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Chapter Text

“La vida es una fiesta que un día termina
Y fuiste tú mi baile inolvidable”

The ballroom glittered with the excesses of the late Victorian age. Crystal chandeliers hung heavier than the delicate ones Anthony remembered from his youth, electric lights beginning to replace candlelight in a way he still found slightly offensive. The music was louder too—less elegant, more insistent. The dresses were tighter, the etiquette more suffocating. One would think things would evolve, but they didn’t.

Anthony Bridgerton stood near the edge of the room, a glass of brandy in hand, watching the crowd with the faint boredom of a man who had seen this all before.

Not once.

But dozens of times.

Balls blurred together after a few years.

His mother had insisted he attend. Again.

Violet Bridgerton had always believed in society, in family appearances, in the simple joy of gathering. Immortality had not changed that about her. If anything, it had given her endless opportunities to host them. Anthony suspected she enjoyed watching him suffer through them.

He swirled the drink lazily.

Another disappointment of immortality, liquor barely touched him anymore. At first he had celebrated the novelty of endless nights without consequence. Eventually, even drunkenness had abandoned him.

Nothing dulled the edges anymore.

Still, he stayed.

Because Violet was right about one thing: they would have to leave soon.

The Bridgertons had been in London too long.

People noticed things eventually. The suspicious lack of wrinkles. The way portraits never quite matched the ages they claimed. The fact that the eldest Bridgerton brother had looked thirty-five for the past fifty years.

They blamed it on genetics.

Anthony privately suspected society simply preferred not to think too hard.

The orchestra shifted into a waltz.

He sighed quietly and took another sip of brandy that did absolutely nothing.

Perhaps he should make a polite appearance on the dance floor. It would please his mother. It would stop Benedict from making those irritatingly knowing remarks about Anthony “sulking in corners like a brooding statue.”

Anthony glanced toward the dancers. And then he saw her.

The world did not stop.

It simply narrowed.

Across the ballroom floor, standing near a column as if she were only reluctantly participating in the evening’s festivities, was a woman he had never seen before.

Which was strange.

Anthony prided himself on noticing things.

She was not laughing like the other ladies. She was not fluttering her fan or pretending shyness. Instead she stood with a posture that suggested she might bolt for the nearest exit at any moment.

Dark curls framed her face, slightly rebellious against the carefully styled fashion of the era. Her gown was elegant but worn with an ease that suggested she did not particularly care about impressing anyone.

But it was her expression that caught him.

Sharp.

Observant.

Almost… amused.

Like she was studying the entire room and finding it mildly ridiculous.

Anthony realized, somewhat abruptly, that she was also studying him. Their eyes met.

Most people looked away quickly when they caught the viscount staring.

She didn’t.

Instead one eyebrow lifted, just slightly.

A silent challenge.

Anthony felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest.

Interest.

Which was inconvenient.

He straightened unconsciously.

The woman tilted her head.

Then, shockingly, she smiled.

Not politely.

Not shyly.

But like she had just discovered something extremely entertaining.

Anthony had no idea how long he had been standing there before a voice interrupted him.

“Brother,” said Benedict Bridgerton, appearing beside him with the irritating timing of someone who enjoyed ruining moments. “You appear to have forgotten how blinking works.”

Anthony ignored him.

“Who is she?”

Benedict followed his gaze.

“Oh,” he said lightly. “That would be Miss Kathani Sharma.”

Anthony repeated the name silently.

Kathani.

“New to London,” Benedict continued. “Arrived with her family from India, if the whispers are to be believed. Quite scandalous, really. She apparently refuses half the dances she’s asked.”

Anthony watched as yet another gentleman approached her.

Kate listened politely for approximately three seconds.

Then she shook her head.

The man left looking deeply confused.

Anthony felt the corner of his mouth twitch.

Benedict noticed immediately.

“Oh no,” he said with delight. “That expression never leads to anything good.”

Anthony set his untouched drink down.

“Where are you going?” Benedict asked.

Anthony adjusted his cuffs.

“For a dance.”

“You hate dancing.”

Anthony began walking across the ballroom.

“Yes,” he said calmly.

“But I suspect she might hate it more.”

Anthony stopped a polite distance from her.

Up close, he confirmed what he had suspected from across the ballroom: she was not intimidated by society, nor particularly impressed by it.

Her eyes were sharper than most people allowed themselves to be in polite company.

He inclined his head slightly.

“I couldn’t help but notice you are alone in this corner,” he said smoothly. “It is such a shame. A lovely lady like yourself should be dancing with a proper gentleman.”

She studied him for a moment.

Not shyly.

Not admiringly.

Assessing.

Then she tilted her head just a little and asked, perfectly calmly:

“And when does that gentleman arrive?”

For a brief second, Anthony simply stared at her. Decades of experience with polite society had prepared him for many things.

Flustered laughter.

Gratitude.

Even rejection.

But not that.

Behind her, a few ladies nearby gasped softly at the boldness of the reply.

Anthony felt something dangerous flicker to life inside him.

Amusement.

Slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Well,” he said, voice low and controlled, “that is a matter of opinion.”

Her lips curved slightly, like she had expected that answer.

“And whose opinion would that be?”

“Yours, I imagine.”

That seemed to please her.

She shifted slightly, finally turning to face him properly. The movement revealed an elegance that had nothing to do with etiquette and everything to do with confidence.

“And what makes you think,” she continued, “that I wish to dance at all?”

Anthony folded his hands behind his back.

“Because,” he said, “you’ve refused every gentleman who has asked you so far.”

Her eyebrow lifted.

“You have been observing me.”

“Only briefly.”

“And you concluded I must secretly wish to dance?”

Anthony leaned slightly closer.

“No,” he said quietly.

“I concluded that you are waiting for someone who might actually interest you.”

For the first time, Kate Sharma looked a little surprised.

Not offended.

Just… intrigued.

The orchestra swelled into the next movement of the waltz.

Around them, couples moved onto the floor.

Anthony extended his hand.

“Anthony Bridgerton.”

Her gaze flickered to his hand, then back to his face.

Recognition sparked.

“Viscount Bridgerton,” she said slowly.

There was something mischievous in her tone.

“How disappointing.”

Anthony blinked.

“Disappointing?”

“Yes.”

She placed her gloved hand in his.

“I was hoping the gentleman might still arrive.”

Anthony laughed—an actual laugh, surprising even himself.

And as he guided her toward the dance floor, he realized something profoundly inconvenient. He was excited.

The moment Anthony Bridgerton stepped onto the dance floor with Kate Sharma, the room noticed.

It happened gradually at first.

A few curious glances.

A pause in conversation.

A whisper spreading from one side of the ballroom to the other like wind through tall grass. Because those who had attended London society long enough knew something peculiar about the Viscount Bridgerton.

He did not dance.

Not anymore.

Years ago, he had been known for his charm, confidence, impossibly skilled. A Rake with capital R. Mothers had once angled their daughters toward him like flowers seeking the sun.

But for decades now he attended balls only out of duty. He stood at the edge of rooms, exchanged polite greetings, and disappeared before midnight.

So when the eldest Bridgerton brother walked onto the floor and asked a woman to dance, the entire ballroom noticed.

Across the room, the Bridgerton family certainly did.

Benedict Bridgerton nearly choked on his drink.

“Good God,” he muttered.

Beside him, Violet Bridgerton followed his gaze.

And then she smiled—slowly, softly, with the quiet satisfaction of a mother who had waited far too long for something to happen.

“Well,” she said.

“That is new.”

On the dance floor, however, the attention of the room seemed to fade into nothing.

Anthony barely noticed the whispers.

Because the moment the music began, something strange happened.

The noise of the ballroom dimmed.

The glittering lights, the movement of gowns, the watching eyes—it all blurred into a distant background.

It felt, absurdly, as if the two of them occupied a small pocket of space entirely separate from the rest of the world.

Kate followed his lead effortlessly as they began the waltz.

Her posture was perfect, but there was nothing rigid about it. She moved with natural ease, as if dancing were simply another form of conversation.

Which, Anthony suspected, it was.

For a few turns they danced in silence.

Not uncomfortable silence.

Observant silence.

Then she spoke.

“Are you staying in London for the season?”

Her tone was light, but her eyes were searching.

Anthony considered the question.

“No,” he said after a moment. “I am not.”

Kate’s eyebrow lifted slightly.

“Oh? Your gentlemancy is required elsewhere, my lord?”

He almost smiled at the word gentlemancy.

“Something like that.”

They turned smoothly with the music, skirts sweeping across polished wood.

“And when will you return?” she asked.

Anthony did not answer immediately.

Because the truth was complicated.

His family rarely remained in one place too long. London society was observant in ways that could become dangerous if one allowed it.

Faces remembered.

Ages noticed.

The Bridgertons had learned long ago that time had to appear to move for them just as it did for everyone else.

So they traveled.

They vanished for a decade.

Returned with new identities.

Claimed distant cousins or inherited estates.

It had become second nature.

“I don’t know,” he finally said.

Kate studied him with quiet curiosity.

“How peculiar.”

“My family has business we must attend to.”

That was vague enough to be believable.

She nodded slowly.

“I see.”

The music swelled and they turned again, drawing slightly closer before gliding apart.

For a moment she seemed thoughtful.

Then she said something that made Anthony’s chest tighten unexpectedly.

“So I suppose this is the last time we will see each other, my lord.”

The words were simple.

Matter-of-fact.

But something about them unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

“Why do you say that?”

“I am returning to India after my sister weds.”

Anthony’s gaze sharpened slightly.

“Is she betrothed yet?”

Kate sighed softly.

“That,” she said dryly, “is an entirely different problem.”

He chuckled under his breath.

The dance ended.

Polite applause scattered through the ballroom as couples separated.

Anthony released her hand.

For a moment they simply stood there.

Then the orchestra began the next waltz.

Kate stepped back.

“That was lovely, my lord.”

