Cowper felt small. And she loathed it.

So, as always, she transmuted shame into something else. Not sorrow. Not surrender. But fire.

The drizzle lingered, soft enough to silver Dupont’s sidewalks and blur headlights into halos. Kate tugged her scarf closer as Anthony appeared by the hotel door, coat collar turned up, grin easy.

“A little rain won’t kill us,” he said. “Besides—what’s D.C. without at least one overambitious plan?”

Kate arched a brow. “You’re suggesting puddle-jumping?”

“Not puddles,” he countered, holding up a tote. “Picnic. Washington Monument. Cinematic, slightly damp. If it fails, Smithsonian’s the backup.”

Kate laughed. “A picnic. In November. In the rain.”

“Character-building,” he said solemnly. “And in case you forgot—storms are my department. You’ve got clowns.”

That earned him a reluctant smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, offering his arm, “here you are.”

They walked through the softened city—lamplight glowing in the mist, the monument pale against gray sky. Anthony spread a blanket on a bench and revealed two steaming thermoses.

“Hot cider,” he said proudly. “Smuggled from the taquería.”

Kate accepted hers, warmth seeping into her hands. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he echoed, “you’re smiling.”

For once, she let herself simply sit—no Danbury, no sorority wars, just cider, drizzle, and the hum of the Mall beyond.

Then she noticed them: an elderly couple strolling hand in hand, umbrellas forgotten, coats damp but smiles untouched. Their steps matched as if they’d been walking through weather and years together forever.

Anthony saw too. The banter slipped from his face, replaced by something quieter.

“They make it look easy,” Kate murmured.

“Maybe it is,” he said softly. “If you’ve got the right person.”

She swallowed, blinking hard at the sting in her eyes. He leaned forward, voice unpolished but real.

“My parents never got that far. Neither did yours. Maybe that’s why I want it so badly—that kind of steady. Rain or shine.”

Kate turned at last, catching the unguarded honesty in his eyes. The silence between them grew fragile, but not uncomfortable.

“Maybe you’re right,” she whispered. “With the right person, it could feel easy.”

Anthony let the corner of his mouth lift. “Then maybe we don’t need to figure it out today. Just sit in the rain for now.”

Kate smiled faintly into her thermos. “For now.”

They lingered there, the drizzle softening, cider steaming, both thinking of parents who never got their rainy-day years—while daring, in some fragile way, to imagine if they might.

When Kate finally checked the time, reality pressed back in. “I should head home. Danbury won’t survive unchecked Bridgertons.”

Anthony smirked. “True. Colin would turn it into a cooking show, Benedict into performance art.”

Kate laughed, standing. “Exactly my nightmare.”

They walked back through the mist, shoulders nearly brushing. Neither spoke much more, but they didn’t need to. The air was full enough—with what they’d shared, and with the quiet possibility that maybe, just maybe, some things were worth standing in the rain for.

The vaulted ceiling of Union Station arched high above them, marble gleaming under the late afternoon lights, every sound magnified into echo—rolling suitcases, departure calls, the shuffle of travelers moving with purpose. Kate adjusted her scarf, fingers brushing the tulips tucked safe in her tote. Pink, orange, white—still bright, still alive, still carrying more weight than she wanted to admit.

Anthony walked at her side, coat buttoned, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Neither spoke, silence pressing heavier than the marble columns until the departure gates loomed.

They slowed. Stopped.

Kate turned toward him, the tulips shifting against her hip like a question she couldn’t voice. “Well,” she said lightly, “time for me to get back to Virginia before your brothers host a rave in Danbury’s common room.”

Anthony chuckled, but the sound didn’t quite meet his eyes. “And before Colin turns it into an episode of Man vs. Food.”

They both laughed softly, but the quiet that followed hung thick. Kate shifted her bag higher. Anthony rocked his weight from one foot to the other. Neither moved forward, neither stepped back.

“Thank you,” Kate said at last. Her voice was steady, but softer than usual. “For the tulips. For… the day.”

Anthony’s answer came low, rougher. “Thank you—for not running the second you saw me holding them.”

Her lips twitched into a smile. Then, without planning, without second-guessing, they leaned in.

The hug was warm and certain—longer than polite, shorter than forever. Kate felt the press of his coat, the heat of his breath against her temple. For a single dangerous heartbeat, she didn’t want to let go.

When she finally stepped back, his hands lingered at his sides as if holding the ghost of her. Anthony’s eyes caught hers, words unsaid between them, but neither spoke.

Kate turned first. Escalators carried her upward, tulips brushing her coat, her back straight even as every nerve in her spine told her he was still watching.

And he was—standing alone in the echoing hall, hands empty now, gaze fixed on her until she disappeared into the stream of travelers. She carried the flowers, and something else he couldn’t name.

Something he wasn’t ready to let go of.

Chapter Text

Danbury had slipped back into its rhythm—the kind of rhythm that came a few days after chaos, when everyone pretended things were normal again, even if they weren’t.

In the lounge, John and Hazel sat across from each other with textbooks open and highlighters scattered like confetti, though the studying was more theory than practice. Hazel’s foot brushed John’s under the table every few minutes, and his answering nudge always came with a smirk. Their notes ended up filled with doodles as often as definitions.

Jack and Bridget were only slightly subtler. They couldn’t pass each other in the hallway without “accidentally” colliding, their friends groaning when they reappeared pink-cheeked and suspiciously breathless.

Oliver and Piper had become a running joke: “study sessions” that started with flashcards and ended with muffled laughter behind a locked door. Rae had started timing them with a stopwatch, calling out their record every time they emerged.

And Hugh, dramatic as ever, had taken to circling dates in his planner like prophecy. “One year, one hundred and twenty-three days,” he announced to the common room, “until Posy turns eighteen. Then—and only then—may I court her properly.”

“Or,” Sophie countered dryly from her armchair, “you could still ask her out now. Coffee. Walks. Movies. First base only until she’s legal.”

John nearly choked on his granola bar at Hugh’s scandalized gasp.

Upstairs, Kate curled on her couch with Newton snoring against her legs. On the table, a glass of water cradled three tulips—pink, orange, white—still bright against the November gray. She traced the rim of the glass, mind drifting back to D.C., to Anthony, to the rain, to a hug that had lingered too long.

Newton stirred, nosing her arm as if he knew. She stroked his ears, whispering, “Don’t look at me like that. It was just one date.”

But the tulips, steady in their vase, told another story.

Across the hall, Eloise leaned back in her desk chair, headset askew, tapping on her keyboard.

PlantDemonBoss: roll for persuasion check? 👀

Eloiseal: natural 20. you’re doomed.

Phil’s little mushroom avatar blinked to life almost instantly:

PlantDemonBoss: unfair. i haven’t even finished prepping the encounter.

Eloiseal: excuses. enjoy your goblin army coup.

Eloise grinned, hoodie hood pulled up, the glow of the screen soft against her face. Snacks, sarcasm, and Phil’s running commentary—it was one of those rare evenings where nothing felt catastrophic.

Until the knock came.

Sharp. Twice.

Eloise froze. “If that’s Colin here for Lucky Charms,” she muttered, “I’m calling campus security. Or Newton.”

She cracked open the door.

No one. Just a plain envelope, centered neatly on the floor.

Suspicion prickled at her spine. She scooped it up. No return address. Just Danbury Hall scrawled in looping, dramatic handwriting, the kind that belonged to Victorian villains or failed sorority rush chairs.

“Great,” she muttered. “Anonymous hate mail. Very Greek Row.”

Within minutes, she was knocking on Kate’s apartment door. Newton trotted forward at Kate’s side when it opened, ears perked. Kate, in sweats and an oversized cardigan, arched a brow. “What did your brothers do now?”

“Not guilty this time.” Eloise thrust the envelope at her. “This was at our door. Figured you should see it before I set it on fire.”

Kate gave her a look but unfolded the letter. The color drained from her face almost immediately.

Eloise shifted uneasily. “Bad?”

Kate’s eyes scanned the page again, lips pressed tight. “It’s a formal complaint. From Greek Row.”

Eloise blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“They’re accusing Danbury of hosting unsanctioned parties, of improper RA oversight, of… undermining Greek Life at Mayfair.” Kate set the letter down, voice clipped. “They’re pushing for probation. Maybe worse.”

For once, Eloise’s sarcasm failed her. “That’s… serious.”

Kate pinched the bridge of her nose. Newton nosed her knee like he could feel the tension thrumming through her. “This isn’t gossip anymore. This is war.”

Eloise exhaled, glancing at the tulips still glowing bright in their vase by the window. Flowers that had survived a road trip, the rain, and Anthony’s smirk. Now they stood like the last splash of color before a storm broke.

Kate didn’t hesitate. She strode across the damp quad, Newton’s absence at her heel replaced by the clipped echo of her boots. The Phi Mu house rose smugly out of the drizzle—pillars gleaming, marble foyer glowing, gold-etched letters catching what little light the gray sky offered. She lifted the brass knocker and slammed it hard enough to rattle the frame.

The door cracked open, revealing Mary Ann Hallewell. The sophomore’s eyes went wide. “Uh—”

Kate’s look was enough. Mary Ann swallowed, stepped aside, and let her through.

The foyer smelled of cinnamon candles and whatever curated cocktails had capped the night before. Velvet chairs still glittered faintly with confetti from the game. At the center, posed like a queen on a marble staircase, was Cressida. Platinum hair gleamed under the chandelier, smirk sharp as glass.

“Well,” she drawled. “An uninvited guest. I should call security. Trespassing isn’t a good look for a resident director.”

Kate’s tone was calm, even, sharper for its restraint. “One of your sophomores let me in. That makes me a guest. Unless you’d prefer I write her up for intimidation.”

A ripple ran through the room. Even Lizzy, perched on a velvet armrest, suddenly found her manicure fascinating.

Kate stepped forward, holding up the folded letter like evidence. “This complaint? False charges against Danbury? You orchestrated it.”

Cressida’s smirk widened. “Prove it.”

Before Kate could answer, the air shifted. Another presence glided down the staircase—Minty Cowper, Phi Mu alumna, den mother, silk robe trailing like smoke. Her voice was honeyed, but her eyes glittered sharp.

“Kathani Sharma,” she said smoothly. “What a surprise. You should remember—whatever leadership you once held here ended years ago.”

Kate didn’t blink. “Past or not, I remember what you built. Dismissing a pledge with a disability. Hazing rituals you called tradition. Tampering with hygiene products. Should I list more?” She stepped closer, her voice steeled. “I should’ve reported you after what happened to Sophie.”

Minty’s smile never faltered. “And yet, you didn’t. Which means you can’t now. Whereas—” she gestured toward the letter in Kate’s hand, casual as a knife—“our complaint is documented. Parties in Danbury. No official RA on-site while you played in D.C. Those can be proved.”

“And,” Cressida cut in, hand to her chest in mock offense, “both Bridgerton brothers harassed me while jogging. Benedict and Colin. One grabbed, the other leered. Traumatizing, really.”

Kate barked a humorless laugh. “Please. They’re too smart to play that card. And I had RA coverage posted, Hanover support included. Try again.”

The Bucks—Lizzy, Nan, Conchita, Jinny—shifted closer, a practiced circling. Lizzy’s voice dripped sugar. “You’ve got thirty seconds to leave, Sharma. Or we call it slander. Your word against Phi Mu’s.”

Kate’s pulse stayed steady. She locked her gaze on Cressida.

“Fine,” she said quietly, but her voice carried through the hall. “I’ll leave. But remember this—I should’ve reported every dirty trick years ago. Every cruel little game. I didn’t. That’s on me. But now?” Her eyes swept across every glossy head in the room. “Now it’s war.”

She turned on her heel, scarf whipping, boots cutting across the marble as she strode out into the drizzle.

Behind her, silence hung too long. Lizzy finally exhaled, almost impressed. “She didn’t flinch.”

Cressida’s jaw tightened, her mask cracking for just a second, fury flashing beneath the polish. “She will.”

The drizzle still clung to her scarf as Kate crossed the quad, boots striking wet stone in sharp, measured beats. Greek Row wasn’t subtle. Curtains twitched. Heads turned on porches. The usual smirks from Phi Mu loyalists were absent now, replaced by a wary hush. Something had just gone down inside the Cowper palace, and everyone knew it.

By the time she reached Sigma Chi’s lawn, a handful of brothers had abandoned their post-game beers to watch her pass. Albert Fife jogged a few steps forward, flanked by Joey Wilding and Jordan Stanton. He lifted his palms like he was approaching a wild animal.

“Hey—Sharma. Hold up a sec.”

Kate stopped at the edge of their lawn, chin high, rain streaking across her coat.

Albert’s eyes darted to the folded letter still clenched in her hand, then back to her face. He read the fury in her stride for what it was. “Look, just so it’s clear—we had nothing to do with that. All Phi Mu. Their play, not ours.”

Kate’s voice was ice. “Good. Then stay out of it.”

Albert nodded, palms up, retreat in his stance. “Fair enough. But, uh—while I’ve got you…” The grin slid back into place, frat-boy charm sparking. “Could you maybe—put in a word with Sophie Baek? Girl’s electric. I know she’s Danbury royalty now, but—”

Kate rolled her eyes so hard it was almost audible. She pivoted without a word, boots cutting sharp against the pavement, and left him hanging mid-grin.

Joey let out a long, low whistle. Jordan muttered, “Told you she’d roast you alive.”

Albert shrugged, grinning anyway. “Worth a shot.”

By the time Kate pushed open Danbury’s door, the common room lights glowed warm against the damp November gray. Residents clustered on couches and beanbags, their chatter softening to a hush the second she walked through. Newton, draped across Michaela’s lap like a king, lifted his head with a single thump of his tail.

Kate didn’t stop. She swept past the stares, straight up the stairs, and into her apartment. The slam of her door cracked down the hall like a gavel—final, sharp, undeniable.

For a heartbeat, the lounge stayed silent. Then Michaela leaned back, scratching Newton’s ears with deliberate nonchalance. “Well,” she said dryly, “on that note—who’s voting for turducken? I’m running a poll for Thanksgiving dinner. Democracy demands it.”

Laughter cracked the tension, Rae shouting “absolutely not,” Hazel countering “absolutely yes,” Jack muttering about deep fryers. The hall dissolved back into warmth and noise, just the way Danbury always did.

Upstairs, Kate sat at her desk, damp scarf tossed aside. The Phi Mu letter lay spread open in front of her, its accusations stark on the page: unsanctioned parties, unlawful RAs, “undermining Greek Life at Mayfair.”

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t sigh. She simply opened her laptop, her fingers steady now.

If Cressida and Minty Cowper thought intimidation would work, they’d forgotten one thing—Kate wasn’t just a resident director. She was an alum. She still had a direct line to Phi Mu’s national council, and she knew how to use it.

The best way to end a war wasn’t to fight every skirmish. It was to cut out the root.

And for Kate, that root had two names: Cressida Cowper. Minty Cowper.

Her email began:

To the Phi Mu National Council—

Danbury’s walls still buzzed with unease, but Eloise was done listening to it. She crossed the damp quad before her thoughts could talk her out of it, her slippers soaking through in the drizzle. Hanover Hall was dark, its windows mostly shuttered. No Phil in the lobby. No Phil in the lounge. And then she remembered—of course. The greenhouse.

The glass-paneled structure rose at the edge of the science quad, glowing faintly under its lamps like a lantern in the mist. Eloise pushed through the door, and the warm, green air hit her all at once—humid, earthy, alive. Rows of seedlings and trailing vines stretched in orderly chaos. And there, bent over a tray of sprouts, glasses slipping down his nose, was Phil Crane.

He looked up, startled. “Eloise?”

For a heartbeat he just blinked, like he wasn’t sure she was real—damp hair, flushed face, sweater clinging at the cuffs. Then he straightened quickly, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Are you—are you okay? You look—”

She didn’t let him finish. Her pulse outran her brain, carried her forward, and before she could second-guess, she kissed him.

Phil froze for the barest moment, startled. Then his hands lifted—tentative, careful, before settling steady against her back. The greenhouse hum seemed to dim, the world shrinking until it was just them, lips brushing, breath catching, soil and leaves their only witnesses.

When they broke apart, Eloise’s cheeks burned. “Because you’re here,” she said quickly, before she could lose her nerve. “Because you actually listen. Because I…” She tugged her sweater tight. “…because I needed to.”

Phil’s throat worked, his glasses slipping again. He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her properly, letting her lean into him, letting his heartbeat steady hers.

He was happy—giddy, even—but beneath the warmth, caution tugged at him. Eloise was sharp, incandescent, and he knew better than to hurl himself blindly into fire. She meant too much already. He thought of disappointments, of other girls who had brushed him off, of the quiet fear that Eloise Bridgerton was simply too good, too bright to want someone like him for long. But he held her anyway.

And Eloise let him. For once, she didn’t think about Phi Mu, or Greek Row, or even her brothers. She thought only of Phil Crane, steady and real, with soil on his sleeves and kindness in his eyes.

In the greenhouse glow, damp air clinging to her hair, she realized it wasn’t chaos she needed to breathe. It was this.

Just him.

Chapter Text

Michaela pressed her phone tighter to her ear, patience thinning by the second. Her mother’s voice crackled from Toronto, an unholy blend of lecture, weather report, and guilt trip. Holidays, apparently, were not optional.

“Yes, Mama, I heard you,” Michaela muttered, pacing the Danbury lounge. “Yes, I’ll book the ticket. No, I will not parade a girlfriend in front of Nana just to give her a heart attack.”

She hung up with a sigh sharp enough to make Newton—flopped nearby like a furry throw pillow—lift his head in sympathy. Michaela ruffled his ears. “Word of advice, Newt? Never get a mom who treats FaceTime like cross-examination.”

The stairwell creaked, and Francesca emerged, sheet music tucked under one arm, hair mussed by the November breeze. Michaela straightened automatically.

“You survive class?” she asked, aiming for casual even as her stomach pulled its usual gymnastics routine.

“Barely.” Francesca set her bag by the wall. “Bach is moodier than Phi Mu.”

They hovered there, the air thick with words neither wanted to risk. Michaela thought about asking what Francesca’s plans for break were—if she was staying in Williamsburg, or if Anthony would swoop down I-95 and haul her north whether she wanted to go or not. Instead, she shoved her hands in her hoodie pocket.

“You ever think we should do our own dinner?” Michaela said at last. “Like—Danbury Thanksgiving. One night before everyone scatters. Turkey, stuffing, somebody’s grandma’s pie recipe. Whole deal.”

Francesca tilted her head, the faintest curve tugging her mouth. “That might actually be… nice. Just no turduckens. Turkey is tolerable. Chicken, fine. Duck, maybe. But combined? Barbaric.”

Something unspoken hung between them, fragile and almost enough—until Newton barked once, sharp as a gavel, just as Penelope’s phone pinged loud enough to echo off the lounge walls.

@MayfairMosquito: BREAKING: whispers on Greek Row. Sigma + Phi Mu plotting more than mixers. Formal complaint filed against Danbury Hall—allegedly for ‘unsanctioned parties’ and ‘RA negligence.’ Sources say this war is only getting started.

Penelope read it aloud with her usual half-gleeful, half-grim delivery. The room stilled.

Michaela swore under her breath. Francesca’s hand clenched on her satchel strap. Even Newton gave a low growl, like he understood. The Mosquito had struck again—and this time, it wasn’t gossip. It was a warning.

The common room buzzed alive, phones lighting in unison, Eloise barreling in with Phil at her side, Sophie slipping through the door still smelling of lab soap. Accusations, protests, ideas all flew at once—petitions, op-eds, legal precedents. Newton barked again, circling like a furry metronome for the chaos.

And then—Kate.

Her footsteps cut through the din, rain still clinging to her scarf, eyes sharp with the kind of tired steel that made the entire room fall silent. Even Newton sat, ears pricked.

“That’s enough,” Kate said.

Every voice died.

She stepped into the center of the room, the Mosquito post crumpled in her hand. “I know what this is. I’ve seen the letter. And I’m telling you now—it’s not your fight.”

The students froze, bristling, ready to argue. But her tone left no room for it.

“This is mine,” Kate continued. “I know their games. I know their leverage. Let me handle it. Please. Don’t give them more reasons to paint us as troublemakers.”

For once, even Eloise stayed quiet.

Michaela, leaning forward with a crooked grin, finally broke the silence. “Fine. Then let’s fight a battle we can actually win. Thanksgiving. Danbury-style. Everyone cooks, everyone eats, and whatever’s left goes to the shelter downtown. If Phi Mu throws shade, we’ll throw kindness.”

Hazel perked up instantly. “I can knit little turkey cozies for the cider jugs.”

“Please don’t,” John muttered, though he was smiling.

Sophie’s eyes lit. “Kimchi stuffing. My dad will be thrilled.”

“Does vegan jerky count as an appetizer?” Penelope asked dryly.

“Only if we burn it first,” Eloise shot back.

Laughter cracked the tension. For the first time since the Mosquito’s sting, the room felt lighter. And Kate, watching her ragtag hall rally over casseroles and cranberry sauce, let the faintest smile slip through.

She still held the letter in her hand, still felt the pressure of Phi Mu’s accusation pulsing at her temples. But for this moment—for this one spark—Danbury wasn’t afraid. They were united. And maybe, just maybe, that unity would matter more in the long run than any war Greek Row tried to ignite.

The common room buzz shifted quickly from outrage to logistics—because if Danbury excelled at anything, it was turning chaos into a plan.

“Bulk items first,” Rae said, already scribbling on the whiteboard. “Turkeys, potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, rolls, pie crusts—”

“Cider,” Bridget cut in, plucking the marker from her hand to underline it twice. “And whipped cream. It’s not Thanksgiving without whipped cream.”

“I volunteer for Sam’s Club,” Eloise declared, tossing her braid like a banner. “I’ve always wanted to ride one of those massive carts like a Roman chariot.”

Francesca raised a brow. “You’re driving. I refuse to trust Hugh with wheels that large.”

“Unjust!” Hugh clutched his planner to his chest. “I’d be a responsible charioteer. Mostly.”

Kate leaned in the doorway, watching the scene with a faint, reluctant smile. “Fine. Take my account card. But for the love of God—no gallon tubs of cheese balls.”

“No promises,” Eloise sang, already snatching the card from her hand.

Assignments multiplied—Publix for produce, a kitchen rota on the board: turkey team, pie team, side team, dish crew for the hopeless. Hazel declared Jack unfit for anything involving flame. Gladys quietly rose from her corner and volunteered for linens, candles, and place cards. “It won’t be Phi Mu fancy,” she murmured, “but it’ll feel right.”

“Cozy,” Bridget agreed, squeezing her shoulder.

The room hummed with rare energy—focus, excitement, even joy.

Upstairs, Kate slipped back into her apartment, damp scarf tossed aside. She hadn’t even untied her boots when her phone buzzed. Anthony.

She hesitated. Then answered.

“Just checking in,” his voice came, warm and steady despite the static. “Heard Greek Row’s stirring trouble. You okay?”

Kate sank into her chair, the folded letter still glaring from her desk. “Define okay. They filed a formal complaint. Probation, maybe worse.”

Anthony’s voice sharpened. “And?”

“I am contacting Phi Mu National. Attaching documentation. Receipts. I’m not letting Cressida and her mother run the same playbook again.”

Silence, then the sound of his exhale. “Good. That’s exactly what you should’ve done. Let the people in charge deal with it, instead of dragging your residents into the line of fire.”

Kate pinched the bridge of her nose. “They want to fight back. Eloise already drafted a petition before I had my coat off.”

“That’s why they’ve got you,” Anthony said gently. “You drew the line. You’re doing the right thing.”

Her chest tightened. “You don’t have to call every time I make an enemy, you know.”

“Maybe not,” he said, a smile hidden in his voice. “But I want to. Do you want me to come down? I could be in Williamsburg in under three hours.”

Kate shook her head, though he couldn’t see it. “No. This is my fight, not yours.”

“Fine,” Anthony said quietly. “But don’t forget—you’re not alone. Not anymore.”

Kate closed her eyes, gripping the phone tighter. “…I’ll keep that in mind.”

When the call ended, the silence pressed in. Newton nudged her leg, tail thumping steady reassurance. She stroked his ears and whispered, “One battle at a time, Newt.”

Downstairs, Danbury’s hum rolled on—grocery lists, pie debates, casserole assignments. The laughter rose again, warm and insistent, like a fire catching against the cold outside.

And upstairs, with the letter spread like a map of war before her, Kate allowed herself one fragile thought: that maybe this hall, this ragtag family, was stronger than Greek Row ever knew.

The automatic doors of Sam’s Club whooshed open with a gust of cold air and the faint scent of free samples. Eloise seized a cart with all the authority of a general about to lead troops into battle. Francesca tugged her scarf closer around her neck, headphones askew, while Hugh scrolled his Notepad app like it was sacred scripture.

“Alright,” he intoned solemnly. “Turkeys, potatoes, stuffing, rolls, pie crusts, cider—”

“Heavy items first,” Eloise cut in, already steering toward the frozen section. “We don’t crush pies under fifty pounds of starch. Amateur mistake.”

Hugh blinked, chastened. “Right. Heavy first. Tactical shopping.”

The cart wheels squeaked as they wound through the aisles. Francesca kept mostly quiet, taking in the fluorescent hum and towers of bulk everything. The sheer abundance pressed too close sometimes. Eloise noticed, easing her pace until she fell in step beside her.

“You holding up?” she asked, tone softer than her usual banter.

Francesca adjusted her headphones, offering a small shrug. “It’s a lot. But… the good kind of a lot. Mayfair’s like that too—overwhelming, but I think I’m starting to find my way.”

Eloise eyed her. “But?”

Francesca’s fingers worried at the cart handle. “But I’m still figuring out who I am. What I want. And… what Mother would think if who I want isn’t exactly society-approved.”

Eloise snorted. “Please. Benedict practically radiates pansexual chaos, and Mom hasn’t disowned him yet. You’ll be fine. It’s 2025, not 1965.”

That earned her sister the faintest smile. Francesca hesitated, then admitted, “Whenever Michaela’s around, I feel… calmer. Which makes no sense. She’s reckless, loud, unpredictable. But with me…” She trailed off, cheeks pink. “It feels different.”

Eloise stopped dead in the toilet paper aisle, cart squeaking to a halt. She turned, eyes sharp but kind. “Frannie. Liking someone—anyone—doesn’t make you strange. It makes you you. And if that someone is Michaela Stirling? Then stop wasting time worrying what Mom would say. Life’s too short.”

Francesca’s eyes stung, but she smiled and pulled her into a sudden hug, fierce and grateful.

“Careful,” Hugh called from behind a fortress of Charmin. “Public displays of sisterhood may spark civil unrest.”

Eloise squeezed tighter. “Relax, preacher boy. You’ll get your hug if you stop counting rolls.”

Francesca laughed, cheeks pink, and glanced at her sister. “For what it’s worth—I think you should give Phil a chance. He’s not Theo. He lets you be you. That matters.”

Eloise raised a brow, though her lips twitched upward. “When did you get so wise?”

“Somewhere between rotisserie chickens and an existential crisis over pie quantities,” Francesca deadpanned.

They burst into laughter, their voices echoing through the bulk-buy chaos. For once, the Bridgerton sisters weren’t just surviving Mayfair. They were finding themselves—even in aisle twelve.

Publix smelled of bread and citrus, calmer than Sam’s Club but still humming with holiday shoppers. Eloise pushed their cart like a chariot through produce, Hugh checking items off his list while Francesca trailed behind, headphones looped around her neck.

As Eloise tried to puzzle out which aisle Sophie’s kimchi ingredients lived in, her phone buzzed. She flicked it open—and froze.

@MayfairMosquito: Greek Row update: sources say Phi Mu’s “sisterhood” looks more like servitude. Pledges carrying purses, chauffeuring Bucks, running errands. Tradition or tyranny? 🐝 #MayfairProblems

Eloise tilted the screen so Francesca and Hugh could see. Francesca frowned. “Do you think it’s true?”

“Exaggerated maybe,” Eloise muttered, tossing cabbage into the cart. “But—”

She broke off, because movement down the aisle answered the question for her. Two girls in Phi Mu hoodies came toward them, arms loaded with flour and pie crusts. And perched on their heads? Bunny ears. Pink. Plush. Drooping.

The Bridgerton sisters stopped cold. Hugh blinked. “Uh… Halloween was weeks ago.”

Eloise’s voice went flat. “Bunny ears in November? That’s not spirit. That’s hazing.”

Francesca’s scarf slipped as she whispered, “And they look miserable.”

The three of them angled their cart across the aisle, blocking the pledges’ path. Eloise leaned on the handle, casual but sharp. “So. Festive headgear.”

The brunette flushed crimson. “It’s just… for fun.”

Her blonde friend with the French braid shifted her flour awkwardly. “Cressida said—it’s, um… a loyalty exercise.”

“More like exploitation,” Eloise said, her tone slicing through the air.

The pledges muttered apologies and scurried past, ears flopping as they vanished down the aisle.

Hugh adjusted his glasses, voice low. “Looks like the Mosquito wasn’t exaggerating.”

Francesca’s hands tightened on the cart handle. Eloise’s jaw set.

And aisle twelve—lined with bread flour and pie tins—suddenly felt like a battlefield.

By the time they returned, arms loaded with bulging bags, Danbury was already humming like a hive. The common room had transformed into pre-feast chaos: Rae had seized the whiteboard, sketching a color-coded cooking rota with militant precision; Bridget stood at the center like a general, directing grocery bags to their proper stations; Gladys, solemn as ever, was arranging linens and candles as if she were curating a Regency banquet.

Eloise, Francesca, and Hugh set their haul down with a thud. None of them lingered. They exchanged a glance and headed straight upstairs to Kate’s apartment.

Kate opened the door mid-phone call, Newton planted loyally at her heel. One look at their faces and she cut the line short, sliding her phone into her cardigan pocket. “What happened?”

Eloise thrust her phone forward, the latest Mosquito sting glowing across the screen. “Publix. Two Phi Mu pledges. Bunny ears. Flour bags. They said it was Cressida.”

Kate’s jaw tightened as she scanned the text, then their expressions. “Not Cressida. Minty. Her mother’s fingerprints are all over this. Cressida doesn’t design humiliation—she performs it.” She leaned back against her desk, tulips glowing in the vase at her elbow, her eyes sharpening. “This is their game. Dress it up as tradition. Call it loyalty. But it’s servitude. Errands, spa runs, bunny ears—it’s not sisterhood, it’s obedience.”

Francesca’s voice was quiet, but unwavering. “That isn’t tradition. It’s cruelty.”

Kate met her gaze and nodded once. “Exactly. Which is why I’m telling you—stay out of it. You’re here for your classes, your friendships, your lives. Not to clean up their mess.”

Eloise crossed her arms, defiance already on her tongue. “And if they come for Danbury again?”

Kate’s eyes flashed. “Then they’ll learn what happens when you underestimate us. But until then? You focus on Thanksgiving. Let me deal with Cressida—and her mother.”

The tension in the room coiled taut, until Hugh gave a low whistle, breaking it clean. “Well. In that case, I say we make enough mashed potatoes to feed the Quad. Maybe Colonial Williamsburg too, if they’re hungry.”

Newton barked once, tail wagging in firm agreement.

And just like that, the energy shifted. Mashed potato calculations. Pie assignments. Jokes about cranberry sauce in bulk. Danbury took the sting and spun it into something else: plans, laughter, defiance disguised as dinner.

But upstairs, once Kate closed her apartment door, the noise dulled into silence. She set her tote down, scarf damp against the chair, and smoothed the Phi Mu letter flat across her desk. The tulips stood bright beside it, soft petals defiant against the inked accusations.

They didn’t know—not Eloise, not Penelope, not any of the residents. To them, this was a new fight, the beginning of a war with Greek Row. They didn’t realize it was history repeating itself. Minty Cowper had run this play before—now she’d handed the script to Cressida.

Kate traced the edge of the page once, then pulled her laptop closer. The cursor blinked against the draft waiting on the screen:

To the Phi Mu National Council—

If Danbury was going to fight, her students wouldn’t fire the first shot. She would.

Chapter Text

By late Sunday morning, Danbury Hall smelled like the world.

The kitchen was a riot of steam, clatter, and overlapping accents of spice. Every burner hissed, every counter groaned under mixing bowls and sheet pans. Sophie hovered over her kimchi stuffing, stirring until sesame oil and garlic threaded the air. Paloma, flour streaked across her cheek and grin bright as mischief, hauled out a bubbling tray of Sicilian baked ziti so rich Hugh declared it “a religious experience.” Adelheid worked in studious silence at the far counter, her upside-down pumpkin pie cooling on the sill—dark with chocolate, jeweled with pecans, coconut dusted like snow.

And that was just the beginning. Rae’s cornbread crackled with jalapeño heat. Emma mashed so much butter into the potatoes John swore she had cracked the code of time travel. Destiny’s sweet potato casserole came brûléed with marshmallows and, inexplicably, rainbow sprinkles. Mateo shredded queso fresco over roasted squash with a reverence that hushed the room for a beat before laughter broke it again.

Hints of Mexico, India, China, Ecuador, Ireland, South Africa, Jamaica—and a dozen American hometowns—stitched themselves into the menu. Each dish carried a story, a memory, a claim. What began as culinary chaos became something bigger: a history lesson, a confession, a collective act of belonging.

“Look at this,” Eloise declared, carrying in her cranberry sauce spiked with ginger and lime. “We’ve gone from boxed pizza on night one to the United Nations of Thanksgiving.”

“Correction,” Penelope said, slipping past with jerk-spiced green beans. “The UN wishes it had this catering.”

Outside, Gladys orchestrated with military calm. Forty-three seats—forty residents, plus Kate, Newton, and Professor Danbury—were wrangled from an oddball fleet of folding chairs, borrowed benches, and desk chairs dragged from upstairs. With linens, mismatched candlesticks, and mason jars glowing with candles, the makeshift rows looked less like chaos and more like something curated: an eclectic magazine spread, Williamsburg by way of Danbury.

By dusk, the yard glowed. Platters steamed. Chatter built into laughter, laughter into the clinking of glasses. The quiet little hall that once felt like an afterthought was unrecognizable—loud, alive, full.

Professor Agatha Danbury arrived last, cane tapping softly across the stone. She paused at the head of the table, gaze sweeping over the crowded rows of students she had once quietly championed. Her sharp eyes softened.

“You’ve done something rare tonight,” she said, voice carrying just enough to reach the edges of the yard. “You’ve turned walls into family. Remember this. Hold it close.”

Kate, a few seats down, tulips glowing in their jar beside her plate, Newton sprawled asleep across her boots, finally let herself exhale. The Phi Mu letter waited upstairs, war might still loom tomorrow—but tonight, Danbury was whole.

And when Francesca raised her glass and called, “To Danbury!” the answering shout shook the November dusk, loud enough to rattle Greek Row itself.

By the time spoons clattered into serving dishes, the tables sagged under the weight of abundance—cornbread, kimchi stuffing, jerk beans, potatoes swimming in butter, pies still warm from the oven. Conversation tumbled as fast as the food moved, stories spilling over one another like dominoes.

At one end of the table, John and Hazel sat shoulder to shoulder, knees brushing beneath the linen. Hazel teased him about streaking mashed potatoes across his sleeve, and John—never one to miss a chance for comedy—strummed his fork like a guitar until she laughed so hard she nearly spilled her cider.

Across from them, Sophie explained her kimchi stuffing to a cluster of international residents, her voice warm.

“My father used to make kimchi in huge batches at the restaurant and bring the extras home. I grew up chopping scallions more than I did my homework. Later, we figured out how to fold it into stuffing together. This—” she lifted her fork, “—is me bringing a piece of that here.”

Hugh, planner balanced beside his plate, rose midway through dinner with a theatrical flourish of his cider glass. “As the son of a pastor, I should probably offer a sermon on gratitude. But instead, I’ll just say—this turkey has saved my soul.” The table dissolved into laughter. Sophie clinked her glass against his, mock-solemn.

At the next table, Gladys whispered to Bridget, cheeks warm. “My mom insisted on Mayfair instead of Michigan. I thought she was being controlling. But tonight?” She gestured at the crowded yard, the candles glowing in jars, the swirl of accents and dishes. “She was right.”

Bridget’s answering smile was quiet, sure. She squeezed Gladys’s hand beneath the table before launching into a mock-serious debate with Jack about whether the leftover chairs could be engineered into a trebuchet. Jack grinned, sketching diagrams on a napkin, while Bridget looked at him like he’d invented fire.

Further down, Penelope toyed with her fork before blurting, “I think I’m going to let Al down gently. He wants me to follow him to Alaska for a semester. But… I want to stay here. Mayfair feels like where I’m supposed to be.” She didn’t mention the Mosquito, or Colin, or the daydreams she couldn’t quite shake—but Eloise caught the flicker in her eyes and wisely stayed silent.

