Archive of Our Own

Francesca Bridgerton had always been good at compartmentalizing.

Love went in one box. Grief followed closely behind it in another. Rage, the one that occupied her mind the most, belonged in a third.

But the bodies? Those went underground. 

London glittered beneath her penthouse windows that sat along the River Thames. Modern glass towers, charity auctions for causes no one actually cared about, except for the tax write off for charitable contributions. 

The Bridgertons were still royalty in everything but the title. Old money from the patriarch Edmund before he passed away when Francesca was all too young. Mix that with the tech investments and philanthropic successes that the oldest Bridgerton child, Anthony, did when he assumed the title of head of the family, the Bridgertons were as influential as ever. 

Francesca preferred the silence to parties. Precision to chaos. It was something she found great comfort in as she played on her piano. The music filled her head as a way to calm her nerves. 

But when she stumbled upon a dying Alfred Debling from a stab wound to his stomach, she picked the knife off the ground that laid next to him with her gloved hand and added a couple of new wounds to the original gash. 

The first thrust had been one out of pure curiosity. One that came through as an idea deep in the back of Francesca’s mind. 

She forced the blade of the knife into the existing wound. Debling jerked back, with a strangled sound tearing from his throat. She felt the resistance gave way in her mind, and something inside her stirred. 

The second was deliberate. By the third, the expression on her face twisted from curiosity to joy. The smile on her face grew wider with each wound added. 

Debling’s breath hitched, a wet, desperate sound bubbling from his throat as she leaned closer. The city lights illuminated the back alley way she used to escape the latest charity gala she was forced to attend as Chief Financial Officer for the Bridgerton Foundation. 

The knife slipped from her hand as Debling’s body went limp in front of her. Francesca stepped back, letting the shadow of the alley consume him whole. Her pulse thrummed, not with fear but with exhilaration. 

Most would call her a monster; she called it clarity in the purest form.

She took in the sight in front of her: Alfred Debling, lifeless in a pool of crimson spreading across the cobblestone. The scent of iron was sharp in her nose, a perfume she had first turned her nose at, then welcomed entirely. Francesca felt no remorse for the man, as she knew how much of a sick fuck he was investing his money into trafficing. She felt a steady hum of control, the precision of a life measured in seconds and angles. 

The city moved on outside the alley. The city moved on outside the alley. A taxi honked, distant laughter echoed from a nearby street, and the Thames shimmered beneath the moonlight. All of it felt like a world apart from her own, where the rules were hers alone to write.

The gala continued on above. Cheers ringing out for the celebration of the first five recipients of the Featherington Scholarship for Journalism and Creative Writing for University of Oxford created by her sister-in-law, Penelope. 

She laughed once as she moved back to life beyond the alley. Irony upon her as she was celebrating the ending of one life, while everyone inside was celebrating the improvement of five others. 

She adjusted her gloves as she exited the alley, tucking the knife into the lining of her coat. The night air was cold against her skin, sharp enough to cut through the haze of exhilaration that lingered from Debling. She walked past the gala lights, the laughter, the music, and the clinking of champagne glasses like a world that existed only to amuse her.

Francesca liked to watch them, the oblivious socialites, believing themselves untouchable while she orchestrated chaos in the shadows. Her eyes lingered on the large windows of the ballroom, where Penelope, radiant in a silver gown, handed a scholarship recipient their certificate. She caught the glimmer of pride in Penelope’s eyes and felt… nothing. Not envy, not longing—just the cold calculation that had always guided her life.

By the next day as the upper-class world of London mourned the loss of Alfred Debling, Francesca was itching to find the rush that killing gave her again. 

She tried with physical activity first. Francesca was always a fan of running. She thought it was a quick and easy way to increase the burning of the lingering heat in her veins, to chase the pulse that ran rapid with the memory of Debling flashing in her mind. The street of London were nearly empty at dawn, mist curling around the lampposts as if shrouding the city in secrecy just for her. 

Her sneakers pounded the pavement, rhythmic, relentless, but it wasn’t enough for her. The thrill, the exquisite, sharp thrill was missing. The adrenaline she received from the physical exertion was a hollow imitation of what she craved. It was a poor imitation at best. 

She thought maybe it was the timing of her run. The energy in the early morning was quite different from the energy at night. After her long day of work at the Bridgerton Foundation, she returned to her penthouse and set back out on the footpath once more. 

Night suited her better. 

London after dark was honest. The city shed its polished civility and reveal the truth beneath it. Whispers outside private clubs in Mayfair. Cigarette smoke curling in back alleyways. Chauffeur idling too long outside townhouses where secrets were exchanged behind closed doors. 

Francesca ran along the Thames, the river black and endless beside her. Her breath came steady and controlled. Her mind, however, refused to follow suit. 

She imagined the moment again. The resistance of flesh. The look in Debling’s eyes when understanding dawned too late. The surrender.

Her pulse spiked.

Still—not enough.

Running could not replicate the precision of a blade guided by her own hand. It could not reproduce the quiet authority of deciding when someone else’s story ended. Exercise was surrendering to biology. Killing was transcendence.

She slowed near Waterloo Bridge, hands braced against her hips as she stared out at the city skyline. Reflections fractured across the water like broken glass. She needed focus.

Francesca returned home and showered, steam filling the marble bathroom as she began to wind down for the night. She felt the hot water cascade over her shoulders, down her spine, washing away the sweat of exertion—but not the restlessness beneath her skin.

She tilted her head back, closing her eyes.

The heat should have soothed her. It usually did. The steady drum of water against porcelain, the fog curling against the glass walls, the isolation of it all. It was almost ritualistic—cleansing without confession.

But tonight, her mind refused to quiet.

Debling’s face flickered behind her eyelids. Not the moment of death—no, that part had already dulled into memory—but the instant before. The realization. The betrayal in his expression when he understood that the woman standing before him was not merely another polished socialite escaping a dull gala.

Francesca exhaled slowly.

She pressed her palm flat against the cool tile wall, grounding herself. She was desperate to find that feeling once again, she wanted to find what caused her compulsion to kill Debling. 

By the time she stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in a silk robe, her pulse had steadied. She crossed the marble floor barefoot and poured herself a glass of red wine, watching the liquid swirl in the crystal.

She carried it to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames. London glittered below her like a constellation she owned. Somewhere out there, people were grieving. Speculating. Whispering.

She imagined the headlines that would follow the next one.

She quickly turned towards the grand piano behind her. 

The instrument sat in the center of her living room like an altar. Black lacquer, immaculate. Untouched by dust. It had been her first love—the one thing in her life that had demanded discipline without blood.

Francesca set her wine down carefully next to her phone and lowered herself onto the bench. For a moment, she simply stared at the keys. Order. White. Black. Predictable.

Her fingers descended.

The first notes were soft, controlled. A familiar sonata—minor key, melancholy but structured. Music had always been her method of containment. When she was younger, after Edmund’s death, she had learned to pour grief into the keys instead of screaming it into the world. Now, she poured something else into them.

The melody swelled.

Her hands moved faster, sharper. The controlled restraint of the opening gave way to something more frantic, more jagged. The notes clashed slightly, dissonant, before resolving again. She liked that—the tension before resolution. The push and pull.

It reminded her of the moment just before the blade met skin.

Francesca’s jaw tightened. She let the music build, pressing harder, the sound reverberating off the high ceilings and glass walls. From the outside, anyone watching would see only a Bridgerton heiress playing late into the night. Cultured. Refined. Harmless.

The irony pleased her.

She shifted into something darker, improvising now. The rhythm mimicked a heartbeat—slow at first, then accelerating. Her own pulse followed suit.

There it was again. The edge.

But this time, as her fingers flew across the keys, the phone had buzzed, causing her to be pulled out of the fantasy in her head. Francesca struck a wrong note.

The sharp discord sliced through the air, abrupt and ugly. She froze, hands hovering above the keys. Silence swallowed the room.

Annoyance flared in her chest. She did not make mistakes. Not in music. Not in anything.

She looked at the message on her phone from Anthony. 

Anthony: Last minute late-afternoon meeting with tomorrow with Nigel Berbrooke. I need you there with me. I want to make sure he’s legit. 

Francesca stared at the screen a moment longer than necessary. 

Nigel Berbrooke. 

The name felt like something half-buried rising to the surface. 

She hadn’t heard that name in years. Not since his quiet, humiliating fallout with the family after Daphne had refused his advances. It had been handled discreetly—of course it had. Violet Bridgerton did not allow scandals to linger. The true head of the Bridgerton household, if not my title.

Francesca typed back simply: I’ll be there.

Nigel Berbrooke arrived five minutes late to their meeting. 

Francesca noted it immediately. She was born to notice the small things about people. A quiet observer herself, being one of eight children helped with that. 

The Bridgerton Foundation boardroom was all glass walls and restrained power. Clean lines, controlled wealth. Anthony stood at the head of the table, a usual spot for him as the CEO. Benedict leaned casually against the table, looking out at London beneath them, required by Anthony to be there for logistics reasons. Francesca sat besides Anthony, posture immaculate from her years play the piano, tablet opened in front of her of whatever she could find about Berbrooke’s latest moves. 

Nigel entered the room with the same self-satisfied smile she remembered. Slightly grayer and heavier as the years have not been kind to him. The arrogance he had possessed in the past grew tenfold over the years. 

He stepped forward confidently—then faltered.

His gaze moved past Francesca, scanning the room. A flicker of confusion. Expectation unmet.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” Nigel greeted, recovering quickly. “I thought that Daphne would be joining us.”

Anthony’s expression cooled a degree. “My sister sends her regrets. She has a packed schedule for today with our outreach program and wasn’t able to reschedule anything.”

Nigel’s eyes returned to Francesca properly now, taking her in with renewed calculation.

“Ah,” he said, smile tightening. “Miss Bridgerton. I hadn’t realized you were involved with the Foundation.”

“Ms. is sufficient,” Francesca replied smoothly. “And I’ve been involved for quite some time, Mr. Berbrooke. Once Anthony found out about my desires to learn about the financial world in university, he’s had me involved ever since.”

A beat.

“Of course,” Nigel said, settling into his seat.

Anthony began the formalities—investment proposals, partnership opportunities, shared philanthropic goals. Nigel spoke in polished phrases about expanding educational initiatives, about empowering youth, about integrity.

Francesca watched his hands.

They were restless. Fingers tapping. A ring twisted repeatedly around his knuckle. A tell.

She asked the first pointed question fifteen minutes in.

“Your firm’s restructuring in three years ago,” she said calmly. “There were three silent partners who withdrew immediately before the regulatory audit. What prompted their exit?”

Nigel blinked.

Anthony turned slightly toward her.

Nigel recovered quickly. “Standard strategic repositioning. Difference of opinions, that’s all.”

“Of course,” Francesca replied lightly. “I just have to ask, why choose us and not someone else?”

A pause. Brief. But there.