Anthony did not move.

Instead he asked, quite calmly “Would you like to dance again?”

Kate blinked.

Then she laughed softly.

“We danced two in a row already,” she said. “That is scandalous, my lord.”

Anthony tilted his head slightly.

“You do not seem to mind too much.”

She hesitated.

Not embarrassed, Kate Sharma did not strike him as someone easily embarrassed.

More… amused by the absurdity of it.

“I never quite understood,” she admitted, “why two dances are perfectly acceptable but three suddenly become improper.”

Anthony’s mouth curved faintly.

“Neither have I.”

She gestured vaguely toward the watching crowd.

“But these are your country’s rules, not mine.”

Her gaze flicked toward the edge of the room where her family stood.

“Therefore I must follow them,” she finished.

“For my sister’s sake, at least.”

Anthony followed her glance.

And for the first time he noticed how many people were watching them.

Whispers.

Fans fluttering.

Curious stares.

Even across the ballroom, the Bridgertons were very clearly observing the situation with intense interest.

Anthony looked back at her.

“Then perhaps,” he said quietly, “we should obey society.”

Kate smiled.

Triumphant, almost.

“I believe that would be wise.”

She gave him a small, graceful curtsy.

“Good evening, Lord Bridgerton.”

And then she walked away.

Anthony remained standing on the dance floor long after she had disappeared into the crowd. He did not look away from the direction Kate had gone. He never would. 

Chapter Text

“Cause time wasn't in our favor
This isn't goodbye
This is simply see you later”

Across London, the city hummed with life beneath a sky streaked with the soft orange of late afternoon. The streets were restless—autonomous cars gliding silently alongside pedestrians glued to their devices, the occasional cyclist weaving through the flow. Above it all, glass and steel towers rose like monoliths to human ambition, reflecting the sunset in sharp, fractured shards.

In a quieter corner of the city, in an office that refused to feel like the glass behemoths surrounding it, Kate Sharma leaned back in her chair, tilting her head just slightly as she read the last page of a case file. Her office was modest by modern standards—no cavernous lobby, no rows of secretaries typing away—but it commanded respect. Judges trusted her arguments, and clients recommended her with a quiet intensity that bordered on reverence.

Kate had developed a reputation in the legal world that carried equal parts admiration and caution. Three things were always said about her: she was relentless in court, she dismantled weak arguments with unnerving calm, and despite that sharpness, she possessed a deep, almost unspoken compassion for the people she represented.

Family law required a delicate equilibrium. Divorce proceedings. Custody disputes. Adoption cases. Inheritance battles. Each carried its own emotional knife—people came angry, frightened, desperate to be understood. Kate handled them all with precision, and when necessary, kindness. Colleagues joked—half joking—that she could read a room faster than a judge, noticing every twitch, every hesitation, every subtle glance between two people who claimed there was no disagreement.

Occasionally, her presence made someone uncomfortable merely by her quiet, sustained gaze, as if she already understood what they were hiding before they even realized it themselves. More than one opposing counsel had whispered the same thing afterward: it felt like she had seen the situation before, like she had lived through the same patterns a hundred times.

It did not help that she bore an uncanny resemblance to an ancestor whose portrait hung in her family home: Kathani Sharma, the original.

Kathani Sharma had lived through the late 19th and early 20th centuries. A woman unusual for her time, she had never married. But it was not her marital status that made her memorable—it was what she had done instead. She had devoted herself to education, quietly teaching young girls who otherwise would have had little opportunity to learn to read, write, and think for themselves. Her students remembered her as strict, brilliant, uncompromising, but kind when it truly mattered. Letters preserved in the family archives described her with astonishing consistency.

Edwina Sharma, her sister, had taken a more conventional path, marrying a gentle man who, remarkably for the time, allowed their children to keep the Sharma name. Edwina spoke often of her sister, and through generations, the story survived. Names endured. The name Kathani remained known, a tribute passed down selectively through the family.

Among the family heirlooms was a wooden chest in Kate’s childhood home, filled with faded letters, photographs, and meticulously written notebooks. The final line of one letter had become something of a legend in the family:

“If I regret anything, it is perhaps that I should have danced again. Once more would have been worth the scandal, my lord.”

No explanation. No name. Just a curious line that had lingered through decades. Kathani Sharma had attended one ball, danced once—or twice—and never again.

Kate closed the file on her desk, absently staring at the skyline. She smiled faintly, the familiar tug of a memory she could never quite place. Her assistant knocked softly.

“Your next client is here.”

Kate straightened. “Send them in.”

{…}

For most people, wealth was something to be accumulated. For the Bridgertons, wealth was something to be endlessly reinvented. Over two centuries, fortunes did not merely grow—they became labyrinthine. Estates shifted through changing laws. Banking systems rose and fell. Currencies disappeared.

Two centuries of careful investment had turned old aristocratic money into a sprawling empire: property across England, shares in European firms, tech startups, renewable energy, and real estate developments.

And through it all, Anthony Bridgerton had remained meticulous. He had lived long enough to understand how quickly fortunes could vanish if mishandled.

Maintaining the illusion of a “normal” family line required constant vigilance. Every few decades, someone had to “die.” Or rather, appear to die. New identities would emerge: sons, nephews, heirs returning from abroad. Portraits moved quietly into storage, replaced with ones depicting the next generation.

Anthony had done it countless times.

Anthony Bridgerton Jr.

A nephew.

A grandson.

Eventually, a great-grandson.

Birth certificates fabricated. School records invented. Old portraits explained away as mere “family resemblance.” Layers of fictional history accumulated until even historians occasionally cited the Bridgertons as an example of impossibly consistent aristocratic lineage.

By the early twentieth century, Anthony had turned this constant reinvention into an art. Legal systems across continents, inheritance law, trusts, shell corporations, intergenerational investment portfolios—all had become his second nature. Centuries of immortality had gifted him this skill, though it did little to make the process enjoyable.

On that morning, Anthony sat in the back of a sleek black car, watching London blur past with the mild irritation of a man who had been negotiating with lawyers since the Napoleonic era.

“Remind me again,” he muttered, “why this cannot be handled remotely?”

Across from him, Benedict Bridgerton barely looked up from a tablet. “Because,” he said, calm as always, “our very real and definitely not suspicious family estate requires updated documentation confirming that you are the great-grandson of yourself. And you don’t know how to use Zoom.”

Anthony exhaled sharply. “Yes. I understood that part.”

“You insisted on maintaining direct control of the estate,” Benedict continued, “which means occasionally you must pretend to be a completely different version of yourself.”

Anthony rubbed his temples. “I have been the great-grandson four times now.”

“Five.”

“Five?”

“You forgot the 1950s identity.”

“That one had a mustache.”

Benedict shrugged. “It suited you.”

The car stopped outside a modern glass office building. Anthony stared at it. London in 2026 glittered with endless lights. Carriages had become electric cars; music no longer came from orchestras but invisible speakers. Two hundred years ago, legal meetings had involved candlelit desks, parchment, and men in wigs speaking excruciatingly slowly. Now, they involved elevators, digital signatures, and cloud storage—which sounded, to Anthony, highly unreliable.

“Technology was a mistake,” he muttered.

“You say that every time,” Benedict replied.

“Yes,” Anthony said dryly. “And I have been right every time.”

Inside, the office was bright, sterile, and painfully efficient. Another party for his mother would begin in three hours, leaving him exactly enough time to perform this absurd legal ritual before enduring hours of small talk.

A receptionist looked up. “Mr. Bridgerton?”

Anthony inclined his head politely. “Yes.”

“Your appointment is ready.”

He followed her down a corridor lined with glass offices, his mind running through the checklist automatically: identity, titles, dates, fabricated lineage. He had rehearsed the variations so many times he could recite them half-asleep.

The receptionist opened a door. “Your lawyer will see you shortly.”

Anthony stepped inside. Sunlight poured through the tall windows. Behind the desk sat a woman reviewing a file. She did not look up immediately. She finished her note, closed the folder, then raised her eyes.

And for a heartbeat, that modern, stark, perfectly ordinary room vanished.

Candlelight, polished floors, music drifting across a ballroom. Dark curls. Sharp, amused eyes. Two centuries collapsed in a single heartbeat.

Kate Sharma.

Not exactly the same. Her hair was shorter, loosely tied. Dark blazer and crisp blouse replaced the gowns of her ancestor. But the eyes—the same. Observant. Unimpressed. Sharp enough to dismantle arrogance in seconds.

Kate looked up, professional, calm. “Mr. Bridgerton?”

“…Yes.”

“Please, sit.”

Anthony obeyed, though his mind was elsewhere. She opened the file. “I understand you are here regarding estate succession documentation and property transfer records?”

“Yes.”

“I have reviewed the historical ownership records.” She tapped a page. “You are listed as the great-grandson of the previous Anthony Bridgerton.”

He had heard it before. Tedious, endless. But she continued calmly. “It is quite an interesting lineage.”

Anthony watched her. “Is it?”

“Yes.” She leaned back slightly. “The Bridgerton estates appear to pass down through descendants who look remarkably similar to their predecessors.”

He said nothing.

Her gaze lingered. Then a faint, curious smile.

“Well,” she said lightly, “family resemblance can be quite extraordinary.”

Anthony exhaled quietly. Centuries of experience had honed his ability to mask reaction. Yet something about her presence unsettled him. Two centuries ago, there had been music. A waltz. A woman telling him three dances were improper.

Kate flipped a page. “We will need to update several trust documents. There are a few inheritance technicalities we should clarify.”

He nodded slowly, but his mind was elsewhere, over a hundred years ago, a ballroom, a second dance, a woman walking away.

Kate looked up. “Mr. Bridgerton?”

“Yes?”

She tilted her head. “You look as though you have seen a ghost.”

For the first time in two centuries, Anthony wasn’t concerned about his backstory sticking. He wanted to dance again.