Eloise had her own confession, murmured to Francesca in a rare moment of softness. “I think I’m ready. For Phil. If he wants me.” Her cheeks went pink, but Francesca’s quiet smile was approving, like a blessing.

Michaela, three glasses of cider in, thumped her mug against the table. “Newsflash: I’m applying to extend my visa. You’re stuck with me another year.” The cheer that followed startled Newton awake, tail thumping like he’d stamped his paw of approval. Francesca’s eyes lingered on Michaela a moment longer than they should have, her smile softer than she meant to let show.

Paloma leaned across to Owen, smirking. “If this campus had any more men who thought Axe was cologne, I’d transfer. But—” her grin sharpened—“you might be the exception. For now.” Owen choked on his cider, which only made her laugh harder.

Romance wove itself everywhere: Emma sneaking texts to Charles from Sigma, her blush betraying her when his reply lit up her phone. Piper and Oliver openly leaning into each other, their whispered jokes swallowed by the din. Marian, quiet but content, scrolled her phone until Gladys nudged her. With cheeks pink, she tilted the screen. “It’s Larry. Your brother. We’ve been… chatting.” Gladys blinked, then burst out laughing. “Of course you have.”

The threads tangled, overlapped, built into a tapestry of voices and warmth.

Finally, Kate rose. Newton lifted his head, ears pricked as though he knew she had the floor. The chatter stilled. Candle flames flickered.

“When I applied to be resident director,” Kate began, her cider glass steady in her hand, “I thought I was coming to manage a dorm. Keep students in line, confiscate fog machines. But tonight?” Her gaze swept the tables—their tables. “I don’t just see residents. I see a family. Louder, messier, brighter than I could have planned. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

She lifted her glass higher. “So here’s to Danbury. To the woman who gave us this home—Professor Danbury’s great-grandmother. And to all of you, who’ve made it more than walls. To Danbury.”

Glasses rose, cider and soda and wine alike clinking in chorus.

“To Danbury!”

The cheer rattled the November night. Newton barked once, tail drumming his own approval.

For a moment, nothing—not Phi Mu, not Greek Row, not old grudges—could touch them.

Inside, after the feast and the toast, chaos reinvented itself. Gladys cleared space in the common room, arranging chairs in crooked rows while Rae taped poster board to the wall.

“Four teams of ten,” Rae declared, uncapping markers like a coach before kickoff. “Win, Lose, or Draw. Losers do dishes.”

Newton trotted proudly to the center, Hazel’s knitted pilgrim hat perched askew on his head. The corgi barked once and sat squarely in front of the poster board, master of ceremonies.

John leapt up first, drawing with wild abandon. His attempt resembled an amoeba.

Hazel squinted. “A pumpkin?”

“No!” John yelled. “It’s a turkey!”

“That’s not a turkey,” Eloise deadpanned. “That’s bacteria.”

Laughter roared. Newton barked twice, tail wagging as though he’d judged the art unacceptable.

Penelope’s “cranberry sauce” turned into what Hugh swore was a UFO. Paloma’s attempt at ziti smeared into abstract spaghetti. Michaela’s “turducken” was so unholy she admitted it looked like “a crime against biology.” Newton barked after every round, pacing like a referee.

It was loud, silly, messy—the opposite of Greek Row’s polished rituals.

And then—phones pinged. Eloise’s. Penelope’s. Hazel’s. One after another, the sound cut through the laughter.

The room stilled.

@PhiMuOfficial: Guess who used to wear pink paint at Phi Mu pledge games? Happy Thanksgiving Week! 🐝 #SisterhoodForever

The photo loaded fast.

There she was—Kate. Younger, hair longer, shirt streaked in bright pink paint, smiling wide with a cluster of pledges in the Phi Mu backyard. A Fanta can balanced in her hand, her arm draped over a laughing girl’s shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The room went still. Markers dropped to the floor. Newton’s pilgrim hat slid off as he tilted his head, sensing the sudden shift.

Kate, who’d been leaning against the wall with her cider, stiffened. She stepped forward, eyes narrowing as she scanned the tweet.

“It was during pledging,” she said finally, voice clipped. “Not when I was president. Backyard games. Silly stuff. But it’s real.” She set her cider down with deliberate care. “I was Phi Mu.”

Every gaze turned toward her. Eloise’s wide with shock, Penelope’s narrowing with calculation, Francesca’s unreadable. Even Professor Danbury, seated quietly in the corner, folded her hands in her lap and waited.

The warmth of the feast drained. Laughter gone. All that was left was the weight of a secret unearthed.

“You?” Eloise’s voice cut through the quiet like glass. Her cider mug trembled in her hand. “You were one of them?”

Kate met her gaze, steady, but the air crackled.

“All this time,” Eloise pressed, louder now, “you let us believe you were different. That you understood. Because you weren’t like them. Because you didn’t fit their mold. And now what? Danbury’s just your little nostalgia trip? Your chance to relive Phi Mu’s glory days?”

The words stung sharper than Eloise realized. Francesca flinched. Penelope’s stare hardened. Hazel pulled Newton closer, as if even the corgi could sense the fracture.

Kate straightened, voice calm but edged with steel. “I was eighteen, Eloise. Freshman year. It wasn’t the Phi Mu you know now. Back then, we raised money for causes. We mentored younger students. We built something close to real sisterhood. It mattered—until the Cowpers took it and twisted it.”

“Convenient,” Eloise snapped, arms crossed tight. “You get to wash your hands of it now. Pretend you were part of some noble version that doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Because it did exist,” Kate shot back. “And when I saw what it was becoming, I walked away. That’s why I’m here. With you. With Danbury. Because I know what happens when power curdles into cruelty.”

The room shifted uneasily—whispers, sidelong glances. Michaela muttered, “She’s not wrong. Phi Mu’s a viper pit now.” Sophie stared at her hands, remembering the bathroom prank that had left her shaken.

But Eloise wouldn’t yield. “Doesn’t matter. You still wore their colors. You still played their game. And you didn’t tell us. Not once. You let us build this family around you, thinking you were like us. A misfit. But you were one of them all along.”

Her words rang fierce, final. She pushed past Francesca and Penelope toward the stairs. “I just wanna go home. Just go before Greek Row burns this place down.”

The slam of her door echoed like a gavel.

Kate stood rooted, the Phi Mu letter still clutched in her hand, the image burning on every phone screen. She wanted to follow, to explain, but the weight of her residents’ stares kept her still—some sympathetic, some uncertain, a few openly wary.

Only Professor Danbury broke the silence, her voice low, steady. “Truth is never tidy, my dears. Nor is loyalty. What matters now is not where Kate began, but where she chose to stand when it counted.”

Kate’s eyes flicked to her, gratitude and shame tangled in equal measure. But upstairs, Eloise’s absence hung heavier than anything else.

Chapter Text

The morning after the feast, Danbury Hall felt hollow.

The laughter, the clatter of mismatched forks, the hum of forty voices had drained away, replaced by the drag of suitcases down the stairwell, the slam of car doors, the shuffle of boots across damp November cobblestones.

Eloise didn’t linger. She claimed the driver’s seat of the Bridgerton car, arms crossed, earbuds in, eyes fixed on the windshield while Francesca worked her way down the hall with quiet grace—hugging Hazel, Sophie, even Bridget—each goodbye sealed with a soft smile and a Happy Thanksgiving. Francesca’s warmth lingered. Eloise’s silence was louder.

Michaela wheeled her carry-on through the lounge, hoodie pulled high, her grin quick and crooked. She hugged Sophie, clasped Jack’s hand, teased Hugh about keeping the fort, and finally crouched to scratch Newton’s ears. “Guard the place, little man,” she whispered. His tail thumped once in reply. Then she was gone—bound for Norfolk and her flight to Toronto.

Penelope’s exit was quieter. She slipped out with Al, tote slung over her shoulder, his hand steady at the small of her back. She waved vaguely at Hazel and Rae, then paused just once on the steps, her eyes flicking toward the hall she was leaving behind. Alaska might have been the plan, but Mayfair—Danbury—was harder to walk away from than she’d let on.

Sophie traded her apron of flour and kimchi-stuffing for her team duffel. Sneakers squeaked on the hall floor as she promised Emma she’d text updates from the Thanksgiving tournament in Florida. Newton followed her to the door, tail wagging, and she bent to kiss the top of his head. “Be good for Kate.” Then she was gone too.

One by one, Danbury emptied. Each resident said goodbye to Newton—scratches behind his ears, quick hugs, contraband treats slipped from coat pockets. He barked once at every departure, tail wagging as if he could keep the silence at bay.

But upstairs, Kate didn’t come down.

From her apartment window, she watched cars roll away, the quad slick with drizzle. On her desk, the tulips still stood bright and stubborn, pink and orange against the gray, but they did little to ease the ache under her ribs. She was hurt—hurt that Eloise hadn’t looked at her, that Penelope’s eyes had cooled, that trust she’d worked so hard to build now felt fractured.

If it had been Tri-Delta, or Gamma Phi, would it sting as much? Or was Phi Mu’s shadow so poisonous that her past affiliation tainted her beyond repair?

Newton nosed her knee, tail low, sensing what she couldn’t say. Kate scratched behind his ears absently, gaze fixed on the rain-streaked glass. Danbury was quieter than it had been in months. Quieter, but not easier. Because she knew when they came back, Greek Row would still be circling. And Eloise’s words would still echo: You were one of them all along.

Kate’s phone lay on her desk, heavy with indecision. Finally, she dialed the number she never hesitated to call.

“Kate? Sweetheart?” Mary’s voice broke across the static—warm, bright, unchanged. “How are you?”

Kate swallowed hard. “I’m… fine. Mostly. I just—” Her voice faltered. “I was wondering if you and Edwina had plans for Thanksgiving. Or maybe… you could come down? To Williamsburg?”

There was a pause. Not long, but long enough. Mary had raised her. She could hear heartbreak in a breath.

“Oh, darling,” Mary said softly, her cheer folding into steadiness. “What happened?”

Kate pressed her fingers to her eyes, Newton curling closer at her feet. “It’s just been… a week. Greek Row nonsense. Danbury’s rattled. And I…” Her throat caught. “I could use you here. Just for a little while.”

Mary didn’t hesitate. “Then we’re coming. No arguments.”

“You don’t have to—”

“We do,” Mary interrupted. “Because that’s what family does.” Her voice softened again. “Edwina’s home from Rutgers. I’ll tell her to pack a bag. We’ll leave in the morning.”

Kate’s chest tightened, relief and guilt tangled together. “Thank you, Ma.”

“Get some sleep,” Mary murmured. “And don’t worry—we’ll bring chai. Proper chai. None of that Virginia teabag nonsense.”

Kate laughed—wobbly, grateful. Newton gave a single approving wag, like he agreed.

When Mary hung up, her first text flew fast.

Mary: Pack a bag. Road trip. Your sister needs us.

Within minutes, Edwina replied:

Edwina: Say no more. I’ll be ready.

And just like that, the Sharmas set their course south—toward Virginia, toward Danbury, toward Kate.

The drive north was quiet. Too quiet.

Eloise kept her hands steady on the wheel, eyes locked on the endless gray ribbon of I-95, her jaw tight enough to ache. Beside her, Francesca sat cocooned in the passenger seat, headphones slipped loosely around her ears, gaze drifting out the window where the blur of trees and strip malls passed like static. Neither spoke much. The silence wasn’t hostile—but it was heavy.

By the time they turned into the gravel drive of Casa Bridgerton—a grand Virginia home whose brick and gables seemed festive even bare of decorations—Eloise’s shoulders were stiff knots, the kind she refused to roll out.

Violet was waiting on the porch, coat wrapped close against the November chill. The moment she saw her daughters climb out of the car, her face broke into the kind of smile that undid them both no matter how old they got.

“Darlings!” she called, arms open wide.

Francesca was first—always first—slipping her bag free from the trunk and into her mother’s embrace. Eloise followed a beat later, grudging at first, but even she couldn’t hold herself rigid against Violet’s warmth. The circle of arms softened her edges, if only slightly.

Inside, chaos bloomed instantly. Gregory and Hyacinth thundered down the stairs—Gregory in mismatched socks, Hyacinth waving a paper craft she declared the Thanksgiving centerpiece. The squeals, the hugs, the sheer noise of it hit the sisters like a tidal wave.

Colin emerged from the living room, phone still in hand, hair rumpled as though he’d just rolled off a couch. “Perfect timing,” he announced. “I was filming a video on the art of reheating leftovers. Vital survival content, really.”

“Please spare us,” Eloise muttered, though her lips betrayed her with the hint of a twitch.

Violet, brisk as ever, guided them toward the sitting room. “Now, Benedict sends his love—he’s tied up with schoolwork but he’ll be here on Thanksgiving Day. We’ll all be together then.”

The doorbell chimed before anyone could reply.

Violet frowned, smoothing her coat. “Who on earth—” She swept to the door, pulled it open—

And froze, smile breaking wide again.

There stood Daphne. Elegant as always, scarf neatly knotted, eyes alight. Beside her, Simon—the Duke of Hastings himself—still impossibly handsome, his arm steady around her waist. Framed by the late-afternoon light, they looked like a holiday card come to life.

“Surprise,” Daphne said warmly, hugging her mother tight. “We couldn’t stay away.”

The house erupted—Hyacinth squealing as she nearly tripped over the rug in her rush to hug her sister, Gregory demanding to know if Simon had brought fencing gear, Colin shouting something about bonus holiday content. Laughter, chatter, the clatter of too many voices at once.

Francesca’s rare smile curved soft and genuine. Eloise lingered back, arms folded, gaze careful, but her eyes softened despite herself.

Casa Bridgerton was never quiet. But now—with Daphne and Simon back—it was louder than ever. And Thanksgiving was already promising to be anything but peaceful.

Eloise sat cross-legged on the edge of her childhood bed, phone pressed to her ear, keeping her voice low enough not to be overheard. The house was still buzzing below her—Hyacinth’s peals of laughter, Gregory shouting for Simon to duel him in the garden, Violet directing oven traffic like Wellington at Waterloo.

“Honestly,” Eloise muttered, winding the hem of her sweater around her finger, “I’d trade this entire spectacle for a bag of chips and our Thursday campaign. At least goblins don’t ask how my grades are.”

Phil’s chuckle drifted through the line, warm and steady. “Careful. You say that now, but you haven’t met my cousin’s cranberry gelatin. That’s the real monster encounter.”

Eloise smiled despite herself, though the heaviness in her chest didn’t lift. “I wish I was there. Or anywhere. Just… not here.”

“You’ll survive,” Phil said gently. “And if it gets unbearable, text me. We’ll roll dice anyway. Holidays don’t scare goblin armies.”

Her laugh was soft, tired. “Deal.”

A knock startled her, nearly making her drop the phone.

“El?” Daphne’s voice—smooth, composed, Duchess even when she wasn’t trying.

Eloise muttered a hasty goodbye to Phil, shoved her phone under a pillow, and called out, “Come in.”

Daphne stepped inside, scarf unwrapped, presence filling the room like sunlight that was both warming and impossible to block. She settled into the desk chair, watching her sister carefully. “You’ve been quiet since you arrived. I wanted to check on you.”

Something in Eloise cracked. “Of course you did. Perfect Daphne, checking in. The perfect daughter, the perfect student, the perfect wife.” Her words were sharp, brittle. “You’ve never slipped, have you? Not once.”

Daphne blinked, taken aback. “That isn’t fair.” Her tone stayed calm, but the hurt in her eyes was unmistakable. “Do you think it was easy for me after Dad died? Holding it together when everyone looked to me? I struggled, El. You just didn’t see it.”

“Then maybe you should’ve let us,” Eloise snapped, heat rising in her chest. “Do you have any idea what it was like, walking into Mayfair and being told Phi Mu wanted me—because of you? Because of your legacy? I wasn’t even me yet, and I was already your shadow.”

“Eloise—” Daphne started.

“And then Danbury,” Eloise cut across, voice trembling now. “For once, I thought I’d found it. A home that wasn’t about legacy or Phi Mu or you. A place that was ours. Mine. And Kate—” Her throat tightened. “Kate made it feel like that. Safe. And now? She’s Phi Mu too. The same sorority that’s been tormenting us all semester. She’s one of them.”

Frustration and sympathy warred across Daphne’s face. “You can’t pin your entire disappointment on a sorority you chose not to join. That isn’t fair to Kate—or to you.”

“But it matters,” Eloise whispered, fierce. “I believed her. I believed Danbury was different. And now knowing she wore their colors—Cressida’s colors—it feels like betrayal.”

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the clang of pots and Violet’s voice rising faintly from the kitchen.

When Daphne spoke again, her voice had softened. “Maybe it isn’t betrayal. Maybe it’s proof people can change. That someone can walk away from something poisonous and build something better. Isn’t that exactly what you’re always arguing for?”

Eloise looked away, blinking too fast, unwilling to answer.

Daphne leaned back, her gaze distant, as though pulling something long-buried into the light. “You know… I joined Phi Mu too. When Kate was president.”

Eloise’s head snapped up. “You what?”

“Yes,” Daphne said evenly. “And it wasn’t like this. Not even close. Kate made sure of it. Every pledge was treated with respect. We did silly things—dizzy bat races, tug-of-war, scavenger hunts across campus. Harmless. Fun. We worked food bank shifts, raised money for women’s shelters. It felt like real sisterhood. Not perfect—but it mattered.”

Her expression darkened. “But when Kate graduated, things shifted. The den mother retired. Minty Cowper took over. And that’s when Phi Mu stopped being a sisterhood—and became a stage.”

Daphne’s expression hardened. “That’s when it all changed. It stopped being about giving back and started being about keeping up appearances. Minty turned Phi Mu into a brand. Perfect photoshoots, curated hashtags, copied straight from SEC sororities with all their pageantry and spectacle. Suddenly it wasn’t about causes anymore—it was about being seen with Sigma boys, about climbing the social ladder. The values I joined for? Gone.”

Eloise’s arms stayed crossed, but not quite as tightly.

“And then,” Daphne continued, her voice low, “Kate applied to be den mother—alumni staff. She would’ve steered Phi Mu back to what it was. But Minty made sure that didn’t happen. She shut her out deliberately. By then I was already dating Simon, already pulling away. And honestly? I stopped caring. Especially when Cressida was ushered in without even pledging. Legacy perks. No effort. No heart.”

Eloise’s lips parted. “They just… handed it to her?”

Daphne tilted her head, studying her sister. “Do you remember seeing any of my Phi Mu sisters at my wedding?”

Eloise blinked, searched her memory, then shook her head slowly.

“Exactly,” Daphne said softly. “Because by then, Phi Mu wasn’t what it used to be. I’d outgrown it. And so had Kate—probably long before I did.”

The sharpness in the air dulled, leaving something quieter, heavier.

“Don’t hold it against her, Eloise,” Daphne went on, gentler now. “The sorority she led isn’t the one Cressida rules today. They might share a name, but they are not the same thing.”

Eloise bit her lip, gaze flicking to the window where November light pressed pale against the glass. Her voice was softer, too—still tight, but trembling instead of furious. “Then maybe I’m not angry she was Phi Mu. Maybe I’m angry she didn’t tell us. That I had to find out from a tweet.”

Daphne didn’t rush to defend Kate outright. She folded her hands in her lap, measured. “Then that’s fair. Secrets like that… they can feel like betrayal. But maybe the reason she didn’t say anything is because, to her, it really is the past. She didn’t want to drag it into the present. She wanted Danbury to stand on its own.”

Eloise let out a shaky breath. “But that past is catching up. They’re talking about probation, maybe worse. And Kate keeps insisting she’ll take care of it herself—like we’re too fragile to fight back.”

Daphne’s eyes softened. “If Kate says she’ll handle it, then she knows what she’s doing. You probably don’t realize how much she’s carried already. When her dad died, she held her mother and sister together while still running Phi Mu like it mattered. I remember. She bore it all quietly, without letting the cracks show.” Daphne’s voice gentled. “She’s probably doing the same thing now. Protecting you the way she protected them.”

Eloise shifted in her chair, anger cooling into something more complicated—hurt, guilt, a tangle she couldn’t yet sort out.

Before she could answer, the door creaked open. Violet peeked in, apron tied at her waist, her expression brisk but warm. “Girls—enough sulking. I need an extra set of hands in the kitchen before Gregory eats half the pie filling.”

Daphne rose immediately, smoothing her skirt. “Coming, Mama.”

Eloise lingered, staring at her mug as her sister left. Daphne’s words echoed in her chest—protecting them, always protecting them.

With a sigh, she pushed herself to her feet and followed her downstairs. But the unease didn’t leave her. Not yet.

The common room downstairs had gone silent without the students. Danbury, usually alive with footsteps and laughter, felt like it was holding its breath. But upstairs, in Kate’s small apartment, the air was warm—thick with the scent of roasted chicken, garlic bread, and the faint spice of turmeric Mary had insisted on sneaking into the potatoes.

Mary had taken charge of the kitchen the moment she and Edwina arrived, brushing aside Kate’s protests about takeout with a brisk, “Proper food heals more than the stomach.” Now the three of them—four, if Newton’s ever-watchful presence counted—were gathered around the little dining table, mismatched plates crowded between them.

“The plumber Anthony recommended was excellent,” Mary remarked, dabbing her hands with a napkin. “That sink was groaning like a dying whale, but now? Smooth as silk.”

Newton thumped his tail once, as if in approval.

Kate’s smile was faint, her fork tracing idle circles in her potatoes rather than lifting them. The laughter didn’t reach her. “Doesn’t matter if the pipes are fixed when I can’t even hold my residents’ trust together.”

Edwina reached across the table and caught her sister’s hand before Kate could pull away. “Didi, stop. You’ve done more for those students than anyone else on campus. So you were Phi Mu once. So what? The people who matter don’t care.”

Mary nodded firmly, her tone carrying its usual authority. “She’s right. You left Phi Mu. You built Danbury. That’s what stands.”

Kate swallowed, but the ache in her chest didn’t lift. “Tell that to Eloise Bridgerton.”

Edwina squeezed her hand harder. “She’s stubborn. But she’ll come around. If she can’t see what you’ve built, then she isn’t looking closely enough.”

Mary, sensing her eldest teetering on the edge of self-recrimination, pivoted the conversation without missing a beat. “Speaking of looking ahead—Edwina’s lined up an internship in Philadelphia. Tell her, Eddy.”

Edwina’s eyes lit. “It’s with a nonprofit—immigrant rights advocacy. Not glamorous, but real. The kind of work I’ve been waiting for.”

Pride flickered through Kate, sharp as it was tender. Her throat tightened. “That’s incredible, Edwina.”

“Exactly.” Her sister’s grin turned impish. “If I can survive Philly winters, you can survive a handful of opinionated freshmen.”

Kate almost laughed—almost.

But Newton’s ears pricked, his body going alert. A beat later, came the knock. Sharp. Deliberate.

Mary frowned, already half-rising, but Kate knew. She felt it in her ribs before she even reached the door.

The drizzle outside haloed him in gray light—Anthony Bridgerton, coat damp at the shoulders, hair falling loose from the mist. His expression was unreadable, but steady.

Kate’s breath caught. “Anthony.”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said softly, almost wryly. His eyes flicked past her, catching the sight of Mary and Edwina at the table, Newton waiting like a sentinel by her leg. Then back to her, gaze steady.

“Mind if I come in?”

Chapter Text

Newton’s bark split the air—sharp, joyous, so loud Edwina nearly jumped out of her chair. The corgi shot across the foyer like a cannonball, nails skittering on the floor before he launched himself against Anthony’s legs with the force of a small, furry torpedo.

Anthony bent instantly, one hand steadying the dog, the other scratching behind his ears. Newton wriggled, tail drumming, tongue lolling in unrestrained delight. “Well,” Anthony murmured, grinning despite himself, “at least someone’s happy to see me.”

Kate’s lips twitched against her will. “Traitor,” she muttered, glaring at Newton, who betrayed her entirely by wagging harder and leaning even closer into Anthony’s touch.

“Come in,” Kate said finally, stepping aside. The drizzle followed him in for half a second before the door closed, sealing the damp gray outside and leaving only the warmth of garlic, spice, and roasted chicken.

Anthony shrugged off his coat, damp shoulders gleaming under the light. His eyes swept toward the table: Mary had set down her fork, regarding him with the calm, assessing smile of someone who saw more than she said. Edwina, chin propped in her palm, studied him with unabashed curiosity.

Kate cleared her throat. “Anthony Bridgerton—this is my mother, Mary Sharma. And my younger sister, Edwina.”

Mary rose first, every inch composed grace. She extended her hand, her eyes sharp but kind. “So this is the famous Anthony Bridgerton who rescued my sink. Welcome.”

Anthony clasped her hand with respectful ease, bowing his head slightly. “The honor’s mine, Mrs. Sharma. And the food smells… extraordinary.”

Edwina tilted her head, a smile tugging at her mouth. “You clean up well—for someone who apparently likes picking fights with sororities.”

Anthony chuckled, unbothered. “I’d call it unintentional trouble. The sororities are just part of the backdrop.”

Kate rolled her eyes, moving toward the counter. “Since you’ve shown up uninvited—”

“Courageously,” Anthony interrupted.

“—you can fix yourself a plate,” she finished, gesturing at the spread Mary had insisted on cooking. “Chicken, potatoes, garlic bread. And if Newton lets you near it, sweet potato casserole.”

At the word food, Newton barked once, tail thumping like a metronome of consent.

Anthony slipped into the kitchen, moving with an ease that made it look as if he’d been here before. He filled a plate, then glanced back at Kate. “For the record, this is the best ambush I’ve ever walked into.”

Kate shook her head, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her with the faintest curve.

By the time Anthony sat across from Mary and Edwina—with Newton parked squarely at his feet like he’d claimed him—Danbury felt fuller. Brighter. Almost like a home at peace, if only for the moment.

Mary dabbed her mouth with her napkin, her smile precise. “I’ll say this again—I’m thankful for two things this holiday. One, a daughter who lets me cook in her kitchen. And two, the plumber you recommended. The sink no longer moans like a whale on its deathbed.”

Anthony chuckled, spearing a potato. “Glad to be of service. I’ll tell him he’s been promoted to hero status.”

Newton barked again, tail thudding against Anthony’s shoe like applause.

But Kate wasn’t laughing. Her fork paused mid-motion, crumbs of garlic bread scattered across her plate. Finally, she set it down with a faint clink. Her voice was careful, almost too even. “It wasn’t the sink that nearly broke this week. It was Eloise.”

Anthony stilled, his easy smile slipping.

“She found out,” Kate continued softly. “That I was Phi Mu president. Years ago, when it was different. She… took it badly. Said I’d betrayed her trust.”

Mary’s hand brushed Kate’s arm, steady and grounding. Edwina frowned, but Anthony leaned forward, his tone firm.

“She’ll get over it. Eloise runs hot—always has. But she cools just as quickly once she thinks it through. You’ve done more for her, and for Danbury, than anyone else. She’ll see that. Maybe not today, but eventually.”

Kate let out a laugh, small and uneven. “Eventually feels very far away.”

Anthony’s voice gentled, steady as stone. “Trust me. I know my sister. She pushes hard because she cares hard. That doesn’t just disappear.”

For a moment, the only sound was Newton crunching hopefully at a dropped breadcrumb.

Then Edwina clapped her hands, breaking the tension. “Well, before this devolves into another Bridgerton-Sharma strategy session, I vote we see what’s on TV. And if it’s another football game, I’m staging a coup.”

Anthony smirked. “Not a fan?”

Edwina wrinkled her nose. “Overgrown men in tights fighting over a ball? Hard pass. There has to be a baking marathon. Or the dog show. Or literally anything but football.”

Mary laughed, gathering plates. “Go on, Eddy. Find something. If I hear one more commentator praise Tom Brady, I’ll lose my appetite.”

Newton bounded after Edwina as she padded into the living room, tail wagging like he already knew dessert competitions were ahead.

Kate leaned back in her chair, the knot in her chest loosening—just a fraction. For the first time in days, the table didn’t feel like a battlefield.

The Bridgerton dining room still hummed with the comfortable chaos of post-dinner chatter, plates stacked in precarious towers as Violet orchestrated cleanup with her usual efficiency. Yet even as she folded a napkin into neat thirds, her sigh carried a note of longing.

“It’s a shame Anthony didn’t make it down,” she said. “Thanksgiving always feels incomplete without the whole brood.”

Colin, sprawled across the sofa with his second slice of pie, grinned. “Francesca’s here in body, but definitely not in spirit. She’s been off in la-la land all evening. What’s the bet—some sonata? Or a tall, brooding poet none of us have met yet?”

Francesca’s cheeks warmed, though her look was frosty enough to silence him. “Not everything is about romance, Colin.”

“Tell him that,” Benedict said from the arm of a chair, holding up Hyacinth’s latest craft project—a glitter-smeared turkey that looked more dragon than bird. “This is genius. Surrealism in construction paper. Hyacinth, you may have invented a new art movement.”

Hyacinth beamed, already rummaging for sequins.

Eloise groaned from her spot on the rug, tea balanced precariously on her knee. “If someone doesn’t put on the TV soon, we’re going to get a lecture on the philosophy of pipe cleaners. But not football. Spare me the Cowboys’ annual self-congratulation.”

“Basketball?” Gregory suggested through a mouthful of rolls.

“Basketball,” Eloise declared, swiping the remote.

The screen flickered, and a packed arena filled the room—squeaking sneakers, roaring crowds, a Mayfair University banner unfurling over the court.

“Mayfair?” Daphne straightened.

The camera cut to the sidelines. And there she was—Sophie. Hair tied back, uniform sharp, smile radiant as she led the dance team through a routine.

Benedict froze. His fork slipped from his hand and clattered against the plate.

“Oh no,” Colin drawled, grinning. “He’s got that look again.”

But Benedict didn’t hear him. His gaze locked on the screen, eyes wide, every detail pulling him in.

“Mayfair’s in Jacksonville this week,” Francesca said helpfully. “Thanksgiving tournament. If they win today, they make the finals.”

Her words barely landed. Benedict had already lunged toward Hyacinth’s craft box, snatching colored pencils as she yelped in protest.

“Those are mine!” Hyacinth shrieked.

“I’ll buy you more,” Benedict muttered, flipping open his sketchbook. His hand moved fast, desperate, as if the lines alone might hold Sophie steady before the camera cut away.

Colin smirked, elbowing Eloise. “Heart-eyes. Utter, helpless heart-eyes.”

Eloise rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched. “At least he’s sketching. Beats brooding in the orangery.”

But Benedict barely heard them. His pencil flew, catching not just her spin but the light in her smile, the impossible ease in her movement. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her—he remembered that crowded bar weeks ago, one dance that lingered like a half-drawn line in the corner of his mind. And the home opener too, when he’d spotted her in silver under the bright lights. He’d wanted to approach her then, but her father and sisters had been there—an entire family wall that made him hesitate. Too careful, too cautious, and she’d slipped away again.

Now, here she was, dazzling on national television, and it struck him like lightning: that spark wasn’t an illusion. It was still there, humming and alive.

His sketches weren’t about form tonight. They were about longing. About the dangerous, undeniable truth that he wanted to see her again.

Sophie, he thought, pressing her name silently into the page as though it might anchor her to him.

And maybe this time, he wouldn’t let her slip away.

The squeak of sneakers echoed across the polished court, the energy of the Thanksgiving tournament pulsing through the Jacksonville arena. The crowd roared as Mayfair sank another three-pointer, but Sophie’s cheer was half-hearted, the glitter from halftime still clinging to her cheek like a mask she didn’t quite feel.

She leaned closer to Hazel, lowering her voice beneath the din. “Feels weird. Thanksgiving without Dad’s stuffing or Posy narrating every boy in the room. I’ll be back in time for Christmas after finals, but today? It feels like something’s missing.”

Hazel nodded, her pompom resting limp in her lap. “I get it. But you’re out here making memories, Soph. Family will still be there when the season’s over.”

Sophie smiled faintly, but the ache didn’t ease. “What gets me is Phi Mu choosing this week to go after Kate. That photo drop wasn’t random—it was a hit. They knew exactly how to sour the holiday for her. For us.”

Hazel’s answer was calm, practical. “Everyone has a past. And hers? That was years ago. People grow. People change. I don’t think less of her for it.”

“I don’t either.” Sophie’s chin rested on her hands, eyes fixed on the court though her thoughts were miles away. “If anything, I respect her more. Walking away when she saw what Phi Mu was becoming? That takes guts. I just hate that they’re weaponizing it. That they know exactly where to cut.”

Hazel followed her gaze down the bench. Clara Livingston sat with two teammates, water bottle in hand, laughing at some joke too quickly, too loudly, her smile stretched thin. She looked like she was trying to blend in, and failing.

Sophie’s mouth tightened. “And then there’s her. Acting like she’s neutral.”

“You think Clara knew?” Hazel asked carefully, needles paused mid-stitch.

“I think she knows more than she admits,” Sophie said, voice low. “Maybe she didn’t post the photo, but she wasn’t surprised either. You can see it in her eyes.”

Hazel set her knitting aside and met Sophie’s gaze. “So what do we do when we get back?”

The buzzer blared, the crowd erupting as Mayfair stretched its lead. Sophie clapped automatically, but her mind was already back in Williamsburg—Danbury, Kate, the fracture that photo had opened.

Finally, she said, firm now: “We hold the line. For Kate. For Danbury. Whatever Greek Row throws at us, we don’t splinter.”

Hazel’s nod was fierce beneath the glare of the arena lights. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

Clara’s laughter rang again, brittle and forced. Sophie’s eyes lingered on her, sharper this time.

The game might be in Florida. But the real battle was waiting in Virginia.

Inside Danbury, the common room had taken on the chaos of a watch party. The Sharmas leaned forward on the couch, Mary’s running commentary blending with Edwina’s delighted claps, while Anthony and Kate lingered at the window with plates balanced on their laps.

On the screen, Mayfair surged in the final minutes. Caleb Whitaker cut through defenders like he owned the court, the freshman’s confidence drawing a roar loud enough to rattle even through the broadcast speakers. Hazel and Sophie appeared in the halftime reel, glittering under the lights, their movements crisp and alive. Mary declared Hazel’s spins Broadway-ready; Edwina swore Sophie could lead a K-pop group.

Anthony pointed his fork at the screen, grinning. “Caleb’s making headlines tomorrow.”

“And Sophie and Hazel are already in the reel,” Kate added, pride tugging at her chest. “Half the spotlight is just Danbury in disguise.”

When Mayfair sealed the win, Newton barked at the sudden blast of sound, tail wagging like he’d been the team mascot all along. Laughter rippled through the room until the game faded into post-show chatter and the quiet settled in again.

Later, Kate and Anthony slipped outside. The drizzle had finally lifted, leaving the quad damp and shining under the faint scatter of stars. Newton trotted to the grass, nose low, while the two of them stood shoulder to shoulder.

Kate tugged her scarf closer. “Why did you come here, Anthony? You could’ve been with your family. Instead you’re here. With me.”

Anthony’s jaw tightened. He kept his gaze on the sky, but his voice was steady. “Because you matter. To Eloise, to Francesca, to Danbury. To me. I wasn’t going to leave you carrying this fight alone. Eloise is hurt right now, but she’ll come around. And Cressida and her mother? They won’t get far. Not with you standing your ground.”

The certainty in his tone pressed against her chest, dangerous and steady. She felt the pull, the urge to lean into the space between them—but fear kept her rooted. This was Anthony Bridgerton, infuriating and unshakable, and falling into him felt like stepping off a ledge with no way back.

The silence stretched, charged, his hand twitching as though he might reach for hers—

—and then her phone buzzed.

Kate fumbled it out of her pocket, the glow lighting her face. A single notification. She read it once, twice, before exhaling sharply.

“It’s Phi Mu National,” she said, voice low. Anthony’s head snapped toward her.

She turned the screen so he could see the header. “They’re investigating. The letter, the complaints—everything.”

Relief and tension collided in her chest. It wasn’t victory, not yet. But it was proof she hadn’t been shouting into the void. Proof the fight was no longer hers alone.

Anthony’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close. “Then maybe Thanksgiving wasn’t wasted after all.”

Kate looked up at him, the stars faint overhead, the laughter from inside spilling faintly into the night. For the first time in days, she let herself believe he might be right.

Chapter Text

The highway unspooled in endless gray ribbons, bare November trees crowding the edges like watchmen. Penelope leaned her temple against the cool glass of the window, watching as Roanoke dwindled in the rearview, its ridges dissolving into the distance.

Al had one hand steady on the wheel, the other tapping out restless rhythms on the console. His playlist filled the car—an uneasy mix of twangy country choruses and low-lit indie ballads. The music was meant to smooth the silence, but instead it seemed to underline it.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said finally, his voice pitched somewhere between casual and worried. “Still thinking about Alaska?”