“Diversification of assets,” Nigel said while smiling. “I want to partner with the best of the best and you guys are them.” 

Anthony didn’t miss it.

By the time the meeting concluded, Nigel was smiling too widely.

“I do hope we can move forward together,” he said, standing. “The past is the past, after all.”

Francesca met his gaze.

“Yes,” she said softly. “It is.”

But her eyes promised something else entirely.

Her mother was arranging flowers when Francesca arrived to Grosvenor Square, the quiet rustle of petals and ribbon filling the room. Daphne sat near the window, a book open but unread in her lap. Light caught the gold in her hair, but her fingers clutched the spine with a tension Francesca recognized instantly.

“I saw Nigel Berbrooke this morning,” Francesca said, stepping inside.

The words landed like stones. Silence thickened the air.

Daphne’s fingers tightened. Violet’s composure never wavered, but the slightest stiffening at her jaw betrayed her. “I assume that was unpleasant,” she said.

“He’s seeking partnership with the Foundation.”

A pause. Daphne let out a slow breath. “Of course he is.”

Francesca moved closer. “He implied the past is irrelevant.”

Violet’s eyes flicked toward her daughter, sharp and measured. “Men like Nigel always believe time absolves them.”

Francesca’s gaze drifted to the window, and memory came flooding back in fragments. Daphne’s composure, just slightly too tight at dinner. Violet’s smile, stretched thin at the edges. The hushed conversation behind the drawing room doors when they thought no one else was listening. She had always been listening.

Berbrooke at some insufferable society function, drunk on entitlement and old money, cornering Daphne. The threats, polite on the surface, poisonous underneath: promises to “ruin prospects,” to “spread unfortunate misunderstandings.” He had underestimated the Bridgerton women and he had never noticed her, quiet and watchful at nineteen, memorizing the way his hand lingered too long at Daphne’s waist, the way his smile never reached his eyes.

Francesca’s eyes returned to her sister. “Did he ever escalate beyond threats?”

Daphne’s gaze was steady. Honest. “He cornered me. He suggested that if I did not reconsider his proposal, my reputation might suffer.”

The word proposal struck like a knife. Francesca felt that cold precision inside her chest again, the same clarity she had felt at nineteen, standing outside a half-closed door, listening.

“And Anthony?” she asked quietly.

“No,” Violet said firmly. “He doesn’t know. And he doesn’t need to.”

Anthony had never known. If he had, Nigel Berbrooke might not have survived the year.

Francesca nodded once. Understood. She leaned forward and kissed her mother’s cheek lightly. The gesture was soft, almost invisible—but heavy with everything she could not say aloud.

She left the room with her expression unchanged, carrying a quiet resolve out into the cold, clear light of the day.

Back in her penthouse, the city gleamed beneath her windows. 

Francesca did not go to towards her running shoes nor the piano. 

She went straight for her desk and opened a new file on her computer and labeled it NB. 

She found the hidden financial records first. Shell companies branching like veins. Offshore holdings routed through consulting fronts. Strategic investments preceding regulatory shifts.

Interesting.

Then employment patterns.

Personal and executive assistants with brief tenures for Nigel himself and his C-Suite. 

NDAs signed within months of departure from his company..

One withdrawn civil complaint.

Francesca leaned back slowly, fingertips pressed together.

Predators rarely changed. They adapted.

She dug further—private event guest lists, hotel bookings overlapping with junior staff travel, quiet settlements masked as “contractual restructuring.”

The pattern clarified.

Entitlement. Coercion. Protection by wealth.

Her jaw tightened slightly.

This would not be impulsive.

This would not be chaotic.

This would be intentional.

Nigel Berbrooke had once threatened a Bridgerton woman under the assumption there would be no consequences.

Francesca closed her laptop with deliberate calm.

Now there would be.

And as she stood, crossing to the kitchen drawer with the false bottom, she felt it—

Not the frantic hunger of earlier.

Something steadier. Something colder.

She decided it before the night was over.

Nigel Berbrooke would be her next headline.

Francesca stood in the kitchen for a long moment, staring at the false-bottom drawer as if it were a portal. The knife inside gleamed faintly under the overhead light. She traced the handle with her fingers, slow, deliberate. It was not yet time. Patience, she reminded herself. Precision always came before action.

Her mind, however, was already several steps ahead.

She began assembling a dossier—not just numbers and records, but habits. Where he dined, where he stayed when in London, the routes he took between home and work. Small things: the way he favored his left shoe when stepping onto a curb, how he tapped the table with his index finger when thinking. Patterns. Weaknesses. Openings.

She allowed herself a faint, almost imperceptible smile.

There was a certain artistry to this stage. The calm before the storm. The feeling of control that pulsed through her with each discovered inconsistency or misstep. She could almost hear the rhythm of the hunt, a familiar music beneath her heartbeat.

Hours passed as she mapped Nigel’s life, turning every stone for weakness. By midnight, she had constructed a complete profile. He was predictable, arrogant, careless. And Francesca loved nothing more than punishing the careless.

Finally, she leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes. The city lights beyond her window stretched endlessly. The Thames reflected the glow of the skyscrapers, fractured like the reflections of a life she lived in pieces—orderly, compartmentalized, deadly.

Her hand brushed against the hidden knife.

Yes. He would fall.

Tonight, Francesca Bridgerton smiled. Tomorrow, the hunt would begin.

Days turned into nights as Francesca kept tabs on Nigel and his doings in London. She attended the Foundation’s board functions and gala previews under the guise of professional diligence. 

She observed Nigel carefully while he was in attendance: the way he talked over others, the arrogance he could not mask, the tiny habits that revealed insecurity beneath the polished veneer. 

She began to test him, small provocations: a pointed question during a meeting, a subtle misdirection in conversation. His flinch was barely perceptible, but it existed. She noted it. Cataloged it. Savored it.

At home, she refined the plan. She memorized exits, entrances, the flow of people at events he would attend. Every detail mattered: which waitstaff carried trays along which aisles, the angle of the grand staircase, the position of the security staff. By the time the art charity gala rolled around—a shimmering, high-society event celebrating benefactors—she knew the room as well as she knew her own reflection.

Nigel, of course, was oblivious. He arrived late, his charm intact, his confidence radiating like a spotlight. Francesca watched from across the room, unseen, her posture relaxed while her mind remained taut with calculation. Every forced laugh, every overly broad smile, every subtle glance he cast at influential guests fueled her anticipation.

She moved through the gala with effortless grace, blending in with the glittering crowd while keeping him squarely in view. The patterns she had memorized played out exactly as expected: his route from the entrance to the bar, the way he lingered over the hors d’oeuvres, the obsessive checks of his phone, the slight pause before taking his seat at the head table.

By the evening’s end, Francesca’s decision crystallized fully.

This would be clean. Precise. Beautiful in its execution.

And when it was over, the city would never suspect that the Bridgertons’ own had engineered it.

The gala buzzed behind her, laughter and clinking glasses spilling from the open doors, but Francesca slipped out onto the garden that stood next to the river. The cold night air bit at her cheeks, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the ballroom. She had wanted a moment to observe Nigel without the distractions of the crowd—quiet, calculated, controlled.

He stepped out moments later, as if drawn by some invisible thread. Francesca had been watching his patterns, anticipating his movements. He paused near the railing, phone in hand, checking the messages that would never matter.

“Mr. Berbrooke,” she called softly, stepping close enough that he noticed her but far enough to maintain distance. “A moment?”

He turned, and the surprise in his eyes quickly melted into a small, self-assured smile. “Ms. Bridgerton. Out here, all alone? Dangerous for a young woman.”

Francesca’s lips curved faintly, “I love how you think twenty-five is too young.” 

She studied him, noting the subtle shift in his posture, the way his gaze lingered a moment too long on her chest. 

“I wanted to ask how your evening is going so far,” she began, smooth and deliberate. 

His expression changed subtly, a flicker of discomfort passing over his features. “Ah… are you sure that’s all you want to know,” he said, voice low, leaning slightly closer. “You ask me all various questions during our meetings with your brother in the boardroom. You’re curious. Ambitious.”

Francesca kept her tone measured. “Merely thorough.”

He laughed softly, but there was an edge to it now, a misinterpretation of her intent. “You have a sharp mind, Francesca. I’ve always admired… women who know what they want. I like that in a person.”

Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly. She had seen this before—men mistaking professionalism for invitation, curiosity for flirtation. His hand brushed the railing as he leaned closer, the scent of his cologne sharp in the night air. “I imagine someone like you… you must enjoy power,” he whispered, a heat in his tone.

Francesca’s heartbeat didn’t quicken, not from fear, not from desire, but from the cold thrill of opportunity. She took a small, deliberate step closer to the railing, subtly placing herself between him and any potential witnesses. Her hand brushed the hidden knife in her clutch, the familiar weight steadying her.

“Mr. Berbrooke,” she said quietly, almost a warning. “I am not here for that. I am not… impressed.”

He smirked, misreading the edge in her voice as challenge rather than threat. “Perhaps that’s what makes this interesting,” he said, leaning closer still, his intentions clear.

Francesca allowed him to linger a moment too long, watching the arrogance, the entitlement, the blind assumption that he could corner her as he had Daphne. And then, with absolute precision, she moved. A single, decisive step. Her hand closed around the knife, and the moment was hers—cold, controlled, inevitable.

Nigel never realized she had given him the opening he thought he controlled.

“You’re sharp… more than I expected,” he murmured. “I like that.”

Before she could respond, he pressed his lips to hers. A bold, arrogant kiss—claiming space that was never his, thinking desire could override her will.

Francesca did not flinch. Her other hand, steady as ever, slid the knife from her clutch. She felt the weight, the cold steel promising precision.

He broke the kiss only slightly, just enough to look at her, eyes flashing with lust and surprise.

“You… you don’t know what you’re doing,” he whispered.

Francesca’s expression remained serene. She said nothing. Words were unnecessary.

With a single, practiced motion, she drove the knife into his chest, between ribs, where it would pierce his heart cleanly. The edge slipped in almost effortlessly, as if it had been waiting for him all these years.

Nigel gasped—half in shock, half in disbelief—and his hands fumbled against hers, but her grip was absolute. The arrogant confidence drained from his face as the world narrowed to a sharp, unbearable point.

He slumped against her, eyes wide and helpless, a strangled sound escaping his lips. The last thing he saw was the calm, almost serene expression Francesca wore, the quiet satisfaction in her eyes that no amount of charm or money could ever overpower.

And then he went still.

Francesca stepped back, letting him collapse fully to the garden floor, the city’s lights casting fractured shadows across his fallen form. She smoothed her gown, adjusted her hair, and looked out over the Thames, her heartbeat steady, precise. 

The thrill surged—not chaotic, not messy, but perfect, controlled, beautiful in its execution. Nigel Berbrooke, predator and entitled fool, was gone.