Chapter Text

“ I'll spend forever

Wondering if you knew I was enchanted to meet you”

Anthony arrived at the Bridgerton townhouse later that evening, the familiar grand doors opening into the warm glow of chandeliers and the faint aroma of roasted meats, spiced wine, and polished wood. The weekly family dinner had already begun, voices mingling with soft classical music from a hidden speaker system. He paused for a moment in the hallway, taking in the sight: portraits of ancestors lining the walls, the polished floors reflecting the twinkling lights, and members of the family seated around the long dining table, animatedly discussing their week.

He felt oddly disoriented. Not from the dinner itself, he had sat through these gatherings countless times, but from the memory that still lingered from the day’s lawyer meeting. The sight of Kate Sharma, so strikingly like her ancestor, had left a trace in him, one he had not anticipated. It had not just been her resemblance; it was the calm authority, the subtle amusement in her gaze, the way she had treated centuries of complicated legal and financial history as if it were nothing more than a puzzle to be solved.

“Anthony, you are oddly quiet tonight,” said Benedict, his tone teasing yet observant, as he pushed his chair back slightly. “By now, you should have complained about something, your usual tirade about the lighting, the wine, or how the seating arrangement is all wrong.”

Anthony shifted in his seat, loosening the cuffs of his shirt with a faint sigh. “Just thinking,” he muttered, his eyes wandering to the flicker of candlelight across the table. His mind replayed the encounter—the sharp tilt of her head, the calmness with which she dismissed centuries of complication, the faint smile that had unsettled him more than it should have.

Benedict raised an eyebrow. “Did something go wrong with the lawyer today?” His curiosity was masked as casual conversation, but Anthony could see the edge of amusement in his gaze.

Anthony blinked. “What? No, no. Why? Did you hear something about her?”

“Hm, no,” Benedict replied, leaning back in his chair, fingers interlaced. “Why?” He gave a knowing smile that suggested he had caught more than he let on. “You’ve been distracted all evening. Not your usual self, Anthony. The wine hasn’t dulled your attention, nor the endless chatter about investments or inheritance. You’re… elsewhere.”

Anthony took a slow breath, trying to regain composure. The conversation around him faded into background noise as he considered how to answer without revealing more than he wanted. “She… is thorough,” he said finally, the understatement hanging in the air like a carefully placed note. “Extremely thorough.”

Benedict’s grin widened. “Thorough? That’s one word for it. Most lawyers wouldn’t dare touch our records with a ten-foot pole. You’re telling me she managed it without being your hovering self?”

Anthony’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes. Calm. Efficient. Precise. And…” He paused, realizing that even saying ‘unsettling’ aloud might sound ridiculous. “…and not easily impressed.”

Benedict leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Not easily impressed? Anthony, are you… intrigued?” His tone was playful, teasing, yet a spark of genuine curiosity lingered in his eyes.

Anthony turned his gaze to the flames flickering in the center of the table, trying to anchor himself in the familiar warmth of family. 

“Perhaps,” he admitted quietly, though even the word felt inadequate to describe the weight of centuries, memories, and fleeting moments that seemed to converge in that one office encounter.

The table continued its lively, but Anthony felt slightly detached, as if two worlds overlapped: the present, with its laughter and clinking silverware, and the past, filled with shadows of a ballroom, candlelight, and a single, unforgettable dance.

Benedict, ever perceptive, gave a subtle nod, choosing not to press further, at least for now. Instead, he raised his glass lightly toward Anthony. “To surviving lawyers and long memories,” he said, and the family echoed the toast. Anthony allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile, feeling the weight of two centuries settle just enough for him to join in, even if his mind wandered back to the woman whose calm authority had shaken him more than any family scandal ever could.

{…}

The next morning, the Bridgerton townhouse was unusually quiet.Most of the family had long since adapted to modern schedules, but Anthony Bridgerton still preferred mornings that resembled the ones he remembered from centuries ago.

Quiet. Orderly. Predictable.

Unfortunately, the device sitting in front of him on the kitchen table was none of those things. Anthony stared at the laptop with visible suspicion.

He had been informed several times, mostly by younger relatives who enjoyed humiliating him, that modern research no longer required libraries, archives, or actual historians.

Apparently one could simply “google it.”

He had never liked the word.

It sounded unserious.

Still, he had managed to open the browser after a brief struggle and several muttered insults directed at the keyboard.

He typed slowly.

Kate Sharma lawyer London

The machine responded instantly.

Anthony leaned back slightly.

“That seems… excessive,” he muttered.

In his time, finding information about someone had required letters, introductions, or discreet inquiries through acquaintances. Now the internet appeared to know everything within seconds. He scrolled awkwardly through the results.

Several legal directories appeared first. Profiles. Case summaries. Mentions in legal journals.

Anthony clicked one.

A professional biography opened.

Kathani “Kate” Sharma.

Family Law Specialist.

Graduate of Oxford.

Articles praising her courtroom strategy.

References to high-profile custody cases.

Quotes describing her as “formidable, perceptive, and exceptionally calm under pressure.”

Anthony scrolled further.

Then he saw the photograph.

For a moment the kitchen seemed to grow very quiet.

Because there she was.

The same sharp eyes.

The same slight tilt of the head.

The same expression that suggested she was both amused and unimpressed by the world around her. Not identical, two centuries had changed fashion, posture, the way people carried themselves, but the resemblance was unmistakable.

Anthony stared at the screen.

Behind him a voice suddenly exploded.

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

Anthony nearly dropped the laptop.

He turned sharply.

“Can you shut up before telling the whole family?” he hissed.

Standing in the doorway, holding a mug of coffee and looking absolutely delighted with himself, was Benedict. He walked into the kitchen slowly.

His eyes remained fixed on the laptop screen.

“Anthony,” he said carefully, “tell me that is not the lawyer you met yesterday.”

Anthony closed the computer halfway.

“It is.”

Benedict pointed dramatically.

“She has the same face as the girl you danced with.”

“I know.”

Benedict leaned closer again.

“And the same name.”

Anthony nodded grimly.

“I know.”

Benedict blinked.

“Wait.”

He leaned down again, squinting at the screen.

“And name?”

Anthony rubbed his forehead.

“Yes.”

Benedict looked up slowly.

For several seconds neither of them spoke.

Finally Benedict said the obvious.

“How is that possible?”

Anthony exhaled slowly.

“She should have been dead for at least the past hundred years.”

“Closer to one hundred and twenty,” Benedict added thoughtfully.

Anthony glared at him.

“Thank you for that calculation.”

Benedict straightened. He took a sip of coffee. Then he said very casually “Hm.”

Anthony narrowed his eyes. “What.”

Benedict shrugged “Perhaps she is a descendant.”

Anthony considered that, it was plausible.Families often repeated names. Genetics could occasionally produce striking similarities, but the resemblance was unsettlingly precise if his memory didn’t fail him.

Benedict tilted his head.

“Or,” he continued lightly, “reincarnation.”

Anthony blinked.

“Reincarnation?”

Benedict shrugged again.

“If immortality is possible, why wouldn’t reincarnation be?”

Anthony stared at him.

The logic was, annoyingly, difficult to dismiss. For two centuries Anthony had accepted something equally impossible as ordinary reality. The Bridgertons had lived through wars, revolutions, entire technological eras without aging. The world already contained one miracle.

Why not another?

Anthony leaned back in his chair “Fair enough,” he admitted quietly.

Benedict grinned.

“You’re taking that surprisingly well.”

Anthony looked back at the laptop. At the photograph. At the woman whose expression looked exactly like someone who once stood across a ballroom floor challenging him.

“Not really,” Anthony said.

Benedict folded his arms.

“So what are you going to do?”

Anthony closed the laptop slowly.

His voice was calm.

“I have another appointment with her next week.”

Benedict’s smile widened instantly.

“Oh,” he said.

“This is going to be fun.”

Anthony stood up.

“Hardly.” He walked toward the door “And Benedict—”

“Yes?”

“Do not tell the rest of the family.”

Benedict held up his hands.

“Of course not.”

Anthony narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“Benedict.”

“Yes?”

“You are smiling too much.”

Benedict shrugged.

“Who? Me” 

“You are unbearable.”

“Good luck!”

Chapter Text

“And all I feel
In my stomach is butterflies
The beautiful kind, makin' up for lost time
Takin' flight, making me feel like

I just wanna know you better”

The following week, the office looked much the same as it had during Anthony’s first visit.

Bright morning light filtered through the tall windows, casting clean reflections across the glass surfaces and polished floor. Outside, London moved with its usual restless rhythm of buses gliding past, pedestrians rushing with phones pressed to their ears, the distant hum of the city blending into a steady background noise.

Inside the office, however, everything was quiet.

Anthony Bridgerton sat across the desk watching Kate Sharma work. 

She had not noticed immediately. Kate was reviewing several documents from the Bridgerton estate files, her attention focused completely on the task. Her brow furrowed slightly as she read, occasionally making small notes in the margin with quick, efficient movements.

Anthony found himself studying the small details.

The way she tilted her head slightly when something caught her attention.The precise calm of her movements. The quiet concentration in her expression.

The way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear when she concentrated.

The small crease between her brows when she read something particularly complicated in the documents.

The quiet confidence in the way she spoke to him—never intimidated, never overly polite, just calm and precise.

Her voice was different from the one he remembered from another century, slightly softer, shaped by a different time—but the cadence was similar. Sharp. Thoughtful. Occasionally amused.

And her eyes.

Those were the most unsettling part.

Observant in exactly the same way. As if she were always quietly measuring the world around her.

Anthony had lived long enough to train himself to read people instantly, but with her it felt reversed. Every time she glanced up from the documents, he had the odd sensation that he was the one being studied.

He kept catching small details he couldn’t stop noticing.

The way she leaned forward when something interested her.

The subtle lift of her eyebrow when she found something curious in the Bridgerton records.

The hint of humor that lingered in her expression when she suspected he wasn’t telling her the full story.