Penelope didn’t look at him, eyes fixed on the blur of fields rolling past. “A little.”

“A little?” His laugh was clipped, almost defensive. “You’d love it. The stars, the quiet, the space. No Greek Row drama, no Mayfair chaos. Just us. Doesn’t that sound good?”

It did. At least in theory. But Penelope wasn’t ready to admit how much she liked the chaos, how much it made her feel alive. Mayfair was messy, loud, sometimes cruel—and yet it was hers. It was Eloise leaning across a dorm bed with a sarcastic quip, Hazel whispering encouragement in the wings, Sophie tossing her a grin across the quad. It was even Phi Mu’s rejection, sharp as it had been, that had forced her to build something new: the Mayfair Mosquito, her tiny act of rebellion with wings. She wasn’t ready to trade that away. Not yet.

She tugged her blanket tighter over her lap. “It’s just… it’s my first semester. My first time really away from home. And I’m finally figuring things out. Finding people. Alaska’s…” She hesitated, voice catching. “Alaska’s not just distance. It’s leaving all that behind. And I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

Al’s jaw flexed, but his tone softened. “I know. But it’ll get lonely out there without you. Months without seeing you—it’s not the same. If you came, it wouldn’t just be me trying to make it work. It’d be us. Something we built together.”

The words landed heavy. Penelope wanted to nod, to give him the reassurance he wanted, but the truth sat stubborn in her chest. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to build Alaska, not when she’d barely started building herself.

So she gave him the smallest compromise she could manage. “We’ll see.”

Al exhaled, satisfied enough, and turned the music up. The car filled with guitar riffs and the steady thrum of tires on asphalt.

Penelope leaned back into her seat, counting the green mile markers as they flicked past—one by one, leading her closer to Mayfair. To Danbury. To the noise and warmth and messy belonging she wasn’t ready to give up for silence and wilderness.

She closed her eyes, letting the music blur with the hum of the highway. Alaska could wait. For now, she just wanted to enjoy the drive home.

The hotel hallways still buzzed faintly with post-game adrenaline—sneakers squeaking against the carpet, muffled laughter drifting from door to door. Sophie and Hazel had only just made it back to their shared room, team takeout balanced on the desk beside the TV. Both were flushed, giddy, still replaying Caleb’s three-pointer that sealed Mayfair’s win.

“One more,” Hazel said, collapsing onto her bed. “One more game and we take the whole tournament. Imagine it—Mayfair in the AP Top 25. Danbury practically carrying the highlight reel.”

Sophie grinned, tugging off her sneakers. “Caleb’s unstoppable. If he gets any hotter, they’ll name the court after him.”

Their laughter was still spilling when the knock came—sharp, hesitant.

Hazel frowned. “Expecting someone?”

Sophie shook her head and opened the door.

Clara stood there, hair damp from a quick shower, hoodie zipped to her chin. Her eyes darted down the hall, then back to Sophie. “Can I… talk to you? Please?”

Hazel sat up at once, wary, but Sophie stepped aside. Clara slipped inside, wringing her hands.

“It was me,” she blurted. “The tampon thing. In the bathroom. It was me.”

Hazel shot upright. “You—what?”

Clara’s face crumpled. “I didn’t mean for it to go that far. I was just—jealous. You’re better than me, Sophie. At dancing, at… everything. And Cressida—” Her voice cracked. “She said Phi Mu needed someone who could shine on the squad. That it should be me. And if I didn’t do something, I’d never matter. So I—”

She choked on the words. “I did it. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The room was quiet but for the hum of the heater. Sophie’s stomach knotted, the memory of that practice—humiliation, pain—still raw. But looking at Clara now, trembling, eyes red with guilt, something in her shifted.

“You hurt me,” Sophie said softly. “But I believe you’re sorry. And I forgive you. Because holding it forever doesn’t make me stronger. It just makes me stuck.”

Clara blinked, stunned, tears spilling. Hazel opened her mouth to protest, but Sophie’s hand stilled her.

And Sophie wasn’t finished. “That’s not the only reason you came here, is it?”

Clara froze. Then whispered, “No. There’s more.”

Hazel leaned forward. “What more?”

“Minty,” Clara said, voice barely above a breath. “She’s involved with someone in admin. I don’t know who, but… it’s why Phi Mu gets away with everything. Why they only ever get a slap on the wrist. If this investigation goes through, she’ll have protection. Real protection.”

The words dropped heavy, colder than the Florida night air outside.

Sophie sat back slowly, pulse quickening. “So that’s it. That’s why they’ve been untouchable.”

Clara nodded, twisting her sleeve. “I don’t want to be part of it anymore. But I can’t walk away. If I try, they’ll ruin me.”

Hazel’s voice gentled, though her eyes stayed sharp. “Then maybe you’re not trapped. Not if the truth comes out.”

Sophie exchanged a look with Hazel, the weight of it sinking in. This wasn’t just rivalry. This was corruption—and the Cowpers had roots deeper than any of them realized.

When Clara left, the room felt hollow. Hazel curled on her bed with her earbuds in, already half-asleep, but Sophie sat against the headboard, knees hugged to her chest. The heater hummed. Her phone buzzed.

She knew before she picked it up.

Phillip.

The message glowed sharp in the dark:

Phillip: It’s not over, Soph. You know it’s not. I still love you.

Her stomach twisted. She stared at the words until the screen dimmed, thumb hovering but never replying. Hazel shifted in her sleep, the rustle of her blanket grounding Sophie just enough to breathe.

She set the phone face-down, eyes tracing the ceiling. The team’s win should have been enough to carry her through the night—Caleb’s shots, Hazel’s laughter, the roar of the crowd. But Phillip’s shadow lingered, threading through even here, hundreds of miles away.

Sophie exhaled slowly and closed her eyes. Tomorrow would be another game. Another fight. Clara’s secret, Phillip’s persistence—they could wait.

For now, she promised herself, she would rest. Because when she went back to Danbury, she’d need all her strength.

The fire in the Bridgerton sitting room had burned low, casting the room in an amber glow that made every conversation feel heavier, more intimate. Benedict sat hunched over his sketchbook, pencil racing in quick, certain strokes until Sophie’s likeness bloomed across the page—mid-spin, laughter caught in the curve of her mouth, light glimmering in her eyes.

Francesca padded in quietly, a book tucked under her arm, and paused when she saw him. For a moment she simply watched—the way his hand trembled, not with uncertainty, but with urgency, as though he had to capture her before the image slipped away.

“You know,” Francesca said softly, setting her book on the table, “if you really want to meet her, you don’t have to keep sketching from memory or TV. You could just ask. She’s my hallmate.”

Benedict’s pencil stilled. His head lifted, startled. “…Your hallmate.”

Francesca nodded. “Sophie Baek. Transfer. Neuroscience major. Dancer. Sweet, funny, sometimes guarded. And—” she hesitated, leaning closer—“she’s got an ex who won’t take the hint. Phillip Cavender. She broke up with him in the middle of a hash brownie high.”

Benedict blinked. “Hash brownies?”

Francesca’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “I didn’t eat any. But I did get video.” She pulled out her phone, tapped, then held it out. Sophie appeared in the shaky clip—laughing until her eyes nearly disappeared, powdered sugar smudged on her cheek, waving a fork like a conductor.

Benedict tried not to laugh, failed, and let it slip into a quiet chuckle. “Well. That’s… charming.”

“She’s more than charming,” Francesca said, her tone serious now. “She has a big heart. Too big sometimes. Which is why—” she tilted her head, pinning him with a look—“if you’re thinking of pursuing her, tread carefully. She might not be ready to fall into something new.”

Benedict closed his sketchbook slowly, expression thoughtful, almost reverent. “Big hearts are the ones worth sketching,” he murmured. “But I’ll be careful.”

Francesca didn’t answer right away. Her phone buzzed, and she slid it from her pocket with practiced ease.

Michaela: Stuffed. Absolutely stuffed. Our Thanksgiving is in October, but turns out I can still demolish a turkey. Miss you, Bridgerton. 🤪🍗

A blush rose before she could stop it. Francesca tilted the screen toward herself, lips twitching, then quickly locked it and tucked it away as though nothing had happened.

Benedict leaned back in his chair, his sketch balanced across his knees, eyes lost somewhere in the glow of the fire. If he noticed her shift, he didn’t mention it.

Francesca let out a quiet breath, her gaze lingering on the embers. She let Michaela’s message settle in her chest—warm, private, not yet ready for anyone else to see.

So she stayed quiet, content to let her brother lose himself in lines and shadows while she kept her own secret glow tucked just beneath the surface.

The kitchen still carried the faint scent of pie crust and coffee, the house otherwise hushed after a night that had been anything but restful. Eloise padded in wearing mismatched socks, hair mussed, eyes half-shut. Gregory’s late-night video game marathons had rattled the walls until nearly 2 AM—and then Daphne and Simon, in the guest room, had reminded everyone rather audibly that they were very married. Sleep had been a lost cause.

She yanked open the fridge, muttering, “If there isn’t juice in here, I’m suing.”

The door swung wider—and there he was. Anthony. Already at the counter, tie hanging loose, hair still damp from a rushed shower, a steaming mug of coffee in hand.

“Good morning to you too,” he said dryly.

Eloise blinked, clutching the fridge door. “You’re here.”

“I arrived late,” Anthony replied, leaning casually against the counter. “Didn’t want to wake the house. Thought I’d spare us another Bridgerton production number.” His smirk was faint, but the tiredness in his eyes gave him away.

Eloise poured herself orange juice, slamming the carton back with unnecessary force. She didn’t sit. “Where were you yesterday?”

“Williamsburg,” he said simply. His gaze stayed steady, not challenging but not soft either. “Danbury. With Kate.”

Her throat tightened at the name, sparking like flint. She looked away, fiddling with her glass. “Of course.”

Anthony sipped his coffee. “She told me what happened.”

Eloise’s laugh came sharp, humorless. “Oh, did she? Did she tell you she lied to all of us? That she wore Phi Mu pink and played their games and thought it didn’t matter?”

“Once upon a time, she was your age,” Anthony said evenly. “Back when Phi Mu wasn’t what it is now. And when it became that, she walked away. You’re not wrong to be angry, Eloise—but you’re not entirely right either.”

Her eyes flashed. “Whose side are you on?”

He set his mug down, voice calm but weighted. “Yours. Always. But sometimes being on your side means telling you when you’re being unfair. Kate didn’t betray you.”

The words landed heavier than she wanted them to. Eloise crossed her arms, chewing her lip. “Maybe. But it doesn’t feel like it.”

Anthony leaned forward slightly. “For what it’s worth, she isn’t just standing around letting Phi Mu take shots at Danbury. She’s already gone higher—contacted the national council. Whatever she sent them, it was serious. She’s doing everything she can to protect you all.”

Eloise stiffened. “Protect us by lying to us?”

“She made a choice,” he said firmly. “Maybe not one you like, but she’s trying to keep the hall from becoming collateral. She’s carrying more than you think. Give her some grace.”

Eloise narrowed her eyes, sharp as glass. “You really like her, don’t you?”

Anthony blinked. “What?”

“Oh, please.” Eloise’s smirk cut razor-thin. “You expect me to believe you’ve been driving down to Williamsburg for Francesca? Or because Newton’s tail-wag makes you feel special? You’ve been orbiting Kate Sharma for weeks. Spare me the noble older-brother act.”

His jaw flexed, words stalled.

“Exactly,” Eloise said, triumphant. “So before you lecture me about perspective, maybe admit you’ve got a vested interest. And don’t insult me by saying it’s just to ‘visit your sisters’ or ‘pet the dog.’”

Anthony exhaled through his nose, the faintest twitch tugging at his mouth. “You always did see through me faster than anyone else.”

“Perks of being the least fooled Bridgerton,” she shot back, sipping her juice with mock dignity.

Anthony studied her, equal parts annoyed and proud. “Well, if you know, you know. But Kate still deserves more than your anger.”

Eloise’s smirk wavered, but she said nothing. Instead, she twisted her glass, then deflected. “Speaking of flaws—you should’ve seen Benedict yesterday.”

Anthony frowned. “What now?”

“Oh, nothing tragic. Just heart eyes. Again.” Eloise’s smirk returned, sly. “During the Mayfair basketball game. He practically dove into Hyacinth’s craft box for colored pencils so he could sketch mid-broadcast. Looked like a Renaissance painter at the birth of Venus.”

Anthony paused. “Mayfair game?”

“Yes,” Eloise said sweetly. “Basketball tournament. Caleb Whitaker was unstoppable, Hazel’s turns could knock Broadway flat, and Sophie lit up halftime. You know—Sophie. Our Sophie. The dancer. Lives in Danbury.”

The penny dropped. Anthony blinked, then let out a low whistle. “Benedict’s muse is Sophie?”

“Exactly.” Eloise crossed her arms with satisfaction. “He’s been moping with sketches of some phantom girl, and all along she’s been under Kate’s roof.”

Anthony chuckled, shaking his head. “Only Ben would pine like a poet over a girl he’s seen twice.” He paused, thoughtful. “And only you would notice it first.”

Eloise’s grin sharpened. “Somebody has to pay attention.”

Anthony tipped his coffee. “What about her ex? Cavender—has he finally crawled into a cave?”

“Phillip Cavender,” Eloise said, rolling her eyes. “Still hovering.”

Anthony’s grin spread slow, knowing. “Then Benedict had better tread carefully. He may be a lover first, but don’t forget—he’s still a Bridgerton. When pushed, he can fight.”

Eloise snorted, though her smile betrayed her. “Poet by day, duelist by night?”

“Exactly,” Anthony said, smirking into his coffee. “Poor Phillip wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Eloise let out a real laugh this time, sharp and bright. She shook her head, setting her glass down with mock solemnity. “Well, if Benedict does end up dueling over Sophie, please make sure Hyacinth isn’t allowed to referee. She’d sell tickets.”

Anthony’s mouth twitched. “Correction: she’d print tickets. With glitter.”

“And concessions,” Eloise added. “Popcorn, lemonade, glue-stick souvenirs.”

They exchanged a look—equal parts exasperation and amusement—before Eloise cracked first, doubling over with laughter.

For the first time in days, the heaviness lifted. And as Anthony drained the last of his coffee, he thought—not for the first time—that being siblings meant you could survive anything. Even Phi Mu. Even secrets.

Especially when you could end the fight by picturing Hyacinth running a dueling concession stand.

Chapter Text

The campus thrummed with return energy: suitcase wheels clattering over slick cobblestones, car doors slamming in quick succession, voices carrying sharp and bright against the damp November air. Students spilled back into Mayfair like a flood, the quad buzzing with reunions, complaints about traffic, and laughter that cut through the drizzle.

Inside Danbury, the foyer already smelled of cinnamon candles and wet coats, the familiar chaos of home stitched back into place. Sophie and Hazel were the first through the door, duffels slung, still flushed from Jacksonville’s victory glow.

And then they saw it.

A bouquet. Enormous, extravagant—roses, tulips, lilies, all woven into an arrangement so perfect it looked torn from a magazine spread. The blooms flooded the small foyer with color, their scent lush and almost too much in the tight space.

Hazel tilted her head. “That’s… fancy.”

Sophie crouched, fingers brushing the envelope nestled among the stems. Her name stared back in looping script. The pit of her stomach sank.

Without a word, she lifted the entire bouquet and dropped it into the trash bin by the mailboxes. The stems bent with a muted crack.

Hazel gaped. “Wait—what? Who even—” She snatched the card before Sophie could crumple it and read aloud: “I will take on every burden for you. I will be your anchor. I will honor you with deeds as well as words.”

Sophie let out a brittle laugh. “That’s Phillip. Has to be. Who else would send ChatGPT love letters?”

Hazel wrinkled her nose. “It doesn’t… sound like him. Too poetic. Too polished. More like someone trying to sound like him.”

But Sophie was already retreating down the hall, calling over her shoulder, “Showcase rehearsal. Lab work. No time for bad poetry.”

Hazel sighed, staring at the mangled bouquet. The flowers really were beautiful. Shame they were already wilting in the trash.

A few minutes later, the door opened again. Eloise and Francesca stepped inside, arms full of luggage. Francesca inhaled, tilting her head. “That’s… lovely.”

“Or suspicious,” Eloise muttered. “Nothing that smells that nice in Danbury is ever innocent.”

Hazel, still holding the card, said flatly, “They were for Sophie.”

Francesca frowned, but Eloise’s gaze had already flicked upstairs toward the second floor. Kate’s door was shut. Newton’s shadow moved beneath it, restless.

“I’ll check on her,” Eloise said shortly. “Make sure she hasn’t imploded.”

She hadn’t even reached the top step before Newton bounded out, blocking her path with a sharp bark and a wagging tail. Eloise crouched, scratching his head. “Fine, fine, you adorable narc. I’ll pay the toll.”

Satisfied, Newton trotted back inside Kate’s apartment. Eloise knocked once before slipping in.

Kate sat at her desk, scarf loose around her shoulders, laptop still glowing. Beside her on the sill, the tulips Anthony had given her held bright against the November gray.

“You don’t have to knock,” Kate said softly.

“Maybe I do,” Eloise shot back. Her arms were crossed, but her eyes weren’t sharp. Not entirely. “After everything.”

Kate closed her laptop and turned fully to her. The silence stretched until Kate broke it. “You’re right. I should’ve told you. About Phi Mu. About my past. I thought it didn’t matter anymore. I didn’t want it to. But it mattered to you—and I should’ve respected that.”

Eloise shifted, her arms loosening. “It felt like a lie.”

“I know.” Kate’s voice was steady but quiet. “I can’t change what I did at eighteen. I can only stand where I am now—here. With you. With Danbury.”

Newton nosed at Eloise’s knee like he was punctuating every sentence.

Finally Eloise exhaled. “I built Danbury up in my head. Made it this… safe zone. No Greek Row, no legacy nonsense, no Phi Mu. And you were part of that. You were the reason it felt real. So when I found out—you, Phi Mu president—it felt like the rug got ripped out.”

Kate’s throat tightened. “It was real. Every late night, every fire drill, every fight about Lucky Charms in the common room. I walked away from Phi Mu because it wasn’t what it claimed to be anymore. I chose Danbury. I’d choose it again. Every time.”

Eloise’s mouth twitched, her expression conflicted. “You should’ve told us.”

Kate nodded. “You’re right. I should have. But I didn’t want Phi Mu to define me in your eyes. I didn’t want to be their Kate when I’ve fought so hard to be yours.”

That quieted Eloise. Newton nudged her hand again, and she scratched his ears automatically, grounding herself.

“You’re stubborn,” Eloise said at last. “Annoyingly noble. Addicted to spreadsheets.”

Kate almost smiled. “Possibly.”

“But…” Eloise’s voice softened. “You’re the reason Danbury feels like home. And that doesn’t disappear just because you once wore Phi Mu pink.” She glanced away. “I’m still angry. Probably will be for a while. But I don’t want this—” she gestured between them, “—to break.”

Kate swallowed, relief sharp and sudden. “Neither do I.”

Down the hall, Francesca had paused at Michaela’s doorway. Michaela leaned against her suitcase, earbuds tangled in her hoodie strings, her grin lazy and familiar.

“You’re back,” Michaela said.

“So are you,” Francesca replied, clutching her backpack.

The bustle of the lounge faded as their eyes held.

“Toronto was chaos,” Michaela said lightly. “My mom tried to set me up at brunch. But hey—glad to be back here.”

Francesca’s lips curved faintly. “Casa Bridgerton was… equally chaotic.”

Their smiles lingered too long, silence fragile and warm, until Newton’s bark downstairs broke the spell. Francesca slipped into her room, pulse thrumming.

Michaela stayed in her doorway, hoodie strings tight in her fists, grin softening into something she didn’t quite dare name.

By nightfall, Danbury hummed again—suitcases unpacked, ovens reheating leftovers, laughter threading through the halls. On the surface, everything looked normal, the kind of easy rhythm that came after break.

It wasn’t.

The first ping proved it.

@MayfairMosquito: BREAKING: Sorority secrets don’t stay buried forever. Phi Mu’s “sisterhood” under fire—what’s next for the pledges? Running Greek Row topless?

Phones lit up across the common room. The chatter thinned into uneasy silence.

Eloise read it twice, her eyes narrowing like she wanted to burn through the screen. “Okay, but seriously—who is this person? This isn’t gossip anymore. It’s surveillance. Names. I want names.”

“Probably a Sigma hiding behind a VPN,” Rae muttered, already half-reaching for her laptop.

“Or a disgruntled pledge with too much time on her hands,” Bridget said, sinking deeper into her chair.

Penelope didn’t answer. She scrolled in silence, her expression carefully neutral, the glow of the tweet reflected in her eyes.

Before Eloise could start another conspiracy thread, Sophie appeared in the doorway. Her hair was still damp from her shower, her backpack slouched half-open on her shoulder. She looked steadier than she had when she’d tossed the bouquet earlier—but Hazel trailed behind her, arms crossed, watchful.

“Kate?” Sophie’s voice carried.

Kate emerged from her apartment, Newton padding at her heel. She looked tired but put-together, her scarf tied neatly at her throat. Sophie stepped forward, lowering her voice just enough.

“I need to tell you something. Clara. She admitted it. The bathroom prank—that was her. But there’s more.” Sophie’s voice tightened. “She said Minty Cowper has someone in admin. That’s why Phi Mu keeps skating. That’s why their complaints stick and ours don’t.”

The reaction was immediate. A ripple of murmurs, sharp and uneasy. Francesca’s mouth pressed thin. Michaela leaned forward for once, no smirk in sight. Eloise’s eyes went wide.

Kate lifted a hand. The noise cut off.

“Alright,” she said. She stepped into the center of the common room, the bouquet in the trash, the Mosquito’s sting, Clara’s confession—all of it converging. Newton sat at her feet, ears pricked like a sentinel.

“I haven’t told you everything.” Her voice carried, low but steady. “When Phi Mu filed that complaint—parties, RA negligence—I didn’t sit on it. I sent everything to Phi Mu National. Documentation. Receipts. They’re investigating.”

A fresh wave of whispers, softer this time.

“But now,” Kate continued, her gaze sweeping the room, “with what Sophie’s just told me—about hazing, about Minty’s ties in admin—that may not be enough. If their protection runs that deep, we’ll need more than receipts.” She paused, letting the words settle. “We need history. Context. Because Phi Mu wasn’t always this. There was good once—real service, real sisterhood. If we can show the gap between what it was and what Minty’s turned it into, then National and the university can’t ignore it. They’ll have to act.”

Hazel tilted her head. “So you’re asking us to… research a sorority?”

“Investigate,” Kate corrected. “Not to smear, but to understand. Knowledge is power. And if Phi Mu thinks we’re just some ragtag dorm they can steamroll, they’re about to learn otherwise.”

Eloise’s arms were crossed, but her eyes sparked with reluctant interest. “So… opposition research. But with footnotes.”

Kate’s lips twitched. “Exactly.”

Newton barked once, sharp and approving, as if punctuating her words.

The energy shifted. Rae already had her laptop out. Bridget stacked index cards like ammo. Francesca’s thoughtful frown softened into resolve. Even Penelope, still quiet, was typing furiously, her expression unreadable.

For the first time since Thanksgiving, Danbury felt less like prey and more like a team.

Down the hall, the discarded bouquet still sat in the trash, petals bruising against paper towels. Sophie hadn’t looked twice at the card again, hadn’t noticed the faint sketch of a tulip drawn in the corner. Not Phillip’s hand.

Someone else’s.

Upstairs, Eloise’s desk lamp glowed against the dark. She scrolled through Phi Mu’s digital archives while Penelope perched on her bed with her own laptop, typing like her fingers had a deadline.

“Listen to this,” Eloise said, her tone dripping with disbelief. “Phi Mu’s official values: love, honor, truth.” She arched an eyebrow. “Apparently truth is optional if you’re a Cowper.”

Penelope hummed, eyes still flicking down the glossy website. “They make it sound so wholesome. Service projects, scholarships, leadership retreats. Did you know Ellen DeGeneres’s mom was one? Oh—and Mr. Rogers’ wife. Practically sainthood.” She smirked faintly. “Plus a couple Bachelor contestants and more beauty queens than I can count. Doesn’t exactly scream bunny-ear hazing.”

Eloise snorted. “Love, honor, and truth. More like lust, hierarchy, and trauma.”

Their laughter was brief, sharp, but it was laughter all the same. Upstairs, two laptops glowed like beacons. Downstairs, the hum of planning carried through the common room.

“Maybe not in their press releases,” Eloise shot back. She clicked into Phi Mu’s Wikipedia page, squinting at the section labeled Controversies. “But oh look—blackface at Southern Miss, hazing so bad they had to hire PR firms, racism scandals at Bama. It’s a pattern, Pen. Don’t let the pink bows fool you.”

Penelope’s eyes flicked up, skeptical but amused. “Sure, but what’s happening at Mayfair feels like an outlier. Not every chapter president crowns herself queen and collects her own personal Bucks. That’s just Cressida doing her Regina George routine. Most Phi Mu houses probably look like the website—charity, mixers, wholesome all-American sisterhood.”

“Or maybe,” Eloise countered, tapping her screen, “that’s the illusion. And it’s chapters like ours that slip up enough to get caught.”

Penelope rolled her eyes but her tone cut sharper as she snapped her laptop shut. “Greek life thrives on appearances. That’s all it is—power dressed in pearls. Bunny ears instead of honesty. Phi Mu’s not built on love, honor, or truth. It’s built on leverage.”

The words hung in the air—clean, polished, too pointed.

Eloise’s head tilted. “That sounded… oddly professional.”

Penelope blinked. “What?”

“Like something the Mayfair Mosquito would tweet,” Eloise said slowly, narrowing her eyes. “‘Power dressed in pearls’? That’s 280 characters waiting to happen.”

Penelope busied herself with tugging her blanket tighter. “For the record, I’m not the Mosquito. I don’t have time to stalk Greek Row between English essays and dodging my mother’s voicemails about Al and Alaska.”

“Mm-hm,” Eloise murmured, smirk tugging at her mouth. “Just saying—it’s exactly what you’d say if you were the Mosquito.”

“Goodnight, Eloise,” Penelope muttered, flicking off her lamp.

The room slipped into shadow, radiator humming softly in the corner. Eloise shut her laptop but lay awake longer, replaying Penelope’s phrasing, the way her voice had sharpened like a stinger.

Coincidence? Maybe.

But maybe not.

She rolled onto her side, tugging the blanket up to her chin. For the first time, her suspicion had teeth.

And Eloise Bridgerton never ignored teeth.

Chapter Text

By the time November blurred into December, Danbury Hall had shifted into survival mode. Finals loomed like storm clouds, and the once-lively common room had been reduced to the scratch of pens and the soft clatter of highlighters. Rae’s rainbow of flashcards colonized the corner table, Jack and John whispered furiously over engineering equations, and Sophie could often be found asleep mid-highlight, her neuroscience binder still open like a pillow with footnotes.

But Eloise wasn’t studying for exams. Not really. She was studying Penelope. Ever since the Mosquito’s tweets had started sounding suspiciously like her roommate’s sharp one-liners, Eloise had been watching. Every buzz of Penelope’s phone, every too-quick smirk, every suspiciously tweetable phrase—it all fed her suspicion. She wasn’t ready to accuse her yet, but her theory had teeth.

The quiet cracked open when Bridget burst through the foyer doors, cheeks pink from the cold, clutching a glitter-studded flyer like it was treasure.

“Snow Ball!” she announced, out of breath but grinning. “Student Union’s doing it again. Next Saturday. Formal dress, live band, chocolate fountain—the works.”

Excitement sparked instantly. Hazel perked up, Hugh muttered something about “winter courtship rituals,” and Michaela immediately declared dibs on the first slow dance.

Then Rae snatched the flyer, scanning it like she was grading it for errors. Her brows knitted. “Wait. Danbury’s not on the invite list.”

Hazel’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“Look—every hall, every fraternity, every sorority, even the commuters. No Danbury.” Rae’s voice rose. “They froze us out.”

The room stilled, outrage snapping sharp as sleet. Francesca muttered something about injustice under her breath, Owen swore loud enough to startle Newton awake, and Michaela’s jaw dropped.

“Unbelievable,” she snapped. “Half of us could actually get dates this year, and now we’re banned? For what—because we’re not Greek enough to twirl under their disco ball?”

Penelope’s face had gone still, her phone already in her hand. She didn’t hesitate. Her thumbs moved fast, her expression flat with focus.

Seconds later, the first ping echoed through the room.

@MayfairMosquito: BREAKING: Student Union’s Snow Ball ‘open to all’—unless you live in Danbury Hall. Exclusion in sequins is still exclusion. 🐝 #SnowBallOrSnowedOut

Phones lit up one by one, the common room buzzing in unison. Rae and Bridget whooped, Hazel whispered, “Oh, that’s good,” and even Francesca’s lips twitched in agreement.

But Penelope wasn’t done. She toggled accounts, thumbs steady, and posted again—this time under her own name.

@PennyFeathers: If Mayfair wants to pretend Danbury doesn’t exist, fine. We’ll remind them. Danbury’s already thrown a better feast than any Snow Ball will manage. Watch us do it again. #SnowedOut

Replies stacked instantly: outrage, solidarity, calls for boycotts, even a few daring suggestions that Danbury throw a rival party.

Eloise, watching her roommate’s face glow in the light of her phone, felt her suspicion twist into near certainty. The Mosquito had struck—and Penelope’s fingerprints were all over it.

But the rest of Danbury didn’t see that. They saw something else: momentum.

“If they don’t want us at their ball,” Francesca said quietly, chin lifting, “then we’ll throw something better.”

Newton barked once, sharp and certain, as if seconding the motion.

Kate hadn’t expected it to hit her so hard—the looks on her residents’ faces. Francesca’s quiet disappointment, Rae’s jaw locked tight, Hazel’s muttered of course. They were freshmen, transfers, kids who deserved the same campus life as anyone else. And now they’d been erased from Mayfair’s holiday tradition like they didn’t exist.

That was the last straw.

By the next morning, Kate was striding across the quad, scarf cinched high against the cold, Newton left behind in Danbury as though even he knew this wasn’t a fight for his paws. Her boots carried her toward a building she’d deliberately avoided all semester: the Administration Office.

Inside, the air reeked faintly of paper, polish, and stale authority. The waiting chairs were stiff enough to bruise, the potted plants so obviously fake they squeaked under fluorescent light. Behind the desk sat Mr. Brimsley, the long-serving administrative assistant whose posture was as rigid as his pressed shirt.

“Ms. Sharma.” His gaze flicked to her empty hands, noting the lack of clipboard or file like it was an offense. “Do you have an appointment?”

Kate’s voice was level, but her eyes were all steel. “No. What I have are forty students excluded from a campus-wide event. That outweighs your calendar.”

Brimsley’s smile was polite, brittle. “The Board is in session. You’ll need to schedule. Next week, perhaps.”

Kate was about to press harder when a familiar figure glided down the hallway: Charlotte Hanover. Board member. Blazer crisp, pearls gleaming, composure as polished as her shoes.

“Ms. Sharma,” Charlotte said smoothly, brows lifting. “What a surprise. Can I help you?”

Kate stepped forward. “Yes. You can explain why Danbury Hall was left off the Snow Ball invitations.”

Charlotte blinked, but her expression stayed placid. “The Snow Ball is a Student Union function. Invitations are discretionary. I’m sure it was just… an oversight.”

Kate’s jaw tightened. “An oversight that erased an entire hall? My hall? That’s not negligence—that’s discrimination. And I want to know how it happened.”

Before Charlotte could craft her reply, Brimsley’s phone buzzed. He frowned at the screen. Kate didn’t need to ask. She knew. The Mosquito.

Across campus, phones were lighting up with the sting already making the rounds. Penelope’s follow-up had turned it from rumor to rallying cry. #SnowedOut was trending before the meeting rooms could finish pouring their coffee.

Charlotte’s phone buzzed next. She checked it, lips pressing into a thin line, before lifting her gaze back to Kate. “It seems your residents have already made their displeasure known.”

Kate didn’t blink. “Good. Then consider this my formal follow-up.”

Behind Charlotte, the corridor rippled with motion—other board members murmuring to each other, staff sneaking glances at their buzzing phones, unease spreading like ink through water. Even Brimsley shifted, his polite stiffness cracking into discomfort.

Kate straightened her scarf, her voice low but implacable. “We’ll expect Danbury’s invitation. If not, we’ll hold our own. And trust me—our hall already proved it can throw something better than Snow Ball. The students will notice.”

Charlotte studied her a beat too long, eyes narrowing, calculation sharpening.

For the first time, Kate felt it shift. This wasn’t just a battle on Greek Row anymore. It had reached the marble floors of administration. And Charlotte Hanover wasn’t smiling.

By the time Kate returned from the Administration Office, Danbury had fallen back into its finals rhythm. The hall was quieter than she liked—pens scratching, keyboards tapping, mugs clinking as caffeine refills piled up. The usual laughter and slammed doors had dulled into something muted, the weight of exams pressing on every surface.

But beneath that hush, disappointment still lingered. Even with the Mosquito’s sting making waves online, the Snow Ball exclusion had cut deep. You could feel it in the pauses when someone checked their phone, in the sighs when other halls posted about dress shopping or tux rentals. Danbury wasn’t just missing a dance. They were being erased.

It was Francesca who finally broke the silence. She closed her music theory book with a decisive snap and glanced around the common room. “If they don’t want us at their Snow Ball, fine. We’ll make our own.”

Heads lifted. Eyes met. Something shifted.

Hazel twirled her pen with a grin. “Snowed Out Blowout. Say it out loud—it’s catchier already.”

“Not just one party,” Sophie added, leaning against the arm of the couch. Glitter from rehearsal still faintly shimmered on her cheekbones. “We make it a week. Little events sprinkled through finals. Something for everyone.”

Newton barked once, tail wagging like an exclamation point.

Ideas came fast, tumbling over one another.

Sophie suggested turning her winter showcase into the opening act—a recital the afternoon before the Snow Ball, flyers plastered across campus. Hazel immediately volunteered to design them.

Francesca reminded them the Mayfair–Old Dominion game landed the same night as the dance. “If we pack the stands, get loud enough, the arena will outshine the ballroom.”

John perked up. “We could throw a concert too—Student Union stage, some covers, maybe even originals. Anyone wanna form a finals-week band?” Paloma instantly raised her hand, grinning.

Peggy, ever thoughtful, proposed a read-in for kids from the community, complete with hot cocoa and blankets. “I’ll even read my book,” she added shyly.

Gladys straightened, cheeks pink but determined. “Campus tours. For prospective students and parents. If Mayfair won’t showcase us, we’ll showcase ourselves.”

Emma chimed in from the loveseat. “We should livestream some of this—get alumni to notice. If Danbury’s trending once, we can do it again.”

Rae had already claimed the whiteboard, scribbling “Snowed Out Blowout” in block letters before sketching out a calendar. The room crackled with energy—palettes of colored markers, arms waving, half-baked ideas colliding into plans.

Penelope was the last to speak, her phone balanced in her hand, her voice even but sharp. “Greek Row can have their pageantry. We’ll have something better—heart. And when we put this out there, people will show. Trust me—no one’s choosing Cressida’s Bucks in rented gowns over something real.”

Eloise snorted, but her eyes gleamed. “Snowed Out Blowout it is. Finals won’t know what hit them.”

And just like that, the air shifted again. Danbury wasn’t sulking anymore—it was scheming, building, daring to make its own tradition.

Kate stood in the doorway, Newton pressed close at her heel. She didn’t interrupt. She only watched, her shoulders easing as her residents mapped a rebellion in marker and laughter. For once, the war with Phi Mu could wait.

Danbury had work to do.

Later that evening, Kate had just finished color-coding Rae’s whiteboard schedule when her phone buzzed across the counter. She almost ignored it—half the calls lately were administrators she had no patience for—but the name flashing on the screen made her pause.

Anthony.

She slipped into her apartment, Newton padding faithfully after her, and answered. “Hello?”

“Kate,” Anthony said, no preamble, his voice clipped with irritation. “I just heard about the Snow Ball snub. Is it true? They invited the entire campus except Danbury?”

Kate exhaled, pressing a hand to her temple. “News travels fast from Washington, doesn’t it? Yes, it’s true. Every hall got their embossed invite except us. Charming, really.”

“I can help,” Anthony said immediately. “Press the administration. Rally alumni. Secure funding if that’s what it takes—”

“No.” Kate cut him off, sharper than intended. “You’re in D.C. You’ve got bigger fish to fry than playing knight errant for Danbury. Stay there. Do your job before our ‘supreme leader’ decides the Washington Monument needs his face carved into it.”