Behind her, the faint strains of music from the gala floated across the terrace. Laughter, clinking glasses, the world moving on—oblivious to the death that had occurred just steps away.

Francesca tucked the knife back into her clutch, taking a final, deliberate look at the body.

“That was for my sister and all the other women who have fallen victim to your advances, you fucking predator,” she whispered into the night sky. “You might have thought I was too young, but underestimating women in general was your fatal flaw."

She wiped off any remnants of lipstick off of his lips before stepping back into the ballroom. She rejoined the crowd with effortless grace, her face serene, untouched by the violence she had wrought.

To anyone watching, she was just another guest, a picture of elegance and poise.

But inside, Francesca Bridgerton felt the rush of clarity she always sought: the world was hers to command, and no one—not even Nigel—could challenge her control.

London woke to a chill mist over the Thames, the streets still slick from an overnight rain. Francesca sipped her coffee in the penthouse kitchen, the city sprawling beneath her like a map of secrets.

Her phone buzzed incessantly—news alerts, social media, whispers from journalists who had caught wind of the gala chaos. Nigel Berbrooke’s death dominated every headline, every notification: “Art Benefactor Found Dead After Gala,” “Mystery Surrounds Berbrooke’s Sudden Passing,” “London Society Stunned by Tragedy at Charity Event.”

She read each carefully, noting the half-truths, the speculation, the inevitable misdirection that ran rampant in high society. Anthony, Violet, and the rest of the Bridgertons were already fielding calls from curious friends and anxious peers.

Francesca’s expression was calm, serene—no hint of excitement, no rush of guilt. She knew the truth, and it was hers alone to hold.

Her phone buzzed again. A message from Anthony:

Anthony: Fran. Sorry to spring this on you. We have visitors from Scotland visiting us this week. John and Michaela Stirling. They want to discuss a partnership. Can you prep?

Francesca’s brow lifted slightly, intrigued. She typed back with crisp efficiency:

Francesca: Why do they want a partnership? They practically have Scotland on lock. What time are they getting to the office?

Anthony: 11 a.m. on Friday. Foundation boardroom. They’re looking to expand their reach—journalism, education, healthcare. You’ll like them. I’ve spoken briefly to John. He reminds me of you a little. He’s bringing Michaela with him. 

She set her coffee down, mind already shifting gears. Nigel’s death had been the first move in a long game she had always played quietly. Now, a new piece had entered the board.

Francesca paused for a moment, staring out at the Thames. Scotland. Expansion. Partnerships. The Stirling name carried weight, influence, and, most importantly, opportunity. She could already feel the patterns forming—alliances to be observed, weaknesses to catalog, openings to exploit.

The socialites would gossip, the newspapers would speculate, but Francesca Bridgerton would remain untouchable. She had the information, the precision, and the patience to navigate it all.

And soon, she would meet these new players in her world—and watch how they moved, the subtle tells, the power they carried.

For now, she allowed herself a faint smile. Another game had begun.

The Bridgerton Foundation boardroom gleamed under the morning sun, the polished mahogany table stretching the length of the room. Francesca sat near the head, her posture impeccable, fingers drumming lightly on the table like she was at her piano as she scanned the guests.

John Stirling entered first—a broad-shouldered man with a confident stride, the kind who exuded authority without needing to speak. Behind him, Michaela followed, her presence quieter but no less commanding. Dark hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, sharp eyes that missed nothing, a subtle elegance in the way she carried herself.

Anthony rose to greet them. “Mr. and Ms. Stirling. Welcome. We’re eager to hear about your proposal for expanding your initiatives from Scotland into London.” 

Michaela spoke first. “Please Mr. Bridgerton, do not call me Ms. it reminds me of my mother and my aunt.” 

“Yes, John and Michaela are just fine,” John spoke. 

“Well if we are doing introductions, I am Anthony, CEO of the Bridgerton Foundation, and this is my sister, Francesca, who is the CFO,” Anthony introduced. “Every decision I make must be approved by Francesca as well as myself. She is as much as the head of the company as I.”

Francesca inclined her head slightly, eyes assessing. “Francesca is fine,” she said, her tone polite but carrying that quiet precision she always had. She noted the way Michaela’s gaze met hers directly, unflinching—a subtle challenge, almost like a dare.

Michaela returned the look with calm composure. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Francesca. I’ve heard much about the Bridgertons’ work in education and journalism.”

Francesca’s lips curved in the faintest smile. “I’m glad our reputation precedes us.”

Anthony cleared his throat, gesturing toward the documents John had laid on the table. “Well, shall we get down to business? John and Michaela have proposed a partnership to expand their initiatives into London. We’ve been looking at potential collaborations to extend our programs as well, so this seems mutually beneficial.”

John spoke first, outlining their plan with precise detail, his voice confident and steady. Michaela occasionally interjected, clarifying points, filling gaps with subtle insight, never interrupting, never overstepping.

Francesca’s eyes stayed on Michaela. She noticed everything: the way Michaela adjusted her pen between points, the controlled rhythm of her speech, the way she seemed to quietly assert influence without drawing attention to herself. Francesca’s pulse ticked just slightly faster—an unfamiliar but intriguing sensation.

Anthony leaned forward, asking a pointed question about resource allocation across cities. Michaela answered without hesitation, her voice calm but firm. “We’ve built protocols that allow for oversight without micromanaging. Teams can operate autonomously, but key checkpoints ensure alignment with the Foundation’s standards.”

Francesca tilted her head, studying her. Impressive. Calm. Intelligent. Calculated. Most people faltered under this kind of scrutiny; Michaela barely blinked.

Anthony concluded the formal part of the meeting, leaving room for discussion. Francesca stayed seated, silent, observing Michaela as John continued with minor logistical details. The tension between their gazes lingered—a subtle acknowledgment that Francesca had found someone who might actually see her for more than just her title.

After the meeting, the Stirling delegation toured the Foundation’s offices, with Francesca trailing just a step behind Michaela. She watched her move through the space with the same quiet authority she had exhibited in the boardroom—hands brushing over displays, eyes taking in every detail, noting the rhythm of the staff and how they responded to her presence.

Francesca cataloged it all silently, the familiar thrill of observation running through her like adrenaline. This wasn’t killing—yet—but it was the same methodical curiosity she used when analyzing her previous target: patterns, habits, micro-expressions, the unspoken ways people revealed themselves.

Michaela paused at one of the Foundation’s exhibit walls, her dark eyes scanning the framed photographs of students, mentors, and past scholarship recipients. Francesca watched the subtle tilt of her head, the small furrow in her brow as she read the captions. She even noticed the faint way Michaela’s fingers traced the edge of a plaque—not carelessly, but with intent, as if absorbing every detail.

When Michaela glanced up and caught Francesca’s gaze, she smiled faintly, polite but knowing, as though aware of the quiet scrutiny. Francesca’s pulse hit an unfamiliar rhythm. Most people looked away; Michaela did not, as if she accepted the attention from Francesca.

Later, during lunch in the Foundation’s conference lounge, Francesca found herself seated across from Michaela, ostensibly to discuss logistics with Anthony and John. But she noticed every tiny gesture: the way Michaela sipped her water, the way she leaned in slightly when making a point to John, the subtle confidence in her posture. Francesca cataloged it all—like data, like a puzzle she wanted to solve.

“Francesca, you’ve been awfully quiet,” Michaela said suddenly, her tone even but curious. “Do you always observe so intently, or am I just interesting?”

Francesca blinked, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I’m analytical by nature,” she said carefully. “It’s part of the job.”

Michaela’s eyes flickered with amusement, sharp but warm. “Analytical, huh? I can respect that.”

Francesca’s mind raced, but she kept her expression neutral. A thrill unlike any she’d felt in weeks stirred inside her—but it wasn’t the cold thrill of a hunt. It was different. Dangerous in its own way.

As the Stirling delegation prepared to leave, Francesca lingered behind in her thoughts, cataloging Michaela’s every movement, every choice. But unlike Nigel—or anyone else before—there was no plan. No decision. Only observation.

For the first time in a long while, Francesca Bridgerton realized she might not want to destroy what she was seeing.

And that realization unsettled her more than any kill ever had.

Later that evening, Francesca was reviewing quarterly projections for the Bridgerton Foundation when her phone buzzed. A new email illuminated the screen: 

From: Michaela Stirling [email protected]

To: Francesca Bridgerton [email protected]

Subject: Clarification on Today’s Financial Discussion

Dear Francesca,

I hope this message finds you well. I wanted to follow up regarding some of the figures we discussed during today’s meeting. Specifically, the projected allocations for the Edinburgh programs. I have highlighted the sections where I had to make assumptions based on donor patterns and staffing availability.

I would greatly appreciate your insights, as I want to ensure our approach aligns with the Foundation’s expectations. Please let me know if a brief call or meeting would be preferable.

Best regards,
Michaela Stirling

Francesca scanned over the email from Michaela, both intrigued yet annoyed but the disturbance to her initial work. 

From: Francesca Bridgerton [email protected]

To: Michaela Stirling [email protected]

Subject: RE: Clarification on Today’s Financial Discussion

Dear Michaela,

Thank you for sending this over. I have reviewed your allocations and calculations. Your assumptions regarding seasonal donor fluctuations are well-founded; however, I would suggest incorporating a contingency for sudden shortfalls in contributions. This will ensure the Edinburgh branch maintains program continuity without impacting the overall Foundation budget.

A brief call would indeed be efficient. Are you available tomorrow around 3:00 PM?

Best,
Francesca Bridgerton

Francesca went back to the quarterly projections for another twenty minutes before she saw another reply from Michaela. 

From: Michaela Stirling [email protected]

To: Francesca Bridgerton [email protected]

Subject: Re: Clarification on Today’s Financial Discussion

Dear Francesca,

3:00 PM works perfectly. I’ve built a minor buffer for exactly that scenario, but I welcome your perspective on optimizing its use. I look forward to discussing this further.

Warm regards,
Michaela

Francesca read the final email twice before replying, studying Michaela’s phrasing. Polite, precise, confident without arrogance. Most people in Michaela’s position would have hedged, tried to over-explain, or deferred to her seniority. Michaela had not. She had observed, prepared, and presented herself as competent—someone who could match Francesca’s attention to detail.

Francesca felt an unfamiliar, subtle thrill. Not the calculated edge of a target, not the rush of dominance—but curiosity. Dangerous, compelling curiosity.

At precisely 2:59 PM the next day, Francesca’s office line lit up.

Michaela Stirling.

Francesca let it ring once.

Twice.

Control was subtle. Never obvious.

She answered on the third as if not to give the illusion that she was ready for this call since their email correspondence the previous night.

“Francesca Bridgerton.”

There was the faintest rustle on the other end before Michaela’s voice came through—clear, steady, low in a way that carried authority without demanding it.

“Hi, it’s Michaela Stirling. Thank you for making the time.”

Francesca leaned back in her chair, gaze drifting to the floor-to-ceiling windows of her office. The Thames shimmered in the distance, muted under afternoon light.