It made something inside his chest feel unexpectedly… unsettled and nervous.

Kate paused mid-sentence.

Slowly, she looked up.

“Is everything okay, Mr. Bridgerton?”

Anthony blinked, realizing he had been staring.

“Hm…yes.”

Kate leaned back slightly in her chair, studying him with the analytical curiosity of someone who spent her career observing people.

“You seemed rather startled during our last meeting.”

Anthony cleared his throat.

“Yes. Well.”

He tried to sound casual.

“Your research was… thorough.”

Kate smiled faintly.

“That is usually the intention.”

She turned another page in the file.

Anthony hesitated.

For someone who had negotiated with kings, investors, politicians, and lawyers across centuries, it was almost embarrassing how difficult it felt to say the next words. Two hundred years of composure seemed suddenly unreliable.

Finally he spoke.

“Would you like to have dinner with me?”

Kate froze.

The pen in her hand paused halfway above the paper.

“What?”

Anthony straightened slightly. Asking her to dinner felt ridiculous for a man who had spent over two hundred years carefully controlling every aspect of his life. He had avoided relationships for decades simply because the risk of losing someone again had never seemed worth it.

Yet there she was. And now he was taking a reckless decision.

“I mean—”

He cleared his throat again, trying to salvage the sentence.

“Professionally, of course.”

Kate raised one eyebrow.

“Professionally.”

“Yes.”

He gestured vaguely toward the files.

“You mentioned there were… incongruities in the documentation.”

Her eyebrow lifted higher.

“Our family,” Anthony continued carefully, “is very concerned with the correct documentation of our history.”

Kate closed the folder slowly.

Then she folded her hands on the desk.

“Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Yes?”

“Are you asking me on a date disguised as legal consultation?”

Anthony paused.

That was… alarmingly accurate.

“No,” he said.

Then, after a brief second, “…possibly.”

Kate stared at him.

Then, unexpectedly, she laughed. Just a soft, amused laugh that lit her entire expression.

“That might be the most creative attempt at asking a lawyer to dinner I’ve heard this year.”

Anthony felt something relax slightly in his shoulders.

“Does it work?”

Kate considered him carefully.

Her eyes searched his face, as though trying to solve a puzzle she had not yet fully identified.

There was something about him too.

She had noticed it during their first meeting.

“Well.”

She closed the file and stood.

“If this dinner is strictly for professional clarification…”

Anthony nodded quickly.

“Of course.”

“…then I suppose I could spare an evening.”

Anthony stood as well.

“Excellent.”

Kate picked up her phone and checked her calendar.

“Tomorrow?”

“That would be perfect.”

She nodded once.

“Then tomorrow it is.”

Anthony walked toward the door.

Before he left, Kate spoke again.

“Mr. Bridgerton.”

He turned.

“Yes?”

She tilted her head slightly, studying him.

“You still look like someone who has seen a ghost.”

Anthony held her gaze for a moment.

Then he smiled faintly.

“Perhaps,” he said,

“I simply remembered a dance.”

Kate frowned slightly, confused by the comment.

But before she could ask anything else, Anthony Bridgerton had already stepped into the hallway.

{…}

The Bridgerton weekly dinner had always been chaotic.

Two centuries of immortality had not made the family calmer, if anything, it had made them louder. Traditions accumulated the way their fortune had: endlessly layered.

The dining room was full, long oak table, candlelight mixed with warm electric lamps, portraits of various “generations” of Bridgertons watching from the walls, some of which were technically the same people seated at the table.

Conversations overlapped in the comfortable disorder that came with a family that had known each other for far too long. At the head of the table sat Anthony Bridgerton, quietly eating while attempting, unsuccessfully, to appear normal. But there was a small glint in his eyes that wasn’t there yesterday.

Across from him, Violet turned toward him with a gentle smile “Anthony dear,” she said, “can you do something for me tomorrow? I—”

“I actually have plans.”

The room stopped.

Forks paused mid-air.

Someone dropped a spoon.

Even the conversation from the other end of the table died instantly.

Twenty pairs of eyes turned toward Anthony.

He looked up slowly.

“…What?”

Across the table, Eloise leaned forward like she had just witnessed a historical event.

“You have plans?”

Anthony frowned.

“Yes.”

Eloise blinked dramatically.

“You?”

“Yes.”

“With… other humans?”

Anthony glared.

“I am perfectly capable of social interaction.”

“Debatable,” Eloise muttered.

Beside her, Simon raised an eyebrow.

“You are having dinner?”

Anthony nodded once.

Simon leaned back in his chair.

“With who?”

Anthony stiffened slightly.

“That is not relevant.”

Across the table, Benedict slowly began smiling, which immediately made Anthony suspicious. Simon folded his arms.

“I know people,” Anthony said defensively.

Simon looked around the table.

“You only know the people in this room.”

Anthony pointed at him.

“Who asked you anything, Basset?”

Simon raised his hands.

“I am merely observing.”

Benedict was now very clearly trying not to laugh.

Which was the moment Anthony realized the conversation was about to go terribly wrong.

“Is this about the lawyer?” Benedict asked casually.

Anthony slammed his hand on the table.

“SHUT UP, BENEDICT.”

Too late.

Every head in the room turned.

“What lawyer?” asked Daphne, instantly curious.

Benedict looked delighted. Anthony pointed a warning finger at him “Do not.”

Benedict ignored him completely “Oh,” he said cheerfully, “the girl from the ball he danced.”

Silence fell.

Anthony closed his eyes briefly waiting for it. Of course Benedict would say it like that.

Daphne leaned forward immediately and pointed between the two brothers “What girl?”

Benedict clapped his hands together like someone about to tell a particularly entertaining story.

“The girl Anthony danced with at that ball in the 19th century.”

Gasps erupted around the table.

Eloise nearly fell out of her chair.

“THE ball?”

Anthony rubbed his face.

“Yes.”

Simon blinked slowly.

“The one you have been emotionally brooding about for the last century?”

Anthony groaned.

“I have not been brooding.”

“You absolutely have,” Benedict said.

Daphne looked between them, fascinated.

“And the lawyer is…?”

Benedict leaned forward dramatically.

“The lawyer has the exact same face.”

The entire table froze again.

“…What?” Eloise said slowly.

“And the same name,” Benedict continued.

Anthony muttered into his hands.

“Benedict—”

“Kate Sharma,” Benedict finished proudly.

There was a pause.

Then chaos.

“WHAT?”

“Impossible.”

“Wait—”

“Same name?”

Eloise stood up.

“Hold on, hold on.”

She pointed at Anthony.

“You met a lawyer.”

“Yes.”

“Who looks exactly like the woman you danced with two hundred years ago.”

“Yes.”

“And her name is also Kate Sharma.”

“Yes.”

“And tomorrow you are having dinner with her.”

Anthony sighed deeply.

“Yes.”

There was a long silence.

Then Simon said very calmly,

“Well, that’s unusual”

Anthony glared “You think?”

Daphne leaned forward, eyes shining.

“Do you think she is a descendant?”

Eloise shook her head immediately.

“No.”

Simon nodded thoughtfully.

“Reincarnation.”

Anthony groaned.

“Not you too.”

Benedict raised his glass.

“If immortality exists,” he said reasonably, “why wouldn’t reincarnation?”

Several family members nodded. Anthony looked around the table in disbelief.

“You are all taking this remarkably well.”

Violet smiled serenely “This is hardly the weirdest thing we have ever heard.”

Anthony paused.

“…Fair point.”

Eloise suddenly leaned forward again.

“Wait.”

She pointed dramatically at him.

“You asked her to dinner.”

“In a professional capacity,” 

Dead silence.

Simon raised an eyebrow.

“Professional dinner?”

“Yes.”

Benedict coughed to hide a laugh.

“About… documents.”

“Yes.”

Eloise stared.

“Anthony.”

“Yes.”

“You are taking the reincarnation of the only woman you have been obsessed with for two centuries…”

Anthony pointed at her.

“I have not been obsessed.”

“…to a date.”

Anthony leaned back.

“It is not a date.”

There was another pause. And then inevitably, they all began to laugh. And Violet  smiled in the quiet, deeply satisfied way of a mother who had waited two hundred years for this moment.

“Well,” she said warmly, “it has been a long time.”

Anthony nearly choked on his wine.

“Mother!”

Violet raised her eyebrows innocently.

“I am simply acknowledging that it has been a long time,” she said calmly. “Even in immortal years.”

Several people around the table nodded in agreement.

Anthony pressed his fingers to his forehead.

“I cannot believe this is happening.”

Across the table, Eloise leaned forward like a scientist observing a rare phenomenon.

“How is she like?”

Anthony looked up cautiously.

“What?”

“The lawyer,” Eloise said impatiently. “What is she like?”

Anthony hesitated.

“She is—”

Before he could finish, Benedict Bridgerton announced loudly:

“He GOOGLED her!”

The reaction was immediate.

Gasps erupted across the entire table. Someone dropped a fork. Anthony slowly turned toward Benedict with the expression of a man contemplating violence.

“A shotgun will still be painful even if not fatal, Benedict.”

Benedict grinned.

“Worth it.”

At the other end of the table, Daphne had already pulled out her phone. Her fingers moved rapidly.

“Wait,” she said. “Let me see.”

Anthony closed his eyes.

“No.”

Too late.

“Oh my God.”

Daphne stared at the screen.

“She is exactly the same.”

Immediately half the table leaned toward her.

“Show us.”

“Wait—”

“Let me see!”

Daphne turned the phone around.

The photograph of Kate Sharma from the law firm website glowed on the screen. For a moment the room went strangely quiet.

Even the family members that did not attended the ball that night seemed to understand something unusual was happening.

Eloise squinted.

“That is… unsettling.”

Simon leaned over Daphne’s shoulder.

“…That is actually terrifying.”

Anthony folded his arms “How do you guys even remember what she looked like?”