Anthony huffed, a sound half laugh, half frustration. “I can balance the two. Don’t underestimate me.”

Kate rubbed her forehead but couldn’t stop the reluctant twitch of her mouth. “You’re serious.”

“Completely,” Anthony replied. “And I’m not the only one. Benedict could bring his art students down—turn the Blowout into a live-sketching gallery. My mother and Daphne are alumni; they’d gladly back you if it meant showing the administration what real community looks like. And Colin?” His chuckle was low, certain. “He’d livestream the whole thing. Instant traction. Danbury would trend before Cressida even finished curling her hair.”

Kate leaned against the counter, gaze drifting to the tulips still bright in the vase by her window. The ideas were absurd, sprawling—yet undeniably tempting. He wasn’t just calling to soothe her. He was calling with solutions.

“You’re relentless,” she murmured.

“I prefer effective,” Anthony countered. “And I’d like nothing more than to see Cressida’s face when she realizes the so-called rejects of Danbury just stole the spotlight.”

Kate laughed—soft, surprised, the tension in her shoulders easing for the first time all day. Newton thumped his tail as though agreeing.

“Alright,” she said at last. “I’ll think about it. But if you so much as get on I-95 without warning me—”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Anthony said smoothly. But the warmth in his voice made her certain he already was.

When the call ended, Kate sat back, staring at her faint reflection in the window. The sting of the Snow Ball exclusion hadn’t gone anywhere, but now something else threaded through the ache: possibility.

Across the Potomac, Anthony leaned back in his chair, phone still warm in his hand. The White House glowed faintly outside his office window, but his focus was already miles south, in Williamsburg. If the administration thought they could erase Danbury without consequence, they hadn’t accounted for a Bridgerton.

He dialed Benedict first. It rang twice before his brother’s distracted voice came through, paint-smeared and weary. “Ben here. Make it quick—I’m buried under charcoal and essays about ‘existential blobs.’”

“Perfect,” Anthony said dryly. “How do your students feel about field trips?”

Pause. “Museums? Yes. Congressional hearings? Absolutely not.”

“Neither. Mayfair University. Danbury Hall. They’re building their own winter events after being frozen out of the Snow Ball. Bring your students—sketch, paint, collaborate. Real, messy inspiration.”

Benedict’s voice softened, thoughtful. “That’s… actually brilliant.”

“And,” Anthony added, his grin audible, “you might finally get the nerve to talk to your muse.”

A groan. “Anthony…”

“Don’t bother denying it. Francesca already outed you. Sophie, isn’t it? The dancer. Neuroscience major. Fond of hash brownies.” His grin widened. “Conveniently, she has a winter showcase coming up. Perfect excuse to show up without looking like a stalker.”

Another groan, muffled. “I hate how transparent I am.”

“Not transparent,” Anthony teased. “Just doomed. So? You’ll think about it?”

Benedict muttered something unintelligible, but Anthony heard the undercurrent of excitement. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

Satisfied, Anthony ended the call before his brother could backpedal.

Next was Colin. That call picked up mid-background noise—waves crashing faintly in the distance. “Brother!” Colin’s voice was cheerful, already pitching. “You’ve reached Colin Stateside Adventures—subscribe for—”

“Colin,” Anthony cut in.

“Fine, fine,” Colin laughed. “What’s the crisis?”

“Not a crisis. An opportunity. Danbury Hall is throwing their own winter festival since they were barred from the Snow Ball. I want you to livestream it—make it impossible for the administration to ignore them. Show the world what inclusivity looks like.”

Colin whistled low. “Turning exclusion into spectacle. I like it. And my viewers will eat it up—‘The Underdogs of Mayfair.’ I’ll frame it like grassroots docu-drama. Bonus points if Newton’s the thumbnail.”

Anthony allowed himself a small smile. “Just keep it classy. No villainous narration about Cressida.”

“No promises,” Colin teased. “But you’ll get traction. Count me in.”

Anthony set his phone down at last, satisfaction humming under his ribs. The Cowpers had money and connections. But the Bridgertons? They had reach.

And if Danbury was about to throw a blowout, he’d make sure the whole damn world was watching.

The glow of phone screens lit Phi Mu’s lounge, brighter even than the fire snapping in the marble hearth. Tweets scrolled by in real time—each one tagging Danbury, each one calling the Snow Ball snub favoritism, elitism, or worse.

Nan tossed her phone onto the velvet couch with a groan. “We look like villains in a Disney sequel. ‘Phi Mu bans poor little transfer kids from the ball.’ Do you see how bad this is?”

Lizzy crossed her arms, voice sharp. “Bad? It’s catastrophic. Everyone’s retweeting Danbury sob stories. Even my lab partner is subtweeting about how ‘community matters more than exclusivity.’ I can’t even get coffee without side-eye.”

Conchita snapped her laptop shut with a clap. “Cressida, this is spiraling. It’s not just the Mosquito anymore—regular students are piling on. If this keeps up, we’ll be the punchline at every mixer from now till spring.”

Even Jinny, normally unshakable, lowered her voice. “Maybe… we should ease up. At least let them buy tickets. This blackout—people hate it. It’s making us the villains.”

Across the room, Cressida sat perched on the arm of a chair like it was a throne, her platinum hair gleaming in the lamplight. She scrolled her feed with deliberate calm, her face sculpted in ice. “You’re overreacting. Twitter storms burn out in a week. People love Phi Mu. They want to be us. They’ll forget all this once the Snow Ball photos go up.”

“No,” Nan snapped, surprising even herself. “They won’t. You don’t see the comments. People are tired of crowns and pearls. They’re calling it tyranny.”

The word stuck like a shard of glass.

And then—heels clicked against the marble staircase. Minty Cowper descended like judgment itself, her silk robe trailing, her pearls catching the firelight. She paused at the base of the stairs, her gaze sweeping over her daughter, the Bucks, the uneasy sisters. Then she smiled—slow, deliberate, cutting.

“Enough hand-wringing,” Minty said, her voice syrup-sweet and blade-sharp. “Do you know why this house has outlasted generations of jealous whispers? Because we do not bend. We do not yield. Mayfair runs on hierarchy. Without it, there is chaos. And we—” her eyes pinned each girl in turn, “—are the top of that hierarchy.”

“But, Minty—” Lizzy began.

“No.” Minty’s interruption was velvet over steel. “Let Danbury pout. Let Twitter froth. By January, no one will care. They’ll still line up at Rush. They’ll still claw for our bids. That is the truth of power, girls—it does not apologize. It endures.”

Silence followed. Uneasy, brittle, but silence nonetheless.

Cressida straightened taller, emboldened by her mother’s certainty. The Bucks exchanged glances—resentful, wary, but unwilling to push further.

Outside the window, campus still buzzed with retweets, outrage, and laughter spreading far beyond Greek Row. But inside Phi Mu’s lounge, Minty’s smile never wavered.

As the girls began to drift back to their conversations—still uneasy, still whispering—Minty leaned closer to her daughter. Her hand brushed Cressida’s shoulder, her voice pitched low enough that only she could hear.

“Let them rage,” Minty murmured, eyes glittering. “We’ve weathered worse. And besides—Mayfair’s administration knows better than to bite the hand that feeds it.”

Cressida’s lips curved into a faint, satisfied smile.

The storm outside might have been growing, but Minty already had her umbrella in place.

Chapter Text

Danbury didn’t sulk. It improvised.

The Blowout began not with a dance floor or a DJ, but in the common room. Peggy had claimed the center space, arranging beanbags, floor cushions, and chairs pilfered from the study lounge into a makeshift circle. The air smelled of popcorn and cinnamon cocoa, Bridget and Rose ferrying trays of cookies while Adelheid and Owen balanced pretzels and Paloma’s slightly lopsided masterpiece: a neon-frosted sheet cake that read Danbury > Snow Ball in uneven but defiant letters.

Peggy’s voice carried warmly through the space as she read from her children’s book. The rhythm of her words held the room steady—residents leaning back with soft smiles while visiting elementary school kids leaned forward, wide-eyed, as though they’d stumbled into a pocket of magic. Hazel slipped a hot chocolate into the hands of a shy girl with pigtails, who hugged the mug like it was treasure. For a moment, the common room glowed with something gentler than protest: belonging.

But outside, the energy shifted. The quad lit up with strings of fairy lights and a borrowed speaker system humming to life. John slung his guitar strap over his shoulder, Jack tuned his bass with mechanical precision, Francesca coaxed a sweep of notes from her keyboard, and Hugh twirled his drumsticks before leaning into the mic.

“My dad will kill me when he finds out I’m playing drums in a secular band,” he deadpanned, earning a ripple of laughter. The crowd doubled when Michaela bounded onstage as self-declared hype-woman, bouncing like she was at a stadium festival. Paloma, tone-deaf but fearless, demanded a slot on backing vocals, her voice wobbly but her energy so relentless the audience roared anyway.

Danbury wasn’t just holding an event. It was becoming a scene.

Over by the library steps, Gladys guided a group of prospective students and parents, her voice surprisingly bright. “Don’t overlook the smaller halls,” she told them with conviction. “They’ll surprise you. Mayfair surprised me.” A few students jotted notes, grinning like they’d just been let in on a secret tour.

Meanwhile, Marian led Benedict’s art students through the fine arts wing, sketchbooks flipping open as they trailed after him. He gestured animatedly, more alive than Francesca had seen him in weeks, urging them to capture movement, texture, the pulse of the night itself.

And through it all, Sophie moved with quiet focus. Finals had been merciful—solid marks across the board—but her mind was already on the Winter Showcase. She tightened the ribbons of her shoes, adjusted her hair, steadied her breath. Then her phone buzzed.

Posy: Good luck tonight! We’re in the audience!

The selfie followed instantly: Posy beaming, Rosamund smirking in her usual half-disdain, and Richard grinning so wide it nearly broke the frame.

Sophie’s throat tightened. Relief, nerves, pride—they tangled in her chest until she could only smile at the screen. She wasn’t walking onstage alone tonight. Her family was here, even if it wasn’t the way she’d pictured.

The auditorium hummed with expectancy—coats draped over arms, programs fluttering like restless wings, voices pitched just above whispers. Eloise tugged Francesca into a row midway down. Colin slid in with a grin, camera already in hand, while Anthony claimed the end seat with the air of a man maneuvered into a family outing.

Benedict arrived last, breathless, sketchbook conspicuously absent. He’d dismissed his students early under the excuse of “family obligations,” though his brothers knew better. His eyes swept the stage with restless urgency, like an artist hunting for light he couldn’t sketch fast enough.

“Look,” Francesca whispered, angling her phone toward Eloise. The screen glowed with the latest from @MayfairMosquito:

Snowed Out Blowout = roaring success. Word on campus says the Winter Showcase is packed tighter than a Sigma party fridge. Guess Mayfair students know where the real celebration is. 🐝

Eloise smirked despite herself. Behind them, the rows brimmed with Danbury residents shoulder to shoulder, cheering louder than any sorority row ever could. A handful of professors and Williamsburg locals had slipped in too, buzzing with curiosity. Danbury hadn’t begged for a seat at Mayfair’s table—they’d dragged the world to theirs.

The showcase unfolded like a tide—group routines, duets, even the occasional stumble swallowed by applause. Danbury’s section clapped like every dancer was theirs.

Then the lights shifted. A hush rippled through the auditorium as Sophie stepped forward alone.

Her dress was a simple sweep of silver-gray, hair pulled back, face calm but intent. The first notes of “Arrival of the Birds” threaded into the air—delicate, tentative, like dawn testing the sky. Then she moved.

Every turn, every reach carried the ache of leaving, the weight of loss, the wild hope of flight. When she leapt, it felt like gravity relented just for her. When she spun, the audience leaned forward, afraid to blink and miss a fraction of her grace.

Benedict’s fingers twitched for a pencil, but his sketchbook was back in his studio. It wouldn’t have mattered. He could no more capture this on paper than bottle light. Sophie wasn’t an image. She was motion, breath, life. And for once, Benedict Bridgerton—lover of lines and shades—was left wordless. Overwhelmed.

The final note faded like wings disappearing into silence. Sophie held her last pose, arms wide, face tilted to the light. For a heartbeat, the world held still.

Then applause crashed down like thunder. Danbury rose first, their roar contagious until the entire hall surged to its feet. Hazel whooped. Michaela bellowed as though she were at a rock show. Francesca clapped until her palms stung.

Benedict only stood, silent, eyes locked on Sophie, terrified she might vanish into shadow before he’d memorized the sight of her.

Sophie bowed. Her smile was radiant, but tinged with something private, as if she’d laid down more than just choreography.

The showcase ended in a flood of chatter and motion—parents snapping photos, programs folded like keepsakes, students spilling into aisles. Sophie ducked backstage, only to be intercepted almost instantly by her family.

Richard swept her up first, lifting her off her feet in a hug. “You were brilliant, Soph. Absolutely brilliant.”

Flushed, laughing, Sophie teased, “Thanks, Dad. Though I’m shocked you actually drove down. Where’s the wife?”

Richard’s smile faltered. “Araminta stayed for the restaurant. Duty calls.”

Sophie muttered, sharper, “Convenient. Better this way—saves the performance from her commentary. Still odd she couldn’t spare one night.”

Rosamund bristled, arms crossed. “Just because you and Mom don’t get along doesn’t mean you get to trash her.”

Before Sophie could fire back, Posy cut in brightly, tugging her forward. “Anyway! Look who’s here.”

Hugh hovered at the edge of the crowd, hands jammed into his pockets, sheepish and earnest. Posy beamed like she’d been waiting all evening. “Hugh! You saw her dance, right? She was incredible.”

Hugh’s grin was shy but certain. “Yeah. Couldn’t agree more.”

Posy’s cheeks glowed brighter than the stage lights. Richard noticed. He wasn’t blind. He bent closer to Sophie, voice low. “Need help packing up before the holidays? Boxes, car, whatever you need.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sophie said, tugging her duffel strap tighter. “Danbury isn’t a palace—I don’t own much worth packing.”

Richard squeezed her shoulder, but tension lingered in his jaw. He knew there was more between Sophie and Williamsburg than she admitted.

Across the aisle, Benedict watched, hands empty, sketchbookless. Every moment to step forward, to say something—anything—slipped away under hugs and chatter.

At his side, Eloise nudged him, following his gaze. “If you’re lucky—and brave—you’ll stick around. Caleb’s got a game, Danbury’s throwing an after-party. Consider it your second chance.”

Benedict’s jaw worked, heart hammering faster than the applause still echoing through the hall.

A second chance.

At the Snow Ball, the chandeliers glittered like a stage set—but the crowd hardly sparkled at all. Mayfair’s “premiere event of the season” amounted to lukewarm punch, a DJ recycling last year’s Spotify playlist, and a scattering of couples swaying awkwardly to covers of covers.

Cressida, naturally, looked immaculate—platinum hair pinned with crystal clips, gown tailored to perfection. She lingered at the edge of the dance floor like she expected paparazzi to materialize out of thin air. Around her, the Bucks wilted. Jinny scrolled through her phone, barely glancing up. Conchita sipped champagne with the grim determination of someone taking cough syrup. Nan yawned openly, muttering about Guy not answering her texts. Even Lizzy looked restless, her manicure tapping impatiently against her glass—until Theo Tintagel swept her into a slow dance. She allowed him two spins before peering over his shoulder like she’d rather be anywhere else.

Not even the Sigmas had shown in force. Their absence left the room thin, hollow—the hierarchy Minty Cowper had promised looked shaky under the chandeliers.

Across campus, Grosvenor Arena pulsed with an entirely different rhythm. Every seat was packed, the court blazing under the lights as Mayfair squared off against Old Dominion. The roar of the crowd was deafening—chants rolling like thunder, sneakers squeaking, students stomping until the bleachers shook.

At halftime, Colin seized his moment. Perched courtside with his phone tilted just so, he grinned into the livestream. “Ladies and gentlemen, history in the making. Forget the Snow Ball—this is Snowed Out, the real Mayfair tradition.”

Behind him, Rae popped into frame, wielding a foam finger like a sword. “Annual event! Lock it in! And don’t let Greek Row anywhere near it!”

Oliver and Piper were too busy kissing in the background to notice, their oblivious PDA lighting up the livestream chat.

The comments flew:

@FreshmanJess: SNOWED OUT > SNOW BALL, no contest

@CampusCat99: Who needs pearls when you’ve got Caleb Whitaker??

@MayfairMosquito: When tradition freezes, rebellion thaws. #SnowedOut

Penelope tapped send on that last one, her expression unreadable in the glow of her phone. Without pausing, she switched to her personal account, typing smoothly: Snowed Out crowd is wild tonight—forget chandeliers, this is Mayfair energy.

From the next row down, Eloise caught it. The flicker of her roommate’s gaze, the practiced rhythm of her thumbs, the way the two posts—different voices, same timing—slid almost seamlessly into the feed. Her suspicion coiled tighter, sharp as wire.

Phil leaned in, murmuring something about Mayfair’s defense, but Eloise barely registered the words. She was too busy watching Penelope, piecing the threads together.

On the court, Caleb nailed a three-pointer at the buzzer. The arena erupted, chants of “Snowed Out! Snowed Out! Snowed Out!” shaking the rafters.

And somewhere amid the roar, Eloise Bridgerton’s conviction sharpened. The Mosquito wasn’t just in the arena. She was sitting two rows up, in a neon-lit hoodie, pretending to blend into the crowd.

Danbury was quiet. Too quiet—its usual hum of footsteps, laughter, and music had drained out toward Grosvenor Arena. Even Newton had surrendered to the hush, curled into his bed with a sigh heavy enough to ruffle his fur.

Kate lingered by the window, scarf loose around her shoulders, watching the distant glow of arena lights flicker through the bare branches. Anthony leaned against the radiator opposite, his tie loosened, his posture casual but his gaze anything but.

“Crazy semester,” Kate said at last, her voice low, half-laughing, half-weary.

Anthony’s mouth curved, softening. “That’s one way to put it. You’ve been fire-fighting since August. I’m shocked you haven’t burned out completely.”

“Ask me again in May,” she murmured, tracing a circle in the condensation on the glass. “Maybe I’ll just run off to Jersey for a while. Pretend I have a life outside these ivy-draped walls.”

He tilted his head, studying her like she was the only subject worth examining. “And then what? Back here again, to wrangle the next batch of chaos? Or”—his voice gentled—“will you finally admit you’ve got a plan tucked in one of those color-coded binders of yours?”

Kate shot him a look over her shoulder. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t always have a plan.”

Anthony grinned, slow and teasing. “Yes, you do. Probably three. With contingency notes.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. “Do not.”

“You absolutely do,” he countered, but the jest slipped into something steadier. “And thank God for it. Because when everyone else is flailing, you’re the one who keeps the lights on.”

Their gazes locked—steady, unflinching. No interruptions, no student crises, no Newton stirring. Just silence, charged and waiting.

Kate’s breath hitched. Anthony’s hand flexed at his side, then lifted halfway, hovering like a question.

And then, the hesitation broke.

They moved together—fast, reckless, inevitable. Their mouths collided, fierce and hungry, all the weeks of restraint unraveling in one breathless instant. Kate fisted his shirt, pulling him closer; Anthony’s hands anchored her waist, grounding her even as everything else spun loose. The kiss was frantic, desperate, then softened, deepened—turning from fire into something slower, aching, and utterly consuming.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, Anthony’s voice was rough with everything he hadn’t said. “We shouldn’t…”

Kate’s whisper brushed his lips. “Probably not.” But neither of them moved.

Laughter—shaky, incredulous—slipped between them as they stumbled back toward her quarters, heat pulling them forward like a tide. Kate’s back hit the door, Anthony’s smirk ghosting against her mouth. Newton gave one confused bark before circling back to his bed.

The door slammed shut.

And the night belonged to them—finally, unrestrained.

Chapter Text

Danbury pulsed like a heartbeat. The buzzer-beater still rang in everyone’s ears, chants of “Snowed Out! Snowed Out!” rattling the old hall until it felt like the bricks themselves were cheering. Music blasted from the common room speakers, casserole trays and cider bottles cluttered every surface, and residents sprawled across couches, stairwells, even the floor—buzzing, flushed, alive with victory.

Sophie and Hazel clung to each other, still in their dance team uniforms, their cheeks flushed pink. Hazel’s voice was nearly gone, rasping from a night of leading chants like a one-woman cheer squad. Sophie felt almost untethered, buoyed by the noise, the lights, the sense that for once Mayfair was theirs.

Until she saw her.

Rosamund. Glossy-haired, cider in hand, smile just sharp enough to sting—flirting with none other than Albert Fife.

Sophie groaned under her breath. Of all the men at Mayfair, her stepsister had chosen Fife? Eighteen, free to make her own choices, sure. But Sophie still wanted to march across the room and pull her away like she was twelve again.

She didn’t get the chance. Paloma darted past, lips fused to Guy Thwarte’s, the two of them pressed against the stair rail like it was their personal throne.

Sophie burst into laughter despite herself. At least Guy wasn’t fighting Theo this time. Hazel caught her eye from across the room, eyebrows raised in a silent are you seeing this? Sophie mouthed later, still chuckling. If nothing else, Danbury had come a long way from the awkward hellos of move-in day.

But the noise pressed too close, the heat of bodies too much. Sophie grabbed her coat and slipped outside, drawing the cold December air deep into her lungs.

She didn’t make it far.

Jordan Stanton and Joey Wilding were waiting—or rather, swaying. Half-drunk, swaggering, the kind of Sigma boys who treated every night like an Animal House audition.

“Encore!” Stanton crowed, blocking her path with a grin too wide. “C’mon, Baek, give us some of those moves. Half the arena’s still buzzing.”

“Yeah,” Joey slurred, leaning closer, “just one twirl. For the fans.” His hand brushed her arm.

Sophie stiffened, stepping back. “Not tonight.”

They laughed, pressing in, shoulders crowding hers. For a heartbeat, her chest tightened with the old panic of being cornered.

And then—

“Stop.”

The voice cut clean, sharp as glass.

The boys froze, blinking like they’d been slapped. Slowly, with muttered curses, they slouched back toward the noise of the party.

Sophie exhaled, then looked up.

Benedict Bridgerton stood only a few steps away, his coat unbuttoned, hair mussed by the winter wind, eyes locked on hers with a steady intensity that undid her.

Relief cracked through her chest, but pride kept her chin high. “Thanks,” she said wryly. “But I could’ve handled it.” She tugged at her coat, adding with a crooked smile, “Although probably not without wrecking this. There’s a fee if I tear it, you know.”

Benedict’s lips quirked, soft and startled. “Good thing I showed up, then. Wouldn’t want Mayfair’s star dancer billed for damages.”

They laughed—light, too easy, warming the cold air between them.

Sophie tilted her head, studying him. “Funny. I feel like we’ve met before.”

“Maybe we have,” Benedict said, voice low, reverent. “And yet we are seeing each other for the first time right now.”

She extended her hand, playful. “Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella. New edition. Sorry—bit of a theater geek moment. I’m Sophie.”

He took her hand. The touch lingered, palm to palm, more spark than handshake. “Benedict. And for the record, I’m a Star Wars nerd.”

Their smiles held, quiet and charged. For one suspended moment, the world outside Danbury’s glowing windows fell away.

Danbury’s common room still pulsed with music, but Eloise had already tugged Phil upstairs, her fingers locked through his like she couldn’t bear another second of waiting.

The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the party into a dull thrum. They barely made it to the bed before her lips found his—hungry, certain, desperate for more than banter and dice rolls.

Phil kissed her back like it was everything he’d been holding in all semester—hesitant at first, then braver, his hand brushing her cheek, his breath uneven. When they finally broke apart, his forehead rested against hers.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, voice rough, “how long I’ve dreamed of this. Girls like you—women like you—they don’t end up with guys like me. They just… don’t. You’re a dream come true, Bridgerton.”

Eloise laughed softly, brushing her thumb along his jaw. The giddiness fizzed in her chest, light and dangerous. “Well, they do now. Because I don’t just want a dungeon master, Crane.” Her cheeks burned, but she said it anyway. “I want a boyfriend.”

His eyes widened, the grin splitting across his face so bright it nearly knocked the breath out of her. “You do?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, the certainty bubbling up like champagne. “I do.”

The next kiss was sweeter, warmer, tangled in laughter and heat. Eloise felt dizzy with it, drunk on possibility, until her elbow hit something hard beneath the blanket. She laughed, groping for it, and shoved it aside—Penelope’s tablet.

It buzzed once, screen flickering awake. Eloise would’ve ignored it, if not for the words staring back at her.

Her smile froze.

The login page. The drafts folder. The handle clear as day.

@MayfairMosquito.

Her pulse slammed in her ears.

Phil pulled back slightly, frowning at her sudden stillness. “El? You okay?”

Eloise forced a smile, her lips trembling with the effort. “Yeah. Just… distracted.”

She set the tablet down—too carefully. The air in the room shifted, heavy now, electric with something other than desire. The magic of the kiss drained away, replaced with the sharp edge of betrayal.

Penelope. Her roommate. Her confidante. The Mosquito.

Phil touched her arm gently, oblivious, still glowing with the aftershock of their kiss. Eloise nodded, more to herself than to him, and before she could stop—before her better judgment could scream at her—her fingers moved fast.

One tap.

Then another.

The account blinked out of existence. Deleted.

The silence that followed was deafening. Not just the quiet of the room, but the suffocating hush of a choice she couldn’t undo.

Phil’s voice was soft, uncertain. “Are you alright? We don’t have to do anything tonight.”

Eloise leaned back into his arms, willing her face into something that looked like a smile, desperate to keep the night from unraveling entirely. But inside, the fizz of euphoria had curdled. Her chest ached, her stomach twisted.

Because she knew the truth: this wasn’t over.

Not with Penelope.

Not with the Mosquito.

And not with herself, either.

Down the hall, Francesca’s room was a pocket of stillness against the storm of music and voices downstairs. Her suitcase lay half-packed on the bed, sweaters folded in neat stacks, sheet music squared at perfect right angles. She told herself the solitude was about responsibility—finals, travel, control. Better than pretending to enjoy warm wine coolers and sticky plastic cups.

A knock at the open door pulled her head up. Michaela leaned against the frame, hoodie loose, grin tilted like trouble was a language only she spoke. “Really, Bridgerton? Last night of the semester and you’re spending it folding socks while the rest of Danbury declares war on the noise ordinance?”

Francesca smoothed a blouse, her gaze fixed on the fabric. “I’d rather not spend the night pretending a hangover is worth it.”

Michaela stepped inside, dropped into the desk chair, and spun halfway around before resting her chin in her palm. “Fair. But don’t you ever get tired of playing it safe? Living’s a little overrated if you never actually do it.”

Francesca gave the faintest laugh, folding another sweater like a shield. “I do want to live. I just… don’t always know how.”

Something sharpened in Michaela’s expression—fondness, mischief, longing—all tangled into one. And then she leaned forward before she could stop herself. “Then let me help you.”

The kiss landed quick, reckless. Michaela’s mouth pressed to hers like a spark striking tinder, unthinking, dangerous. Francesca froze, pulse jumping, eyes wide.

Michaela pulled back fast, words tripping over each other. “Shit—sorry. That was—God, I shouldn’t have. I just—” She dragged a hand through her hair, laughing too hard, too nervously. “I like you. And keeping it in? Impossible. But that was stupid, I shouldn’t—”

Her apology broke when Francesca’s hand lifted, brushing her cheek with a touch both hesitant and sure. Francesca leaned in this time—slower, deliberate, claiming the kiss instead of being ambushed by it.

When they broke apart, Michaela’s grin burst out, wild and unguarded, like she’d gotten away with something she wasn’t supposed to. “Guess sock-folding night wasn’t a total waste after all.”

Francesca rolled her eyes, pink blooming in her cheeks. But she didn’t push her away. She didn’t retreat.

For the first time, she let the edge of Michaela’s chaos pull her in.

Penelope had been glowing all night, tucked into Al’s side while the party thundered around them. He was warm, funny, and—when he wasn’t quoting anthropology journals—almost perfect. But when he leaned close and said, “Have you thought more about Alaska? We could line up housing by January. Just us. Away from all this,” the words didn’t warm her. They pressed.

Away from all this.

Danbury. Mayfair. Eloise. Kate. The Mosquito.

Her chest tightened. “Al, I—” The words jammed in her throat. “Give me a minute, okay?”

Before he could answer, she slipped free, her phone clutched tight. Down the hall, her screen lit up: password, Twitter—

And froze.

This account has been deactivated.

Not suspended. Not hacked. Deactivated. Which meant someone had touched her tablet. Someone knew.

Her stomach flipped. She shoved through the front doors into the December air, desperate for space. Voices drifted from the porch. Colin’s, cheerful and oblivious.

“Been on a few dates abroad,” he was saying, laughter in his tone. “Nothing serious, though—”

Penelope’s chest twisted. She bolted upstairs, pulse thundering with one word: Eloise.

When she shoved open their door, Eloise was there. Waiting. Arms crossed, phone dark on the desk beside her.

“You’re back early,” Penelope said, forcing lightness.

Eloise didn’t blink. “Yeah. Busy night. I asked Phil to be my boyfriend.” Her voice softened a fraction. “That took everything, Pen. After Theo, after all the mess—I still tried. I gave him my heart. Same with Kate—I’ve been trying to forgive her. To believe in her again.” Her eyes hardened. “Because forgiveness only works if people are honest.”

The silence between them crackled.

“You lied,” Eloise said, voice sharp enough to cut. “Why? Why did you let me rant about the Mosquito, about the exposés, while it was you the entire time? Sitting across from me, nodding, pretending to be my friend.”

Penelope’s lips parted, her voice trembling. “I—”

“All of it,” Eloise pressed, her voice rising. “The tension with Kate. The firestorms with Phi Mu. You poured gasoline on every one of them. Tell me—was it for kicks? For clout? Or were you feeding Phi Mu just to keep yourself relevant?”

“No!” Penelope blurted, too fast, too desperate. “I swear, I wasn’t—”

Eloise’s laugh was bitter, humorless. “God, listen to yourself. You don’t even sound sorry. You sound caught.”

Penelope’s hands shook. “Eloise, please—”

“Save it.” Eloise’s face was stone. Her words landed like a slap. “When we come back from break, I’m filing for a room change. And until then? Don’t speak to me. Don’t look at me. As far as I’m concerned, Penelope Featherington doesn’t exist.”

The slam of the door echoed like a gavel.

Penelope crumpled onto her bed, phone still clutched tight, fingers white around the screen. The Mosquito was gone. Eloise was gone.

And for the first time since stepping onto Mayfair’s campus, Penelope felt it—utterly, devastatingly alone.

Kate lay tangled in the sheets, cheek pressed against Anthony’s chest, her breath still ragged, her body finally heavy with something other than exhaustion. His arm rested around her, lazy but protective, fingertips tracing idle lines along her shoulder. For the first time in weeks, she let herself exhale without bracing for the next blow.

She laughed softly, muffled against him. “God. It’s been a while. I’m definitely going to feel this in the morning.”

Anthony’s laugh rumbled low. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“Maybe both,” she teased, nudging his ribs.

He caught her chin before she could pull away, eyes glinting in the dim light. “Then I’ll take it as a compliment.” His voice gentled, quieter now. “Come home with me for Christmas. Stay a few days. Then maybe I’ll come to Jersey for New Year’s. No half-measures. We make it work.”

Kate froze. The offer was warm, terrifying, impossible. “I’ll think about it,” she managed. “But… maybe we don’t have to choose. Maybe we do both.”

His faint smile curved into a kiss, just as Newton’s sharp bark tore through the silence.

Kate bolted upright. “That’s not his hungry bark.”

They scrambled into their clothes, tugging on boots, shirts half-buttoned. By the time they reached the window, blue-and-white lights pulsed across the quad. Two campus police cruisers rolled into the lot, their beams slicing the November dark.

“Noise complaints,” Kate muttered, fury laced under the words. “Of course.”

By the time she reached the foyer, the music had collapsed into nervous whispers. Two officers stood at the door, hands resting on their belts, eyes sweeping the crowded common room.

“Ma’am,” one said crisply. “We’ve had multiple reports of noise violations. The party needs to shut down immediately. You’re also over capacity. If this doesn’t clear fast, we’ll call the fire marshal.”

Kate’s jaw clenched. Behind her, the celebration cracked into unease.

Upstairs, Penelope sat on her bed, the glow of her tablet cutting pale lines across her tear-streaked face. The Mosquito login page blinked back at her. She could reinstate the account in seconds—be powerful again, untouchable. But the silence where Eloise’s laughter used to be told her the truth: she’d already lost everything that mattered.

Down the hall, Eloise curled into herself against the staircase banister, face buried in her arms. Phil hovered nearby, hand reaching once, twice—then falling uselessly to his side. He backed away, the creak of the stairs sounding like retreat. The distance between them only grew heavier.

Behind a locked door, Francesca’s careful world unraveled. Michaela’s hoodie hit the floor, Francesca’s gasp catching on laughter before it melted into another kiss—urgent, unsteady, undeniable. For once, she wasn’t the quiet Bridgerton. She was just a girl falling, too fast to stop herself.

Across campus, Phi Mu’s lounge was quiet as a tomb. Cressida, heels in hand, slipped inside with a brittle smile. The Snow Ball had been a disaster, and worse—Minty had spent the entire night hissing orders, finally calling campus police herself to “restore order.” Cressida poured herself a drink, ignoring her mother’s venom, but the ice clinked too loudly in the silence.

And on Mayfair’s front steps, another storm gathered.

Benedict walked Sophie back from the quad, their laughter still lingering, warm against the chill night. But Sophie’s smile faltered when she saw him.

Phillip Cavender. Leaning against the lamppost like a shadow come to life, grin too wide, stance too sure.

“I thought I’d surprise you,” he drawled. “Figured it’s time to come home.”

Sophie went rigid. Benedict saw the color drain from her face and felt the air shift—victory curdling into dread.

Kate stood in the doorway, framed against the blue-and-white strobes outside. Newton pressed close at her side, the weight of his presence grounding her as the common room’s music died into whispers. Behind her, Danbury’s residents clung to their joy—laughing, kissing, crying—still believing the night belonged to them.

But out on the quad, the officers waited. And at the steps, Benedict’s relief curdled into dread as Phillip Cavender’s grin cut through the dark, Sophie frozen at his side.

Kate’s voice was steady, hard as glass.

“Alright,” she said. “Time to shut it down.”

The words landed like a gavel.

And just like that, the season shifted—celebration breaking into consequence, joy hardening into battle.

Chapter Text

The house was too quiet. Not the good kind of quiet—naps in sunbeams, study marathons with cocoa, Eloise ranting until she runs out of breath. No, this was the brittle kind of quiet. The kind that tastes like something cracked in the walls.

I’d seen Kate happy earlier. Actually happy. Her shoulders had loosened, her laugh had stretched across the hall instead of getting stuck in her throat. For once she didn’t smell like printer ink and stress. She smelled warm—like home.

But then the men in uniforms came, their belts jangling, their flashlights slicing through the music. The speakers died, the laughter snapped, and Kate’s smile vanished. She doesn’t think I notice these things. She’s wrong. I always notice.

I padded upstairs first. Eloise sat curled on the steps, knees tucked under her chin, face hidden. Her shoulders shook like leaves in a storm. I pressed against her leg, solid and warm. Dogs don’t need words—we just stay. She sniffled, muttered “Go,” sharp and small, and shoved me away. So I went. That’s what loyal dogs do, too.

Down the hall, another sound. Softer, but sharper. Penelope. Her phone glowed cold in her hands, her eyes red, her cheeks wet. I leapt onto her bed, settled in her lap, and let her fingers find my fur. Her heartbeat slowed beneath my ear, though her voice cracked in a whisper I didn’t understand. It didn’t matter. I was there. That’s what mattered.

Then—giggles. Actual giggles. Francesca’s room. High, bright, tangled with Michaela’s deeper laugh. I cocked my head, surprised. That sound was rare from her, rare as the scent of roses in winter. I wagged my tail. Humans never know how precious their laughter is. I do.

I kept moving. My paws know these halls like they know the earth. Past the foyer, out into the cold. The December air bit sharp at my nose. That’s when I saw her.

Sophie. My Sophie. The one who smelled of chalk and cocoa, who always kissed my head before leaving, who whispered be good for Kate like I’d ever be anything else.

But she wasn’t alone.

Two men. One leaning too close, his grin stretched too wide. His words cut the night: “Time to come home.”

Home? She was home. Here. With us. With me.

The fur along my spine lifted. My paws planted hard into the earth. A growl broke low in my chest, rising without permission. Because dogs know better than humans: when the pack splinters, danger follows.

And tonight, the pack was splintering.

Chapter Text

Penelope thought she’d reached the edge of the world. Snow stretched in every direction, dazzling and endless, sharp against a sky so pale it looked painted. Reindeer shifted in the distance, their antlers catching what little light the horizon offered.