“Efficiency is important to me,” Francesca replied evenly. “Let’s begin.”

There was no small talk. No wasted breath.

“I’ve adjusted the Edinburgh allocations to account for donor volatility,” Michaela began. “The buffer currently sits at eight percent. It protects staffing continuity for two quarters without needing emergency reallocation.”

Francesca’s fingers tapped once against her desk.

“You’re assuming a stable political climate,” she said calmly. “Government policy shifts could affect donor confidence. Eight percent may not be enough.”

A beat of silence.

Not defensive. Not flustered.

Considering.

“You’re right,” Michaela said. “If policy changes, corporate donors may retreat first. Individual contributions would likely remain steadier. I can reweight the projections to lean less heavily on corporate inflow.”

Francesca felt it then.

That flicker.

Not the sharp thrill of anticipation she felt before a kill — no tightening in her chest, no electric hum in her veins.

This was different.

A slow, deliberate unfolding of someone who could keep pace.

“You anticipated my concern,” Francesca observed.

“I anticipated you,” Michaela corrected gently.

The words hung there.

Francesca’s pulse shifted — just slightly.

“I reviewed your prior annual reports for the Foundation,” Michaela continued. “Your patterns are consistent. Conservative, but never stagnant. You don’t take unnecessary risks.”

Francesca’s eyes narrowed faintly.

Most people praised her caution.

Michaela had studied it.

“You did your homework,” Francesca said.

“I prefer to understand the person I’m negotiating with.”

There it was again, that steady boldness wrapped in professionalism.

Francesca stood slowly, walking toward the windows, watching her own reflection overlay the London skyline.

“And what have you concluded?” she asked quietly.

Another measured pause.

“That you don’t miss much,” Michaela replied. “And that if this partnership is to succeed, I’ll need to be just as precise.”

No flirtation.

No bravado.

Just truth delivered without fear.

Francesca realized something unsettling in that moment:

Michaela wasn’t trying to impress her.

She was aligning with her.

A strange warmth threaded beneath Francesca’s ribs. One that was unfamiliar, and unwelcome, but not unpleasant.

They spent another fifteen minutes dissecting numbers, projections, contingencies. It was efficient. Clean. Balanced. Neither yielded unnecessary ground.

When the conversation naturally reached its end, Michaela spoke again.

“I appreciate the directness, Francesca. It makes things easier.”

“Clarity prevents disappointment,” Francesca replied.

A softer tone crept into Michaela’s voice. “I look forward to working with you on expanding the Stirling Organization into London and the Bridgerton Foundation into Scotland.”

The line went quiet after their goodbyes.

Francesca lowered the phone slowly.

She stood there longer than necessary.

Most people left impressions like fingerprints — temporary, smudged, easily erased.

Michaela felt… deliberate.

Structured.

Worth studying.

Francesca moved back to her desk and opened Michaela’s email again. Then her biography on the Stirling Organization’s website. Then articles mentioning the Stirling initiatives in Glasgow.

This was not yet a hunt.

But it was observation.

And Francesca Bridgerton had always been very good at watching.

She just didn’t yet realize that this time, she wasn’t studying a weakness.

She was searching for something she had never allowed herself to want.

Francesca was still staring at Michaela’s biography when her phone buzzed again.

Anthony.

She nearly ignored it.

Nearly.

Anthony: Dinner Friday night. Bridgerton House. Just us and the Stirlings. Keep it small. Mum insists.

Francesca’s jaw tightened slightly.

Of course Violet insisted.

Partnerships were never just contracts in their family. They were relationships.

Francesca: Necessary?

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Anthony: Yes. John’s solid. Michaela’s sharp. I want alignment before we go public.

Francesca’s gaze drifted back to her laptop screen.

Michaela Stirling — Founder. Director. Edinburgh. Glasgow. Policy advisory background.

Sharp.

Yes.

She typed her reply carefully.

Francesca: I’ll be there.

Anthony responded with a thumbs up. Infuriatingly casual.

The phone went still in her hand.

Dinner. Private. Intimate. 

Not a boardroom. Not structured. No agenda to hide behind.

Francesca closed the laptop slowly.

She told herself this was practical. Strategic. A necessary evaluation of long-term partners.

But as she walked toward the window, London glowing beneath her like a living organism, she acknowledged something quieter beneath the logic:

She wanted to see Michaela again.

Not in spreadsheets. Not through glass. Not through controlled dialogue.

In person.

Unfiltered.

That realization unsettled her more than the knife ever had. 

Francesca’s observation began simply that night. She began just like she did with Nigel Berbrooke, a file on her laptop simply labeled MS. 

From there, she dove into the public information. Any interviews she gave to news outlets, or press conferences on what the Stirling Organization was and what her role was within it. She then found discussions where she was a panelist. 

She searched the internet for anything that remotely involved Michaela. She even found archived university lectures from her time at the University at Edinburgh and a podcast appearance that she gave perform she was who she was now. 

Francesca watched them all. She first muted the audio, choosing to decipher the body language that Michaela displayed. 

Her posture was straight, head held high in the air, commanding attention from those in front of her. Her hands were expressive but controlled. There were moments Francesca watched intently were Michaela was talking about something that she truly loved. Francesca watched how expressive her eyes were through the screen. Although she was watching a video of a press conference two years ago, it felt as if Francesca was there in the Stirling Organization’s ballroom that night and not in her penthouse in London. 

The more videos she watched, the more Francesca felt a strange, stirring tension in herself, subtle at first, like a flicker she could almost dismiss. Each precise movement, each calculated gesture Michaela made, seemed to pulse through the screen—and through Francesca—without permission. Her chest tightened, her focus split between observation and something far more private. 

Francesca then chose to turn the volume on, low at first, to tease her ears. Which was ironic considering she heard her speak at full volume earlier that day during their phone call. 

Her voice in the videos was the same as it was through the phone, even and steady. Choosing certain words to emphasis, delayed pauses in her speeches to have the audience mule over what she was saying to them. All of the videos she watched, whether it be a quick five minute interview to a full hour long speech, her words were never rushed. 

Francesca leaned back in her chair and quickly ran her hands through her hair before moving her hands to her thighs. The sensation she felt inside her grew and it was no longer something she could ignore. 

She ran a her fingers over her stomach while watching the videos of Michaela in front of her. The one she was currently on was one of her giving a press conference to the shareholders of the Stirling Organization everything that had happened in the previous quarter. 

Francesca moved her fingers lower, meeting the fabric on her pants. She first started with her pinky, teasing the waistband of them, before inching them under. By the time Michaela on screen finished with the first new initiative that quarter, Francesca’s hand was already in her underwear fully. 

She began to rub feather-light circles over it clit, enamored with Michaela through the screen. Francesca didn’t want to do anything that would cause her to finish before the video did. 

“Oh Michaela,” Francesca whispered to the the video, “you have no idea what you’re doing to me.” 

Francesca increased the pressure of her circles slightly as Michaela continued to speak, watching how her facial expressions. Listening to her voice did wonders to how fast her fingers moved against herself. She matched her ministrations to the tempo of Michaela’s voice, teasing her as the speech went on. Every time Michaela increased her tempo, even if it was just slightly, Francesca did as well. 

When she reached the halfway point of her speech, Francesca pushed one finger into herself. She ignored how easy it was to slip it in because of the woman on her screen. She pulled her finger back out, and added another one. She pushed them all the way in, and curled them inside herself, desperate to satisfy the craving she was having. 

As Michaela grew more animated with her hand movements, Francesca was becoming more undone. She was desperate to find relief of the tension inside her. Her mind began to betray her as it started to flash to her killing Debling first and then the night she had when she was determined to get rid of Berbrooke. 

Before she knew it, a loud moan was released from the back of her throat as Michaela on the screen spoke the last line of her speech: “We here at the Stirling Organization thank you all for attending tonight and hope you join us again for the next quarter where we hope to have more to speak about in our initiatives on society.” 

Francesca felt her breathing even out slightly as she chuckled to herself. She knew she was fucked up. Truly. She had discovered she liked the thrill of killing almost two months ago and she has already killed two people in that span of time. One by accident, and one on purpose. 

She took her fingers out of herself and put them in her mouth, tasting herself on them as she began to track Michaela’s movements since her and John arrived in London a little over two weeks ago. 

Francesca found a simple routine, with public engagements in both London and in Scotland. Frequenting both the places to ensure the reach of the Stirling Organization. 

Francesca opened another tab on her laptop. Maps. She cross-referenced addresses. The Stirling Organization’s London Office, not far from the Bridgerton Foundation’s headquarters. Michaela’s flat in South Kensington filled with quaint, yet lively with energy at the same time. Francesca even added a gym that was tagged in a public charity marathon photo that Michaela took part in early last year. 

By midnight, she had a preliminary structure of what and who Michaela was as a person. It should have felt clinical. 

Instead, there was something slower beneath it. 

She was about to add another mark to that tally, but there was something about Michaela she couldn’t crack. Maybe it was because she had just masturbated to a video of her next target. Maybe it was because in all of the online searching she did that night, she couldn’t find a single thing that made Michaela a worthy target. 

Maybe that’s why Francesca was drawn to Michaela; there was truly nothing wrong with her. There was the confirmation of the rumors that Debling invested in people who believed in human trafficking, and Nigel was an all-around piece of shit who couldn’t take no for an answer, But Michaela, her sweet Michaela, not a single thing that stood out to Francesca. 

The thought hovered, electric and dangerous. She was mapping a space where she could exist alongside her—and maybe, just maybe, rewrite the rules of what desire and control meant.

On Thursday night, she left the penthouse. Dark coat, hair pulled back into a low bun. She slid on her black gloves—not because she intended violence, but because she needed to see.

Now, stepping into the night, Francesca felt that possibility in the air. The gloves weren’t armor; they were lenses. They let her trace, test, and measure the unseen lines that ran between them—without committing, without losing herself. Tonight wasn’t about the tally. Tonight was about seeing.

South Kensington was quieter at night. Affluent with hazy streetlights. Predictable security patterns were apparent as well. 

Francesca surveyed the property with her own eyes. She walked around the block twice to ensure that she saw everything: the driveway on the left side that led to a garage, how the curtains were half-drawn, and one single security camera angled to catch the front door and nothing more. 

She noticed the second floor balcony overlooking the street. It reminded her of her own penthouse glass windows. Francesca preferred to stay inside while Michaela was determined to be seen on the outside. 

She crossed to the opposite side of the street, posture casual, with her gloved hands tucked into her coat as she observed the building as a whole. 

Headlights turned onto the street, as Francesca pulled out her phone to seem like a normal person and not one actively stalking her next victim. 

A car slowed down in front of the flat and parked. 

Francesca shifted slightly deeper into the shadows. 

The driver’s door opened first. A woman stepped out. Tall, blonde, laughing at something over her shoulder to the passenger’s side. 