Before anyone could answer, Benedict did it for them.

“Because she is the only woman Anthony has ever asked to dance.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the room.

Anthony looked ready to flip the table.

“That is not—”

“It absolutely is,” Eloise said.

Simon nodded.

“Historically accurate.”

Daphne looked back at the photo again.

“She is stunning.”

Anthony muttered under his breath,

“Yes. I noticed.”

Eloise tilted her head.

“When was that ball again?”

Anthony stared at the table.

Before he could answer, Benedict spoke casually.

“1865.”

“That was exactly 150 years ago.”

The room went quiet again.

Then Eloise said slowly, “That’s… oddly specific.”

Benedict leaned back in his chair “Well,” he said, swirling his wine, “to be fair, most people remember the only woman their brother ever danced with.”

Anthony groaned.

“I danced with many women.”

“No,” Daphne corrected “You stood in ballrooms looking miserable while women danced near you.”

Simon added helpfully,

“You glared at them.”

“That was not glaring.”

“That was absolutely glaring.”

Daphne raised her phone again, still staring at Kate’s photo.

“It really is remarkable.”

Anthony looked at the screen again despite himself.

Eloise suddenly leaned across the table again.

“So,” she said slowly.

“You are having dinner with her tomorrow.”

Anthony nodded reluctantly.

“Yes.”

The entire family stared at him.

Then Benedict smiled.

“Oh.”

Simon leaned back in his chair.

“This is going to be fascinating.”

Daphne looked delighted.

Eloise looked like she had just discovered the most entertaining experiment imaginable. And Violet l rested her chin on her hand with a soft, deeply satisfied smile. Anthony noticed immediately.

“…Mother.”

“Yes, dear?”

“You are enjoying this far too much.”

Violet’s smile widened.

“My darling,” she said gently, “we have waited one hundred and fifty years to see what happens next.”

Anthony sighed sipping his wine pretending to his family he was not absolutely in his nerves to his first date in 200 years.

Chapter Text

“I stick with real things
Usually facts and figures
When information's in its place
I minimize the guessing game
Guess what?
I don't like guessing games
Or when I feel things
Before I know the feelings
How am I supposed to operate
If I'm just tossed around by fate?
Like on an unexpected date?”

The evening of the dinner arrived far sooner than Anthony would have preferred. For most of the day he had attempted to behave normally. Reviewing state documents, answering emails (with moderate success), and pretending he was not about to attend the first dinner that had genuinely unsettled him in over a century.

Unfortunately, the Bridgerton family had other plans.

Anthony lived in a modern apartment overlooking the Thames, one of several properties the family rotated through depending on their current “generation.” It was spacious, minimalist, and carefully curated by someone who had lived long enough to accumulate an impressive collection of art.

At the moment, however, the calm of the apartment had been thoroughly invaded.

Because Violet and Daphne had arrived.

Unannounced.

And they were hovering.

Anthony stood near the kitchen counter adjusting his jacket while the two women circled him with the intense focus of military strategists preparing a campaign.

“I have been to dates before,” Anthony said, attempting dignity.

Daphne looked up from inspecting the sleeve of his jacket.

“Not modern dates.”

Violet nodded immediately.

“She is right.”

Anthony frowned.

“A dinner is a dinner.”

“No,” Daphne said patiently. “Modern dating is different.”

Anthony crossed his arms.

“How?”

“Well for starters,” Daphne said, “people don’t talk about the same things they did during the Regency.”

Anthony blinked.

“People still talk.”

“Yes,” Daphne replied.

“But not about estate management, parliamentary debates, and the proper breeding of horses.”

Anthony looked mildly offended.

“Those are perfectly respectable topics.”

Violet sighed.

“My dear, those are historical documentaries now, not dinner conversation.”

Anthony opened his mouth to argue.

Daphne continued.

“Also, modern women expect different things.”

Anthony raised an eyebrow.

“Such as?”

“Emotional availability,” Daphne said immediately.

Anthony stared at her like she was speaking Greek “…I see.”

Violet tilted her head thoughtfully “And communication.”

He looked even more alarmed “I communicate.”

Daphne gave him a look.

“You give speeches.”

“That is communication.”

“No,” Daphne said. “That is monologuing.”

Anthony rubbed his temples.

“This is absurd.”

Violet walked around him, adjusting the collar of his shirt with maternal precision.

“You must remember that Kate is modern.”

Anthony nodded cautiously.

“Yes.”

“She must have been born in what… the 90s, the 80s?” Daphne said.

Anthony paused.

“That sounds correct.”

Daphne looked scandalized.

“That is a baby.”

Anthony frowned.

“She is a fully grown adult.”

Violet shook her head.

“Anthony, she must be barely thirty.”

“That is an adult.”

“That is very young for someone who is two hundred and thirty one.”

Anthony sighed deeply.

“I am not telling her I am two hundred and thirty one.”

Daphne laughed.

“Please do not.”

Violet stepped back, studying him critically.

“You should smile more.”

“I smile.”

“Not like you are about to negotiate a trade agreement.”

Anthony attempted a smile. It looked vaguely threatening.

Daphne winced.

“Well, hopefully she likes mystery.”

Anthony dropped the expression.

“This was a mistake.”

“No,” Violet said firmly.

“This is progress.”

Daphne crossed her arms.

“Also, do not interrogate her.”

“I do not interrogate people.”

“You absolutely interrogate people.”

“That is how conversations work.”

“No,” Daphne said patiently. “That is how interrogations work.”

Anthony exhaled slowly.

“I simply want to ask questions. And get to know her. Isn’t that how it works?”

“Not like you are conducting a cross-examination.”

Anthony looked genuinely confused.

“She is a lawyer.”

“That does not mean she wants to be interviewed.”

Anthony walked toward the mirror near the hallway and checked his reflection. He looked perfectly presentable. Still, something about the evening made him feel oddly nervous. A sensation he had not experienced in a very long time.

Behind him, Violet watched him quietly.

“You are nervous,” she said gently.

Anthony immediately shook his head.

“No.”

Daphne leaned against the kitchen counter amused “You are.”

“I am not.”

“You are going on a date with the reincarnation of the only woman you ever danced with,” Daphne said calmly.

Anthony froze.

“That has not been proven.”

Violet smiled softly.

“Perhaps.”

Anthony grabbed his coat.

“I am leaving.”

Daphne checked the time.

“You are thirty minutes early.”

Anthony walked toward the door.

“That is punctual.”

“That is anxiety,” Daphne corrected.

Anthony opened the door.

Before stepping out, Violet spoke again.

“Anthony.”

He paused.

“Yes, Mother?”

Her voice was gentle now.

“When you danced with her the first time… you looked happy.”

Anthony said nothing.

For a brief moment, the memory returned again.

A ballroom.

Candlelight.

A woman smiling at him with amused defiance.

Violet smiled.

“I hope you dance again.”

Anthony cleared his throat.

“…It is only dinner.”

Then he stepped into the hallway.

Behind him, Daphne turned to Violet.

“Well,” she said “This should be interesting.”

Violet nodded thoughtfully.

“Oh yes.”

Then she smiled.

“History rarely repeats itself so beautifully.”

{…}

The restaurant Anthony had chosen sat on a quiet street in Mayfair, one of those places that tried very hard to look effortless and understated while charging a small fortune for every course with golden lighting, dark wood tables and a pianist playing softly near the bar.

The sort of place where people pretended not to look at each other.

Anthony arrived twenty minutes early, which, in his mind, was simply punctual.

The hostess led him to a table near the window overlooking the street. Anthony thanked her politely, sat down, and immediately began adjusting the environment like a man preparing a diplomatic negotiation rather than a dinner.

He spoke quietly with the waiter.

“Yes, I would prefer the quieter section.”

A pause.

“Yes, thank you.”

Another pause.

“And the lighting..could we lower that slightly? Like candlelight low”

The waiter blinked.

“…Of course, sir.”

Anthony nodded once.

“And please bring water immediately when my guest arrives.”

“Certainly.”

“And no interruptions during the meal unless we request something.”

“…Of course.”

“And—”

The waiter hesitated.

Anthony paused.

“…Yes?”

“Is this… a business meeting, sir?”

Anthony thought about it.

“…Yes.”

The waiter nodded with visible relief and left.

Anthony leaned back in his chair.

The moment the waiter disappeared, his composure collapsed slightly. His mind began running through scenarios with the efficiency of someone who had spent centuries anticipating social disasters.

What if she thinks I am a psycho client?

That seemed plausible. He had, after all, insisted on meeting a lawyer for dinner to discuss estate documents that technically spanned two hundred years.

What if she thinks I am weird?

Also plausible.

What if I talk like an old man?

Anthony frowned.

He did not talk like an old man.

He spoke perfectly normally…for someone born in the eighteenth century.

He rubbed his forehead. Daphne’s words echoed unpleasantly in his mind. People don’t talk about the same things they did during the Regency.

What were people supposed to talk about now?

Weather?

No, that was timeless.

Politics?

Probably dangerous.

Technology?

Absolutely not.

Anthony glanced around the restaurant.

At a nearby table, two young people sat across from each other staring at their phones in silence.

Anthony looked mildly horrified.

Is that what modern dates look like? Surely not, right? 

He shifted slightly in his chair, he was pretty sure we has hyperventilating. Outside the window, evening lights reflected off the street.

Anthony checked his pocket watch. Ten minutes.

He exhaled slowly.

This somehow this felt more complicated than immortality itself. Because this was not strategy.

This was something far more unpredictable.

A memory.

A possibility.

The door of the restaurant opened.

Anthony looked up instinctively.

And there she was.

Kate Sharma stepped inside, pausing briefly while the hostess greeted her.

She wore a dark coat over a simple dress, professional but elegant in a way that looked entirely effortless. Her long hair was loose tonight, falling naturally around her shoulders.

She looked around the room.

Then she saw him.