Al stood beside her in a heavy parka, breath puffing in the cold. He checked his watch like it was a compass. “Sun’s up,” he murmured. “For a few hours, at least.”

She nodded, tucking her chin deeper into her scarf. Yes, she told herself. This is right. This is enough. Alaska was clean. Silent. Far from Mayfair, from Danbury, from Eloise’s fury and the Mosquito’s unraveling. Even far from Colin, with his maddening grin and persistence that made her heart ache when she least expected it.

Al turned to her then, the glow of snow softening his expression. “Thank you,” he said, voice rougher than usual. “For being here. For choosing this. Choosing me.”

Her chest fluttered. She leaned toward him, ready to let his kiss blot out the world—

Splash.

A cold spray slapped her shoulder.

Penelope blinked, the snow dissolving. The reindeer were gone. The parka vanished. Chlorine stung her nose, the bright glare of noon burned overhead.

“Penny!” Felicity’s voice sang out. She stood at the edge of a pool, neon squirt gun aimed like a weapon, her grin wicked. “TV trivia starts in five minutes! Don’t chicken out this time!”

Penelope blinked again, dazed. Alaska was gone. The fantasy gone. She was in Punta Cana, not the Arctic. A coral swimsuit cover-up clung to her shoulders. A virgin piña colada sweated on the table beside her. Palm trees swayed in the breeze, music floated from hidden speakers, and her mother reclined nearby—sunglasses perched, cocktail in hand, flipping through a glossy travel magazine as though paradise were nothing new.

The trip hadn’t been for her. It had been a Portia-and-Felicity production, a New Year’s escape filled with spas and shopping. But when Penelope had shown up at the airport, suitcase in hand, her mother had sighed, muttered about last-minute booking fees, and waved her along.

Now here she was. Half in the tropics, half in her head. Caught between one escape and another, neither one quite fitting.

Penelope pulled her sunglasses down, letting the frames shield her eyes. For a dizzy moment, she wasn’t sure which was worse: the fantasy of Alaska, with Al’s promises and silence stretching forever, or the reality of this empty beach, where Eloise and Danbury felt more like ghosts than friends.

Either way, she was adrift—somewhere between what she wanted to run from and what she hadn’t yet found the courage to run toward.

The trivia showdown ended in predictable chaos—Felicity crowing every right answer like she’d invented television, Portia loudly disputing every wrong one as “biased,” and Penelope sinking lower in her deck chair with every round.

“Of course it was Cheers,” Portia declared, cocktail raised like a gavel. “I saw the finale live. Half these children weren’t even born yet, including you and your sisters.”

“Mama,” Felicity groaned. “You said Friends.”

“Well, it should’ve been Friends,” Portia snapped, adjusting her sunhat. “The better show. And besides, the bartender in Cheers was far too smug. I never trusted him.”

Penelope hid behind her sunglasses, biting back a laugh. If she opened her mouth, she might giggle—or worse, remind them that none of this mattered.

Felicity squirted pool water in her mother’s direction. “Just admit it—you tanked our team. Penny and I carried us.”

“Penny guessed Grey’s Anatomy dead-on,” Portia countered, eyeing her middle daughter. “Suspiciously fast. One wonders what else she gets up to on that little phone of hers.”

The words were casual, tossed like shade in the Caribbean sun, but Penelope’s stomach clenched. For a second, she felt Eloise’s glare again, the echo of that slammed door in Danbury.

She forced a laugh, brushing crumbs from her lap. “Maybe I’m just a trivia prodigy. Stranger things have happened.”

Felicity snorted. Portia smirked. The banter rolled on, endless and loud.

Penelope leaned back, sunglasses sliding higher, letting it all wash over her. The sun was hot, the drinks cold, the chatter relentless. To anyone else, it looked like paradise.

For her, it was just noise—better than silence. Better than Mayfair. Better than the Mosquito.

The scent of sesame oil and sizzling short ribs clung to the air, weaving through bursts of laughter as families crowded around hot stone bowls. Bibimbap Barn was heaving, every table full, the kind of chaos Sophie had known her whole life. On New Year’s Eve it always felt bigger—every Korean family within fifty miles seemed to descend for one last feast before January.

Clipboard in hand, Sophie slid into her hostess role automatically. Smile fixed, bows at the door, seating charts on repeat. It was easier to focus on table numbers and spice levels than the mess still buzzing in her chest after Danbury’s Snowed Out Blowout.

Her phone buzzed in her apron.

Caleb: Game tomorrow. Don’t bail, Soph. You’re our good-luck charm. Happy early New Year.

She smiled faintly, tapping back a thumbs-up, before lifting her eyes—straight into a voice she knew too well.

“Table for two?”

Phillip.

Her stomach clenched. Jacket half-zipped, smile pitched between charm and desperation, he leaned closer, dropping his voice like the whole restaurant belonged to them.

“I had to see you. Before midnight. Before the year starts. I can’t let us begin a new year like this—not when I know we belong together.”

The words scraped like déjà vu. Sophie thought of the Blowout, of how Phillip had appeared on Danbury’s steps the exact moment she might have—finally—started to know Benedict. She thought of Rosamund’s pale face after Fife cornered her, of dragging Phillip along to Annandale because he wouldn’t leave. He had turned her exhaustion into a victory lap, and she hadn’t had the energy to fight.

And now, here he was. Again.

“Phillip,” she said carefully, straightening the reservation list. “You can’t keep showing up like this. It’s over.” She glanced at the crowded dining room—her father balancing trays, her stepmother shouting for rice in the kitchen. “This isn’t the place.”

His jaw ticked. “Then when is the place? When is the time? You keep shutting me out, but I know you don’t mean it. I know you still feel what I feel.”

Her throat ached. She wanted to scream no, you’re wrong, but the words tangled.

“Please,” she whispered. “Just go.”

For once, he stepped back. But his eyes clung to hers, heavy with something that felt less like love and more like possession.

“I’ll go,” he said. “But I’ll be back. I’m not giving up on us, Sophie. Not yet.”

The door chimed faintly as he left. Sophie gripped the podium until her knuckles whitened. Around her, the clatter of plates and giggling children rose again, but she felt suspended in silence. Phillip wouldn’t let her go. And each time he returned, Benedict’s shadow slipped further away.

She forced herself to breathe. Bibimbap Barn needed her. Tomorrow’s game needed her. But if she wanted a story of her own, she couldn’t let Phillip keep writing it for her.

The dinner rush had just eased when another presence arrived at the podium. Sophie didn’t need to look up—her stepmother’s perfume arrived first, sharp and deliberate.

“SOPHIE!”

Araminta’s tone was clipped, her blouse pristine, eyes flicking toward the door Phillip had exited minutes earlier.

“You need to remember where you are. This is a restaurant. A business. Your family’s name. Not a stage for childish dramatics.” She smoothed her sleeve, gaze cutting. “I don’t care what nonsense is happening at your little dorm. But here? You will be professional. No sulking. No antics. Certainly no slacking because of your boyfriend.”

Sophie’s voice sharpened, though her hands still trembled against the clipboard. “I wasn’t slacking. Phillip showed up. I told him to leave.”

“And you should reconsider dismissing him so lightly.” Araminta’s lips curved thin. “He’s devoted. Educated. From a respectable family.”

Sophie barked a laugh. “Educated? He still hangs out at NoVa like it’s high school. And you’re the reason I stayed there in the first place—for him. You made sure I didn’t transfer sooner.”

“That’s enough!” Araminta snapped, the crack in her voice sharp as a slap. “You embarrassed yourself ending things during that ridiculous brownie fiasco. People from church still talk about it. Do you want that to be your legacy? A ruined relationship because you were high?”

Sophie’s chest tightened. “I don’t want him anymore. Why can’t you see that?”

Araminta’s eyes glinted, merciless. “Because he’s the best thing that will happen to you. And if you throw that away, you’ll regret it.”

The words landed like a verdict. Then Araminta pivoted, heels clicking, vanishing into the kitchen.

Sophie stood frozen at the podium, reservation list trembling in her hands. Around her, the restaurant swelled with warmth and noise, but inside she felt hollowed, stripped bare.

In a sleek apartment just off Capitol Hill, the Bridgerton brothers gathered like three men who’d lost a bet with time. Fireworks popped distantly along the river, muffled through the double-paned glass, a reminder that the rest of D.C. was already celebrating.

Anthony sat by the window, tie loosened, shoulders taut. His phone lay facedown on the table, but his eyes betrayed him—darting to it every few minutes as if willing it to light up. He’d promised Kate space after the Blowout, but the silence pressed harder with every hour. He’d sent her careful texts—small things, restrained things—but none enough to quiet the ache. He didn’t want her to think he was ghosting her, not after what they’d shared before the campus police shut everything down.

Benedict sprawled on the sofa, sketchbook unopened beside him, his gaze fixed on the ceiling like he expected it to rearrange into answers. Sophie’s face kept looping through his mind: her silver costume under the stage lights, her laughter outside Danbury, the shadow that fell the moment Phillip appeared. He could still feel the instant it slipped away, that fragile beginning crushed by the weight of her past. Now it tasted like loss, sharp and lingering.

Colin, slouched in an armchair, was the only one loud enough to disturb the gloom. He shook the empty peanut bowl like a rattle.

“Disaster,” he announced. “Absolute disaster. Not a single peanut left in this apartment. How are we supposed to ring in the New Year without tradition?”

Anthony gave him a flat look. “With champagne, Colin. Like everyone else.”

“Champagne is fine,” Colin countered, mournful as he tipped the bowl upside down, “but peanuts are ritual. Peanuts are heritage.”

Benedict groaned, covering his face with one arm. “Maybe you should pivot your travel channel into a snack vlog. Colin Abroad: Legume Edition.”

Colin brightened instantly. “Actually—”

“Don’t encourage him,” Anthony muttered, finally lifting his phone again. His thumb hovered over Kate’s contact, but he didn’t press send. Not yet.

The silence stretched, punctuated only by the countdown echoing faintly from a neighbor’s TV. Out over the Potomac, fireworks flared brighter, white sparks against the dark water.

Three brothers, three different miseries. Anthony restless with longing. Benedict gutted by quiet heartbreak. Colin furious at the world—or at least at the tragic lack of peanuts.

When the clock struck midnight, none of them raised their glasses. The fireworks thundered, but inside the apartment, no one felt like celebrating.

Kate sat curled into her mother’s old couch, Newton sprawled heavy across her lap like a living weight. The television flickered with Philadelphia’s fireworks—glitter exploding above the Delaware—yet it felt impossibly far from suburban quiet. Newton’s ears twitched at every crackle, but he didn’t move, chin pressed into her thigh as though to anchor her.

She lifted her phone, thumb hesitating, then typed:

Kate: Happy New Year. Wishing you better days ahead.

The reply came almost instantly:

Anthony: Happy New Year. To both you and Newton.

Her chest tightened. She locked the phone and set it facedown on the coffee table before she could spiral into what it meant—or didn’t.

For a few minutes she stroked Newton’s fur, watching the screen blur into haze. But her mind wasn’t in New Jersey. Not on fireworks. Not even on Anthony. It kept circling back to Williamsburg. To Mayfair. To Monday. To the words that still rang like a verdict.

A couple of weeks ago… 

The Administration Office smelled of lemon polish and stale coffee, bureaucracy distilled into air. Kate stood stiff-backed across from John Munro, scarf still damp from drizzle. Charlotte Hanover lingered just behind him, her pearls gleaming like tiny gavel heads.

“This semester was a test of patience,” Munro said crisply. “Danbury Hall has always been… unconventional. But December’s incidents—the noise complaints, the Student Union Ball fiasco—cannot continue. Consider this your formal warning, Ms. Sharma. If Danbury doesn’t straighten up, your position as resident director will be terminated.”

The words hit, heavy but not unexpected. Kate kept her voice even. “My residents aren’t troublemakers. They’ve been targeted and excluded. I’ve done everything I can to shield them.”

Charlotte’s voice slid in, velvet-edged. “And yet chaos follows Danbury. Perhaps because someone inside is stirring it. Tell me, Ms. Sharma—what do you know about this so-called Mayfair Mosquito?”

Kate’s jaw locked. She knew. One name could end this interrogation. But her residents’ trust mattered more than her own comfort. “I don’t know,” she said flatly.

Charlotte’s smile curved, brittle. “Curious. Because some on the Board suspect it might be you.”

The implication stung worse than she expected. She opened her mouth, but Munro cut her off with a raised hand. “That will be all. Come January, I expect quiet.”

Kate walked out into sleet, tugging her scarf high. Newton wasn’t there to greet her this time. No wagging tail to remind her she wasn’t carrying the weight alone. She whispered, as if saying it aloud could make it true:

“They’re wrong. They have to be.”

But the echo of suspicion followed her all the way back.

Later, back in her childhood home, the walls felt like ghosts. Faded family photos, Edwina’s old trophies, her parents’ wedding picture by the stairs. What should have grounded her only pressed at the cracks. Every frame a reminder of something whole that had splintered.

Her mind replayed Munro’s warning, Charlotte’s accusation, over and over. Your position will be terminated. Some suspect you are the Mosquito. The school she’d given her twenties to, the hall she’d built into a family, dangled on the edge of erasure—all because Cressida Cowper and her mother whispered loud enough to sway the Board.

Kate pressed her hand to the banister, grounding herself. But the darker thought slipped in anyway: What if Danbury wasn’t there when she came back? What if Mayfair had already dismantled it, the way her own family had splintered?

Newton padded across the carpet, ears pricking as if he sensed the spiral. He nudged her knee until she bent, scratching behind his ears. “At least you’re not judging me,” she whispered.

But even as she said it, her mind replayed Charlotte Hanover’s words—sharp, deliberate: Some wonder if it might be you.

She pictured Eloise’s silence. Penelope’s restless eyes. Clara’s confession about Minty. Threads of trust unraveling one by one, until even the people inside Danbury weren’t safe. Until maybe her residents weren’t just under attack—maybe one of them was holding the knife.

Kate straightened, forcing herself up the stairs, but the thought clung to her like a shadow. Mayfair was only hours south, yet tonight it felt like enemy territory.

And for the first time, she wasn’t sure if she was returning to her job… or walking back into an ambush.

Chapter Text

The Bridgerton sisters’ room was already a storm of packing chaos—half-zipped suitcases spilling scarves, sweaters collapsing into heaps, and Eloise’s tote bag crushed under a mountain of dog-eared notebooks she refused to throw away. Outside, frost clung to the panes, but inside the air felt thick—warm with heater hum, sharp with the friction of leaving and returning.

Eloise shoved another hoodie into her duffel like it had personally wronged her. “Do you think Kate would let me switch rooms this semester? Just—find me a single somewhere? I cannot do another five months of…” She yanked the zipper closed so hard it nearly snapped. “…all this.”

Francesca raised a brow, folding her cardigans into tidy stacks as if to balance out her sister’s chaos. “By ‘all this,’ you mean Penelope.”

“Obviously,” Eloise shot back, rolling her eyes. “Yes. And no. Mostly yes. I just—” She pressed her palms flat against the bag, exhaling. “I need space. If I had a single, maybe I wouldn’t feel like I’m suffocating every time her phone buzzes.”

Francesca smirked, tossing a blouse onto her bed with uncharacteristic carelessness. “Or maybe you could just move in with Phil, if you’re allowed. Rekindle your epic romance before the cops show up again to kill the mood.”

Eloise let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Romance. Please. If you can even call it that.” She flopped onto her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her voice softened despite herself. “He’s so patient, Frannie. Too patient. I froze him out for weeks and he just… waited. Didn’t demand. Didn’t push. Just waited. And instead of making me grateful, it makes me feel like the worst girlfriend alive.”

She stopped there, words pressing against her teeth. The truth—that she had already betrayed Penelope in silence, that she’d pulled the trigger on the Mosquito account—sat like lead in her chest. Francesca didn’t need to know. Not yet.

Across the room, Francesca zipped her suitcase halfway, smoothing the flap with more care than necessary. “Well, if you’re voting for room swaps, I’ll happily take the shared room. While I did request the single, I don’t mind company.” A faint, knowing pause. “Or distraction.”

Eloise sat up, smirk curling. “Distraction. You mean Michaela.”

Color climbed Francesca’s cheeks, though her voice stayed steady. “Maybe. I don’t know what we are. Friends. Something more. Something… in between. We texted all through the holidays, but I can’t put a name on it. Not yet. Is it a college phase? Am I experimenting? Or is it real?” She shut the suitcase with a neat click. “I don’t know. And not knowing terrifies me.”

Eloise’s sharp edges softened. “You don’t have to define it right now. God knows I can’t define anything in my life. But if you’re happy—” she shrugged, “—then take the shared room. Kick Penelope out if you want. She deserves it.”

Francesca laughed, light and quick. “That sounds like something you’d enjoy more than me.”

“True,” Eloise admitted with a smirk. “But still—Kate might actually say yes. She’s too decent to refuse us if we ask. Decency’s her Achilles’ heel.”

For a moment the sisters worked in companionable silence—the rhythm of folding, zipping, bumping shoulders in quiet assurance. Then Eloise leaned over and gave Francesca a playful shove. “Deal: I get the single, you take the shared, we both get what we want.”

Francesca smiled, her phone buzzing again on the desk. Michaela’s name glowed on the screen. She tried—and failed—to hide her blush as she swiped it up.

Eloise caught it, smirked, and yanked her duffel closed with one final tug. “Happy 2026, Bridgerton. Hope you’re ready—because Mayfair sure as hell won’t be.”

Kate sat at her desk with Newton curled like a sentinel at her feet, the roster of residents glowing on her laptop screen. Her pen tapped against the margin of the paper copy—habit, not necessity. She already knew every name, every room number, every tiny quirk and emergency contact. But after the Board’s warning, after Charlotte Hanover’s thinly veiled suspicion, she needed to see it written. Needed to check each name herself. Safe. Accounted for. Home.

The first knock came just after noon. Piper and Oliver stumbled in, duffels dragging, their mouths still fused like the break hadn’t ended. Kate arched a brow but said nothing, only marking them off as Newton wagged politely at their feet. At least they were… enthusiastic.

Caleb arrived next, hoodie pulled low against the chill, duffel slung carelessly over his shoulder. “Coach gave us forty-eight hours,” he grinned, pulling Kate into a hug that startled her with its warmth. “I plan to spend them sleeping like a human.”

Kate chuckled, patting his back. “Welcome home, Whitaker. Don’t let the others hear you say that—they’ll demand nap breaks by committee.”

Then came the noise. Michaela, sunglasses on despite the drizzle, hauling two suitcases like she was stepping off a runway. “Did you miss me, Mayfair?” she declared, tossing her scarf back with dramatic flair. Behind her, Paloma wheeled in a neon-pink trunk, already chatting a mile a minute, while Adelheid trailed with the exhausted precision of someone whose flight had been delayed twice. Noura appeared last, earbuds tucked under her hijab, smiling warmly as Newton bounded forward to greet her. Four more checks. The foyer thrummed with life again.

By mid-afternoon, Jack and Bridget trudged in, snow still clinging to their jackets. Jack balanced both duffels on his shoulders, cheeks pink from the cold. “Picked her up in Maryland,” he said sheepishly. “Easier than her catching the train.”

Bridget clutched her stack of American Studies texts and grinned. “He didn’t even get lost. Miracles happen.”

Kate’s smile tugged despite herself as she marked their names. Her residents always found their way back—even through storms, traffic, or detours.

Soon Peggy’s little car pulled up, Marian squeezed in the passenger seat, and Gladys wedged awkwardly in the back. They spilled into the foyer as a unit, their voices overlapping: Gladys muttering about the highway, Marian teasing Peggy’s parking, Peggy calmly wrangling them both. A check for each.

Hazel came with John not long after, rolling her eyes as he insisted on hauling most of her luggage. “I can carry my own bag,” she grumbled, though the smirk gave her away.

The foyer buzzed with greetings, hugs, and Newton weaving between legs as Kate checked name after name. She was still tucking her clipboard under her arm when the Bridgerton sisters arrived. Eloise climbed out first, brisk and no-nonsense, while Francesca slipped out quieter, music case balanced delicately at her side. Her eyes flicked immediately toward Michaela on the banister; Michaela raised a brow, lips quirking, and Francesca’s shy little wave gave her away.

Before Francesca could speak, Eloise cut across the foyer. “Kate, we’ve decided to switch this semester. I’m taking Francesca’s room. She’ll move into mine.”

Kate blinked, caught off guard. “That’s fine, but what about Penelope? She—”

“She’s more than willing,” Eloise said quickly, too clipped to be casual. “Thrilled, actually.”

Kate tilted her head but let it pass. No need to ignite a scene in the foyer. Still, she made a mental note: Penelope’s version of “thrilled” would need confirming.

And right on cue, Penelope was still sitting in the car at the edge of the drive. Hands tight on the wheel, breath uneven. Was she ready? To see Eloise again, to face silence sharper than shouting? She forced herself out at last, bag slung across her shoulder. The foyer surged with chatter—Newton barking, residents calling hellos—but all she caught was Eloise’s profile as her former friend turned and disappeared upstairs without a word.

Penelope’s throat ached. She crossed to Kate, her voice low. “Is there… any chance I could switch to a single?”

Before Kate could answer, Michaela spoke from the stairs, casual but deliberate. “Take mine.” Her eyes flicked to Francesca, who met her gaze with unmistakable gratitude. A smile, small but telling, passed between them.

Penelope didn’t miss it. Neither did Kate.

By dusk, the foyer had quieted again, most of the suitcases dragged upstairs, the hum of greetings softened into unpacking. Kate scanned her roster one last time, pen poised to finish her checklist—when Hazel’s voice cut across the room.

“Wait,” she said, frowning. “Where’s Sophie?”

Heads turned. Francesca looked up sharply. Hugh was already thumbing his phone, muttering, “I’ll text her.”

Kate’s chest tightened. Sophie was punctual, reliable, steady as clockwork. Not showing up—without word, without warning—wasn’t like her at all.

And as the hall hushed around her, Kate felt it: the first prick of unease that maybe this semester’s battles weren’t waiting to begin.

They’d already started.

The hazard lights blinked their metronome rhythm into the dark, each flash bouncing off the guardrail of I-95. Sophie sat stiff in the driver’s seat, the Rappahannock Falls bridge behind her, the Fredericksburg exit still too far to reach on foot. The car had sputtered, coughed, and then gone dark—battery gone, heater dead, cold air threading through every seam of her coat. Her phone screen glowed at 4%, the little red bar taunting her.

She pressed it to her ear. The line clicked, and Araminta’s voice crackled through, smooth and sharp as glass.

“You’re where?”

“Near Fredericksburg. Just past the bridge.” Sophie’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel, willing her voice steady. “The car’s dead. My phone’s about to die, too. Can you put Dad on?”

“He’s busy with kitchen prep,” Araminta replied, unbothered. “But Phillip’s free. I’ll have him come get you. He’d be glad to drive you back to campus.”

The name sliced through her like ice. “No.” Sophie’s voice sharpened, louder than she meant. “Absolutely not. I’d rather hitchhike with a trucker rocking the world’s biggest mullet than get in a car with Phillip.”

“Sophie—”

“Put Dad on,” she cut in.

“I told you, he’s busy.” Final, flat.

The dismissal snapped something in Sophie. Her jaw clenched, her pulse thundered in her ears, and before Araminta could say another word, she hung up.

Her phone buzzed immediately—Hugh.

Hugh: Are you okay? Where exactly? We’ll figure it out.

Relief cracked through her chest. She thumbed her location through with trembling fingers, then slumped against the cold headrest, her eyes stinging.

Back in Danbury, Eloise was halfway up the stairs when her phone lit with Hugh’s forwarded message. She froze, scanning the words twice. Stranded. Sophie. I-95. Her own car sat in the lot, still warm from the drive back, but the thought of winter traffic on the interstate made her groan aloud.

Still, she knew someone who wouldn’t hesitate. Someone who might even need this.

Eloise: Ben. Sophie’s stuck on I-95, near Fredericksburg exit. Car died. Can you go? Please.

She hit send before she could think about whether she was meddling.

In Newport News, Benedict was barefoot in his kitchen, milk carton in hand, when the text buzzed across his phone. He glanced down, read it once, and his heart lurched painfully. Sophie.

The chocolate milk never made it to the glass. He dropped the carton back into the fridge, snatched his keys from the counter, and shoved on his coat. He didn’t even notice he’d skipped his shoes until he was halfway down the stairs.

The drive north blurred into a tunnel of headlights and taillights, the highway unfolding like a promise he was desperate to keep. His mind circled the same truth over and over: this was his chance. His chance to be more than sketches, more than sidelines, more than the guy who always arrived a moment too late.

This time, Sophie needed saving.

And Benedict Bridgerton wasn’t going to miss it.

The hazard lights blinked slower now, as though the car itself was losing the will to keep her safe. Sophie tugged her coat tighter, each exhale fogging the glass before fading into nothing. Tractor-trailers thundered past on I-95, their blasts of frozen air rattling the frame and making the dead engine shudder like a corpse.

Her phone buzzed—Hugh again.

Hugh: Hang tight. Eloise says Ben’s on his way. He’ll be there.

For half a heartbeat, her chest eased. Benedict was coming. But then her gaze dropped to the battery icon—2%. A single red slash of hope. She wanted to type something—thank you, please hurry, I’m fine, I’m not fine—but the words blurred under her trembling fingers. What if the phone died mid-message? What if no one knew where she really was?

The minutes dragged. Each sweep of headlights set her pulse racing. What if it wasn’t Benedict? What if it was Phillip, circling back because Araminta had sent him anyway? The thought stuck, heavy and stubborn, and no amount of swallowing could push it down.

The screen dimmed.

1%.

Her thumb fumbled across the keyboard, desperate. She tried to retype her exact exit, as if repeating it might tether her to safety, might make sure Benedict found her before the dark did.

The phone buzzed one last time, a glow across her lap:

Eloise: He’s coming. Don’t move.

Then the screen went black.

No glow. No signal. Just the brittle silence of winter swallowing her whole.

Sophie curled her arms tight across her chest, her breath sharp in the cold. The hazard lights pulsed weakly in the dark, her only tether to being seen, each blink slower than the last.

For the first time all semester, she felt truly, terrifyingly alone.

And miles down the highway, Benedict Bridgerton’s car tore north, headlights cutting through the night—closer with every mile, but not nearly fast enough.

Chapter Text

The hallway between 206 and 217 was alive with echoes—cardboard edges bumping plaster, suitcase wheels rattling, doors opening and shutting in uneven rhythm. But beneath the surface bustle, there was something brittle in the air, a quiet threaded with tension.

Eloise marched forward, tote bag hugged tight against her chest, hair spilling into her face. Francesca’s old room sat waiting—closet bare, desk cleared, bed stripped to its bones. All it needed was a new occupant, someone stubborn enough to claim it.

She nearly collided with Penelope at the doorway.

Penelope was balancing a box, knuckles white, headed the opposite way—toward Michaela’s vacated room, her new “assignment.”

For a moment they just stood there, the hallway closing in around them. Newton padded past, tail drooping, like even he sensed the sharpness in the silence.

“Excuse me,” Eloise said coolly, stepping aside. She didn’t look directly at her, just brushed past, dropping her tote onto the bare desk with a thump.

Penelope’s voice followed, low and trembling, but it carried. “We can’t keep doing this, El. Pretending it didn’t happen. Pretending nothing changed.”

Eloise’s shoulders tensed, but she didn’t turn. She stacked her notebooks on the shelf with careful precision, each one a brick in the barricade she was building. “Maybe we can. So excuse me.”

“No.” Penelope set her box down too hard, arms crossing like armor. “Do you have any idea how close I came to not coming back at all? To staying gone—Alaska, anywhere but here? I thought about it every day over break.”

Eloise let out a sharp laugh, brittle as glass. “Maybe you should have. It would’ve saved everyone the trouble.”

The words landed like a slap. Penelope flinched, but she forced her chin higher. “I couldn’t. Because as much as I wanted the escape, it wasn’t right. Not for me. Not yet. But you—” her voice broke, steadied, “—you had no right to delete the Mosquito. That was mine. My words. My fight. Not yours to erase.”

For the briefest moment, Eloise froze—guilt flickering across her face before she shuttered it. Then her back straightened, spine iron, expression unreadable.

She turned. Shut the door with deliberate finality.

The sound cracked through the hall, sharp and echoing. Penelope stood there in the corridor, breath ragged, hands shaking, the sting rising behind her eyes.

Newton lingered for just a second, looking back at her, before he trotted on.

“I wasn’t ready to lose you too,” Penelope whispered, the words swallowed whole by plaster and silence.

Francesca knelt at her desk, arranging her sheet music into tidy, deliberate stacks. Each pile had its logic—concertos here, études there—though she knew Michaela would probably call it obsessive. The window was cracked just enough to let in a breath of winter air, sharp and clean, cutting through the faint smell of new laundry.

On the bed, Michaela sprawled like a cat in mid-stretch, hoodie half-off one shoulder, earbuds dangling uselessly around her neck as her thumb flicked idly across her phone.

“You know,” Michaela drawled, her grin audible even before Francesca turned, “for someone who swears she hates clutter, you’re unpacking like you’re curating the Louvre. Cardigans by decade. Socks by dynasty.”

Francesca looked back over her shoulder, brow raised. “Some of us value order.”

“And some of us,” Michaela shot back, grin widening, “prefer chaos. Keeps life interesting.”

Francesca tried to smother her smile, but it tugged wider anyway. “Your version of ‘interesting’ usually involves breaking rules.”

“Or bending them.” Michaela tossed her phone aside and sat up, eyes glinting. “Like sneaking you into the practice rooms after curfew. Which, for the record, was one of my finer ideas.”

Before Francesca could reply, muffled voices bled through the wall. Eloise’s sharp and clipped, Penelope’s soft and pleading. The words blurred, but enough carried: we can’t just pretend nothing happened… you should’ve stayed gone… you had no right.

Francesca froze, sweater hem clutched tight between her fingers. Michaela’s grin faded as she tilted her head, listening.

“What do you think that’s about?” Michaela whispered.

Francesca shook her head, throat tight. “I don’t know. But it sounds like… the end of something.”

The slam of a door cracked the silence. Francesca flinched.

Michaela reached out without thinking, brushing her fingers lightly against Francesca’s wrist. “Hey. Not our fight. Let them handle it.”

Francesca nodded, though her gaze lingered on the wall. Her sister’s friendship—one that had felt immovable, inevitable—was splintering just beyond reach. No amount of careful folding could put it back together.

Michaela nudged her with a sock-covered foot, playful but grounding. “Don’t do that thing where you tie yourself in knots over everyone else’s mess.”

“It’s not everyone,” Francesca murmured. “It’s Eloise. She sounded like she was cutting something off. For good.”

Michaela shrugged, casual on the outside, sharp underneath. “She probably is. Your sister’s got that kamikaze streak. When she’s done, she’s done.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Francesca said, folding too sharply, creasing the knit. “They’re connected to the hip all of last semester. I don’t know how Danbury’s supposed to feel without that.”

Michaela studied her, then leaned closer, her grin returning—softer this time. “Maybe Danbury will survive. Maybe the question is whether you’ll let yourself stop worrying about everyone else and… actually live.”

Francesca gave a short, startled laugh. “You make it sound easy.”

“It is,” Michaela said simply. She plucked the folded sweater from Francesca’s hands and tossed it onto the chair, ignoring the gasp of protest. “See? Easy.”

“You’re cruel,” Francesca muttered, cheeks pink.

“Cruel,” Michaela said, grinning now, “and effective.” She sprawled back across the bed, propping herself up on her elbows, eyes steady on Francesca. “Truth or dare?”

Francesca blinked. “What?”

“Truth: do you actually like order, or is it just armor? Dare: let me mess up your sheet music.”

Francesca’s mouth twitched. “That’s sadistic.”

“Maybe,” Michaela allowed, her voice dipping low. “Or maybe I just want to see what happens when you stop folding and start living.”

For once, Francesca didn’t retreat to the safety of her suitcase. She crossed the room instead, sat on the bed beside her, heart thudding.

“Fine,” she said, voice steady but soft. “But touch my sheet music and I’m gone.”

Michaela’s smirk softened into something else, warmer. “Noted. Boundaries respected.” A pause, quieter now. “But you’re staying. Right here.”

And this time, Francesca did.

The hazard lights blinked slower now, like even the car was giving up. Sophie hugged her coat tighter, breath fogging the glass. Each passing truck sent a shudder through the frame, headlights sweeping across her like spotlights she hadn’t auditioned for. Her stomach twisted with every roar of an engine.

And then—brake lights flared in her rearview mirror. A car slowed, eased onto the shoulder, and stopped just behind hers. Sophie’s pulse spiked. What if it’s Phillip? What if Araminta sent him anyway?

The driver’s door opened.

Not Phillip.

Benedict.

He strode toward her, coat collar turned up against the wind, his hair tousled by the night air, worry etched deep across his face. “Are you alright?”

Relief hit so hard it made her dizzy. Absurdly, her first thought wasn’t for herself but for him—for why he had driven nearly two hours in winter traffic just to be here.

“You didn’t have to,” she blurted, her voice cracking. “It’s freezing, the roads are awful—”

“I nearly forgot my shoes when I got Eloise’s text,” Benedict admitted with a crooked half-smile, though his eyes stayed serious. “Trust me, nothing was going to stop me.”

Her throat tightened.

“Come on,” he said gently. “Get in my car. It’s warmer. You can charge your phone while I check your battery.”

Sophie nodded, her legs stiff as she crossed the short distance. The blast of heat from his vents was like stepping into another world. She slid into the seat, gaze snagging on a couple of crumpled tissues in the cup holder—a small, human detail that made her chest ache unexpectedly.

Outside, Benedict popped her hood, flashlight beam cutting across the dark. He leaned in, tapped the terminals, then motioned for her to try. She turned the key once. The engine coughed, sputtered—died. Again. Nothing.

Finally, he exhaled, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Battery’s gone. We’ll need AAA.”

He pressed his phone into her hands. “Call them. And your dad. Let him know you’re safe.”

The screen glowed against her cold fingers. Richard picked up almost instantly, steady as ever, though surprise laced his voice when she explained. He hadn’t known she was stranded. Araminta must not have told him.

And then, faint but sharp, Sophie heard her stepmother’s voice in the background—insisting Phillip should have picked her up.

Sophie’s chest hardened. “No,” she said firmly, her voice cracking but not wavering. “Phillip isn’t coming. I’m safe. I’ll wait for AAA.” She ended the call before Araminta could argue.

The silence stretched, broken only by the hum of the heater. Sophie glanced sideways—Benedict hadn’t said a word, but the set of his jaw, the quiet fury in his eyes, told her he’d heard enough. For the first time since her car had died, she didn’t feel alone.

Thanks to Richard’s account, AAA promised a truck within thirty minutes. True to their word, orange lights finally cut through the dark, the rumble of the tow breaking the long wait. The driver confirmed her location, hooked the cables, and within minutes her car was secured.

“Lucky break your dad had the membership,” Benedict murmured, shoving his hands into his coat pockets, his breath fogging white in the cold. “Otherwise they’d charge you triple.”

“Lucky break,” Sophie echoed softly, watching the tow pull her car away. For the first time in hours, her chest eased.

Benedict tilted his head toward his own car. “Alright. We’ve got a couple hours of road ahead of us. And you’re not surviving that on stress fumes and campus coffee. Drive-thru first. Non-negotiable.”

Sophie blinked, startled into laughter. “Drive-thru?”

“You’ve been stranded on I-95 in the freezing dark,” Benedict said with mock solemnity. “That earns you fries. And maybe a milkshake.” His grin flickered in the glow of the tow truck lights, warm and boyish.

Her cheeks heated despite the wind. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous,” Benedict agreed easily, opening the passenger door for her, “and correct.”

She ducked into the car, setting her small bag on her lap—the one she’d pulled from the trunk, her Mayfair uniform neatly folded inside. As if some part of her had known she’d want it close. The door shut, sealing them in with the hum of the heater and faint guitar notes still playing on Benedict’s stereo.

Through the windshield, the hazard lights of her dead car winked one last time before disappearing south behind the tow.

Benedict slid into the driver’s seat, shooting her a sideways smile that was half reassurance, half challenge. “So. Fries and a milkshake. Maybe a cheeseburger, if you’re brave. What’s it going to be, Sophie Baek?”

She laughed again—softer this time, but freer. “Fries. Definitely fries.”

Headlights cut across the highway as the car rolled forward, slicing into the dark. Together.

The common room had finally gone still, the last of the noise fading upstairs into half-zipped bags and weary footsteps. In her new room—Francesca’s old one—Eloise perched on the edge of the bed, clothes scattered in a heap beside her. She stared at her phone until it buzzed.