Michaela emerged from there, with her hair down. That was the first detail Francesca noticed. Not that it was pulled back how she normally had it in the videos and in person. It was loose and free-flowing around her shoulders. 

The two women stood close besides the car. Michaela said something Francesca couldn’t hear. The blonde one touched her arm, in a way that was familiar yet uncomfortable at the same time. 

Francesca’s jaw tightened at the scene playing in front of her. 

The blonde leaned in first, hovering right over Michaela’s mouth. Michaela did not lean in immediately, until the blonde placed a finger under her chin and closed the distance between them. 

The kiss was soft and unhurried. Not desperate nor urgent. Just a kiss that occurs at the end of the night, when one person doesn’t want it to end. 

Francesca’s mind reacted automatically: thoughts flashing on how she could cross the street in five seconds, pull them apart in three, and end it in one second. 

But she did not move. Instead, she stood frozen in her spot and watched. 

The blonde’s hand moved away from Michaela’s chin and moved to her waist. Michaela stilled as she pulled back. Words between the two women were exchanged before Michaela shook her head and began to walk towards the door of her flat. 

The blonde went back to her car and pulled away as Michaela walked inside. Francesca saw the light flicker on the inside. She smiled to herself at the fact that Michaela had not invited the other woman inside. The idea of someone else touching Michaela had her blood beginning to boil. 

One thought became prevalent in her mind: She’s mine. 

Francesca quickly went home and added all the new information to her dossier on her laptop. She cataloged everything but still had nothing worthy of why Michaela should be killed. But if there was one thing Francesca knew for certain, it was that no one stays perfect forever. 

The next day at the Bridgerton Foundation was abysmal at best for Francesca. She had surprise visits from both Daphne and her mother about random questions disguised as questions about Nigel and his murder that occurred over two months ago.  Francesca didn’t outright say it but her mother was able to deduce that it was Francesca who put an end to the sleazy man. On the way out, her mother pulled her into a tight hug and whispered a small ‘thank you’ in her ear. 

After that, Francesca had to deal with Benedict and the funding for his and Colin’s joint art exhibit, which featured Colin’s photography from his travels across the world and Benedict’s paintings and sketches.

By the time the workday finally ended, Francesca felt scraped thin. Her mother’s hug still lingered in her mind. The whispered ‘thank you’ had not been accusatory and it had not been fearful. 

It had been an understanding between a mother and her daughter. One that had the same thought at the forefront: I’d do anything for the people I love. 

Francesca didn’t know if that made her feel lighter or more dangerous. 

She finished the last of Benedict and Colin’s budget adjustments, sent the final approval email to them and closed her laptop with a controlled finality before she heard the ping of her phone with one simple reminder: Dinner at Mum’s. 

She had almost let it skip by in her mind. The dinner with the Stirlings felt like an understated obligation. Francesca hated all the partner dinners her mother forced upon her and Anthony, but for Michaela? She was willing to do anything to make sure she was in attendance. 

The time on her phone read 6:11 PM, and went home to go change from the clothes she wore to the Foundation office today into something more appropriate for dinner. 

At her penthouse, she moved with efficiency. A shower full of steam, in silence. Alone with her thoughts on how she would make Michaela fall victim to her. 

She chose black silk once she was finished with her shower. Something that was more classy than the usual dresses she wore to the office but something a little more understated than the dresses she usually wore for charity galas and functions. 

She curled her hair with precision and applied a little extra makeup than what she normally wore. If anyone were to notice and call her out on it she had the perfect response ready: So what if I wanted to dress up for an important event.

By the time she immersed herself with evening air, London had settled into twilight. The sky was a bruised indigo with streetlights flickering to life along the Thames. 

The drive to Grosvenor Square was calm, and measured. The radio playing the Greatest UK Hits on low volume on the way there. Francesca might be a monster in the sense that she likes to kill people, but not a monster in the sense that she drives in complete silence. 

The music allowed for Francesca to keep her mind off of her target who lived in South Kensington. One who she saw kiss another woman just last night. She did not allow herself to let the thoughts creep in. 

When she turned onto her mother’s street, another pair of headlights appeared on the opposite end. They slowed and stopped at the same time. 

Francesca stepped out of her car just as the other vehicle came to rest behind hers and the rear passenger door opened. 

Michaela stepped out in tailored pants and a silk blouse that caught the light just enough to suggest softness without surrendering professionalism. Her hair was in a half-up half-down combination, demonstrating the disciplined structure Francesca had seen in boardrooms in person and in her research Wednesday night tempered by the looseness she had witnessed from the shadows of South Kensington. 

Francesca started to make her way towards the front door of her mother’s home but deliberately waiting for Michaela to notice her. 

They reached the steps together, not quite touching each other but close enough that Francesca was able to feel heat through the fabric. 

The door opened before either of them could knock, announcing their presence. Violet’s warm voice carrying outward into the evening. 

But before the two of them crossed the threshold, Michaela leaned in closer and said quietly enough that Francesca swore she meant it as a whisper under her breath, “You look different outside of a boardroom.” 

Francesca didn’t break eye contact either, “So do you.” 

And that was the first honest thing she had said all evening. 

Violet truly had outdone herself when Francesca walked into the dining room. Candles flickered down the length of the table, crystal catching warm light, silverware placed with military symmetry. 

Francesca took her seat, across from Michaela. She had mentioned it offhand to her mother when she was making the place cards to put the two of them near each other but she didn’t expect her mother to actually do it. 

Anthony sat at the head of the table, as the first born and eldest son opposite Violet, the matriarch. John was positioned on Anthony’s right to make talks about the business be easy. 

Francesca had barely noticed the others in the room, her attention settled directly across the table to the person in front of her. Michaela met her gaze without hesitation. 

Dinner began politely as the first course was served. Their appetizer of mixed cheeses and cured meats was being passed around the table. Although this dinner was for the purpose of ensuring The Stirling Organization’s partnership with the Foundation, Violet wanted to make sure that this dinner felt like an ordinary holiday dinner. 

Anthony and John discussed the timeline of the expansion and collaboration of the Organization and the Foundation. Francesca contributed only when absolutely necessary about numbers, staying composed and articulate as always. 

Violet turned her attention to Michaela. “And how are you finding London compared to Scotland?” she asked with curiosity. 

Michaela smiled politely. “It’s efficient, and ambitious to put it mildly. At times, it can be a touch overwhelming.” 

Anthony chuckled. “That’s fucking London for you.” 

Michaela’s gaze shifted across the table. 

“To be fair,” she added, eyes landing squarely on Francesca, “there are certain aspects of it that I am beginning to appreciate.” 

The meaning did not go unnoticed to Francesca as she reached for her wine as the main course was introduced: a traditional Sunday roast with some slight modifications to make it applicable for the Friday evening. Under the table, she adjusted her leg and felt it. A small, soft brush against her ankle. 

She stilled slightly as she took a sip of her wine. The brush could have been accidental as the table wasn’t the large one when all eight siblings and their significant others were in attendance. 

Above the table, Michaela continued to speak with composed ease, asking Violet questions about the Foundation’s early days and why it was created. 

Underneath the table, the contact returned much greater this time. A slow glide along the outside of Francesca’s ankle. Her pulse shifted as Michaela looked entirely focused on Violet’s response. 

Francesca moved slightly to reposition herself and the contact between the two of them disconnected. Then Michaela’s heel found hers once more. 

This time, it was pressed to the inside of her calf. Like it was deliberately making itself known to her. Francesca set her wine glass down with the quiet precision of a slash to the throat from behind and slowly raised her own heel to Michaela’s stationary leg. A silent acknowledgement of the game the two were playing. 

Anthony turned towards her. “Fran, the capital reallocation, we’ll need to accelerate it if this moves forward.” 

Her eyes remained focused on Michaela. “That won’t be a problem, Anthony.” 

Under the table, her foot slid higher, reaching the midpoint of Michaela’s calf. Francesca moved it slowly, like fingers traveling up someone’s arm. 

Across from her, Michaela’s breath hitched, not noticeable to anyone who wasn’t paying attention, but Francesca noticed. 

Her shoulders remained relaxed with her voice steady replied, “Yes, John and I are prepared to match the funding in the first quarter.” 

Violet smiled warmly, oblivious to the scene unfolding under her dining table. “I do hope this partnership will allow for you both to spend more time in London.” 

Michaela’s eyes never left Francesca’s as she spoke. “I imagine it will.” 

Under the table, Michaela’s foot pressed closer to Francesca’s calf and raised it slightly high, getting dangerously close to where her dress started. 

Francesca leaned back in her chair and pressed her own foot higher. “I would hope that it takes us to Scotland as well.” 

Dessert of banoffee pie arrived, Violet’s pride and joy of her cooking skills. 

The footsies between Michaela and Francesca only ceased when Violet rose to pour wine for everyone, proximity breaking the spell just enough to force composure back into place. Francesca drew back first, not wanting her mother to notice the back and forth between her and the person across from her. 

Anthony cleared his throat as he slid a folder towards John. “If we’re aligned on the funding and regional oversight, I see no reason to delay the official signing of the partnership.” 

John nodded, review the contract set in front of him, detailed provision outline the creation of a new joint branch of The Stirling Organization and the Bridgerton Foundation, spanning London and Edinburgh alike. 

The pages shifted softly beneath his hands. 

Violet watched with thinly veiled excitement, happy for this new venture for the Foundation. Anthony leaned back in his chair, confident but alert to the importance of this event. 

Francesca did not look at the contract. She saw it earlier in the day when Anthony presented it to her to she if she wanted to add anything, and decided that there was nothing worth adding. Francesca focused on Michaela. 

Michaela, for her part, wasn’t watching John. She was watching Francesca, as if this entire dinner had been less about funding and more about something unspoken that had passed between them, hidden by candlelight and linens. 

John finished the final page and nodded once. “Everything appears to be in order,” he said as he passed the folder to Michaela. 

She took it from him, fingers brushing the edge of the paper. Her eyes skimmed the text with efficient precision. No hesitation nor unnecessary dramatics. 

After a moment, Michaela closed the folder softly. 

“The Stirling Organization is satisfied with the terms presented,” she said. “We’re prepared to sign.” 

Anthony smiled. “Excellent.” 

He retrieved a Montblanc pen with his initials engraved, a gift from his wife Kate, then reached for the chilled bottle waiting in its silver cradle. 

“Thought we might mark the occasion properly,” he added. 

The gold label of Dom Perignon caught the candlelight as he lifted it. 

Violet beamed from her spot at the table. 

John gave an approving nod. “I do appreciate efficiency paired with celebration.” 

Anthony signed first, his signature bold and assured. He passed the pen and paper to John, who followed with steady precision. 

Then the folder slid across to Michaela. 

Francesca watched the way she held the pen. Not delicate, like someone holding it for the first time, desperate to not make any mistakes but with confidence that made children cry with just one look. Her signature was clean, angular, and unapologetic. 