For a moment their eyes met across the restaurant.

Anthony stood immediately.

Kate walked toward the table, removing her coat as she approached.

When she reached him, she smiled slightly.

“You are early.”

Anthony cleared his throat.

“Punctual.”

Kate sat down.

The waiter appeared instantly with water.

Anthony noticed and felt oddly vindicated.

Kate looked around the restaurant.

“It’s very nice.”

Anthony nodded.

“Yes.”

There was a small pause.

Kate looked back at him.

Then she smiled again, just slightly amused.

“You look nervous.”

Anthony blinked.

“I am not nervous.”

Kate tilted her head.

“You gave the waiter instructions.”

Anthony froze.

“…What?”

“I could see you through the window.”

Anthony slowly sat back in his chair.

Kate rested her chin lightly on her hand.

“You were reorganizing the restaurant.”

Anthony exhaled.

“That was simply preparation.”

Kate laughed softly.

“Relax, Mr. Bridgerton.”

Her voice was warm now.

“It’s only dinner.”

Anthony looked at her for a moment, just a woman smiling at him with amused defiance. Finally he allowed himself a small smile.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“Just dinner.”

{…}

“Your family seems to be very…”

She searched for the right word.

Anthony offered helpfully,

“United?”

Kate smiled faintly.

“Old.”

Anthony almost choked on his water.

Kate noticed immediately.

“I mean that in a good way,” she said quickly. “Peculiar might be the better word.”

Anthony relaxed slightly.

“I will accept peculiar.”

Kate leaned back in her chair.

“It’s just something I noticed when reviewing your family’s documentation.”

Anthony braced himself internally.

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

She gestured lightly with her glass.

“I see many cases of families falling apart. Divorce, inheritance disputes, siblings fighting over property. It’s practically the entire reason my job exists.”

Anthony nodded slowly.

Kate continued,

“But yours…” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Your family seems to stick together.”

Anthony allowed himself a small smile “Yes.”

“That’s unusual.”

“It is.”

Kate studied him again “How?”

Anthony hesitated.

The truth was far too complicated.Two centuries of shared immortality had created bonds that ordinary families could hardly imagine. They had survived revolutions, wars, technological revolutions, and personal tragedies together. They had literally watched centuries pass side by side. But that was not something one casually mentioned over dinner.

So Anthony gave the closest answer he could.

“Oh,” he said carefully, “that’s just because we had a strong foundation.”

Kate nodded slowly, accepting the explanation for now. But the thoughtful look in her eyes suggested she suspected there was more to it.

Anthony quickly shifted the conversation.

“But enough about me.”

Kate smiled slightly.

“Tell me about you.”

She folded her hands together.

“What do you want to know about me, Mr. Bridgerton?”

Anthony leaned back slightly.

“Please.”He gestured lightly, “Just Anthony.”

Kate watched him for a moment.

Then she smiled again, softly this time “Then you can call me Kate.”

Anthony nodded.

“Very well.”

Kate lifted her glass.

“What would you like to know, Anthony?”

Anthony considered the question.

There were hundreds of things he wanted to ask.

About her family. About her childhood. About whether she remembered anything, anything at all, from another life.

But he could hardly begin there.

So he started with something simple.

“Why family law?”

Kate smiled.

“That’s an easy one.”

“Good.”

She leaned back in her chair.

“My family has a long history of people who like solving complicated problems.”

Anthony raised an eyebrow.

“That sounds familiar.”

Kate laughed softly.

“My great-great-grandmother apparently refused to do anything society expected of her.”

Anthony felt his chest tighten slightly.

Kate continued casually.

“She never married.”

Anthony said nothing.

“She spent most of her life educating girls instead.”

Anthony looked down briefly at the table.

Kate noticed the subtle shift.

“My family talks about her a lot,” she said. “Kathani Sharma.”

Anthony looked back up slowly.

“Yes.”

Kate smiled faintly.

“I’m named after her.”

Anthony nodded once.

“I know.”

Kate blinked.

“You know?”

Anthony froze for half a second.

“…You mentioned it in your professional biography.”

Kate relaxed again.

“Oh.You read that?”

Anthony exhaled quietly “I did…on the firm website…that it exists…on the internet.”

Kate looked thoughtful for a moment.

“You know,” she said, “there’s a strange story about her.”

“What story?”

Kate smiled “It’s a bit ridiculous. More like a Sharma myth.”

“I enjoy ridiculous stories.”

“My grandmother used to say that when she was young, my ancestor went to a ball in London.”

Anthony remained perfectly still.

Kate continued.

“She danced with someone.”

Anthony’s fingers tightened slightly around his glass.

“Only once or twice.”

Kate shrugged lightly.

“No one knows who he was.”

Anthony looked at her.

“But apparently…”

Kate smiled faintly.

“She remembered the dance for the rest of her life.”

Anthony said nothing.

The pianist shifted to a slower piece.

Kate rested her chin lightly on her hand.

“Funny thing to remember, isn’t it?”

Anthony held her gaze.

Not funny.

Not strange.

Just unforgettable.

“Yes,” he said quietly sipping his wine “Very funny.”

{…}

Dessert had arrived almost without them noticing.

The evening had unfolded more smoothly than Anthony Bridgerton had dared to hope. The awkwardness that had lingered at the beginning of dinner had slowly dissolved into something far more natural.

They had spoken about work.

About London.

About the absurdities of life.

At one point Kate had explained social media to him since he mentioned he didn’t use any, which had resulted in Anthony staring at her with deep suspicion while she tried not to laugh.

The candle between them had burned lower as the evening stretched comfortably on.

Plates had been cleared away, and now the waiter had left them alone with dessert and the quiet warmth of a restaurant settling into its late-night calm. The pianist had moved into slower melodies, and the low murmur of other diners created a soft background hum.

Across the table, Kate was watching Anthony with the same thoughtful curiosity she had shown him all evening. He had been speaking about something entirely ordinary, London traffic, he thought, but she was not listening to the words.

She was studying him.

Again.

Anthony noticed, of course.

Two centuries of living had made him extremely aware of when someone was observing him closely.

He raised an eyebrow.

“This was a very nice night.” She said.

Anthony felt a small sense of relief.

“I thought so too.”

There was a brief pause.

Anthony hesitated. None of  the skills he gathered among the years seemed particularly useful at the moment.

Finally he spoke.

“Can I… can I see you again?”

Kate blinked once.

Then her eyebrow lifted slightly.

“That’s quick.”

Anthony immediately straightened.

“Sorry! I—”

Kate burst out laughing.

Not politely.

Actually laughing.

“I’m messing with you.”

Anthony stopped mid-apology.

“You are?”

“Yes.” She shook her head slightly, still smiling “You should see your face.”

Kate smile softened “I like it.”

Anthony blinked.

“You did?”

“Yes.”

Anthony watched her for a moment.

Something about the evening felt strangely familiar.

Not the restaurant.

Not the conversation.

Just the ease of it.

The quiet understanding between two people who had somehow slipped into the same rhythm.

Kate rested her elbow lightly on the table.

“So yes,” she said simply.

Across the small restaurant table, Anthony blinked.

“Yes?”

Kate leaned back slightly in her chair, studying his reaction with quiet amusement.

“I would like to see you again.”

Anthony felt something in his chest loosen in a way that surprised him. He smiled small, genuine. Rare.

“I am glad.”

Kate tilted her head slightly, her expression curious.

“You look relieved.”

Anthony raised an eyebrow.

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

She gestured lightly with her glass.

“You asked me that question like someone expecting a cross-examination.”

Anthony chuckled quietly.

“That may be professional habit.”

Kate laughed softly.

“You are not in court, Anthony.”

“No.”

He leaned back slightly in his chair.

“I suppose I am not.”

For a moment they simply looked at one another. There was something strange about it, something familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Anthony had lived long enough to know when a moment mattered. He had seen centuries pass, watched cities change, watched entire generations rise and disappear. Moments were fleeting things. But occasionally there were moments that seemed to stretch slightly longer than they should.

This felt like one of those.

Kate broke the silence first.

“So.”

Anthony lifted an eyebrow.

“So?”

“If we are seeing each other again,” she said thoughtfully, “does that mean you will finally explain something?”

Anthony felt immediate suspicion.

“That depends on what you would like explained.”

Kate leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows lightly on the table.

“You.”

Anthony blinked.

“…Me?”

“Yes.”

She smiled faintly.

“You are interesting.”

Anthony exhaled quietly.

“That is a concerning adjective.”

Kate shook her head.

“No, I mean it.”

She studied him with that same perceptive calm she carried in the office.

“You’re… difficult to place.”

Anthony tilted his head.

“In what way?”

“You seem modern.”

“That is encouraging.”

“But also not.”

Anthony raised an eyebrow.

Kate gestured toward him.

“You talk like someone who reads philosophy on free time.”

Anthony opened his mouth, then paused.

“…That is not unusual.”

Kate continued.

“You also behave like someone who learned manners in a very strict environment.”

Anthony considered that, remembering his Eton classes.

“That is accurate.”

“And sometimes,” she added slowly, “you say things that sound like they belong in another century.”

Anthony nearly laughed out of surprise.

“That seems unlikely.”

Kate shrugged.

“Earlier you said something about ‘courtship.’”

Anthony coughed softly.

“That was merely vocabulary.”

Kate smiled knowingly.

“Mm-hmm.”

Anthony leaned forward slightly.

“Should I be concerned that I am being psychologically profiled?”

Kate grinned.

“I’m a lawyer, not a therapist.”

“Are you certain?”

“Very.”

Anthony smiled slightly.

“Good.”

Kate tilted her head again.

“You also look at things very carefully.”

“That sounds like caution.”

“No,” she said softly “It looks more like… memory, evaluation.”

Anthony did not respond immediately.

The candlelight flickered again between them.

Kate noticed the small pause.

“You see?” she said gently “You just did it again.”

Anthony looked back at her.