Phil: Just checking in. How are you holding up?

Her throat tightened. Worst girlfriend alive. That’s how. She typed fast, almost defensively:

Eloise: Better now. Relieved my sister agreed to switch rooms. Feels like I can breathe again.

Before she could second-guess, another ping lit the screen.

Phil: Open the door.

She blinked. Frowned. Then crossed to the window.

There he was—Phil, standing in the drizzle, grinning sheepishly with a small bouquet of gerbera daisies in his hand: pink, orange, red. Bright. Cheerful. Uncomplicated.

Eloise’s chest squeezed. She bolted down the stairs, tugged the door open, and threw herself into his arms.

“You’re ridiculous,” she mumbled into his jacket.

“Ridiculous,” Phil agreed, holding out the flowers, “but I figured you’re not a roses person. Too formal. Too scripted. Gerberas felt… right. Bold. A little stubborn.”

Her laugh caught on a sob she hadn’t realized she was holding. She hugged him tighter. “I’m sorry. For pushing you away. For making you wait while I… figured myself out.”

Phil smoothed a hand down her back, steady as ever. “El, you don’t owe me an apology for being human. Believe me, I get it. My dorm alone? Half the time I feel like a full-time therapist who forgot to invoice.”

Eloise sniffed, pulling back just enough to see his face. His eyes were kind. Steady. Not demanding. Just there.

“I still want to make it up to you,” she whispered.

“All I want,” Phil said softly, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek, “is for you to let me in.”

The words settled between them, simple and certain. And this time Eloise didn’t hesitate. She stepped aside, daisies clutched in her hand, and let him cross the threshold.

Chapter Text

Upstairs, Francesca’s old room already felt transformed. Her sheet music and cardigans were gone, replaced by Eloise’s uneven stacks of books, half-emptied tote bags, and a suitcase spilling sweaters across the floor. It wasn’t tidy, but it was hers, a space that finally let her breathe.

Phil took it all in with a crooked smile as he stepped inside. “Very you,” he said, gesturing toward the mismatched piles. “Like an eccentric professor’s office—minus the tweed jacket.”

Eloise set the bright gerberas in the only clean glass she owned, water splashing over the rim. “Careful. You’ll make me sound respectable.”

“Never respectable,” Phil teased, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Just… you. And I like it.”

She joined him, her fingers brushing the petals, softer now than the sharp words she’d used on Penelope just hours ago. “I wasn’t fair to you,” she admitted. “Asking you to be my boyfriend and then shutting you out. You deserve better.”

Phil’s answer was steady, patient. “El, I don’t need perfect. I just need honest. If that means waiting while you sort things out, I’ll wait. That’s not a burden for me.”

Her laugh broke against a sigh as she leaned into his shoulder. “You’re unfairly good at this, you know.”

“Perks of RA life,” he said, kissing her hair lightly. “You learn fast or you drown.”

She chuckled, the sound loosening something that had knotted too tightly for weeks. The room felt warmer, anchored by his presence and the absurd brightness of daisies in lamplight. For once, she didn’t feel like the worst girlfriend alive. She felt like someone who might—just might—get it right.

Phil tilted his head, catching her gaze. “That’s fine. Because I can stand you. More than stand you, El. Even if you do try to kill us all in D&D.”

This time, her laugh wasn’t tinged with guilt. She leaned in, kissed him slowly, without apology, without hesitation. Just promise.

When they broke apart, she curled closer, her head against his shoulder, the radiator humming like background music. For the first time in a long time, Eloise Bridgerton wasn’t thinking about what she’d ruined. She was thinking about what she might build—here, with him.

The car smelled faintly of salt and grease, the universal perfume of McDonald’s. A paper bag sat crumpled between them, steam curling upward, filling the cabin with the comforting weight of fries and fried chicken. Sophie nursed her chocolate shake, straw squeaking every time she pulled, while Benedict worked his way through the fries with the distracted focus of someone running on adrenaline and nothing else.

Her phone buzzed on her lap, revived by his charger. Relief spilled through her as she typed quick messages—

Sophie: I’m fine. Warm. Back soon.

The Danbury group chat lit up in reply, half with heart emojis, half with Rae demanding “proof-of-life” selfies, Bridget chiming in with “bring nuggets or don’t bother coming back.” Sophie laughed softly, shaking her head at the absurdity of it all.

“Of course,” she muttered, “the night ends with cold fries and Rae drafting a snack ransom.”

Benedict coughed once—low, but sharp enough to make her turn. Her brows pinched. “Hey. Are you okay?”

“Just a cough,” he said, brushing it off, eyes fixed on the road. “Too much night air. Or nerves. Or both.”

Her gaze flicked to the cup holder, where a crumpled tissue sat like damning evidence. “Uh-huh. Just a cough. That’s what everyone says right before they’re bedridden.”

His lips tugged at a grin. “Are you diagnosing me, Doctor Baek?”

“Neuroscience, not medicine,” she shot back, slurping noisily at her shake. “But I still know when someone’s full of it.”

Their eyes met in the glow of the dashboard lights—hers sharp, his amused—and something unspoken flickered in the quiet.

Outside, the road stretched in ribbons of black and silver, headlights catching the bare branches that clawed at the shoulder. Sophie drew her coat tighter, her breath fogging faintly against the glass. “You know,” she said, voice softer, “I thought I’d hate going back to school in January. Frozen classrooms, endless exams. But right now… it doesn’t feel so bad.” A faint smile curved her lips. “All it’s missing is snow.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Benedict warned, reaching into the bag for another fry. “If we get snow, my students will spend the week licking icicles instead of painting. Which means me with Lysol in one hand and Kleenex in the other.”

Sophie burst into laughter, her voice filling the little cocoon of the car. “Please. Prevention’s a lost cause. Judging by your cup holder, you’re already carrying half the flu season.”

He coughed into his elbow, grinning wryly. “Exposed.”

For a moment, only the heater hummed, steady and warm. Then Sophie tilted her head, curiosity pulling her voice lower. “So. Art teacher. Do you actually love it, or is this just your cover story until Netflix buys your life rights?”

Something shifted in Benedict’s expression—lighter, unguarded. “I do love it,” he admitted. “It’s not what I pictured when I was twenty-six, but… it feels right. Every so often, I’ll see a kid light up. The way Mr. Granville made me light up back in high school. He was the first person who didn’t call art a hobby. He told me it could be a life.”

The conviction in his tone surprised her. She studied him—not just the grin, not just the way he looked like he belonged in a glossy ad, but the quiet steadiness underneath. “That’s incredible,” she said softly. “To be that person for someone else.”

His gaze slid toward her, just long enough to catch her watching him. A smile tugged slow, self-deprecating. “Assuming I survive winter germs, yes.”

The bag rustled as he fished out one last fry. “Confession,” he said, tossing it into his mouth, “this is probably my third McChicken this week. Don’t tell my students. I’m supposed to be the cultured one.”

Sophie smirked, sipping the last of her shake until the straw scraped the bottom. “Cultured people eat fast food. They just pretend they don’t. And you—” she flicked her eyes to the tissues, “—clearly like living dangerously.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Dangerous and cultured. That’s me.”

She shook her head, half-amused, half-softened by the way Benedict kept stealing glances—like making sure she was really there, really safe.

“So this is what art teachers do?” she teased. “Eat McChickens, hoard Lysol, and battle teenagers with sketchbooks?”

“Not battle,” Benedict corrected gently, his tone shifting quieter, steadier. “Guide. Try to spark something. I know it sounds corny, but if even one kid looks at paint or clay or a blank page and feels what I felt when Mr. Granville handed me my first set of charcoals…” He trailed off, smiling almost shyly. “That’s enough.”

Sophie’s chest tightened. She wasn’t used to men speaking this way—open, honest, without a hook hidden underneath. Phillip’s words had always carried strings attached, promises that sounded more like ultimatums. Benedict’s didn’t. They just… were.

She laughed softly, easing the weight before it tipped too far. “Well, for the record, if your students don’t appreciate you, they’re idiots. Or teenagers. Same thing.”

He grinned, shaking his head. “Both, usually.”

The heater hummed. Headlights carved the dark highway. Sophie shifted, pulling her knees up slightly, fingers fidgeting at the hem of her coat. Her eyes kept drifting toward him anyway—the profile caught in the glow of passing light, the easy curve of his smile even after driving hours through winter night just to find her. She told herself the warmth creeping into her chest was gratitude. Relief. But something deeper tugged, refusing to be brushed aside.

Benedict reached for the last fry, his hand brushing hers where it rested on the console. The touch was brief, almost accidental, but it lingered in the air between them. He pulled back quickly, offering a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” she said too quickly. Heat still sparked along her skin. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes fixed on the dashboard. “Really. It’s fine.”

He cleared his throat, half-covering another cough, then glanced her way again. “Can I ask you something?”

Her mouth curved. “Depends. If you’re asking about the last fry, the answer’s no.”

That grin of his deepened, but his voice was softer now. “No. Something else. How long have you been dancing?”

The question unspooled something inside her. “Since I could walk,” she admitted. “My mom taught Korean folk dance—hanryangmu, buchaechum. She said I was moving to the drumbeat before I even knew what rhythm was.” Her fingers brushed absently at her knee, the memory tugging sharp and sweet. “After she died, my dad kept it alive. He’d drive me to classes after long shifts, even made sure I tried ballet, jazz, contemporary. He wanted me to have it all.”

Benedict’s eyes flicked from the road, watching her with a quiet, intent focus that felt almost too much.

“I love it,” Sophie went on, her voice lower now. “But it’s not everything. Dancing is about movement—but I’ve always wanted to know why. Why the brain remembers choreography. Why music makes you cry. Why people dance through grief. That’s why I chose neuroscience. I want to understand the mind as much as the body.”

The silence after was filled with the hum of tires and the faint crinkle of the paper bag between them.

Finally, Benedict spoke—soft, steady, without flourish. “For what it’s worth, I think your mom would be proud. Not just because you dance. Because you see beyond it. That takes more than talent. That takes heart.”

Sophie turned, startled. The headlights caught his face just long enough to show he meant it. Every word.

Her throat tightened, but she smiled anyway, small and genuine. “Thanks. That… means a lot.”

The hazard lights on Sophie’s towed car had long faded into the dark behind them, but the silence in Benedict’s car wasn’t empty. It pulsed with something unspoken, something that lingered in the space between them like a secret smile.

The hum of the road and the weight of a half-finished shake lulled Sophie toward sleep, her head tipped gently against the cold window. She might have drifted off completely if not for the sound beside her—a cough.

She blinked awake and turned. Benedict pressed his knuckles to his mouth once, then again. When he lowered his hand, the pale sheen along his temple made her chest tighten. Not the cozy flush of a heated car. Fever pale.

“Benedict,” she said sharply, sitting straighter. “Pull over.”

“I’m fine.” His voice was low, scratchy, and utterly unconvincing. “Just a cough.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Right. And that clammy face is just enthusiasm? Nearest CVS, now. I’m not sitting two hours on I-95 while you pass out at the wheel.”

He gave her a sideways look, half amused, half resigned. “You’re bossy when you’re worried.”

“Correct,” Sophie shot back. “Now pull over.”

He sighed but obeyed, guiding them off the highway toward the neon glow of a 24-hour pharmacy. Minutes later, he returned with a NyQuil–DayQuil combo pack and a crinkled bag of Ricola, looking sheepish.

Sophie shook one capsule into his palm, pressing it into his hand like a prescription. “Take it. Then I’m driving.”

He tried for protest. “You’ll crash before Richmond.”

“I won’t.” She was already sliding behind the wheel, mirrors adjusting under her hands. “I’ve danced on sprained ankles. You think I can’t handle a straight shot down I-95?”

That coaxed a laugh out of him—hoarse, but real. He swallowed the dose, chased it with bottled water, then slumped into the passenger seat. She eased them back onto the interstate, the heater humming softly.

“Good,” she murmured. “Now rest. You’ve probably been marinating in your students’ germs all December.”

His lips twitched into the faintest smile. Within minutes, the medicine tugged him under. His long frame shifted awkwardly until he found a position that didn’t crush his knees against the dash. The Ricola bag sat forgotten in his lap.

“Just a cough,” he mumbled one last time, the words slurring as sleep pulled him down.

Sophie spared him a glance. Mussed hair. Brow creased even in sleep. And pale, yes—but unguarded in a way that caught her off guard too. For the first time all night, she didn’t feel quite so alone on the road.

She lowered the heat, tightened her grip on the wheel, and whispered into the quiet: “Rest. I’ll get us home.”

The highway stretched ahead—blacktop and headlights, long and unbroken—but with Benedict sleeping beside her, Sophie drove steady through the winter night. South, toward Mayfair. Toward whatever waited for them next.

The beam of headlights swept across Danbury’s brick façade, scattering over the slick pavement before a tow truck eased Sophie’s battered sedan into place. Kate watched from the foyer window, clipboard forgotten, relief tugging at her shoulders. Sophie’s car was back. Which meant Sophie couldn’t be far behind.

Her hand drifted toward her phone, thumb hovering over Anthony’s contact—old reflex, muscle memory. But before she could press it, another set of headlights swung into the drive. A second car rolled to a stop.

Sophie stepped out first, coat wrapped tight, her bag slung across her shoulder. She spotted Kate immediately and lifted a hand. “He’s asleep,” she called softly through the drizzle. “Don’t wake him yet. He… probably needs a bed more than I do.”

Kate frowned, until Sophie opened the passenger door. Benedict Bridgerton. Slumped against the seatbelt, lashes low against his cheeks, pale even in the dark. Stubbornly self-sufficient even while clearly running on fumes.

Kate shoved her phone back into her pocket and crossed the slick pavement quickly. Together, she and Sophie eased him upright—his long frame awkward between them, his weight heavy across their shoulders. He stirred faintly, muttered something incoherent, then sagged again.

“Easy,” Kate murmured, steadying his arm. “We’ve got you.”

Inside, the common room was hushed, couches empty, the last echoes of chatter muffled upstairs. They lowered him gently onto the largest sofa. His breath left him in a rough exhale, a sound equal parts surrender and relief.

Newton padded in, toenails clicking on the old wood. He went straight to Sophie, tail wagging so hard his whole body wriggled. She crouched, letting him nose and lick her hand, and her face softened into a tired smile.

Kate draped a blanket across Benedict’s chest. He was already slipping back under, pale but steady, the fever flush faint on his skin.

“You should rest,” Kate said to Sophie, her voice gentler than she meant. “He’ll be fine here tonight. And you—” she met her eyes, steady, certain—“you’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

Sophie gave a small nod, exhaustion loosening her shoulders. Newton pressed against her knee like a sentry, and for the first time in weeks, Kate felt the hall settle.

Danbury wasn’t whole because it was perfect. It was whole because, against every storm, its people had found their way back.

Chapter Text

Benedict woke to the wet smack of a corgi tongue on his cheek. He groaned, rolling sideways on the Danbury common room sofa, only to be met with Newton’s eager face and tail thumping like a metronome.

“Alright, alright,” he rasped, wiping his cheek with the cuff of his sleeve. His voice was rough, his head still fogged, but the fever haze had thinned. “Message received. I’m alive.”

On the low table beside him sat a half-drained bottle of water, a fresh box of tissues, and a bottle of DayQuil. A folded note leaned against it, Sophie’s handwriting neat and precise:

Take this while Hazel and Jack are dragging me to AutoZone for a new battery. Don’t argue. :) — S

The smiley face tugged at his mouth. He dutifully poured the dose and swallowed it down.

“Awake?” Kate’s voice carried softly from the foyer. She appeared in the doorway, Newton trotting to her side like a herald. Gone was the scarf from last night—today it was a turtleneck and the clipboard, though her eyes still flicked over him with a sharpness that felt suspiciously maternal.

“Awake,” Benedict confirmed, voice low. “Functional, questionable.”

Kate crossed the room, resting her hand on the back of the sofa. “You don’t have to play stoic, Bridgerton. Spare room’s made up—quiet corner, clean sheets. You can crash there until you’re steady enough to drive back to Newport News.”

His brows arched. “And deprive you of your one emergency guest suite? Scandalous.”

Her smirk curved into something softer. “You saved Sophie from being stranded in the cold with her ex circling. That earns you more than a nap.”

Before he could answer, the stairwell creaked. Eloise emerged in a hoodie, hair a tangled halo, strings pulled tight around her face. Her eyes found him instantly, and for once her voice held no sting.

“Thank you,” she said simply. No irony. No joke. Just truth.

Benedict blinked, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For Sophie,” Eloise replied, leaning against the railing. “You were there when she needed someone other than Phillip. And you didn’t hesitate.” A shrug, casual, but her eyes stayed earnest. “So… thank you.”

Newton’s tail filled the silence with its steady thump. Benedict cleared his throat, unsure what else to do with the weight of her sincerity. “It wasn’t even a question.”

The front door swung open, letting in a gust of cold drizzle. Hazel appeared first, AutoZone bag in hand like a trophy, Jack behind her balancing the new battery against his chest. Sophie followed last, cheeks flushed from the chill, eyes scanning the room until they found him.

Relief flickered across her face. “You’re up,” she said, her voice gentler than the rain outside.

He smiled, tired but genuine. “And apparently being replaced by a car battery.”

Hazel snorted. “Don’t take it personally. Some of us just prefer reliable engines.”

Laughter broke like sunlight through the foyer—warm, unguarded, exactly what the hall had needed. Sophie set her bag down, brushing drizzle from her coat, and Kate allowed herself the smallest breath of ease.

Outside, drizzle slicked the pavement while Jack crouched by the curb, sleeves shoved past his elbows, a socket wrench balanced in his grip. The AutoZone box sat open beside him, Styrofoam guts spilling out onto the wet sidewalk. Hazel leaned against Sophie’s car with an umbrella angled over both of them, offering commentary that was half cheerleader, half heckler.

“Lefty loosey, righty tighty,” she chirped.

Jack shot her a look. “Hazel, I’ve changed a car battery before.”

“Sure,” she said, grinning. “But never with me judging you. Don’t choke.”

Sophie laughed, tugging her coat tighter, the sound slipping out lighter than it had in days. The knot in her chest—the one that had wound itself tighter since the highway—finally started to loosen. Danbury sounded like Danbury again: messy, noisy, alive.

Inside, Benedict made the tactical error of pushing himself upright on the common room sofa. “I should—” he began hoarsely.

“Nope,” Sophie cut in, her glare sharp enough to pin him in place. “Spare room. Now.”

He arched a brow, even through the fever haze. “And how exactly do you plan to move me? You’re a foot shorter.”

Sophie crossed her arms, chin tilting up. “I’m a dancer, Bridgerton. Do you really think I can’t haul one feverish art teacher up a flight of stairs? Try me.”

His laugh was soft, conceding, though the sound caught in his throat. “Unfair advantage. You’ve got more muscle than I do.”

“Correct,” she said briskly, already sliding an arm under his. He swayed once, leaning heavier than he meant to, but she steadied him without hesitation. Step by step, they made their way down the hall, her determination firmer than his protests.

By the time she eased him onto the narrow bed of the spare room, even Benedict had to surrender. He collapsed against the pillow with a groan that was half-exhaustion, half-relief.

“Bossy nurse,” he muttered, eyes already shutting.

“Efficient nurse,” Sophie corrected, tugging the blanket up to his chest. She smoothed it once, brisk but careful. “Now get some proper sleep.”

Benedict murmured something unintelligible, too far gone to argue. Sophie stood at the doorway a moment longer, watching the tension slip from his features as the fever pulled him under.

Downstairs, Kate lingered at her desk, tapping the corner of her phone against her palm. Anthony’s name hovered on the screen. She told herself it was only to update him—Sophie was safe, Benedict was resting, the hall was intact. Nothing more.

Before she could decide, a knock rattled the foyer door. Newton barked once, sharp. Kate’s stomach tightened. Greek Row had been circling since December, waiting for an excuse. Maybe this was it. Maybe they’d sent someone to stir trouble.

She pulled the door open—ready for a fight—only to stop short.

Anthony stood in the drizzle, hair damp, coat unbuttoned, a bakery box balanced in his hands. The smell of butter and sugar drifted out as he lifted the lid just enough to reveal neat golden rows.

“Publix croissants,” he announced, grin crooked. “Still warm. I figured Danbury could use a peace offering. Or breakfast. Whichever comes first.”

For the first time in days, Kate’s laugh slipped out unguarded. Relief, exasperation, and something warmer tangled together as she stepped aside.

The kitchen filled with the smell of flaky carbs, the little Publix box perched between them on the counter. Kate tore a croissant in half, crumbs scattering across the laminate. Anthony leaned against the opposite counter, watching her with that maddening half-smile.

“You know,” she said, mouth full of butter and pastry, “if this is your way of bribing Danbury into forgiving Greek Row, croissants are a bold choice.”

“Not Greek Row,” Anthony corrected, popping a piece into his mouth. “Just you.”

Kate rolled her eyes, though her cheeks betrayed her. “You’re lucky none of my residents are hunting for snacks. This box wouldn’t survive a feeding frenzy.”

Anthony gestured at the quiet kitchen, the hush of the hall pressing in. “Strange, isn’t it? Not a single interruption. Almost like they’re in on it.”

Kate arched a brow. “In on what?”

“This.” He waved his croissant between them, the smile softening. “A date.”

She snorted, amused despite herself. “You brought carbs, Bridgerton. That barely counts as romantic.”

“And yet,” Anthony said, leaning closer, “you’re smiling ear to ear.”

For a moment, the kitchen belonged only to them—no clipboards, no Board warnings, no Phi Mu whispers. Just butter, crumbs, and the relief of being seen.

But when his gaze dipped, Kate’s smile faltered. “We should’ve had this over the holidays,” she admitted, fingers tracing the rim of her coffee mug. “Instead of me pulling back. Instead of silence.”

Anthony straightened. “Kate—”

“No.” Her voice steadied. “You deserve to know why. After the Blowout, after campus police… the Board called me in. One more slip, and I’m done. Charlotte Hanover all but accused me of being the Mosquito. They think I’m the chaos. That Danbury’s the problem.”

Anthony’s jaw tightened. “That’s absurd. Danbury’s the only part of Mayfair that still feels like Mayfair. You’re the one holding it together. If they can’t see that—”

“They don’t want to,” Kate cut in. “Cressida and her mother whisper, and the Board listens. I’ve filed reports, begged for guidance. Nothing. So right now?” She exhaled, heavy. “All I can do is keep Danbury quiet. Survive until May.”

Anthony pushed off the counter, pacing once before planting his palms flat on the table. His voice was low, fierce. “Then I’ll fight them. Alumni, donors, the press—”

“Anthony.” Her hand caught his, sharp but steady. “No. Storming in will only make it worse. Right now, I need you to do the one thing that’s hardest for you.”

His thumb brushed hers, betraying restraint. “Which is?”

“Wait. Let me handle this. If we push too hard, they’ll dismantle Danbury, and I can’t—” Her voice cracked. “I can’t lose it.”

The silence stretched, broken only by Newton’s soft snore under the table.

Finally, Anthony nodded, slow, reluctant. “Fine. Low profile. For now.”

Kate’s hand lingered before she pulled back, folding the croissant wrapper into neat squares. “Thank you.”

Anthony leaned back, eyes softer now. “Just so we’re clear—low profile doesn’t mean giving up. When you need me, Kate, I’ll be there. Not on my watch will they take this from you.”

The kitchen stilled around them, quiet save for the hum of the refrigerator. For once, Danbury felt like it had conspired in their favor—forty residents miraculously silent, giving them this hour alone.

Anthony studied her across the narrow counter. “You know what I regret most?”

Kate lifted a brow. “That you only brought one box of croissants?”

His mouth tugged into a smile. “That we didn’t spend Christmas together.”

The words sank deeper than she expected. Kate looked down at the crumbs, her throat tightening. “I pulled away when I shouldn’t have. I thought distance would make things easier—for me, for Danbury. Instead, it just made me miserable.”

Anthony reached across, his hand covering hers with quiet certainty. “You don’t have to explain. I knew why. I just wish you hadn’t felt like you had to.”

Kate’s fingers curled slightly against his. For all her careful planning, she hadn’t planned for this—the fragile relief of being understood.

“I can’t promise much right now,” she admitted. “Not with the Board circling. Not with Phi Mu sharpening their knives. But I can promise I’m not giving up on Danbury. Or on…” Her voice faltered, cheeks heating.

Anthony didn’t press. He only squeezed her hand, steady. “Then that’s enough. For today, it’s enough.”

They sat hand in hand across the counter, croissants cooling between them. No declarations, no rush toward the future—just two people choosing not to step away.

The spare room smelled faintly of cedar and clean linen, the quilt pulled to Benedict’s chin while a half-empty Ricola bag stood guard on the nightstand. Sophie had drawn a chair close, her neuroscience textbook abandoned in her lap, more decoration than study.

“You know,” she said, flipping a page she hadn’t read, “holiday weekend buys you three whole days to recover before your students infect you all over again.”

Benedict groaned into the pillow. “Three days? I don’t have three hours. I feel like I’m dying.”

Sophie rolled her eyes, pencil tapping. “Why do men act like babies the second they get sick? Women survive childbirth, periods, migraines—meanwhile you catch a cold and it’s the apocalypse.”

One eye cracked open, grin faint. “In my defense, I’ve been spoiled. One mother, four sisters. I’ve had a personal fan club of caretakers since birth. Sympathy’s basically a Bridgerton birthright.”

Her laugh came out brighter than she meant. “Meanwhile, I had my dad. Korean army doesn’t exactly teach coddling. His idea of comfort was: drink water and tough it out.”

That piqued him enough to push onto an elbow. “Army? Your dad served?”

“Mm-hm.” Sophie’s voice softened. “Conscription. My parents broke up, and Mom didn’t even know she was pregnant until after he was gone. He didn’t meet me until I was two. But they made it work—until she died.” She hesitated, then added, “I always had the option to change my name to his, to Gun. But I kept Baek. It was hers. And besides, there were already three Guns in my first-grade class. I liked being different.”

The words startled her as much as him. Sophie blinked, flushing. “Sorry. Overshare.”

Benedict shook his head, gaze steady. “Not oversharing. I’m glad you told me.”

Something eased in her chest. For once, the story didn’t feel heavy. It just felt… hers.

She snapped her book shut, settling back. “Fine. But don’t milk this cold for more pity. You’ve already maxed out your sympathy quota.”

His grin sharpened, boyish even in fever. “No promises.”

Sophie laughed, the sound bubbling up until even Benedict’s cough couldn’t dampen it. For a moment the spare room didn’t feel like a sick ward. It felt like a secret they were keeping together—a pause, a breath, something lighter than either of them had carried in weeks.

Chapter Text

The Phi Mu lounge should have gleamed after winter break—crystal lamps glowing, designer throw blankets draped in careless perfection—but instead it sagged with a heaviness that no amount of perfume or pearls could disguise.

Their vaunted open house had drawn barely ten girls. Ten. And not one lingered past the cookie tray. For the first time in living memory, Phi Mu’s name wasn’t a key that opened doors. It was a lock that kept people out.

The house was quieter than anyone could remember. Sisters returned from vacation only to vanish into their rooms, hallways echoing with nothing but the click of closing doors. Even the Bucks—once the living, laughing billboard of Phi Mu—carried shadows too heavy for gloss.

Nan had spent most of break curled around her phone, fury bubbling under every scroll. The news that Guy had hooked up with Paloma Ballardrino at Danbury’s Snowed Out party had spread like wildfire. Paloma, of all people—the loud, flirty Italian who didn’t even make it into Greek life. Nan couldn’t look at her sisters without wondering if they were all smirking behind her back.

Her older sister Jinny returned to a digital storm of her own: a string of vicious texts from her ex-boyfriend, laced with bitterness and jealousy. He wasn’t Mayfair royalty anymore, but his voice still echoed in her head, souring her carefully cultivated poise.

Conchita came back with something darker than gossip—grief. Her long-distance boyfriend, Dicky, had died over break. Only a handful of Phi Mu girls had bothered to attend the memorial. Now, back at school, she wore couture like armor, but the cracks showed. Even the Bucks couldn’t mask everything.

Lizzy, restless as ever, had learned over Christmas that Theo’s younger brother had beaten her out for the coveted summer abroad spot in Japan. Theo himself hadn’t even noticed—too wrapped up in his own carousel of girls and Sigma drama. For the first time, Lizzy’s certainty about her future felt shaky, her carefully plotted ladder missing rungs.

Even in their gilded cage, the Bucks weren’t untouchable.

And then there was Cressida. She returned as though nothing had changed—hair platinum, nails immaculate, her posture perfect. She stood in the center of the lounge like it was a runway. “I’ve decided,” she announced, voice smooth, calculated. “I’m competing for Miss Virginia this year.”

The words landed with a dull thud.

Nan groaned into her pillow. Conchita rolled her eyes. Lizzy didn’t bother hiding her scoff. Jinny scrolled on, thumbs flying across her phone.

Only one person smiled. Minty Cowper, pearls clicking at her throat, reclined like a queen surveying her court. “At last,” she said sweetly. “Something worthy of our family’s name.”

The lounge sagged again under the weight of silence.

“Miss Virginia?” Nan muttered. “Maybe you can bribe the judges with tiaras. Worked for Rush.”

“Pageants are outdated,” Jinny said without looking up. “Half of TikTok has bigger platforms.”

Lizzy filed her nails with lethal precision. “Not to mention more talent. What would your talent even be, Cressida? Smiling?”

Conchita let out a brittle laugh. “Because that’s what the world needs right now—another Cressida Cowper smile plastered on a billboard.”

Cressida smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her dress, her chin high. “Jealousy isn’t a flattering look, ladies. Remember, Phi Mu’s reputation rests on my success.”

Nan sat up, eyes bloodshot, voice sharp. “Funny, because lately Phi Mu’s reputation has been nothing but failure.”

The words dropped like shattered glass. No one laughed.

Minty rose with unhurried grace, her pearls clicking softly as she adjusted them. Her smile was polished, practiced, a weapon honed over decades. “Enough of this. We’ve weathered storms before, and we’ll weather this one. The world remembers winners, not whispers.”

But outside, the whispers had grown louder. Students walking past Phi Mu’s manicured lawn didn’t admire anymore. They laughed. They pointed. And they said the word on everyone’s lips—Danbury.

For once, the Bucks didn’t have a comeback. Even they could see it: if Phi Mu was a glass house, the stones were already flying.

Cressida closed her bedroom door with a quiet click, shutting out the murmur of Phi Mu’s lounge. The air inside was warmer, scented faintly of peonies and Minty’s Chanel No. 5. Her mother sat at the vanity in a silk robe, pearls still clasped at her throat as if they alone kept her spine straight. The glow of the laptop painted her features in cold light, and the tight line of her mouth made Cressida’s pulse quicken.

“Mother?” Cressida asked carefully, crossing the carpet. “You’ve looked grim all evening. What is it?”

Minty didn’t answer right away. Her manicured nail tapped against the laptop—once, twice, like the ticking of a clock. Finally, she turned the screen toward her daughter.

The subject line glared in bold type: Notice of Formal Review — Phi Mu National Headquarters.

Cressida’s stomach flipped. “A… review?”

“An investigation,” Minty corrected, her voice flat, precise. “Into your leadership here at Mayfair. They’re citing ‘patterns of exclusionary practices, reputational harm to the sorority at large, and misuse of chapter resources.’”

Cressida let out a laugh too sharp to sound natural. “That’s absurd. Everyone wants to be Phi Mu. Our events are flawless—”

Minty cut her off with a glance sharp enough to silence. “The Snow Ball was a scandal. National has been fielding complaints for months—from parents, from alumni, even from our own sisters. And thanks to that Mosquito nonsense, they’re convinced this chapter has become toxic under your watch.”

Cressida’s hands curled into fists. “So what then? They’ll strip me of presidency? Replace me with Jinny? Please. She can’t keep a handle on her own ex, let alone a chapter. Or Conchita—half the house is whispering about her grief. Nan would burn the place down before she took orders. And Lizzy? Don’t even get me started. They’re not leaders. They’re placeholders.”

Minty rose, smoothing the robe over her frame, pearls glinting in the lamplight. Her shadow fell across her daughter. “I think, Cressida, that if you don’t manage this with precision, you’ll be humiliated. And worse—so will I.”

The words struck harder than the email. For once, Cressida had no retort. Her perfect posture faltered. “What do we do?”

Minty’s hand closed over hers, cool and steady. “We remind National why Phi Mu matters at Mayfair. We remind them of our donors. Of our legacy. Of what the Cowper name has built here. But from this moment on, you cannot afford mistakes. No weakness. Do you understand me?”

Cressida nodded, though her chest felt tight, the glowing words still burned behind her eyes.

With a snap, Minty shut the laptop. “Good. Then fix your face. No one must see you rattled. Not the Bucks, not the sisters—no one.”

She swept out, leaving only the faint trail of Chanel and the echo of authority behind her.

Cressida stood frozen for a moment, her reflection staring back from the vanity mirror. Perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect smile—everything polished, everything right. But her breath trembled anyway.

Benedict was propped against the pillows, blanket tugged halfway up, caught somewhere between genuinely sick and theatrically miserable. Sophie sat cross-legged in the chair she’d dragged close to the bed, her textbook open but long forgotten in her lap. Newton had claimed the foot of the mattress, his ears twitching at every shift like he was on sentry duty.

“So,” Benedict rasped, eyes glinting despite the scratch in his voice, “you’re telling me your family never did one of those… what do you call them? Moonie mass weddings? Arena full of couples all chanting ‘I do’ in unison?”

Sophie groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I swear to you, we are not Moonies. My family can’t even agree on what to order at Bibimbap Barn, let alone coordinate vows in a stadium.”

Benedict smirked, unbothered. “Pity. I had this vision of you waving a bouquet like a cheerleader while three thousand strangers say their vows.”

“You’re delirious,” she muttered, though the laugh slipped out anyway. “And if there had been a stadium, trust me—my stepmother would’ve turned it into a photo op.”

The humor faded on its own, replaced by something heavier. Sophie traced the edge of her textbook without seeing the page. “Phillip was… different, at first. We started dating senior year after working together at vacation Bible school at my church. Mines had the building to host while his was renovating that summer. My stepmother pushed it. Said it was time to stop with these ‘K-pop idol dreams’ and find a respectable boy. Plus, all the boys at my church were either too young or felt like they’re brothers.”

Benedict didn’t interrupt. He just waited, steady, letting her decide how much to share.

“At the beginning, it felt safe,” Sophie went on. “Familiar. He liked being the one to ‘take care of me.’ But then it stopped being care. It was control. Every choice had to go through him. If I said no, he guilted me until I said yes. If I wanted space, he called it abandonment.”

Her sleeve twisted in her fingers. “When I got into Mayfair the first time, he was furious. Said I should stay at NoVa with him, that it would ‘prove our commitment.’ My stepmother agreed. Made it sound selfish to want anything else. So imagine his reaction when I got accepted the second time as a transfer.”

Benedict’s jaw tightened above the blanket. “So he didn’t even help you move in?”

Sophie shook her head. “Didn’t offer. My dad drove me down himself. And still Phillip acts like I owe him. Like I should be grateful he ‘puts up’ with me being busy.” Her voice dropped. “Sometimes I think he’s cheating. And when I ask, he flips it, makes me feel insane for even suspecting. And I almost believed him.”

Her breath hitched. “That brownie incident everyone laughed about? It wasn’t just me being reckless. It was me saying—finally—that I’m not perfect, I’m not obedient, and I’m not his. It was messy, but it was mine.”

Silence pressed close, broken only by Newton’s soft snore.

Benedict pushed himself upright despite the fever pallor, his voice low but steady. “You don’t sound checked out, Sophie. You sound like someone who’s finally drawing a line. Someone who knows she deserves more. And it’s not him.”

Her laugh came brittle but real. “You’re unfairly good at this—listening. Saying what I didn’t know I needed to hear.”

He offered a faint, crooked smile. “Perks of growing up with four sisters. You learn fast that sometimes the smartest thing you can do is shut up and actually listen.”

Sophie’s chest eased, her textbook shut, the soft thump sounding louder than she meant it to. “Thank you,” she said, her voice gentler now. “For the fries. For the rescue. For… this.”

Benedict’s grin softened at the edges. “Anytime, Baek. Though next time, I’d prefer a crisis that doesn’t involve the side of I-95.”

Her lips tugged upward, the heaviness in her shoulders loosening for the first time in weeks. Phillip wasn’t the shadow filling the room anymore. It was just her. And Benedict. And a fragile promise of air that felt like freedom.

Benedict shifted against the pillows, NyQuil softening his edges, loosening his tongue. “You know,” he said, his voice still scratchy but unguarded, “I was never conventional about dating. Tried both—men, women. Labels never mattered much. For me, it’s always been about energy. If it feels right, it feels right.”