She then passed the folder to Francesca. Francesca took a moment to take in Michaela’s signature with her own eyes. How the M was large pronounced and the i's in her first and last name had the dots on top slightly positioned to the right. 

Francesca signed her own name making sure each letter was visible to whoever read the contract. When she was finished, she set the pen down with a quiet finality. 

Anthony uncorked the champagne, the soft pop echoing against the high ceilings of the dining room. Foam rose briefly before settling as he poured the drink into the five waiting flutes. 

Violet lifted hers first. “To new beginnings.” 

“To growth,” John added. 

Anthony glanced at Francesca. “To ambition.” 

Michaela’s eyes found Francesca across the table. 

“To partnerships,” she said slowly. 

Francesca lifted her glass last. 

“To perception and happiness,” she replied. 

The faintest flicker passed across Michaela’s fact that the word. 

Anthony spoke first after the first sips. “We’ll need a formal announcement. Press, donors, stakeholders.” 

John leaned back. “We’d planned something in Edinburgh, but given the scale of this expansion for the both of us..: 

“A joint event would be ideal,” Francesca said smoothly. 

All eyes turned to her. 

“London first would be the best move. It positions the partnership at the center of influence. We announce the Scottish expansion as strategic evolution, not a regional initiative.” 

Anthony’s expression shifted, impressed that the idea came from Francesca. 

John considered it. “And the format?”

Francesca’s gaze flickered to Michaela, then back to Anthony. 

“Something memorable,” she said “Symbolic.” 

Violet smiled eagerly. “Oh, do tell Fran.” 

Francesca allowed the faintest curve of her lips. “A masquerade ball.” 

Violet gasped softly. “How dramatic.” 

John gave a low chuckle. “Hidden faces for public alliances.” 

Anthony nodded slowly. “Black tie. Masks required. A spectacle for the beginning.” 

Michaela’s eyes had not left Francesca’s. “A fitting choice, I must agree,” she said quietly. “But I have to ask, why a masquerade?” 

“People are more honest when they have something to hide behind,” Francesca said. “The event here in London can be the ball, it gets people talking. When we have our event in Edinburgh, that can be a charity gala or auction. Use it to show the elites of London the talents of the artists in Edinburgh.” 

Anthony considered that, fingers steepled beneath his chin in a way that usually meant spreadsheets and risk assessments were unfolding in his head.

“Two cities,” he said slowly. “Two statements.”

John nodded, already thinking ahead. “London for spectacle. Edinburgh for substance.”

Michaela’s gaze sharpened with interest. “And control,” she added. “You set the narrative here—flash, intrigue, headlines. Then you redefine it there.”

Francesca inclined her head slightly. “Exactly. London will assume it’s about power. Edinburgh will prove it’s about purpose.”

Violet pressed a hand to her heart. “Oh, I adore that.”

Anthony rose slightly from his seat. “Then it’s settled. We’ll coordinate dates and the timeline tomorrow.” 

He glanced between John and Michaela before his gaze landed squarely on Francesca. 

“But I don’t want this handled by a committee.” 

That caught her attention. 

Violet tilted her head. “Anthony, what ever do you mean?”

“If this is going to work,” he continued, “it needs cohesion. One vision, not six competing ones.”

John nodded slowly. “Agreed. Francesca and Michaela, you both know the Foundation and the Organization inside out. It makes sense that both of you would be in charge.” 

“Oh Anthony, you can’t possibly make the two of them be in charge of this on top off all their other work,” Violet interjected. 

“Mrs. Bridgerton,” Michaela said calmly, trying to diffuse the argument Anthony and Violet were surely headed towards if they kept going. “I can assure you that this is something that I will take with the upmost pride. In the earliest days of The Organization, there were multiples days I was running point on different galas happening at the same time. This will be just like one of those days.” 

Francesca added, “Mother, you know what everyone always says, ‘if you want something done right, have a woman do it.’” 

Anthony’s expression softened slightly as he addressed them both. 

“I trust you,” he said simply. “Both of you. Make the masquerade and the gala extraordinary.” 

Michaela smirked, eyes directly at Francesca. “Believe me, if all goes to plan, no one will stop talking about the Bridgerton Stirling joint partnership for years to come.” 

“Perfect,” Francesca said. “Tomorrow we begin.”

From across the room, Violet called out brightly, “Francesca, darling, walk our guests out. I need to talk to Anthony about something.” 

Francesca rose smoothly and extended her hand towards the foyer. “After you.” 

Michaela stepped past her, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. 

The foyer felt quieter than the dining room. The air was cooler and the sounds of Violet and Anthony faded into the background like a distant murmur. 

John was already a few steps ahead, retrieving his coat and exchanging polite farewells with the house attendant.

Before exiting the sanctuary that was Grosvenor Square, Michaela turned around to her fully. 

“Considering that we are now officially partners and we have to work together on planning our announcement to society,” she began, voice lower, “I think now would be a good time to ask for your number. It would be more efficient that way instead of typing and sending emails out.” 

Francesca almost smiled at Michaela’s request. 

She slipped her phone from her clutch without breaking eye contact. “Efficiency is important, especially when my brother didn’t give us the timeline. For all we know, he could be expecting this in a fucking week.” 

Michaela stepped closer as she chuckled at Francesca’s joke. “I wouldn’t put it past him.” 

Francesca held out her phone as Michaela took it from her hand. Their fingers brushed, a subtle yet deliberate contact that sent a sharp line of heat up Francesca’s spine. 

Michaela entered her number, then paused before handing back the phone. Her name appeared on the screen: Michaela Stirling. No profile picture, no emoji or nickname. Just her name, to the point. 

“Text me,” Michaela said. “That way I have yours.” 

“I already did,” Francesca said as Michaela looked at her phone at due to the ping being heard. 

Unknown Number: Efficient, is it not? 

Michaela smirked as she added Francesca’s information into her phone. “You’re quick aren’t you?”

“You said it yourself, for all we know Anthony and John want this done in a week,” Francesca murmured. “When I get home, I’m going to start getting some logistics for us to discuss.” 

Michaela smiled fully, “I’ll be waiting by the phone,” before she turned and walked out of the Bridgerton house. 

Francesca stood in the foyer alone for a moment longer than necessary. Her phone buzzed again. 

Michaela: Looking forward to working closely with you for this. 

Her pulse shifted as she began to let her mind drift, not to Michaela’s smile or the brush of their feet underneath the able, but to the thrill of the kill would result to. A masquerade, hidden identity already giving her the perfect alibi. She just had to make sure that nothing would go wrong between now and then. 

“Fran.” Anthony’s voice cut through the quiet. 

She turned smoothly, expression neutral. 

Violet stood beside him, arms folded lightly but eyes sharp in a way only her children truly recognized. 

“You seemed energized tonight,” Violet observed. 

Francesca slipped her phone back into her clutch. “It was a productive evening.” 

Anthony studied her a moment longer than necessary. “I meant what I said. I want you leading this, Fran. Full control over the London event. Venue, guest list, security. Show the public why the Bridgerton Foundation is the way it is today.” 

Security. 

Her mind clicked into place immediately. 

“I’ll begin tomorrow, don’t worry,” she said. “I am more than just analytics.” 

Violet stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Daphne will want to be involved in the guest curation. She might be able to help us tap into another market we didn’t even realize through this. An I will absolutely not allow this to become one of those soulless tech-benefit monstrosities.” 

A faint smile touched Francesca’s lips. “Oh of course not.” 

Anthony nodded just once as he made his way to grab his jacket. “I’m thinking of announcing at the end of next month. I want the city to be anticipating it within two weeks.”

Anticipation was the one think Francesca knew how to cultivate. 

Later that night, when Francesca arrived at her penthouse once again, she stood at the windows again. 

London glittered below her as she loosened the clasp of her earrings and set them aside, her reflection staring back at her in the darkened glass. 

Four weeks to plan the most talked-about event of the season. Four weeks to construct something dazzling enough that no one would notice what happened in its shadows. 

Her phone buzzed once more. 

Michaela: Should we meet in person tomorrow? Easier to align aesthetics that way.

Francesca’s gaze didn’t leave the skyline.

She typed back:

Francesca: Come to the Foundation Office around 10 AM. By that point, I should have preliminary venue options. Also, Anthony finally gave me a timeline. Four weeks.

Three dots appeared almost instantly. 

Michaela: Guess it’s time to work our magic.

Francesca set her phone on the marble counter as she made her way to the piano. 

The bench creaked softly as she sat. For a moment, she didn’t touch the keys. 

She simply listened to the world outside her penthouse haven. To the low hum of the city, to the faint rush of a tiny swell of the Thames below, to her own steady rhythm of her own pulse evening out. 

Then her fingers lowered to the keys as she began to play something familiar. The opening motif of Winter from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, the sharp, trembling urgency of it translated onto the piano. Quick, clipped notes overtook her right hand. Restless yet controlled. 

The melody skittered across the upper register, like footsteps over frozen ground. 

Precise. Alert. Predatory. 

Her left hand entered a beat later – slower, heavier chords underscored it. Not frantic nor sharp. 

The two lines clashed at first, just like the confusing thoughts in her head. Spending time with Michaela because she had to for the benefit of both the Foundation and the Organization and with wanting to kill her. To feed her own need of the rush of the kill.

Her right hand darted and flickered with more edge and anticipation while her left hand grounded it for a deliberate harmony and structure. 

Her fingers pressed harder on the keys as the melody tried to outrun the harmony. The harmony refused to chase. 

Instead, it anchored it as it demanded alignment. 

The dissonance vibrated in the air of the penthouse, unresolved and sharp enough to sting. 

Francesca’s jaw tightened as the two instincts inside of her fought as well. 

The hunter – cold, swift, and efficient. Wanting to get in and to get out. 

And something else she couldn’t name. Maybe an observer being dangerously patient. Desperately wanting to see how long she could resist her urge of killing while in Michaela’s presence. 

She shifted keys as she let her right hand soften while her left hand rose. 

The once-harsh contrast began to braid together as the tension did not eliminate entirely but instead was woven together into something richer. The frantic upper notes curved instead of cutting while the lower chords lifted instead of restricted. 

The melody and harmony began to circle one another rather than collide. A call and response. A challenge and an answer. 

Across the darkened glass of the windows, her reflection moved with the music. Composed face, hands in motion with the city lights scattered behind her like a distant constellation. 

Two forces working against each other yet creating something undeniably beautiful when allowed to coexist. 

The final chord rang out fuller than the first. It was layered and resolved without being gentle. Francesca let it echo as she quickly rose from the bench and locked herself in her room with her thoughts as sleep took over her. 

If she could not escape the conflict going on within her self while awake, perhaps she could escape with with sleep. 

Morning arrived too quickly. 

Francesca woke before her alarm, the remnants of fractured dreams clinging to her like mist. She had not escaped anything as sleep only rearranged the conflict. 