“Did what?”

“That thing.”

“What thing?”

She gestured lightly.

“You go quiet like you’re somewhere else for a moment.”

Anthony smiled faintly.

“That may simply be age.”

Kate laughed.

“How old are you?”

Anthony blinked once.

That was… unexpectedly direct.

For two centuries he had answered that question with ease. The number simply changed every few decades depending on the identity he was currently performing.

But in that moment, sitting across from a woman who felt strangely familiar in ways he could not possibly explain, the question suddenly seemed much more complicated.

Anthony cleared his throat.

“Thirty-one.”

Kate narrowed her eyes slightly.

“That pause was suspicious.”

Anthony raised an eyebrow.

“I am offended.”

“You hesitated.”

“People hesitate.”

Kate tilted her head, studying him more closely.

“Not when answering their own age.”

Anthony took a sip of water, buying himself a second.

“Well,” he said carefully, “some of us take age very seriously.”

Kate laughed softly.

“That sounded rehearsed.”

Anthony smiled faintly.

“I have had practice.”

Kate pointed a finger at him.

“See? That right there.”

“What?”

“You say things like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like someone who has been giving speeches since the Victorian era.”

“That is a very specific accusation.”

Kate shrugged lightly.

“…What?”

Kate smiled faintly.

“Nothing.”

Anthony leaned back slightly in his chair.

“That expression rarely means nothing.”

Kate rested her chin lightly on her hand.

“You also talk funny.”

Anthony blinked.

“…Excuse me?”

Kate laughed softly.

“Not funny funny.”

“That clarification does not help.”

“I mean,” she said, searching for the right words, “you speak very… properly.”

Anthony lifted a shoulder.

“That is called good manners.”

Kate nodded slowly.

“Yes” She paused, “Very good manners.”

Anthony raised an eyebrow.

“I sense criticism approaching.”

Kate grinned.

“It’s not criticism.”

She leaned forward slightly.

“It’s just that sometimes you sound like you stepped out of a historical drama.”

Anthony nearly laughed.

“That seems unlikely.”

Kate shook her head.

“No, I’m serious.”

She gestured toward him with her fork.

“You choose your words very carefully. You speak in complete sentences. You say things like ‘I assure you’ and ‘that is most unfortunate.’”

Anthony frowned thoughtfully.

“Those are normal phrases.”

Kate smiled wider.

“Not really.”

Anthony crossed his arms lightly defensively. He liked to think of himself as very well adapted to the modern age.

“Then what would be considered normal?”

Kate thought for a moment.

“Well…” She adopted a mock casual tone “Most people would say something like ‘yeah that sucks, man.’”

Anthony stared at her.

“…That is barbaric.”

Kate burst out laughing.

“Exactly!”

Anthony shook his head slowly.

“I refuse to degrade the English language.”

Kate pointed at him triumphantly.

“See?”

“What?”

“You did it again.”

Anthony sighed.

“Did what?”

Kate leaned back in her chair, clearly enjoying herself.

“You talk like a posh viscount from the 1800s.”

Anthony nearly choked on his water. The reaction was immediate and spectacular. He coughed violently, nearly spilling his glass while trying to recover.

Kate blinked.

“…Wow.”

Anthony grabbed a napkin, trying desperately to regain composure.

“That was unexpected.”

Kate leaned forward slightly.

“Are you okay?”

Anthony nodded quickly.

“Yes.”

Another cough.

“Perfectly fine.”

Kate watched him with growing amusement.

“That reaction was… intense.”

Anthony straightened in his chair, attempting to regain his usual calm dignity.

“I simply inhaled water.”

Kate narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

“You reacted like I just accused you of something.”

Anthony said nothing.

Kate noticed the pause immediately.

“You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“That thing.”

“What thing?”

She pointed gently toward him.

“You disappear for a second.”

Anthony smiled faintly.

“I assure you I am still here.”

Kate laughed softly.

“I know.”

She leaned back again, studying him with quiet interest.

“You’re mysterious, Anthony.”

Anthony lifted his glass.

“That sounds dangerous.”

Kate grinned.

“It probably is.”

The candlelight flickered again between them.

Outside the window London glowed with the restless energy of a modern city.

Kate tapped the table lightly.

“Anyway.”

Anthony raised an eyebrow.

“Yes?”

“If you ever start wearing waistcoats and addressing people as ‘my good sir,’ I’m staging an intervention.”

Anthony smiled slowly.

“I will keep that in mind.”

Kate pointed a warning finger at him.

“I’m serious.”

Anthony leaned forward slightly.

“I assure you,” he said calmly, “that would be highly unlikely.”

Kate stared at him, trying to hold back the laughter, but couldn’t help it.

“There it is.”

Anthony sighed.

“…What now?”

“You said ‘I assure you’ again.”

Anthony shook his head.

“This conversation feels like a trap.”

Kate smiled warmly.

“Maybe.”

Anthony looked at her for a moment longer than necessary. Then he said quietly, almost vulnerable.

“If I did come from the 1800s…would that be a problem?”

Two centuries of careful secrecy, of learning how to exist quietly in the world without raising suspicion, and here he was asking hypothetical questions that sounded suspiciously close to confession.

She smiled “What a strange question. Hmm, I suppose it depends”

“On what?”

Kate tapped her finger lightly against the edge of her glass as though organizing a list.

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I would first need to evaluate the situation.”

Anthony tried to keep his expression neutral.

“And how exactly would you do that?”

Kate smiled faintly.

She held up one finger.

“My first assumption would be that they were a lunatic.”

Anthony nodded thoughtfully.

“That seems reasonable.”

She raised a second finger.

“My second assumption would be that they were lying.”

Anthony nodded again.

“Also reasonable.”

Kate lifted a third finger.

“And the third possibility would be that they were some sort of time traveller.”

Anthony almost laughed.

“That escalated quickly.”

Kate shrugged.

“Well, if you eliminate the impossible—”

Anthony finished the sentence automatically.

“—whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

She nodded smiling, pleased that he understood her line of thought.

For a moment Anthony allowed himself to simply watch her. She was so beautiful, he thought to himself.

Kate noticed his gaze lingering.

“You’re doing it again.”

Anthony blinked.

“What?”

“That look.”

He smiled slightly.

“What look?”

“The one like you’ve seen me somewhere before.”

Anthony considered the question carefully.

Then he answered softly.

“Perhaps I have.”

Kate laughed lightly.

“That would be impressive.”

Anthony tilted his head.

“Yes.”

“It would.”

“And for the record?”

Anthony looked at her.

“Yes?”

“If you did came from the 1800s…”

She smiled softly.

“…I think I’d still go on a second date with you.”

Chapter Text

“You're to blame
Just one hit of you, I knew I'll never, ever, ever be the same”

Morning arrived much earlier than Anthony Bridgerton would have preferred.

His apartment was quiet, the soft grey light of a London morning filtering through the tall windows that overlooked the Thames. The city was only beginning to wake with distant traffic, a ferry moving slowly across the river, the faint hum of life returning to the streets.

Anthony had slept surprisingly well. Which in itself was unusual.

For two centuries his mind had been accustomed to restlessness, to the quiet weight of time pressing against memory. But something about the previous night had left him oddly calm.

Dinner with Kate Sharma had not been what he expected.

It had been easier.

Warmer.

Anthony rolled slightly onto his side, half-awake, contemplating the rare luxury of sleeping a little longer.

Then he heard voices.

In his living room.

Anthony froze.

For someone who had survived centuries of conflict, his instincts were immediate and sharp.

He sat up in bed.

“…What?”

More voices followed.

Familiar voices.

And laughter.

Anthony closed his eyes slowly.

Of course.

Two minutes later he walked into the living room wearing a dark t-shirt and looking like a man who had already lost his patience for the day.

Standing comfortably inside his apartment, drinking coffee from his mugs as if they owned the place, were Benedict and Sophie.

Anthony stopped in the doorway.

They both turned toward him cheerfully.

“Good morning,” Benedict said.

Anthony stared at them.

“I gave you a key for emergencies.”

Benedict nodded.

“Yes.”

Sophie gestured around the apartment.

“This is an emergency.”

Anthony blinked.

“…Is it.”

“Yes,” Sophie said very seriously. “We need to know how your date with Kate went.”

Anthony rubbed his face, already feeling a headache.

“Good Lord.”

Benedict leaned against the kitchen counter.

“So?”

Anthony poured himself coffee with the slow patience of someone attempting to remain calm.

“So what?”

“How was it?” Sophie asked eagerly.

Anthony took a sip.

“It was dinner.”

Benedict squinted.

“That is not enough information.”

Anthony sat at the table.

“It was pleasant.”

Sophie gasped dramatically.

“Pleasant.”

Anthony glared.

“Yes.”

Benedict folded his arms.

“That is the most suspicious word you could have chosen.”

Anthony sighed.

“She is intelligent.”

Sophie nodded approvingly.

“Good.”

“She is perceptive.”

Benedict smiled.

Sophie leaned forward across the table.

“So you like her.”

Anthony paused.

“…I did not say that.”

Benedict and Sophie exchanged a look of triumph. Sophie clapped once “Oh I cannot wait to meet her.”

Anthony immediately pointed at her.

“You are not meeting her.”

Sophie blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“None of you are.”

Benedict laughed.

“That is adorable.”

Anthony narrowed his eyes.

“This is serious.”

Sophie crossed her arms.

“Yes I will.”

Anthony shook his head.

“No.”

Sophie smiled sweetly.

“I will be her favorite in-law.”

Anthony stared at her.

“You are not even my favorite in-law.”

Sophie gasped in theatrical outrage.

“How dare you!”

She placed a hand dramatically over her heart.

“Who is it then?”

Anthony sighed.

Sophie began counting on her fingers.

“Is it Simon ‘Duel’ Basset?”

From the kitchen Benedict snorted.

“Or Penelope ‘Gossip’ Featherington?”

Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose. The familiar headache of dealing with two centuries of immortal siblings and their spouses returned immediately.

“Why,” he muttered slowly, “did I think sharing immortality with you people would be a good idea?”

Benedict leaned back in his chair.

“Because you love us.”

Anthony did not answer.

Sophie leaned forward again, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“So tell us everything.”

Anthony shook his head.

“No.”

“Did you kiss?”

“No.”

“Did you hold hands?”

“No.”

“Did you stare romantically across the table for three hours?”

Anthony paused.

“…No.”

Benedict burst out laughing.

Sophie clapped again.

“Oh this is wonderful.”

Anthony stood up abruptly.

“I am leaving.”

Benedict looked amused.

“You live here.”

“I am still leaving.”

Sophie followed him toward the hallway.

“Anthony!”

He stopped.

“Yes?”

She smiled knowingly.

“You smiled.”

Anthony frowned.

“I smile.”

“Not like that.”

Anthony crossed his arms.

“Like what?”

Sophie shrugged lightly “You know how.”

Anthony said nothing.

For a moment the room was quiet.

Then Benedict spoke gently from the kitchen.

“So.”

Anthony looked back.

Benedict smiled.

“Are you going to see her again?”

Anthony thought about the night before.

About the way Kate had laughed.

About the way she had listened.

About the strange familiarity that had settled between them like something unfinished.

“If you did came from the 1800s I think I’d still go on a second date with you.”

He found himself smiling against the mug “Yes,” he said finally “I am.”

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“Ooooooh he has twinkly eyes thinking of her” Sophie said supporting her chin on her hand.

Anthony rolled his eyes “Since you broke into my apartment already, why don’t you make breakfast at least”

“The muffins are on the oven”

“Alright, you might be my favourite in law.”

Sophie smiled triumphantly.

Later that morning, the kitchen of Anthony’s apartment looked less like the residence of a composed former aristocrat and more like the headquarters of a deeply unqualified romantic advisory council.

Coffee cups littered the counter. The calm, minimalist space Anthony preferred had been completely overtaken. Anthony stood at the island with his arms crossed, staring at the two people who had apparently decided that his love life was now a family project.

Across from him sat Benedict and Sophie, both watching him with the enthusiasm of people who had waited two centuries for this exact situation.

Anthony sighed nipping at the fresh blueberry muffins that had just got out of the oven.

“Where do people take others for second dates?”

Sophie immediately straightened.

“Oh.” She pointed at him “Second dates are important.”

Anthony frowned.

“Why?”

Benedict answered first.

“Because they lead to the third date.”

Anthony waited.

“…And?”

Sophie clasped her hands dramatically.

“And everybody knows what happens on the third date.”

Anthony raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

Benedict said it flatly.

“Sex.”

Anthony nearly dropped his coffee.

“…What?”

Sophie nodded as if explaining basic arithmetic.

“Sex. Obviously.”

Anthony’s face immediately turned red.

“Absolutely not.”

Benedict leaned back in his chair.

“Oh?”

Anthony pointed at them.

“But we would not be married.”

Sophie blinked.

Then she burst out laughing.

Anthony looked deeply offended.

“What?”

“That is the twenty-first century,” Sophie said patiently. “It does not work like that anymore.”

Anthony frowned.

“What do you mean?”

Benedict spoke calmly.

“Women can have sex without marriage.”

Anthony stared at them.

“I know that.”

He waved a hand irritably.

“But during courtship?”

Both Benedict and Sophie looked at him with identical confusion.

“Courtship?” Sophie repeated.

“Yes.”

Sophie shook her head.

“Courting does not exist anymore.”

Anthony frowned harder.

“Isn’t dating the same thing as courting?”

Benedict and Sophie answered at the exact same time.

“No.”

Anthony stared at them.

“How do you two know?”

Benedict raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“You have been together for over fifty years,” Anthony said.

Benedict shrugged.

“True.”

Anthony pointed at Sophie.

“And you were born in 1935.”

Sophie blinked.

“Yes?”

“What the hell do you know about modern dating?”

Sophie crossed her arms proudly.

“I watch a lot of rom-coms.”

Anthony stared at her.

“…Romantic comedies.”

“Yes.”

“You base your knowledge of modern relationships on fictional movies.”

“They are very educational.”

Benedict nodded.

“She is surprisingly well informed.”

Anthony rubbed his temples.

“This was a mistake.”

Sophie leaned forward eagerly.

“Okay listen.”

Anthony groaned.

“No.”

“Second dates are usually more relaxed.”

“I am relaxed.”

Sophie sighed.

“You need something fun.”

Anthony frowned.

“Dinner is fun.”

“No,” Benedict said.

“Dinner is negotiation.”

Anthony pointed at him.

“That is insulting.”

Sophie snapped her fingers.

“Oh!”

Anthony immediately looked suspicious.

“No.”

“Yes,” Sophie said.

“Take her somewhere interactive.”

Anthony blinked.

“…Interactive.”

“Yes.”

“Like what?”

Sophie shrugged.

“Bowling.”

Anthony looked horrified.

“I am not taking her bowling.”

“Mini golf.”

“No.”

“Cooking class.”

Anthony paused.

“…Cooking class?”

Benedict leaned forward.

“That could be entertaining.”

Anthony looked uncertain.

“I do not cook.”

Sophie smiled brightly.

“Exactly.”

Anthony stared at her.

“You want me to humiliate myself.”

“It will make you human.”

“I am human.”

“You are two hundred and thirty one.”

Anthony folded his arms.

“I will simply take her somewhere nice.”

Sophie tilted her head.

“You already did that.”

Anthony paused.

“…True.”

Benedict smiled slowly.

“Take her dancing.”

The room went quiet.

Anthony froze.

The word lingered in the air longer than it should have.

He cleared his throat.

“…People still dance?”

Sophie laughed.

“Yes, Anthony.”

“Not waltzes.”

“…Unfortunate.”

Anthony looked down at the counter for a moment.

Then he exhaled slowly.

“…Perhaps.”

Sophie grinned triumphantly.

Benedict raised his coffee mug.

“Oh this is going to be good.”

Anthony pointed toward the door.

“Get out.”

Sophie stood up cheerfully.

“We are helping.”

“You are interfering.”

Benedict walked toward the door.

“Same thing.”

Anthony followed them to the hallway.

As Sophie grabbed her coat, she turned back toward him.

“Anthony.”

“Yes?”

She smiled knowingly.

“You don’t look as brooding as usual”

Anthony did not answer.

But he was already thinking about where he could take Kate next. Now he finally had the place to himself. No Benedict leaning over his shoulder. No Sophie offering questionable romantic advice based on romantic comedies. No family members lurking nearby waiting for updates.

Just silence.

And his phone.

Anthony sat at the kitchen counter staring at the device like it might suddenly explode.

Texting was still… unnatural.

For most of his life communication had meant letters written carefully with ink and sealed with wax. Even later, telephone conversations at least had the dignity of voices.

But texting?

Short messages. No tone. No formality. No structure.

It felt dangerously open to misunderstanding.

Anthony tapped the phone screen with cautious concentration, re-reading the message he had typed for the fourth time.

How do you feel about mini golf?

He frowned.

Was that too abrupt?

Should he add something before it?

Perhaps a greeting.

He tried again.

Good evening, Kate. I hope your day was pleasant. How do you feel about mini golf?

He stared at the screen.

That sounded like a letter from 1892.

Anthony sighed and deleted the first sentence.

How do you feel about mini golf?

He hesitated one more moment.

Then pressed send.

The message left instantly.

Anthony placed the phone on the counter like it had become dangerous.

He walked to the window. London stretched beneath him, lights glittering along the river. Cars moved across the bridge, their headlights reflecting on the water. He was afraid to ask her to dance. What if she thought they would go to a clud? If he hadn’t embarrassed himself already, he most certainly would if he had to dance techno or whatever people danced nowadays.

His phone vibrated.

Anthony turned immediately.

He picked it up and read the message.

Kate: You want to take me to mini golf?

Anthony frowned slightly.

That sounded… surprised.

Perhaps surprised was bad.

Perhaps she hated mini golf.

Anthony typed quickly.

Yes.

He paused.

That seemed insufficient.

He added another message.

I was informed that second dates should involve something “interactive.”

He stared at the phone.

That sounded like he had received strategic briefings.

The phone buzzed again.

Kate: Who informed you of that?

Anthony sighed. Honesty seemed safest.

My sister in law.

Three dots appeared.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

Anthony waited.

Finally the message arrived.

Kate: She sounds cool.

Kate: Which means nice, in case you don’t know.

Anthony smiled slightly and rolled his eyes.

I know what cool means, smartass.

Another message followed.

Kate: You sure?

Kate: But I am game for mini golf.

Anthony relaxed slightly.

Then another message appeared.

Kate: Are you good at it?

Anthony stared at the screen.

He had been alive for nearly two and a half centuries.

He had learned fencing, horse riding, languages, politics, business strategy, several musical instruments, and once spent six months learning naval navigation out of boredom.

But mini golf?

“…No,” he said quietly to himself.

He typed.

I have never done it before.

The reply came quickly.

Kate: Perfect.

Anthony blinked.

Perfect?

A few seconds later:

Kate: That means I am going to kick your ass.

Anthony leaned against the counter, smiling despite himself.

He typed back.

That sounds like a challenge.

Another pause.

Then her message appeared.

Kate: Saturday?

Anthony responded immediately.

Saturday works.

A few seconds later:

Kate: See you Saturday, my lord.

There was a brief pause.

Then another message appeared.

Kate: It’s a joke. Don’t panic.

Anthony chuckled.

Then typed slowly.

You are aggravating. 

The typing dots appeared again.

And when her message came through, it made him laugh quietly in the empty apartment.

Kate: And you are vexing. 

Anthony placed the phone on the counter again.

Whatever it was happening to him, Anthony Bridgerton would never be the same.