Sophie tilted her head, surprised but not unsettled. “You’d be the vibes-over-rules type.”

He chuckled, then winced at the cough tugging his throat. “Guilty. College was a mess of experimenting—half romantic, half chemical. Colin once slipped me LSD during finals at UVA, said it would ‘expand my brain.’ I spent six hours painting my dorm window because I was convinced the sun was flirting with me.”

Sophie laughed into her sleeve. “That sounds disturbingly on brand for both of you.”

“Probably,” Benedict admitted, smiling faintly. “But truth? My great love’s never been people or parties. It’s always been art. Lately though… even that feels heavy. I love teaching, I do. But the grind, the deadlines, the tenure board circling? It feels like I’m pouring everything out and nothing’s pouring back in.”

His eyes drifted, softer now. “And then one night in Williamsburg, I went out just to drown the noise. And I saw her. A lady in silver. Dancing like the world couldn’t touch her. I asked her for one dance.” His gaze found hers, fever-pale but steady. “And it reminded me why I love creating. Why I still believe in light, even when it feels gone.”

Sophie’s chest tightened. She whispered, almost ashamed, “That’s what set Phillip off. Not you—me. Me daring to do something without his permission.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It thrummed—alive, dangerous, waiting.

Newton sighed at the foot of the bed, as if even he knew something fragile balanced in the air.

Benedict’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “Then I’m glad we danced. Worth the fallout.”

Her fingers twisted tighter in her sleeve, but her pulse thudded hard enough to hear. “Worth the fallout,” she echoed, barely more than breath.

Their eyes locked. His hand twitched on the blanket, close enough that she could feel the warmth, like a line was already there, thin as glass, waiting to break.

“Benedict…” she murmured.

“Sophie.” His voice was rough, certain, pulling her closer without moving at all.

The door creaked.

“Ben?”

They sprang apart like guilty teenagers. Anthony stood in the doorway, one brow raised, a Publix bag dangling from his hand.

“Just checking if you were still breathing,” he said smoothly. His gaze flicked from Sophie, flushed, to Benedict, equally flushed. “Though from the looks of it, you’re in very… attentive hands.”

Benedict groaned into his blanket. “Anthony…”

Anthony smirked, setting the bag—croissants, again—on the dresser with theatrical care. “Don’t mind me. Carry on with… whatever this is.” He shut the door with deliberate slowness, whistling under his breath as he went.

Sophie buried her face in her hands, laughing into her palms—half nerves, half relief. “Is he always that protective?”

“Tell me about it,” Benedict muttered, though his crooked grin betrayed him.

For a beat, the air between them hung suspended, lighter and heavier at once—their almost-kiss still buzzing like a note left unresolved.

Benedict dropped back against the pillows with a groan. “Remind me never to get sick around Anthony again. The man has the bedside manner of a crow.”

Sophie tugged the blanket higher over his chest, her smirk quick. “Please. You’re lucky he didn’t try to cram a croissant in your mouth and call it medicine.”

“That would’ve been preferable,” he muttered. Then his eyes narrowed faintly. “Wait. You dragged me in here, didn’t you?”

Sophie blinked, feigning innocence. “Define dragged.”

“You. Petite. Dancer. Somehow hauling me—” he gestured weakly at his own lanky frame, “—all the way to this bed.”

“Correct,” she said sweetly, folding her arms. “And before you go nursing your pride, remember: I’ve got more core strength than you. Years of pliés. You’re basically tall paper mâché.”

Benedict’s laugh rasped, low but real. “Paper mâché? These arms once carried Colin off a rugby pitch.”

“Because Colin passed out from too many peanuts,” Sophie countered.

He laughed harder, coughing into his sleeve until she shoved a Ricola into his hand like a nurse on strike. “See? Helpless. If I wasn’t here, you’d choke on your own sarcasm.”

“I’d die happy,” he shot back, voice muffled around the cough drop.

Their eyes caught again, the humor softening into something fragile, something that tugged at both of them. Sophie looked away first, fiddling with the corner of her textbook, heat climbing into her cheeks.

“Don’t make me regret playing nurse,” she murmured.

“Never,” Benedict said quietly.

The air thickened again, humming with the same unspoken current—until a sharp ping cut through it.

Sophie’s phone buzzed against the nightstand, screen flaring in the dim light. One notification. One line.

@MayfairMosquito: Did you miss me, Mayfair? 🐝

The words glowed like glass shards between them.

Down the hall, Eloise’s door creaked open. Her voice carried into the quiet—low, sharp, already fraying:

“…what the hell?”

The silence in Danbury split wide open.

And the night was no longer theirs.

Chapter Text

Months ago… 

The air inside Phi Mu smelled like hairspray, perfume, and sugar cookies—a sweetness so thick it clung to the tongue, manufactured to look effortless but built on hours of labor. Penelope hovered just inside the doorway, smoothing the hem of the Altar’d State sundress she’d begged her mother to drive to Charlottesville for. Preppy, polished, the kind of “sorority chic” she’d learned from Bama Rush TikToks. She’d even studied her Instagram grid until it looked curated, casual, enviable. She’d done everything right.

And yet—everyone else seemed brighter. The sisters moved through the parlor like they’d rehearsed it, laughing a half-beat too loud, tossing compliments like candy, their pastel blazers and white jeans catching the chandelier light. To most people it looked like sparkle. To Penelope, it looked like choreography.

She drifted toward two other hopefuls, both nervous enough to make her feel less alone. Lola Conklin in lavender, Rain Jewell in sequins far too glamorous for mid-day. Both clutched their phones like lifelines, whispering worries about looking ridiculous. Penelope almost joined in—almost—but the room shifted first.

By the French doors, a platinum blonde sister cut through the chatter with a voice sharp enough to slice. “You realize you’re not just rejecting us. You’re rejecting every house. I can make sure of that.” She snapped at two girls—legacies, perfect hair, perfect teeth—already striding out across the lawn without a backward glance.

The blonde huffed, flipped her hair, then pivoted just as the Bucks swept in. Cressida first, queenly, Nan at her side, Jinny with her calculating calm, Conchita in silk, Lizzy smirking like she knew the punchline. The room tilted toward them, drawn as if by gravity.

Compliments rained. Majors asked. Instagram handles exchanged. Lola and Rain were plucked into the orbit like chosen ones.

And Penelope? She stood pressed into the wallpaper, invisible.

Which made it easier to see what others missed. Conchita’s smile collapsing the second her back turned. Lizzy’s muttered barb, drowned in Nan’s shriek-laugh. Cressida’s eyes skimming the room like scales, weighing worth, discarding with a blink.

It was all fake. Gilded on the surface, splintering beneath.

Her hand tightened on her phone. She thumbed Twitter open, staring at the blank screen like it might give her permission. She didn’t want to ruin them. Not yet. She wanted to record. To hold the mirror up. To prove to herself—and to anyone who cared—that what people worshiped wasn’t real.

The idea formed fast, sharp, undeniable: a persona. Anonymous. Observant. A sting in the hive.

Her reflection caught in the gilt mirror above the mantel: pearls neat, curls glossy, sundress tight at the waist. She looked like she belonged. But inside, she knew better.

Her thumbs hovered. Then typed.

@MayfairMosquito.

One empty profile picture. One blank feed. One sharp breath.

Penelope Featherington smiled, small and secret, as the chatter swirled around her.

They thought they were the ones doing the choosing.

But she had just chosen herself.

The Mayfair Bookstore buzzed with the chaos of the first week—lines snaking between shelves, students juggling iced lattes and overpriced texts, the printers in the back whining like overworked engines. Penelope hugged her literature paperbacks to her chest, doing her best not to think about Eloise. About the silence in their half-packed room. About the ache of distance that had only grown sharper over break.

She almost missed them at first—Lola Conklin and Rain Jewell—side by side near the registers, Phi Mu sweatshirts cropped and frayed like matching uniforms. They spotted her and waved, their smiles bright but tired.

“Pen!” Lola chirped, readjusting her headband. “You look sane. Save us.”

Rain leaned in with a theatrical whisper. “Rush was one thing, but hazing? Bunny ears at Publix? Mortifying. Some Danbury kids saw us. I swear they looked at us like we’d joined a rabbit cult.”

Lola snorted. “Which—fair. Also, can we talk about how I’m the other Lola? Because Phi Mu only cares about Lola Stowell. The grad-student-chaser. Meanwhile, I feel like a knockoff Barbie.”

Penelope managed a laugh, though it pinched at her ribs. The words stung more than they should have.

Rain’s grin tilted sly. “At least the Mosquito kept things interesting last semester. Brutal, yeah, but honest. Whoever it was—they had guts. Too bad they vanished. Would’ve loved to see what they said about spring rush.”

The laugh Penelope forced out was too thin. “Maybe they’re just resting. Saving their stings for summer, when the blood’s fresher.”

The three of them laughed together, quick and brittle. Then Lola and Rain drifted away, arms looped, swept back into Phi Mu’s orbit. Penelope stood rooted, the weight of the truth pressing back in—the truth no one could know.

Danbury was quiet when she returned, snow flurries sliding off the eaves, the common room lit only by a single lamp. Penelope slipped into her room, stacked her books on the desk, and opened her laptop. The login page stared at her, blank and accusing.

She could let it stay silent. Let the Mosquito remain a ghost. Pretend she wasn’t still watching Phi Mu crack under its own weight.

Or—she could sting again.

Her fingers moved before her doubts could catch up. One click. The avatar blinked back to life. Her pulse roared in her ears as she typed:

@MayfairMosquito: Did you miss me, Mayfair? 🐝

Post.

The words glowed in the dim light. Irrevocable. Alive.

She leaned back, heart hammering. She had crossed the line again.

The silence held for less than a minute.

Then—

“WHAT THE HELL!”

The shout cracked down the hall like a whip. Eloise’s voice—sharp, furious, impossible to ignore. Footsteps hammered against the old wood, then a fist slammed against the door.

“Open this right now! What the hell are you doing bringing that account back?”

Penelope froze. The glow of her laptop still burned across the desk, the Mosquito tweet gleaming at the top of the feed like a neon confession. She snapped the lid shut. The click echoed in the small room like a gunshot.

Another round of pounding rattled the door. “Don’t you dare ignore me, Featherington!”

With a shaky breath, Penelope yanked it open. Eloise stood in the doorway, hair wild, hoodie askew, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts.

“Why?” Eloise hissed. “Why would you bring it back? Haven’t you ruined enough already?”

Penelope’s throat tightened, but her words spilled fast, hot. “I’m not ruining anything! Someone has to tell the truth. You think Phi Mu’s invincible? You think Lola and Rain are happy? You think Conchita’s fine after no one even showed up for her boyfriend’s memorial? They’re all cracking inside that house and pretending it’s perfect—”

“That is not your fight!” Eloise cut in, her voice splintering with rage. “You think you’re some kind of hero, but all you’ve done is lie. To me. To everyone. And now you’re going to drag the entire campus down with you for some self-righteous exposé!”

The hallway filled with the clash of their voices. Doors opened. Francesca peeked out, pale and watchful; Michaela hovered behind her, arms folded tight. Hazel leaned against the banister, frowning. Even Jack shuffled in, hair mussed from sleep. Newton’s toenails clicked on the floor as he trotted out of the spare room, ears pricked, Benedict’s faint cough still audible behind him.

Eloise’s fists curled at her sides. “I’m done being your collateral damage. If you want to burn yourself with that account, fine. But you don’t get to burn me with you.”

“Then don’t look,” Penelope snapped back, tears hot in her eyes. “If it hurts that much, don’t look.”

Whispers rippled through the residents. Francesca’s worried eyes darted between them. Michaela’s jaw tightened. Hazel muttered something under her breath about déjà vu. Newton barked once—sharp, scolding.

And then—

“Enough.”

Kate’s voice carried from the far end of the hall. She stood with her clipboard tucked under one arm, her face cool, her tone iron.

“Both of you. Now.”

The hallway stilled.

Eloise’s jaw worked, but she didn’t fight. She turned sharply, muttering, “I’m going across campus. At least Phil isn’t a liar.” Her footsteps thundered down the stairs, the front door slamming hard enough to shake the walls.

Kate’s gaze swept the gathered residents. “Show’s over. Go back to your rooms.” Slowly, one by one, doors shut. Whispers faded. The hall grew still again—except for Penelope, still rooted in the doorway, laptop clutched tight.

Kate walked closer, her eyes steady, unreadable. “You need to decide, Penelope. Either you own that account or you bury it. Because if the administration comes down on me again, I can’t protect you. Not this time.”

Penelope swallowed, her chest aching. “Kate—”

Kate’s voice softened, but her warning cut sharp. “Danbury is already hanging by a thread. Don’t be the one to cut it.”

For once, Penelope had no comeback. No sting.

Because Kate was right.

She shut her door with a click that sounded too final, too sharp. She set her laptop down on the desk, staring at it as though it might lunge back at her. Kate’s warning still rang in her ears—Danbury is already hanging by a thread. Don’t be the one to cut it.

Her chest squeezed tight. She hadn’t meant to drag Kate into this. Or Danbury. But the sting was loose now, buzzing across Mayfair’s feeds, the @MayfairMosquito alive again. And she couldn’t call it back.

She slumped onto her bed, fingers drumming against her thigh. Her mind drifted—to Alaska. To Al. To the promise he’d dangled: you could leave all this behind. Start clean. Start with me.

She unlocked her phone, scrolled to his name, and hit call.

The line rang, then crackled. Finally, his voice came through, distant and frayed by static. “Pen? Reception’s crap. I’m in Fairbanks.”

Relief surged—then faltered when she caught his tone, flat, tired. “I just… needed to hear your voice,” she said. “Everything here feels like it’s coming apart.”

There was a pause long enough that she thought the call had dropped. Then: “You could’ve come. You should’ve come. Mayfair isn’t good for you, Pen. You’re drowning there, clinging to ghosts. Instead of choosing me, you stayed.”

Her throat pinched. “I can’t just walk away. Not from school. Not from—everything.”

“Everything,” Al repeated, his voice sharper now. “You mean that account.”

Penelope froze. “What?”

“That damn Mosquito. Don’t bother denying it. Who else could it be? You vanish, you brood, you always have the gossip before anyone else. And now, suddenly, the account’s alive again the very same night you sound like the world’s ending? It’s you. It’s always been you.”

Her pulse skittered. “Al—”

“Do you have any idea how reckless that is?” His voice rose, breaking through the static. “You think it’s just tweets, but it’s poison. You’re making enemies you can’t fight, and one day it’s going to come down on you—and you’ll deserve it.”

Penelope’s chest ached. “It’s not poison. It’s truth. Someone has to—”

“No,” he cut in, sharp enough to sting. “Someone doesn’t. Not at the cost of everything else. Not at the cost of us.” He exhaled hard, the kind of sigh that sounded final. “I thought you’d pick me. Pick Alaska. Pick something real. But if Mayfair’s what you’re choosing… if that account is what you’re choosing…”

The line crackled, his voice lowering. “Then I can’t keep waiting for you to follow. I’m done.”

The click of disconnection was louder than any shout.

Penelope let the phone fall onto her comforter, her breath shallow, chest hollow. For all her anger at him, Al had been an escape hatch. A way out. And now it had slammed shut.

Her hands shook as she opened Instagram, thumb moving almost without thought to Colin’s account. Beaches, tapas, sun-drunk smiles. Too bright, too easy. She hesitated, then tapped Message.

Her fingers flew before she could stop them.

Penelope: Hi. I don’t know who else to talk to right now. Everything’s a mess. I just… needed someone who’d listen.

Send.

The message sat there, small against the flood of his feed. She told herself it would vanish into the abyss of unread DMs, swallowed by strangers.

And then—

Colin Bridgerton is typing…

Her breath caught.

Colin: Pen! Wow, it’s so good to hear from you. Of course I’ll listen. Tell me everything.

Her eyes blurred. For the first time all night, she didn’t feel entirely alone.

The trek across campus felt longer than it should have, frost still clinging to the grass as Eloise wrapped her hoodie tighter. Hanover loomed in the evening light, its brick façade more rigid than Danbury’s—but tonight she wasn’t looking for comfort. She wanted honesty. Something simple. Something steady.

With Benedict feverish and Sophie glued to his side, Anthony practically living in Kate’s kitchen with his croissants, and Penelope unleashing chaos online, Eloise needed someone untouched by the storm. Someone who wouldn’t make her feel like she was unraveling.

Phil.

She padded down the hall, following the muffled sounds of laughter. At first, her chest clenched—the laughter was high-pitched, distinctly female. Her mind jumped, unbidden, to the worst possibility. Already? she thought, stomach twisting. After all that patience, all that waiting?

But then another voice cut in—higher still, bright with indignation.

“Amanda, you cheated! You can’t slide all the way back to Start!”

Eloise blinked, her pulse settling. That wasn’t betrayal. That was a child.

She knocked, and the door swung open to Phil—hair slightly mussed, smile as steady as ever. Behind him, two kids sat cross-legged on the floor, the Sorry! board spread between them. A girl scrambled up, grinning. The boy gave Eloise a solemn little wave.

“Our uncle told us about you,” he said with grave importance, as though delivering state secrets.

Phil chuckled, stepping aside. “Amanda and Oliver. My niece and nephew. Marina’s on night shift, so they’re mine until bedtime.” He gestured toward the board with mock severity. “Fair warning: they play dirty.”

Eloise’s laugh came out shakier than she meant, but it was real. “Sorry!, huh? Haven’t played in years.”

“Then you’re overdue.” Phil patted the spot beside him. “Come on—join the chaos, Crane style.”

Amanda held out the deck of cards, eager, while Oliver nodded like this was the most obvious invitation in the world.

And Eloise—who had walked here braced for heartbreak—sat down on the rug instead, sliding a blue pawn into place.

The tension in her chest eased. The laughter came easier. And for once, Eloise felt like she could breathe again.

The carpet was stiff, the blanket scratchy, but Eloise hadn’t slept that soundly in weeks. She blinked awake to find Amanda starfished across Phil’s bed, Oliver curled like a comma at her side. The Sorry! board still sat abandoned on the rug, one last blue pawn waiting in “Home.”

Phil stirred on the floor beside her, his hair sticking up like a haystack. He caught her gaze through the haze of morning light and offered a crooked grin. “Guess we lost the bed.”

“Guess we did,” Eloise whispered back, pulling the blanket higher. For once, her chest didn’t clench at the thought of Penelope, or the fight, or the Mosquito. Last night had been board games and pizza grease, Amanda’s dramatic card shuffling, Oliver’s triumphant shrieks, Phil’s steady smile. Anchored here, in this room, she’d let herself breathe.

Across campus, frost still clung to the edges of Danbury’s driveway as Benedict braced a hand on the car door. His color had returned, if only faintly, but his eyes searched Sophie’s face with a desperation that was harder to hide.

“Come with me,” he said suddenly. “Just a couple days in Newport News. Before classes start. No pressure. Just—time.”

Her heart pulled hard in her chest. She wanted to say yes, to leave the weight of Phillip and Danbury behind, to claim space that was only hers. But Phillip’s shadow still coiled around her ribs, smoke she couldn’t yet shake.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “Not like this. Not when… I’m not the kind of person who cheats.”

The words gutted them both, but Benedict only nodded. He leaned in like he might kiss her, just enough for his breath to brush her cheek—then pulled back. “I don’t want to get you sick.”

The space left between them was heavier than a kiss would’ve been. He climbed into the car, engine rumbling to life. Sophie stayed on the drive long after the taillights dissolved into the frost.

The slam of that same car door jolted Anthony awake. He blinked, ceiling unfamiliar, Kate’s curls soft against his shoulder. Newton snored at their feet like a metronome.

“That’ll be Ben,” Kate murmured, still half-asleep.

Anthony hated it—the parting, the inevitability of driving back to D.C., to staff meetings and policy drafts. Every time he found peace here, it ended with him leaving. He didn’t say it. Instead, he pressed a kiss to her hair and whispered, “Five more minutes.”

Kate smiled into his chest. Five minutes stretched to thirty.

Down the hall, sunlight striped across the rumpled comforter where Penelope stirred. Her phone glowed in her hand, Colin’s last message pinned to the screen.

Of course I’ll listen. Tell me everything.

She hadn’t told him everything. Not yet. But it was enough—a lifeline, however small. She rolled onto her back, phone pressed to her chest, and let herself smile.

Chapter Text

Anthony stared at the paper cup on his desk, the steam long since gone from the coffee, the blueberry muffin sagging in its wrapper like it, too, had given up. He nudged it with his pen, debating whether to eat it or hand it off to one of the interns who hovered around the bullpen like over-caffeinated ducklings.

After a long weekend of soft mornings, Kate’s curls spilling across his arm, Newton’s snore pressed against his ankle, this was his return: fluorescent lights, lukewarm caffeine, and the faint buzz of tension that came whenever someone higher up summoned him “in person.” The email had been brief—come into the office today, need to discuss your role this session—but sharp enough to stick under his skin.

He loosened his tie, flipped open his notebook, and told himself he’d get through it. He always did. But his thoughts drifted anyway—back to Danbury, back to Kate, back to the fragile sense of belonging that had nothing to do with Capitol Hill. And suddenly the muffin felt like a pitiful trade for what he’d left behind.

Meanwhile, back in Mayfair, the mood couldn’t have been more different.

Kate had claimed the Danbury kitchen like a general marshaling her troops, sleeves rolled, hair tied back, every counter crowded with pots and pans. The air shimmered with cumin and ginger, turmeric staining the spoon in her hand. Newton hovered loyally at her heels, certain that kitchen days meant belly rubs and stray bites of naan.

By dusk, the hall was alive. One by one, residents drifted downstairs, drawn by the smell of butter chicken and spiced rice. Michaela teased Bridget about sneaking extra samosas. Jack offered to help but ended up taste-testing instead. Hazel hovered near the stove, brow furrowed in admiration, insisting Kate show her how to fold chapati without tearing it.

Even Eloise came, hair in a messy bun, her usual edge blunted as she slid into a seat beside Francesca. Penelope followed later, hovering at the far end of the table. Their eyes never met, but the gap between them pulsed like a wound.

Plates clattered, laughter rose, and for the first time since winter break, Danbury felt whole again. Newton made his rounds like a prince disguised as a beggar, collecting belly scratches before sprawling under the bench in glory.

Kate tapped her glass once, her voice rising over the hum. “Last semester was… a lot. We’ve been blamed for things we didn’t do, punished for things we didn’t start, and yes, we’ve made mistakes. But none of that changes who we are. You’re Danbury. That means something. You don’t have to change for Greek Row or even the Board. Being yourselves is the one thing they can’t take away.”

The silence wasn’t heavy—it was charged. Francesca squeezed Eloise’s hand. Michaela raised her glass with a grin. Even Penelope blinked hard at her plate, throat tight.

Kate smiled. “Now eat, before Newton claims it all.”

The room broke into laughter, the spell turning into chatter and clinking forks. Caleb puffed about March Madness; Michaela turned it into a Cinderella joke; Francesca corrected “slipper” with a prim smirk that made Michaela grin wider. Hazel and Jack argued about Stranger Things, Emma declared Vecna scarier than her horror lit syllabus, and Hugh begged them not to spoil anything.

Through it all, Sophie smiled when she had to, laughed when it was expected—but she felt the weight of sidelong glances. Hazel’s joke about “Bridgerton germs” drew chuckles aimed her way, and she pretended not to notice. John leaned close, whispering, “Want me to stand guard? Discount rate. Hazard pay only if he brings roses.” It made her laugh for real, light enough that Newton pressed his nose to her knee like he knew she needed it.

At the far end, Penelope watched. The chatter, the laughter, Francesca leaning into Michaela’s shoulder, Eloise’s sharp glance that felt like ice. This was Danbury whole. She should have felt it too. Instead, the happiness twisted sharp inside her.

She gripped her glass, breath unsteady. Maybe tonight’s the night. Maybe I tell them. Own it. End the pretending. Her lips parted.

“I—”

A knock interrupted her. Sharp, echoing through the hall. Newton barked once, bounding to the door. Francesca rose, smoothing her sweater, unlocking the latch.

Anthony stood in the drizzle, rain clinging to his hair, a cream envelope heavy in his hand. Newton barked joyously, tail wagging as he tried to leap into his arms.

“Anthony?” Francesca blinked.

His eyes swept past her, settling on Kate. He stepped inside, coat dripping on the floor. His voice was low, steady.

“A letter left at the door. From Greek Row.”

The laughter cut short. Forks stilled. Plates cooled.

The envelope felt heavier than it should have, the cream paper embossed with the Mayfair crest. Kate’s fingers lingered on the flap a moment too long before she slid it open, her pulse ticking quick against her ribs.

The rustle of paper cut through the hush. Newton pressed close to her leg, ears twitching like he could feel the weight of the room.

Kate scanned the letter once, fast. Then again, slower. When she finally looked up, every eye was fixed on her—forks stilled, voices caught, waiting.

Her voice was steady when she spoke.

“It’s… an apology. Greek Row acknowledges the ‘inconveniences’ of last semester. They’re inviting Danbury residents to attend and contribute to any of their events this spring, at our leisure.” She paused, gaze flicking briefly to Eloise, then Francesca. “They’ve also promised to meet with the Student Union about the Snow Ball—about our exclusion. They call it ‘unacceptable’ and condemn it as against Mayfair’s values.”

A ripple of disbelief passed around the table. Hazel sat bolt upright. Michaela let out a low whistle. Rae mouthed holy crap at Emma.

Kate lifted the page a little higher, the crest catching the light. “It’s signed by all the chapter presidents.”

The words hung for a beat before she lowered the letter, her voice dipping, sharper now.

“All… except Phi Mu.”

The silence snapped taut. Francesca’s mouth pressed thin. Owen swore under his breath. Penelope’s stomach twisted so hard she had to set her fork down.

“Of course,” Eloise muttered. “They can’t even manage basic decency.”

Jack leaned forward, eyes wide. “Wait. So every frat and sorority—even Sigma Chi—signed this?”

Kate nodded. “Every single one.”

“Except the pink-shutter princesses,” Michaela said dryly, stabbing her samosa.

The hall erupted in murmurs—half relief, half outrage. For once, Danbury wasn’t invisible. They’d been acknowledged. Backed. But Phi Mu’s silence spoke louder than any signature.

Kate folded the letter carefully, sliding it back into the envelope as if sealing it against splinters. Her smile was small, but there was fire behind it. “This doesn’t erase everything. But it’s a start. And if Phi Mu thinks they can stand alone forever…” She let the thought trail off, heavy with promise.

Newton barked once, sharp and decisive, as if punctuating her words.

Around the table, Danbury’s residents straightened in their chairs. The laughter that rose again was cautious, but real—tinged with relief. Still, under the renewed clatter of forks and the chatter that built back up, one truth lingered like smoke: Phi Mu hadn’t surrendered. Phi Mu had declared war.

At the edge of the room, Kate slipped the letter back into its envelope, her thumb running along the crease before she tucked it against her clipboard. Her gaze flicked toward Anthony. A subtle tilt of her chin—enough to summon him without alerting the whole table.

He followed without question. The noise of clinking forks and rising chatter dulled as they stepped into the foyer, the hum of laughter fading behind the closed kitchen door.

Kate turned on him, arms crossing tight. “So what are you doing here? I’m sure it’s not to stop by to drop off mail. You’re supposed to be in D.C., drowning in policy memos and committee schedules.”

Anthony leaned against the doorframe, maddeningly at ease, rain still clinging to his coat. “About that. My boss decided I’ve been working a little too hard. Burnout, or whatever HR likes to call it. They’ve forced me to take a couple weeks off. ‘Recharge time.’”

Kate blinked, caught between disbelief and suspicion. “Recharge.”

He grinned, crooked and unbothered. “Which means I don’t have to stay chained to Capitol Hill. Conveniently, my boss has a friend out this way. So—” he gestured vaguely, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, “I’ll be in the neighborhood.” His eyes softened, locking on hers. “Which gives us a chance to spend some time together.”

Kate shook her head, a laugh slipping out though it came laced with exasperation. “You’re ridiculous. You should be closer to home, closer to your family. Not lurking around Mayfair like some—”

“Like a man who finally has time to breathe?” Anthony cut in, his tone gentler now. “Home is where I choose to spend it, Kate. And right now, I’m choosing here. With you.”

Her chest tightened. A dozen reasons to push him back crowded her throat: the Board watching, the rumors already swirling, the risk of losing Danbury altogether. But behind them came the tug of warmth—dangerous, persistent—that he always seemed to spark in her ribs. She exhaled slowly, managing only, “You’re still insane.”

“Probably,” Anthony agreed with a lopsided smile. “But at least I’m your kind of insane.”

Through the doorway, laughter spilled again from the dining room—plates clattering, voices rising, Newton’s bark cutting through like punctuation. The sound of Danbury alive, whole, unbroken.

Phi Mu’s group chat exploded first—pings, screenshots, disbelief piling up. Lizzy sprawled on her bed, nails still tacky, and fired off a text to Theo.

Lizzy: Heard Greek Row signed some kumbaya letter with Danbury?? Even Sigma. True?

Theo: Yeah. Fife pushed it through. Don’t shoot me.

Lizzy groaned, tossing her phone aside. “Confirmed,” she called. “Sigma folded too. Guess the boys are officially soft.”

The response was instant: groans, snickers, mutters about “Danbury rejects” getting crowned queens. Sita’s voice rose above the noise. “Then why didn’t we sign? Why didn’t you, Cressida?”

In the lounge, Cressida stood beneath the chandelier, flawless as ever, her hair catching the light like spun glass. “Because we don’t need to,” she said coolly. “Phi Mu doesn’t beg for relevance. The rest of Greek Row knows who we are. Mayfair knows. A letter won’t change that.”

Conchita’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “From where I’m sitting, the whole campus thinks we’re a joke. We’re the only ones who didn’t sign.”

Unease rippled. Nan chewed her lip. Jinny scrolled her phone like escape might be on the next screen.

And then Minty entered, pearls gleaming even under the harsh lounge lights, her robe cinched like a general’s uniform. She moved through the room with the inevitability of a storm.

“Enough,” she said, voice low but razor-edged. “This isn’t about a letter. This is about loyalty. If any of you believe Phi Mu has lost its shine—if you think the Mosquito, or Danbury, or some pandering apology defines us—then go. Hand me your pin. Right now.”

The silence was suffocating. No one moved.

“Mother—” Cressida began, but Minty’s gaze sliced to her like a blade.

“That,” Minty said coldly, “is leadership. You command. Or you crumble.”

For the first time, the room shifted against her. Cordy Partridge stood, her voice calm but cutting. “When I pledged, it was for sisterhood. Strength. Not this circus of intimidation. Not silence when Conchita’s boyfriend died. Not manipulation every time a whisper starts. That’s not Phi Mu. Not the one we swore to.”

Murmurs rippled. Mary Ann nodded faintly. Lizzy bit her lip. Even Conchita—her grief usually hidden behind steel—looked stricken at hearing it out loud.

Cressida’s perfect posture wavered. She looked less like a queen, more like a girl caught in the glare of her own crown.

The dam cracked. Mary Ann nodded, eyes wet. Clara snapped about being used as cover. Sita muttered about being tokenized. Lizzy muttered, “She’s not wrong.” Conchita’s voice broke as she said, “I buried Dicky alone. And all I got from this house was gossip.”

Minty lifted her chin, pearls clicking like warning bells. “Weakness has no place here. If grief breaks you, if truth scares you, you don’t belong in Phi Mu.”

But her words no longer landed like law. Too many eyes turned to Cressida.

And Cressida—flawless, untouchable Cressida—wavered. Her spine stayed straight, her smile trained, but her hands trembled where no one could see. Her voice, when it came, was softer than Minty’s, but it carried further.

“I don’t want anyone’s pin,” she said, throat tight. “I don’t want people leaving. I want Phi Mu whole. Us whole.”

The Bucks shifted uneasily. Nan stood, sharp with frustration. “Then make it whole, Cress. Because right now? This isn’t fun anymore. It’s a battlefield. And I don’t even know if I’m fighting for Phi Mu—or just for you.”

The lounge erupted—grievances spilling like glass shards, the perfect house fracturing in real time.

Minty stayed tall, pearls gleaming like teeth. “Pathetic,” she hissed. “You sound like one of them.”

But the sisters weren’t looking at Minty anymore. They were watching Cressida—perfect hair, perfect smile, her crown still fixed in place.

And only Cressida knew how close it was to slipping.

Chapter Text

The semester fell back into rhythm with the inevitability of snow melting into slush. Lecture halls filled with yawns and coffee cups, professors droned through syllabi as though their students hadn’t already skimmed them online, and the bookstore lines snaked so far they looked like a new form of campus hazing.

For Anthony and Kate, the reset looked different. He was technically “on leave” from D.C., which meant more nights in Mayfair and fewer mornings waking up under fluorescent lights and policy drafts. Their dates weren’t champagne and white tablecloths. They were fluorescent aisles, cheap carts with wobbly wheels, and Newton riding like a corgi monarch among the dollar-bin treasures.

“Romance,” Kate muttered, plucking a bag of conversation hearts from the shelf.

“Luxury,” Anthony countered, dropping in truffles like he was making a grand gesture.

Newton yipped once, eyes locked on the peanut-butter treats.

Kate rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. Later, leaning against him in self-checkout while Newton pawed furiously for the receipt, Kate found herself laughing so hard her ribs ached. Anthony thought, not for the first time, that this—ordinary, messy, ridiculous—was better than any reservation he’d ever made.

Half a world away, Colin streamed dumpling reviews from a Melbourne alleyway, sun in his hair and tennis chatter from the Australian Open buzzing in the background. The live chat scrolled faster than he could read, but Penelope only cared about her DMs.

Penelope: You’re going to get food poisoning.

Colin: Worth it. Imagine the views.

Penelope: I’m imagining the ER bill. Pretty sure “international meat pie mishap” isn’t covered by insurance.

Colin: Don’t worry. I’ll save you the best one when you finally admit you miss me.

Her cheeks warmed every time his name lit her screen. It wasn’t confessions, not yet, but Colin’s steady humor, his kindness, felt like a lifeline stretching across oceans.

She hadn’t posted as the Mosquito since her single return sting. The account sat dormant, buzzing silently at the back of her mind. But Colin’s messages? Those she answered instantly.

If Colin was her tether, Eloise was the wound she couldn’t heal. Their words were clipped to politeness, their silences sharper than any fight. Eloise vanished into readings, late nights at Hanover with Phil, refusing even to brush shoulders in the dining hall. The absence between them was louder than the laughter they used to share.

In Room 206, the silence sounded different. Francesca hadn’t thought herself bold—not like Michaela, with her sharp wit, easy confidence, or her unapologetic kiss. But somewhere between late-night playlists and whispered jokes beneath the covers, Francesca let go.

When Michaela’s hands coaxed her into gasps that left her trembling, Francesca wasn’t afraid. She was astonished. The release felt like a rebellion, her body betraying everything she thought she knew.

Michaela grinned down, cocky but tender. “Told you I was good.”

Francesca’s laugh was breathless, disbelieving. “That’s… not even the word.”

But when Michaela sprawled back, satisfied, Francesca’s thoughts spun. They hadn’t defined what they were—roommates, friends, lovers—but she knew, curling into Michaela’s warmth, that something had shifted inside her. Something she wasn’t ready to name.

The parking lot buzzed with slamming trunks, duffels thumping, and pom-poms clattering against bleachers as Mayfair’s basketball team and dance squad piled into vans. Sophie tugged her braid tighter, silently running counts in her head, until she froze at the sight of Benedict striding across the lot. His coat hung open against the frost, out of place among warm-ups and megaphones.

“Ben?” she asked, startled, bag slipping off her shoulder. “What are you doing here? You could’ve just texted.”

His smile was stubborn, sheepish. “I could have. But then I wouldn’t get to see your face before you left to win this thing.”

Her chest tightened. “It’s not a championship. Just a regular season game against GMU—”

“Not nothing,” he cut in gently. “And I wanted you to have something for the road.”

He pressed a folded page into her hand, retreating before she could unfold it. His grin wavered at the edges, as if he knew she was already bracing herself.

“Ben,” she sighed, torn between exasperation and affection. “We’ve talked about this. Until it’s over with Phillip, I can’t cross that line. I won’t cheat.”

“I know.” His voice softened. “I’m not asking you to. Just… take it.”

Something in his fever-bright eyes made it harder to breathe. So she hugged him instead, fiercely enough to memorize it. When she pulled back, her throat felt tight.

“I’ll see you after.”

“Knock them dead,” he murmured.

Hours later, on the highway north, Sophie finally unfolded the page. Gasps escaped before she could stop them. It wasn’t just a sketch. It was her—mid-turn, hair flying, arms outstretched, captured with reverence she didn’t recognize in herself.