By 9:30 AM, she was seated at the head of the conference table in the Bridgerton Foundation’s private boardroom with her laptop opened and venue options stacked. She also had security briefs drafted in her sharp handwriting. 

At exactly 10:10 AM, the glass door opened as Michaela entered without hesitation in a tailored navy suit and her hair pulled back cleanly at the nape of her neck. 

In her hands were two coffee cups and a small white bakery box in the other.  

Francesca looked up at the sight in front of her. 

“I do hope you will forgive my slight lateness as I come bearing gifts,” Michaela said lightly. 

“That depends on what is in the box,” Francesca quipped back just as light. 

“I dislike arriving empty-handed,” Michaela replied. “And your mother fed us exceptionally well last night. Consider this one of many repayments.” 

She crossed the room and set the items down in front of Francesca. 

“Almond croissant,” she added. “You didn’t touch dessert last night. I assumed you preferred something less sweet.” 

“You assume a great deal,” she said evenly. 

“I observe a great deal,” Michaela corrected, sliding into the seat across from her, just like last night. 

Francesca took her cup and muttered a quick thank you before she presented venue options to Michaela. 

“Three venue options. All within central London. All capable of accommodating masked security without drawing suspicion.”

Michaela flipped it open, scanning efficiently. “You’ve already mapped security vulnerabilities,” she observed.

“When word gets out of this event, people are going to try anything to get into the event. We need to ensure guest safety while ensuring they have a good time,” Francesca said. 

Michaela nodded in approval. “Then I think the Lancaster House, is our best option for security. It’s like a fucking maze inside.” 

Francesca smiled. “It also provided the best options for our guest to be transported back into the Regency Era. High ceilings, gilded interiors, and marble staircases.” 

“And the exterior?” Michaela asked. 

Francesca connected her laptop to the television in the boardroom. The slideshow of a twilight garden appeared. 

“Their private garden is enclosed in sculpted hedges. Lanterns illuminating the pathways and stone benches partially concealed by climbing ivy,” she explained. “It’s accessible from the east side of the ballroom.” 

Michaela’s eyes sharpened with interest. “And what about access to the balconies?”

“They are giving us access to the primary one that overlooks the garden,” Francesca replied. “I was thinking of using it as maybe a photo-op location so our guests can show off their outfits without revealing details of the event.” 

Michaela tilted her head to the side, “As a way to keep the mystery in the air.” 

“Exactly.” 

“I must say Francesca, for only knowing you and your talent with numbers,” Michaela began, “you have a knack for planning events.” 

Francesca smiled at that compliment. “You must thank my mother for that. She made sure all us girls, Hyacinth included, knew how to plan a party and knew how to plan it well.” 

Michaela leaned back, considering the images once more. “Will our guests be allowed to take off their masks at any point?” 

“Yes,” Francesca said. “Once the clock strikes midnight, everyone will take their masks off and we’ll formally announce the partnership to the public.” 

 Michaela’s brows lifted slightly. “A dramatic reveal.” 

“Symbolism matters,” Francesca replied. “We let London indulge in fantasy for a few hours. Then we remind them who is actually in control.” 

Michaela smiled at that. “And you enjoy control, I take it?”

Francesca met her gaze without hesitation. “I enjoy precision.” 

“Ah,” Michaela said softly. “A very different thing.” 

Silence lingered between them, thoughtful, not tense. 

Michaela gestured towards the garden image still glowing on the screen. “The flow between interior and exterior will be important. We don’t want bottlenecks at the east doors.” 

“I’ve already requested staggered bar placement,” Francesca replied. “One inside the ballroom and one just outside near the hedges. It will disperse movement naturally.” 

“You’ve really thought about how people drift,” Michaela observed.

“They’re predictable in large groups,” Francesca said. “Especially at night and especially while anonymous.” 

Michaela’s eyes flicked to her at the word anonymous.

“You sound almost fond of the idea,” she said. 

Francesca allowed the faintest smile. “There’s something freeing about it.” 

“Or dangerous,” Michaela countered lightly.

“Those two things often overlap.” 

The air shifted once again. Not heavy but charged with something unspoken passing between them.

“Logistically speaking, I suggest we assign security teams to both the garden and inside. I do think we need one guard looking at the balcony photo-op at all times.” 

“Already all drafted,” Francesca replied, sliding the document she prepared across the table. “Although, I like your suggestion on having the guard looking at the balcony from the garden at all times. It’s a different vantage point.” 

Michaela glanced down, then back up, impressed. 

“You don’t miss much.” 

“No,” Francesca said evenly. 

A quiet beat passed before Michaela’s tone softened. 

“I have to admit, when Anthony said you were CFO, I expected someone rigid.” 

Francesca arched a brow. “And what did you find instead?” 

“Someone strategic,” Michaela said, honestly. “But imaginative.” 

The compliment was genuine, although Francesca felt it land somewhere inconvenient. 

“I don’t separate numbers from narratives,” she replied. “If you control funding, you control the story.” 

Michaela’s gaze sharpened with that admission. “We’re going to work very well together.” 

“Yes,” Francesca said. “Yes we are.” 

There was something about the way she said it that felt less like prediction and more like inevitability. 

Michaela stood, smoothing her blazer. 

“Shall we lock it in then? Lancaster House. Garden access. The balcony photo-op. Midnight reveal.” 

Francesca rose as well. 

“I’ll have the contracts sent out by end of day.” 

Michaela extended her hand across the table – formal and professional.

Francesca took it and their handshake lingered for half a second longer than most. Not inappropriate but just noticeable for the trained eye to catch. 

“To spectacle and illusion,” Michaela said.

“To narrative and mystery,” Francesca added softly. 

Michaela's smile deepened. “A dangerous combination, don’t you think?”

Francesca released her hand. “Only if mishandled.” 

Michaela studied her for a brief moment as if trying to determine whether that was a warning or a promise. “I’ll begin to work on the guests who should be invited from the Stirling side,” she said as she began to pack her things. “We need to be deliberate about who receives their invitations first and when.” 

“Yes,” Francesca replied. 

The words echoed differently in her mind. Because the guest list would not just determine who attended, it would determine who mattered, and who didn’t.

As Michaela reached the door, she paused briefly one last time. 

“One more thing,” she added casually. “I do enjoy that you think in layers.” 

Francesca tilted her head slightly. “Why?”

“Because,” Michaela said, eyes glinting, “so do I.”

Then she left and the boardroom fell quiet again. 

Francesca turned towards the garden images once again and saw her reflection staring back at her in the screen. She smiled at the chance that she was going to be able to finally relieve the deepest urge of them all, to kill once more. 

Her smile slowly faded as she began to send out all the provisionary emails to her vendors in order to make sure the masquerade wasn’t the only thing that made that night memorable for her. 

It was late evening when the Lancaster House email popped up in her inbox at home. If Lancaster House was to be the stage, she needed to walk it again – and this time with Michaela. 

Her fingers moved with practiced efficiency. 

Francesca: I’ve secured Lancaster House pending final confirmation. We should do a private walkthrough before the contract has been signed. Tomorrow at 4 PM works on my end. 

She didn’t mince her words as she texted Michaela her progress on the venue. 

Michaela: Efficient as always. I’ll meet you there. 

Francesca set her phone aside as she responded to the email, letting the Lancaster House staff know that they would be coming at that time before hovering her cursor over the MS folder on her laptop. 

Her eyes lingered on the folder only for a second before she began drafting her walkthrough notes. 

Tomorrow, she would guide Michaela through every corridor and balcony Lancaster House had to offer for their masquerade. 

And Michaela would admire her for her thoroughness. 

That was the part Francesca almost found funny. 

The following afternoon, Lancaster House stood in polished stillness beneath a pale London sky. 

Francesca arrived first, because of course she did. 

She stepped out of her car in a tailored charcoal coat, tablet tucked neatly beneath her arm. The staff recognized her immediately and ushered her inside with deferential politeness. 

The marble foyer echoed faintly with her steps. She didn’t need directions, she already knew the layout. 

Four minutes later, Michaela entered – navy blazer, sunglasses removed as she crossed the threshold. She looked around with open curiosity rather than calculation. 

“You weren’t exaggerating,” Michaela said, glancing up at the soaring ceiling. “It’s dramatic.” 

“Dramatic is the point,” Francesca replied smoothly. “We’re planning a fucking masquerade ball.”

They began in the ballroom. 

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching in the chandeliers suspended like captured stars. Francesca walked the perimeter slowly, indicating orchestra placement and bar positioning. 

“We stagger arrivals to prevent crowding in the main areas,” Francesca said gesturing towards the space. 

Michaela nodded, listening intently. “You think about movement constantly, don’t you?”

“Unfortunately,” Francesca admitted. “It’s all part of my work with numbers.” 

They crossed towards the east doors and stepped into the garden. It was quieter here. Gedges sculpted tall and deliberate. Stone pathways curved with a deceptive softness. 

“This,” Michaela said softly, “is where people will disappear.” 

Francesca’s lips curved faintly.

“Drift,” she corrected. 

Francesca walked further along the path stopping to explain to Michaela where they should put the outdoor bar. 

Unbenounced to Michaela, Francesca stopped right in front of a hidden entrance used for catering rotations. 

She let her hand hover over the ivy-draped doorframe without mentioning it. To Michaela, it was just another feature of the garden, a hidden corner to admire. 

“Here,” Francesca said smoothly, gesturing towards a stone bench nearby, “we can place a small seating area for guests who want a quieter moment. Lanterns on either side, soft music from hidden speakers that are connected to the orchestra. Nothing too intrusive, just ambiance.”

Michaela nodded, sketching mental notes. “I love that. People need pockets like this – spaces to breath without breaking the flow of the evening.”

Francesca’s eyes flicked once towards the concealed entrance, noting the shadows it cast and the way it led away from the main garden path. No guest would ever stumble upon it. 

If she needed to vanish or worse, she already knew the timing, the angles and the escape route. Every step Michaela admired in the garden was a step Francesca controlled, whether she willingly known it or not. 

“From here,” Francesca continued, pointing down the curved pathways, “we can direct the traffic back inside without congestion. It’s all about the flow.” 

Michaela followed her gaze, unaware of the dual purpose of Francesca’s careful mapping. “And how many security guards will be stationed out here?”

“Only two,” Francesca responded. “One will be stationary near the edge of the garden to focus solely on the balcony while the other will move around the bar and garden.” 

“Sounds good to me,” Michaela said. “They will also have masks on?”

Francesca just nodded as the two walked back inside and ascended the grand staircase to the primary balcony. 

From above, the garden looked smaller and contained. The iron railing was cool beneath Francesca’s fingertips.

“This will be our photo location,” she said. “Gues can display their attire without compromising the interior.” 

Michaela leaned against the railing, peering down. “It’s high.”

“Yes.” 

“And once the orchestra begins?”

“The sound rises,” Francesca said calmly. “It won’t travel cleanly up here from the ballroom, but they should be able to hear it from the speakers out here.” 