Hazel leaned over, whistling low. “Wow. He’s got it bad.”

Sophie folded the paper quickly and puts it in her pocket, cheeks burning. She couldn’t argue. Every line told her exactly how Benedict saw her.

And maybe that was what scared her most.

EagleBank Arena was still buzzing in Sophie’s ears even after the final buzzer. Mayfair by three—barely—but enough to send the dance squad squealing and Caleb hoisted onto his teammates’ shoulders. Sophie clapped, smiled, cheered when she was supposed to, but her body ached for quiet. For warmth. For something other than the echo of sneakers and the sting of adrenaline fading too fast.

“Let’s go to my place,” she told the others, hoisting her duffel onto her shoulder. “It’s nothing fancy, just a townhouse—but Dad always keeps the fridge stocked. We’ll celebrate with leftovers.”

The Danburymobile—a wheezing van John had christened with duct tape bravado—filled quickly, laughter spilling out as Caleb crammed in too. Sophie jogged ahead to grab her bag from the bench, only to stop short.

Rosamund.

Her stepsister leaned against the cinderblock wall, lashes batting at a George Mason guard who still had his jersey half-unzipped. He was eating up every word she threw like it was the postgame show.

Heat surged up Sophie’s neck. She stormed across the court. “Rosamund. What are you doing here?”

Rosamund jumped, then groaned, exasperated. “Oh my God, Soph, relax. I was just talking. I figured maybe I’d have a fun night with the players and—”

“You don’t even know him.” Sophie’s voice came out low, sharp, her duffel strap cutting into her palm. “You know what happened last time—”

Rosamund’s eyes flashed. “Don’t. Don’t you dare bring up Fife again.” Her voice carried, brittle enough to draw glances. “One mistake and suddenly you treat me like I’m helpless. Like I can’t make a choice without your permission.”

Sophie’s jaw clenched. “I’m not saying you’re helpless. I’m saying I won’t watch you throw yourself into the same mess again.”

“Well maybe I don’t need you deciding what’s fun for me!” Rosamund’s cheeks flushed, her phone clenched so tight it might snap. “Maybe you’re the one who’s scared to live a little.”

The words chased them into the van, Rosamund slamming the sliding door hard enough to rattle the windows. Laughter, music, half-sat laps filled the cramped ride, but between the sisters, the silence was barbed.

Rosamund angled herself toward the window, earbuds jammed in, chin lifted like armor. Sophie sat rigid, staring straight ahead, reminding herself Posy was safe with her friends, Dad would still be at the restaurant, Araminta would be buried in her Tuesday Bible study.

Except—

As the van turned into their Annandale cul-de-sac, Sophie’s breath caught. The familiar beige townhouse glowed under its porch light. And in the driveway—

Araminta’s car.

The van emptied in a noisy shuffle, sneakers slapping the pavement, voices clamoring for snacks and who’d claimed shotgun for the return trip. Rosamund jingled the house keys, chin high, but her knuckles white around the ring.

“You’re not reckless because you want fun,” Sophie muttered, arms crossed as they neared the door. “You’re reckless because you never think about the after.”

Rosamund shot her a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “And you’re suffocating. Always the hall monitor, always the saint. Not everything is your job, Soph.”

“You may hate me,” Sophie said tightly, “but I’m still your sister.”

She turned the knob, ushering the Danbury crew inside. Hazel murmured, “Cozy,” under her breath. John plunked himself against the bannister, humming off-key. Bags hit the floor, coats piled high.

And then—

Thump.

The room stilled.

Then a moan came along—long, sharp, unmistakably intimate.

The Danbury crew froze in the entryway. The laughter died. Sophie’s stomach flipped, a dread she couldn’t name clawing its way up her spine.

Rosamund wrinkled her nose. “Oh my God. Gross. She’s… seriously? By herself? While Dad’s at work?”

Sophie shook her head. “No.” The next thump rattled the ceiling. Another moan followed—louder. Male this time. Her skin crawled.

Dad would never—he never left the restaurant before midnight. He was too proud, too stubborn.

This wasn’t him.

Sophie’s eyes found Rosamund’s. For once, the girl’s usual smirk was gone. Her bravado cracked, leaving only wide-eyed fear.

Together, they climbed the stairs.

Sophie’s hand trembled on the knob. She pushed the door open an inch.

And the world split.

Araminta. On all fours. The man moving with her—Phillip.

Her boyfriend. Her stepmother. In her father’s bed.

Rosamund’s gasp sliced the air, muffled behind her hand. Sophie’s chest hollowed out, replaced by pure fire. She didn’t think—she acted. Her phone was already up, recording, twenty seconds of proof before her stomach lurched. She needed the evidence, needed to make it undeniable.

Then rage took her hand. She grabbed the nearest frame from the dresser and hurled it.

The glass cracked against Phillip’s back. He stumbled, clutching at himself, his face twisted—not with shame, but with outrage.

“Sophie, wait—”

“Don’t you dare.” Her voice was a blade, low and shaking. “Don’t you dare try to talk your way out of this.”

Rosamund pressed back against the doorframe, her face crumpling as she looked from her mother to Phillip. “Mom? What the hell? He’s her boyfriend. You’re married. You’re supposed to love Dad!”

Araminta snatched the sheet, wrapping it tight around her. “This isn’t what it looks like—”

“Oh, it’s exactly what it looks like.” Sophie’s voice rang with fury, her eyes locked on Phillip. “So this is it? You begged me to take you back just so you could crawl in here and screw her instead? How long? Christmas? Longer?”

Phillip’s expression twisted cruel. “You think you’re so innocent, Sophie? You strung me along. Always teasing, never giving. While you’re out there dancing like a slut for everyone else. What did you expect me to do?”

The words hit, sharp as knives—but Sophie didn’t bend. Her jaw set. Her hand curled into a fist before she realized she was moving.

Her punch landed clean against his mouth. The crack of it silenced everything. Phillip staggered, blood bright against his lip, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Don’t you ever blame me for your filth,” Sophie spat, shaking out her hand. “You don’t get to twist this. You don’t get to gaslight me. You’re done.”

Rosamund’s voice trembled, breaking as she glared at the bed. “I can’t believe you, Mom.”

Araminta snapped, voice rising, “Delete that video, Sophie! Now! You don’t know what you’re doing—”

Sophie’s grip on her phone tightened. “No. Dad deserves to know. And if you think I’ll protect you after this, you’re insane.”

She shoved past them, fury carrying her down the stairs.

The Danbury crew turned at the sound of footsteps, their faces pale with shock. Then Phillip stumbled into view, split lip bleeding, shirt half-buttoned. He didn’t look at anyone. He didn’t speak. He bolted out the door.

The slam rattled the townhouse.

At the top of the stairs, Sophie stood, chest heaving, phone clutched against her heart. She wasn’t crying. Not yet. Her rage was steadier than her breath, keeping her upright.

Phillip was gone. But the wreckage—the truth—was hers to wield now.

And for the first time, Sophie realized: she wasn’t powerless anymore.

The voices upstairs were knives—sharp, clashing, impossible to ignore.

Araminta’s shriek came first, pitched and furious:

“Delete that video, Sophie, or so help me—”

Then Rosamund’s voice, trembling but fierce:

“You don’t get to say that, Mom! You don’t get to!”

And Sophie, steady and cutting through the chaos:

“Dad deserves the truth. I’m done covering for you.”

Downstairs, the Danbury crew sat stiff in the living room, sneakers half-untied, jackets still on their laps. The fight poured through the ceiling like broken glass.

Rae broke the silence, whispering, “So… anyone else think maybe we should head out before we’re officially extras in a soap opera?”

Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Feels wrong to leave. She’ll need us when this explodes.”

Hazel hugged her knees, her voice softer. “Yeah, but do we wait here? In the middle of it? This isn’t our house. This isn’t our war.”

John’s fingers tapped restlessly against the banister. “Exactly. We sit through this, we’re intruding. Like standing in the splash zone at SeaWorld.”

“More like sitting in it,” Bridget muttered, her Irish lilt sharper than usual. She twisted her sleeve between her fingers. “She brought us to celebrate, not to witness her family breaking apart.”

On the couch, Tiana blew out a slow breath. “I thought my family had drama. This? This is next-level. Her ex-boyfriend. Her stepmom. In her dad’s bed?” She shook her head, almost in disbelief. “That’s novela-level betrayal.”

Caleb swore under his breath, his big hands clenched into fists. “She doesn’t deserve this. Soph’s tougher than she looks, but—damn. This’ll wreck her.”

The crew fell silent again as a crash echoed above—a door slamming, Araminta’s voice dropping to a hiss, Sophie answering with fury that rattled even through the floorboards.

Then came the sound that froze them all.

A car pulling into the drive.

Keys in the lock.

The front door opening to Richard Gun, weary in his restaurant uniform, Posy skipping at his side with her bookbag bouncing. He smelled of garlic and sesame, his voice warm but tired. “Girls? Sophie?”

Upstairs, silence snapped taut.

The Danbury crew exchanged wide-eyed glances. Rae mouthed oh shit. Hazel bit her lip. Jack rubbed his face like he could erase the sound of Sophie’s voice from minutes earlier.

John whispered, “We should’ve taken the Danburymobile back twenty minutes ago.”

No one disagreed.

Chapter Text

The van hummed with silence. No music this time, no shotgun debates, just the low drone of the heater and the shuffle of coats.

Rae finally muttered, “I couldn’t sit there one more second. That wasn’t ours to stay for.”

“Agreed,” Bridget said, her arms crossed tight. “But it felt wrong to walk away.”

Hazel twisted her hands. “It did. But she’ll have her dad now. That’s what matters.”

John’s knuckles tightened on the wheel. “So we don’t leave her—we orbit. Keep moving until she tells us where she stands.”

And so they did. Past strip malls glowing neon, past cul-de-sacs heavy with frost, the van circling Annandale like a restless planet waiting on its star.

Eventually, hunger won. Tiana pointed at the glowing yellow sign ahead. “Wendy’s. Neutral ground. Burgers fix everything, at least for ten minutes.”

Rae leaned across John to shout into the speaker, “Seven Frostys. Chocolate. No—mix vanilla too. We’re in crisis.”

It cracked the tension. Laughter bubbled, thin but real, as greasy bags were passed around, fries spilling, Frostys sweating into laps. They parked in the shadow of the lot, headlights dimmed, the car smelling of salt and sugar.

Hazel murmured into her cup, “Feels wrong to celebrate without her.”

As if summoned, their phones buzzed at once. The group chat lit up.

Sophie: Go back to campus without me. Dad needs me.

The words glowed in the dim van, heavy as stone.

Jack broke the silence first. “She’s staying.”

“She has to,” Tiana said softly. “It’s her family.”

John started the van, his jaw set. “Then we do what Danbury does best. We wait. We keep the hall whole until she comes back.”

The drive home was quiet, gentler now. Wrappers crinkled, Frostys slurped. Mayfair’s campus lights blinked ahead, a promise waiting.

None of them said it aloud, but they all felt it: Sophie had stepped into a war none of them could fight for her.

All they could do was leave the light on.

Francesca sprawled across the common table, sheet music scattered like fallen leaves, while Eloise sat nearby with her legs folded under her, highlighter balanced between her fingers. It had been weeks since they’d had quiet time together—Eloise disappearing into Hanover more often than not, Francesca pulled into rehearsals and the late-night orbit of Room 206.

The silence stretched until Eloise finally spoke, her tone softer than usual.

“So… Michaela makes you laugh a lot,” she said, not looking up from her poli-sci reader. “That’s good.”

Francesca’s pencil froze mid-mark. Heat rose in her cheeks. “Eloise…”

“What?” Eloise glanced up, her eyes gentle. “I’m glad. Truly. You deserve someone who makes the world a little lighter.”

Francesca ducked her head, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “She does. More than I thought possible.”

Eloise’s expression softened even further. “Good. You need that.”

For a moment, the weight of the semester—the fights, the fractures, the noise—lifted. Francesca reached for another page of music, but her gaze flicked toward Eloise. “And you? I haven’t heard much about Hanover lately. Not since…” She trailed off carefully.

Eloise’s highlighter rolled between her fingers. “Not since Pen.” She said it without sharpness, just a quiet admission. “It’s different now. But Phil’s steady. He came by with his niece and nephew last week. We played Sorry! until midnight.” Her mouth curved faintly. “I think I needed that. Something ordinary. Something kind.”

Francesca smiled at her across the mess of papers. “I’m glad you have that too.”

They stayed like that, close but quiet, until the front door creaked open and chatter spilled into the hall. Rae, Jack, Hazel, Bridget, and the rest of the “Danburymobile” crew shuffled in, smelling faintly of frost and French fries. Rae’s laugh was a little too loud. Bridget clutched her coat tight. Hazel’s eyes darted toward the stairs as if expecting Sophie to appear.

“Where’s Soph?” Francesca asked at once.

Jack rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at Rae. “She… stayed behind. Family thing. Said her dad needed her.”

The words landed heavy. Eloise’s highlighter slipped from her fingers and clattered against the table.

“A family emergency?” Francesca pressed, her voice soft.

Hazel shook her head. “That’s all she said. She’ll be back when she can.”

Silence followed, not awkward, but full of the weight of worry neither sister voiced aloud. Francesca reached across the table, her hand brushing Eloise’s. They didn’t need to speak. Both of them knew what the other was thinking: Sophie would come back when she was ready. Until then, Danbury would have to hold steady—for her.

The morning after felt hollow, as if the walls themselves had absorbed every word of the shouting match. Sophie’s old bedroom smelled faintly of lavender detergent and dust, the sheets rumpled from restless tossing. Somehow, all three sisters had squeezed into the full-size bed—Posy curled like a kitten in the middle, Sophie absently combing her hair with gentle fingers, Rosamund staring at the ceiling with eyes puffy and rimmed red.

No one spoke much. They didn’t need to. The sounds from downstairs carried up through the vents: Araminta’s shrill accusations, Richard’s low, exhausted replies.

“You’ve never cared about me,” Araminta spat, her voice sharp enough to cut.

“All my energy goes into that restaurant—for us—for our future,” Richard shot back, voice frayed but steady.

“Your family,” Araminta hissed. “Not mine. You’ve only ever cared about her. About that brat, Sophie.”

Sophie’s chest constricted, but she didn’t flinch. Posy stirred against her arm, clinging tighter to her sleeve. Rosamund rolled to her side, burying her face in the pillow, but the rigid set of her shoulders betrayed that she was listening to every word.

The argument spiraled—resentments, old wounds, the kind of bitterness that festered in the dark for years. And then Richard’s voice rose, not loud but sure:

“I have three daughters. Sophie. Rosamund. Posy. Don’t you dare claim otherwise. They are mine. They have always been mine.”

Sophie’s throat tightened. She’d always known he loved her, but hearing it like this—in the face of Araminta’s venom—felt different. It felt permanent.

Rosamund shifted, her lips parting like she wanted to lash out—at Sophie, at the world, at how everything had cracked open. Blame trembled there: Sophie and her damn video, Sophie the “favorite,” Sophie the reason their mother’s mask had slipped. But the words stuck in her throat. She was too wrung out, too raw. Speaking them aloud would make them real. Instead, she pressed her face deeper into the pillow, her silence saying what she couldn’t.

Her thoughts raced anyway—back to the choices Araminta had forced on them both. How she’d begged Rosamund to stay at NoVa instead of Virginia Tech, dangling promises of closeness. How she’d manipulated Sophie into delaying Mayfair for two years. None of it had ever been about love. It had always been about control.

Posy mumbled into Sophie’s arm, still half-asleep: “Don’t wanna go to school today.”

Sophie kissed her hair. “I know, baby. We’ll see.”

A knock came—soft, hesitant—before the door eased open. Richard stood there, uniform wrinkled from another long night at the restaurant, eyes shadowed but steady. He looked at them—three girls tangled in blankets like survivors after a storm—and his expression gentled.

“Girls,” he said quietly, “none of this is your fault.”

Posy sat up first, rubbing her eyes. Rosamund blinked at him, guarded, waiting for the sting of blame. But Richard only crossed the room and sat at the edge of the bed.

“I want you to hear me.” His gaze moved from one daughter to the next, deliberate, grounding. “Posy. Rosamund. Sophie. You are my daughters. All of you. I love you the same. And whatever happens with your mother… that doesn’t change. Not for a second.”

Rosamund’s lip trembled, her eyes glassy, but she didn’t speak. Posy folded herself against his side, clinging tight. Sophie’s chest loosened, though the ache stayed.

Richard stroked Posy’s hair, his voice steady. “Your mother’s not here—she chose to stay elsewhere last night. That’s her decision. Mine is this: I’m with you. We’ll get through this together.”

Then his gaze landed on Sophie, heavier, sharper. “And I need to know you’re alright. Phillip… I knew he was trouble. But I didn’t know he was this. Did he hurt you?”

Sophie shook her head, her voice clipped but firm. “No. He didn’t touch me. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t think… not with her.”

Richard’s jaw tightened, fury flickering under his exhaustion, but he only reached forward, taking her hand in his. “You’ve been strong for all of us, Soph. Too strong. Now let me take some of that weight. You’re not carrying this alone.” He exhaled, shoulders sagging. “Posy and Rosamund, I’ll drop you at school. Sophie—” he brushed a strand of hair from her face, the gesture as fatherly as it was protective, “—you’re going back to Williamsburg. To your family there. To Danbury.”

Sophie’s eyes burned. “I don’t want to leave you.”

Richard’s tired smile softened the edges of his face. “I’m still their father. This is mine to handle. Yours is to live your life. Neuroscientists don’t get to hide three hours away because home turned ugly. You hear me?”

Her hand tightened around his. The weight of his words settled deep, equal parts burden and relief. She nodded, whispering, “Okay. I’ll go back.”

The drive was quieter than Sophie had ever remembered, the radio murmuring soft jazz under the tension that lingered in the van. Richard kept both hands firm on the wheel, his profile set, his presence steady enough to anchor the silence.

First stop: Annandale High.

Posy clutched her backpack straps so tight her knuckles whitened. She kept her face turned toward the window, lips wobbling.

“Do I have to?” she whispered.

Richard’s hand reached over, smoothing her hair with practiced gentleness. “You’re stronger than you think, Posy. Go on. Your friends are waiting.”

Sophie leaned across to kiss her cheek. Posy gave her a watery smile, small but brave, before hopping out. Sophie watched her square her shoulders the way only children can—pretending courage until it becomes real.

Next: Northern Virginia Community College.

Rosamund stayed curled in her seat, earbuds buried, arms crossed like armor. She didn’t move when the van pulled up. Richard glanced over. “I’ll pick you up later, Roz. Just us. Lunch.”

Her throat worked once. Then she nodded, pulling her coat tighter around herself. Sophie leaned awkwardly across the console, offering a side hug. It was brief, stiff—but Rosamund squeezed back before slipping out into the cold.

That left only Sophie.

The drive to Alexandria stretched long, the Potomac glinting gray through a veil of frost. Richard finally broke the silence. “You don’t have to carry all of this, Sophie. You’re allowed to just… be twenty. A student going back to school.”

She glanced down at her jacket, her dance team uniform peeking out beneath it. “Like this?” she asked, almost embarrassed.

“Exactly like this.” His tired smile softened. “You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone. Not to Phillip. Not to her. You’ll be alright. And Posy, Rosamund—they’ll be alright too. That’s on me.”

At the train station curb, he parked and turned fully toward her. “Come here.”

She leaned in, and his hug was fierce—grounding, the kind that pressed into her bones. When he pulled back, he slipped a folded bill into her palm. “Fifty bucks. Ticket and something to eat. Don’t argue. You left your bag in the van last night.”

Her eyes stung. “Thank you, Dad.”

“Go on,” he said gruffly. “Train’s not gonna wait.”

She climbed out, shouldering her duffel, and turned once. He was still there, watching her until the crowd swallowed her whole.

Onboard.

Sophie slid into a window seat, her breath fogging the glass as the train lurched forward. She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets—then froze.

The sketch.

Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the page, the graphite lines alive beneath her touch. Benedict had drawn her mid-turn, hair flying, arms extended—radiant, caught in motion, as though she belonged to the music itself. He hadn’t sketched her as she feared she looked—awkward, striving too hard—but as though she was already everything she wanted to be.

Her chest tightened, her throat burning as she pressed the paper against her heart.

Outside, the winter landscape blurred past, fields giving way to woods, the horizon pulling her south toward Williamsburg. Sophie finally allows herself to believe she wasn’t just returning—she was moving forward.

Wednesday night at Danbury was loud in the way only midweek freedom allowed.

The common room buzzed—music low, chips spilling out of open bags, soda cans balanced dangerously on the edge of the coffee table. Residents sprawled across couches and beanbags like it was their own tiny republic, governed only by laughter and bad Wi-Fi.

Paloma draped herself dramatically across an armrest, a half-empty Coke can gesturing like a scepter. “So there I was, leaving the dining hall, and guess who’s outside screaming at each other? Nan and Guy. Again.”

Rae perked up. “Over what this time? Debate club? Ultimate Frisbee?”

Paloma smirked. “Over me, obviously. A quick hello in the quad and suddenly Guy’s reenacting Troy.”

The room roared, Emma nearly choking on her popcorn.

“Please,” Gladys muttered from the window seat, her book balanced on her knee. “If we’re assigning war zones, can we get one for Piper and Oliver’s makeout marathons? Preferably anywhere far, far away from the laundry room.”

Groans circled the room, a pillow sailing across to land squarely in Emma’s lap.

In the corner, Penelope forced a laugh, but the weight of her phone in her pocket pressed heavier than the chatter around her. The urge to confess—the temptation to just stand up and say it, admit she was the Mosquito—fought with the dread of what came after.

Kate passed through then, clipboard tucked under her arm, Newton pattering loyally at her side. Her gaze lingered on Penelope for a beat, one brow arched in a silent question: when?

Before Penelope could answer, the front door creaked open.

Sophie stood in the threshold. Hair mussed from the train and jacket rumpled. For a moment no one noticed—Bridget was still arguing with Michaela over who’d stolen the last samosa, Rae was mid-story, Caleb was balancing a soda on his knee.

But Newton noticed.

He bolted, nails skittering across the hardwood, tail a blur of joy. Sophie dropped her bag and crumpled to her knees just as he collided into her arms. She buried her face in his fur—and the tears broke loose. Hot, unguarded, unstoppable. Relief, exhaustion, heartbreak, all spilling at once.

The room froze.

Kate moved first. She crossed the space in two strides, crouching beside Sophie, her arm steady and sure around her shoulders. “You’re home,” she murmured, her voice low but certain.

Around them, Danbury shifted—Francesca lowering her music sheets, Eloise sliding her highlighter closed, Paloma biting her lip to keep from making a quip. The warmth of the room didn’t vanish, but it stilled, folding inward.

And in the center, Sophie clung to Newton, clung to Kate, and let herself cry—because after everything, she was finally, undeniably back where she belonged.

The laughter that had filled the common room only minutes earlier had thinned to a hush. Newton pressed tight against Sophie’s side, tail still wagging, as if he could anchor her here by sheer force of loyalty. Kate’s arm stayed steady around her shoulders, her presence quiet but unyielding.

No one else moved. No one else spoke. Francesca’s pencil stilled over the sheet music. Eloise’s highlighter rolled unnoticed to the floor. Even Michaela’s sharp tongue fell silent, her usual smirk softened into something almost tender.

Sophie’s sobs were not loud, but they were raw—grief and relief tangled together, spilling into Kate’s shoulder, dampening Newton’s fur. The sound of them filled the room like truth, heavier than any joke or distraction could mask.

For once, Danbury didn’t try to fix it. They didn’t demand answers. They didn’t ask what had happened at home, or what scars she had carried back with her. They just stayed—quiet, watchful, a circle holding its breath.

And in the center of it all, Sophie let herself break. Because here, finally, she was allowed to.

Here, finally, she was home.

Chapter Text

It had been two days since Sophie’s return, and Danbury was still holding its breath around her. Hazel shadowed her with quiet gestures—extra tea bags, a scarf left on her chair. Francesca slid sheet music under her door. Even Michaela, who never spared anyone her sharp tongue, offered to fill Sophie’s gas tank without comment.

Kate was steady as ever, reminding her, “My office is open. Anytime. No pressure.” Sophie smiled, nodded, and then slipped back into her routines as though muscle memory could rebuild normal.

Eloise checked in too. Once. Twice. The third time, Sophie’s polite brush-offs stung enough that Eloise stopped asking. On the surface Sophie was fine—laughing at the right jokes, pirouetting through rehearsal counts—but Eloise knew the difference between composure and collapse.

That night, books in her arms, Eloise spotted movement on the stairs. Penelope. Her hair loose, cardigan slouched, eyes uncertain.

Eloise froze. “Going to check on her?”

Penelope startled, guilt flashing across her face. “Someone should. She’s not—”

“No.” Eloise’s voice cut, flat and cold. “You’ll twist it. You’ll watch her cry and then run back to your laptop and make it a tweet.”

The words hit like a slap. Penelope flinched, color rising in her cheeks. “I would never—”

“You already did.” Eloise’s jaw tightened. “You turned all of us into content. Sophie doesn’t need your pity disguised as exposés.”

Penelope’s voice cracked, but she didn’t back down. “You think I don’t know grief? My father didn’t just gamble away our lives—he vanished. Loan sharks. Poison. My mother scrubbed it clean because shame plays better than truth. Don’t tell me I don’t know what breaking feels like.”

For a heartbeat, Eloise faltered. The edges of Penelope’s confession were too raw, too bare. But anger was easier than empathy. She straightened, arms tight around her books. “Don’t you dare make this about you. Sophie’s family is falling apart, and you’re still playing victim.”

Penelope’s mouth pressed shut. Her fists curled, but her voice came out low, resigned. “I’m done begging for your forgiveness. Believe what you want.” She turned, cardigan slipping lower, and vanished into the shadows of the hall.

Eloise stood frozen, the silence loud around her, until she forced herself to move. Hanover would be waiting. And so would Phil. Better him than the echo Penelope left behind.

Hanover’s common room buzzed with the usual midweek energy—dice clattering, mugs of coffee steaming on the tables. Phil was waiting at the door, dice bag in hand, grin tugging at his mouth.

“Ready for another night of watching me roll natural ones?”

“You’re the worst cleric in history,” Eloise said, brushing past him with more bite than humor.

“Correction,” Phil countered easily, “the most consistent cleric. My players never die, because the universe knows I can’t roll worth a damn.”

She laughed despite herself, but the sound was thin. When they sat, her fingers worried the spine of her book instead of reaching for dice. Phil’s eyes tracked her fidgeting.

“You’ve got that look,” he said quietly. “Like you’re here, but your head’s three battles away.”

Eloise swallowed. “If someone you trusted lived a double life—sweet in person, cruel online—what would you do?”

Phil tilted his head. “Define cruel.”

Her voice dropped. “Penelope is the Mosquito. It was her. All those tweets tearing through Greek Row? That was her.”

He sat back, absorbing it with a slow nod. “People mess up online. Doesn’t make them monsters.”

“Not monsters?” Eloise snapped. “She nearly got Danbury gutted. Kate almost lost her job. We were collateral for her little hobby.”

Phil’s gaze sharpened. “And what did you do about it?”

Eloise hesitated. Then admitted, “When we were… together, in my room—I found out. I deleted the account. Right there.”

Phil blinked. “You what?”

“I shut it down. Someone had to.”

His face shifted, the warmth cooling. “That’s… not cool, Eloise.”

Her head snapped up. “Not cool? She lied to me. To all of us—”

“And you silenced her.” His tone was calm, but unyielding. “That’s not the Eloise I know. You fight for free speech, for messy truths, for the right to say things people don’t want to hear. But you took her voice because it cut too close to you.”

The words landed heavy, harder than she expected.

“I’m not defending her lies,” Phil added, softer now. “But caring about you means being honest. And honestly? You were wrong too. Not the same wrong. But still wrong.”

Eloise’s throat closed. She had braced for sympathy, validation. Not this. Not Phil, quiet and steady, holding up a mirror sharper than any fight with Penelope ever had.

For the first time, she saw him differently—not just the boy with dice and houseplants and shy smiles, but someone with steel in him. Someone who wouldn’t let her hide from herself.

And the words clung: You were wrong too.

The echo of Phil’s words still gnawed at her when the door banged open and the D&D crowd stormed in—arms stacked with chip bags, soda bottles clinking, and someone balancing a Little Caesars box like it was a sacred artifact.

“Roll for initiative, nerds!” someone shouted.

“Wrong system,” another corrected, already laughing.

The noise surged like a tide, almost drowning Eloise’s thoughts. Almost.

Phil slipped into the chaos like it was second nature: greeting each arrival with a clap on the shoulder, spilling dice across the table, unrolling character sheets covered in doodles, queueing up a battle playlist that crackled through the speakers.

Eloise tried to match their energy. She flipped through her notes, tossed out a sarcastic quip when two players argued about whether a ferret could survive a dungeon crawl. But her hand shook when she reached for her highlighter.

That’s not you.

Phil’s voice, calm and unflinching, stayed lodged beneath her skin. She wanted to believe she was still the righteous one, the crusader against hypocrisy—but she had silenced Penelope. Deleted her voice. And across the table sat Phil Crane, steady, plant-loving, dice-hoarding Phil, who had shown her something sharper than she expected. Conviction wrapped in quiet. Steel disguised as softness.

When the DM finally nudged her turn, her voice caught. “Uh… my bard… sings a new verse.”

Phil’s brow creased, the concern plain. Eloise forced a grin, rolling her die with theatrical flair. “Sorry. Distracted. But she’s ready to stir trouble.”

The table erupted. For a while, the current swept her along: dice clattering, soda fizzing, snacks vanishing faster than hit points. By the time the DM called it, the battlefield was nothing but chip crumbs and dented soda cans.

One by one, the others filtered out, still laughing, still making next-week promises.

Phil waved them off, already sorting dice into tidy piles. Eloise lingered. Pretzels in the trash. Books gathered too slowly. Anything to delay.

When the room emptied, only the hum of the vending machine filled the silence. Eloise dropped onto the couch, her books heavy in her lap. Her pulse heavier still.

Phil sat across from her, elbows braced on his knees, gaze steady. “Eloise,” he said quietly, “I meant what I said. You can’t claim to fight for truth if you only protect the voices you agree with. You’re braver than that. And sometimes bravery is admitting you’re not the hero this time.”

The words cut—sharp, but not cruel. Eloise felt them burrow, lodging where she least wanted them. No one had ever dared say it to her. Not Penelope. Not Francesca. Not even Kate.

Her laugh cracked brittle. “You’re infuriating.”

Phil’s smile was softer than she expected. “First time for everything.”

The silence stretched, charged, like the air before a storm. Eloise tugged at her sleeve, heart stumbling. She didn’t want to admit it, but she saw him differently now—saw the steel beneath the quiet.

When he leaned in, it wasn’t reckless. It was deliberate, giving her room to pull back. His breath brushed hers, steady, waiting.

Eloise—still raw, still rattled—let herself meet him halfway.

The kiss was brief, almost chaste, but it lit through her like fire anyway.

She pulled back first, throat tight. “You drive me mad.”

Phil’s grin tilted. “And yet here you are.”

Eloise scooped her books in a rush, trying to hide the flush rising in her cheeks. “I should go. Danbury’s waiting.”

“I’ll walk you,” Phil offered, rising.

She shook her head quickly, clutching her bag strap like a lifeline. “Not tonight. I need… air. I’ll walk.”

His brow knit, but he didn’t press. “At least text me when you’re back.”

She nodded, already backing toward the door.

The hallway felt too bright after the closeness of the lounge. Outside, the night air cut cold against her skin, her thoughts louder than her footsteps on the cracked sidewalk.

Phil Crane had kissed her. That was one thing.

But worse—he had seen her.

And Eloise wasn’t sure which unsettled her more.

The air outside Hanover Hall was sharp with winter, the kind that needled Eloise’s cheeks and made her regret not grabbing gloves. She shoved her hands deep into her hoodie pocket, walking fast, as though she could outpace the echo of Phil’s voice.

You’re as much in the wrong as Penelope.

She muttered under her breath, “Deleting an account isn’t the same as running it.” The wind swallowed the words, but not the sting.

What rattled her wasn’t the accusation—it was the way he’d said it. Not like Theo would have, sharp and showy, meant to win. With Theo, arguments had been duels: sparks and cuts, each of them too stubborn to yield. She’d known how to fight that kind of fire, and she’d been burned for it.

Phil was supposed to be the opposite of that. Safe. Steady. A boy who nursed ferns and brewed loose-leaf tea. But tonight she’d seen the steel beneath all that gentleness—a man who wouldn’t flinch from telling her when she’d gone too far. And that unsettled her more than any of Theo’s barbs ever had.

Why doesn’t he feel safe? Why does he feel dangerous?

Her boots crunched over frost-stiff grass as she cut across the quad, kicking a pebble hard enough to watch it skitter down the path. Maybe because Phil had seen her too clearly. Seen that deleting Penelope’s account wasn’t justice—it had been rage. Maybe he’d glimpsed the part of her she couldn’t name: the part that lashed out when she felt betrayed.

She stopped halfway up the walk to Danbury, pulling her hoodie tighter as if cotton could shield her from the thought. He’d said her name differently tonight. Not soft, not indulgent—firm. Like he believed she could be better, if she wanted to be.

That rattled her most of all.

By the time she reached Danbury, the windows glowing against the dark, she’d decided one thing: she wasn’t ready to forgive Penelope. But she wasn’t ready to dismiss Phil either.

Inside, the common room pulsed with midweek life. Rae and Caleb mock-argued over the remote, Hazel tried to pry Newton away from a bowl of popcorn, and Bridget balanced her laptop on one knee, typing furiously as Michaela heckled from the couch.

It was ordinary, comforting. And Eloise felt entirely out of step with it.

“Lo!” Michaela waved a samosa like a gavel. “Weigh in—Jack says Stranger Things peaked in season two. I say season four owns.”

Eloise forced a smirk, catching the pillow Rae lobbed her way. “You’re both wrong. Season one’s the only one worth remembering.”

Groans and laughter swelled, the debate rolling on. Eloise sank into the couch, letting it all wash over her, her hand absently finding Newton’s fur when he nosed at her palm. She scratched behind his ears, grateful for the grounding weight.

Her gaze drifted toward the staircase, where Penelope’s door stayed shut tight. Her chest knotted. She should have felt vindicated. Instead, she felt… unsettled.

Kate passed through the common room then, clipboard under her arm, Newton padding at her side. She gave Eloise a quiet nod—you good? Eloise nodded back too quickly, eyes darting away.

Because she wasn’t good. Not really.

She sat in the noise but never quite joined it, her smirk a beat too thin, her laugh landing just off. Her mind spun in circles—Penelope’s betrayal, Phil’s steady conviction, the sting of both.

She wasn’t ready to forgive. She wasn’t ready to admit she might be wrong.

So, for tonight, she let the noise cover her silence and pretended she wasn’t unraveling.

Back upstairs, the quiet pressed heavier than the common room ever could. Francesca’s muffled piano filtered faintly through the wall, steady as breathing, but Eloise’s pulse refused to settle into the rhythm.

She dropped her books on the desk and tugged her hoodie over her head—then froze. Her gaze caught on the corner of her bulletin board. A yellowed playbill from her high school debate tournament—their tournament—still clung there. Theo’s handwriting curled bold across the back: We’ll conquer the world, Eloise. Don’t you dare let me down.

Her stomach twisted. She ripped the pin free and shoved the playbill into the drawer before she could think better of it. But the ache lingered, needling at her ribs.

Almost against her will, she opened her phone. Scrolling fast, as if speed could blunt the hurt. She’d unfollowed Theo months ago, unfriended him too, but mutuals had a way of betraying her. And there it was—a repost.

Theo, his arm slung around someone new. Their smiles too wide, their faces lit by string lights. His caption burned.

Madly in love. Finally found my forever.

Eloise’s chest tightened. Not because she wanted him back—she didn’t—but because once upon a time she’d believed that was love. Sharp, competitive, sparring-love. Fire and ash.

And now, with Phil’s steadiness still buzzing under her skin, she knew better. Phil didn’t duel her—he grounded her. He challenged without belittling, steadied without suffocating. It was already more than her naive blaze with Theo had ever been.

She locked her phone with a forceful tap, set it face down—only for the screen to flare again. A new notification.

Twitter.

Her breath hitched.

@MayfairM0squit0: Danbury Hall is dead.

The blood drained from her face. The handle was almost right—but not. A zero where the “o” should be. A fake. An impostor.

But the words glared up at her anyway, cruel in their simplicity.

Someone else had picked up the mask. Someone else had decided to sting.

And Eloise, clutching the phone tight in her hand, felt the ground shift all over again.