Michaela turned slightly towards her. “You’ve really thought about everything.” 

Francesca met her gaze without flinching. “I just want to make sure this event goes perfect so we can feed off that momentum going into Scotland.” 

The wind shifted lightly across the balcony. From here, one could see both the garden and the eat wing corridor – but if only one knew where to look. Thank God Francesca did. 

Michaela stepped closer beside her, shoulder nearly brushing. 

“I’m glad you’re leading this,” she said. “I trust you.” 

The irony almost made Francesca laugh. Instead, she just nodded once. 

One week later, and the venue was secured along with all the vendors confirmed. 

Francesca returned to Lancaster House twice more, alone. 

Officially for lighting tests. Unofficially was to refine timing and to observe the camera patterns. 

Then, she made the journey to visit South Kensington once again. 

Although she kept seeing Michaela in a professional scene, Francesca was desperate to see her with her hair down once more. 

She parked just across the street before ten. She noticed the same security camera as last time, just focused on the entryway 

A car pulled up and parked in front of Michaela’s flat and the Michaela stepped out of the car first. Closely following behind her was the blonde from two weeks ago. 

The blonde reached for Michaela’s collar and pulled her in. The kiss was slower this time Francesca noticed as the grip on her steering wheel grew tighter. 

Michaela’s hand slid to the blonde’s waist and pulled her closer. 

Then when the blonde tried to follow Michaela towards the building entrance once more, Michaela stopped her. 

“Not tonight,” is what Francesca was able to make out of their conversation from inside her car. 

The blonde sighed but accepted it and drove back into the night sky as Michaela walked back inside.

Two days later, Francesca sat between Violet and Daphne at the dining table in Grosvenor Square. 

Tea steamed gently from porcelain cups. 

Violet glowed with excitement. 

“This will be the event of the season,” she said warmly.

Daphne studied the list Francesca drew up in front of them.

“We must be selective,” Daphne said thoughtfully. “There are still talks about fear in regards to what happened with Nigel, God rest his soul, wherever it fucking is. Optics matter right now, and especially with a masquerade.” 

Francesca nodded, “Do not worry, Daphne. There will be security guards everywhere in masks blending in.” 

“Oh that is a lovely idea dear,” Violet interjected. 

Francesca smiled at her mother before continuing. “Besides, Michaela and I have decided to cap the attendance at three hundred people. And we’re having tiered invitations.” 

Daphne raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean tiered invitations.”

Francesca leaned back, letting the weight of her explanation settle. “Three tiers. Tier One is for immediate family, the Foundation board, and key Stirling Organization executives. Tier Two included prominent patrons and socialites we know will be active participants and will actually engage with the auction and festivities.” 

Violet nodded, clearly pleased. “Very sensible, Francesca. You always think of everyone’s comfort.” 

“And Tier Three,” Francesca continued, “is an exclusive list of additional society figures, press contacts, and influencers. They will receive invitations only if there is still space remaining after we have confirmed the first two tiers. Keeps the ballroom manageable and the experience curated for all parties.” 

Daphne’s eyebrows didn’t lower, it merely quirked. “Ah, so it’s both for optics and control. You’re managing both perception and attendance.” 

“Exactly,” Francesca said smoothly. “It’s about shaping the event’s narrative from the moment the guests step through the door and not letting it run away from us.”

Violet beamed. “Brilliant idea, truly, darling. And the pairing of London and Edinburgh? The staggered events will give the story legs for months, won’t they?”

Francesca allowed herself the faintest smile. “Precisely, mother. London for spectacle and Edinburgh for substance.” 

Daphne leaned back, tapping her fingers thoughtfully on the table. “I see. Well then, let’s start reviewing the guests name on our side for each tier. I trust your judgement, Fran, but I want to weigh in on a few key people personally.” 

“By all means,” Francesca said. “Michaela and I will be making the official list of both of our sides the next time we meet with Anthony and John. And then I want you guys to help curate the invitations.” 

Violet smile reach from ear to ear. “We will put the utmost care into those invitations, my dear. It is one thing you can cross of your list.” 

Francesca closed the tablet and allowed herself a controlled breath. “Perfect. Once I meet with everyone else, I’ll let you know who is attending and who won’t be.” 

The meeting occurred at the Foundation boardroom. Michaela, John, Anthony and Francesca gathered around the polished oak table. 

“Alright,” Anthony spoke first. “Both John and I have reviewed the individual lists you both complied of guests for the masquerade, and I don’t have anything to add.” 

“Yes,” John said agreeing. “No one on that list stands out to me as someone who does not belong there. Do you guys have any last minute additions that you want to run by us before we start to send the invitations out?” 

Francesca glanced at Michaela, letting her eyes linger just a beat longer than necessary. “We do have a few final additions on our side, Anthony. But nothing too substantial. I gave Gregory and Hyacinth the option if they wanted to bring a guest considering they are old enough to attend these events and didn’t want to be alone.” 

Michaela’s lips curved faintly, “Actually, there is one guest I’d like to add, if that is acceptable.”

Anthony leaned forward. “Go ahead. This is as much your event as it is ours.” 

Michaela’s tone was casual, confident. “Cressida Cowper.” 

Francesca’s pulse hit a measured quickening, though her face remained neutral. Cressida must have been the blonde woman she saw Michaela with in South Kensington. 

Anthony raised an eyebrow. “Very well, that’s fine.” 

Francesca nodded, voice smooth. “No logistical conflicts on our end.” 

John tilted his head, jotting a mental note. “Then it’s settled. Invitations can go out immediately.” 

As the meeting concluded, Michaela’s eyes flicked to Francesca with a subtle, knowing weight, and Francesca returned the gaze evenly, hiding the surge of calculation and anticipation beneath her composed exterior. 

Francesca returned to her penthouse that night with the final guest list burned into her mind. She opened her laptop and created a new folder titled CC located just below the one labeled MS.

Inside, she began collecting everything she could on Cressida. Photos from past society events, snippets of articles where the Cowper name had been mentioned, even social media posts about the charity galas she had attended. Each addition to the folder was labeled with precision that was second nature to Francesca. 

For the next week, Francesca’s London existed only in patterns and shadows. She noted Cressida’s routes: which cafes she favored in the mornings, which boutiques she lingered in during lunch, the streets she took home when the city was quiet. Francesca memorized the angles of streetlights, the blind corners of alleyways, and the fronts of buildings that obscured views from prying eyes. 

Michaela remained unaware of how closely Francesca observed her guests. The glimpses were fleeting: a kiss outside a flat, a hand resting lightly on Cressida’s waist, laughter that echoed too freely for Francesca’s liking. Each moment was cataloged meticulously in the folder, alongside sketches of Lancaster House and potential “drift point” Francesca could exploit if necessary. 

By the seventh day, the folder was nearly bursting. Every angle considered, ever path mapped. Francesca’s pulse quickened not at the though of Michaela, but at the precision of her plan – the thrill of a hunt waiting to be executed under the cover of a mask. 

The city outside the penthouse windows shimmered, indifferent to the plotting within. Francesca let her reflection stare back at her, a ghostly smile tugging at her lips. Soon, all of her planning, all of her obsession, would converge in one night. 

The night of the masquerade arrived and Lancaster House was transformed into something out of a fever dream. Lanterns hung from wrought-iron posts in the sculpted gardens, casting long and flickering shadows over the stone pathways and ivy-wrapped benches. A delicate mist clung to the edges of the hedges, giving the impression that the garden itself had been suspended in time, trapped somewhere between the Regency Era and the present. 

Inside, the ballroom shimmered with candlelight and crystal. Mirrors reflected the crowd endlessly, gilded cornices catching the glow of chandeliers. Music swelled – a string quartet played a haunting rendition of Vivaldi, the notes weaving tension and elegance into the air. 

Guests arrived in masks of porcelain, feathers, and jewels. Their identities half-concealed but fully revealed in posture, movement, and by the way they smiled. Francesca walked in with practiced ease, her black velvet gown sweeping the marble floor. The mask covering the top half of her face was simple and elegant as a ode to the traditional masquerade but her eyes were sharp, scanning and cataloging everything. 

Michaela appeared moments later descending the grand staircase with John at her side. Her mask was delicate, silver filigree catching the light as she moved. Francesca noticed the minute details in their masks to pay homage to their Scottish roots, and the subtle curve of Michaela’s lips as she spotted her in the crowd. The brief recognition made Francesca’s chest tighten. 

Francesca’s attention flicked towards the garden door instinctively. She had memorized the layout: hedge-lined paths, the alcoves where the lanterns barely reached, and ho the balcony overlooking the east garden allowed for one single alcove to be perfectly concealed. 

The orchestra shifted, and the guest moved to the dance floor. Masks hid intentions but not tension. Francesca slid through the crowd with liquid precision, catching snippets of conversation, the scent of perfume, and the glint of jewelry flickering under the candlelight. Every detail was filed, and every movement was cataloged. 

And then she saw her. Cressida Cowper. Standing near the balcony doors, laughing softly with a cluster of guests, unaware that every single step and gesture she took that evening had been anticipated and would be her last. Her hair shimmered under the candlelight, her dress a fluid red that caught the reflections of the chandeliers like liquid sun rising for the day. Francesca’s pulse jumped, not with desire, but with the thrill of the hunt. 

Cressida glanced towards Michaela stepping closer for a cordial hug and kiss on the cheek, followed by a squeeze of the arm. Francesca noticed how the dynamic between them shifted when they were around others than by themselves. Was Michaela embarrassed for anyone to find out about her relationship with Cressida or was Michaela just having her fun? 

Francesca’s eyes followed, noting the timing, the spacing and the exact angles that would allow for her to go unnoticed. 

Guests moved between the ballroom and the garden, laughter mingling with the string quartet. Francesca slipped through the shadows along the eastern corridor, hand brushing the cool marble railing of the balcony. Lanterns doted the garden below, painting it in pools of gold and shadows. She could see Cressida’s path from up above, waiting for the subtle moment when she would drift away from her companions getting a moment to herself. 

Francesca felt the knife in her clutch, just a reminder to herself that it was there and to not let the opportunity that tonight presented to herself to not be wasted. The voice in the back of her mind came into the forefront. Everything she had planned could come into fruition tonight. 

The orchestra swelled, drawing the crowd’s attention back towards the center of the ballroom. A subtle shift in lighting signaled the official start of the evening’s formal programming. Francesca exhaled once, steadying herself. 

From the balcony, she could see Cressida below, red dress illuminating as she laughed at something whispered into her ear. Too many people still hovered nearby. Too exposed. Too early. 

Francesca withdrew from the railing and slipped back inside through the eastern doors just as a member of the press, in his own mask, gestured towards the grand staircase. 

“Ms. Bridgerton! Mr. Bridgerton! A quick photo before the crowd thickens?”

Anthony appeared at her side as if summoned by instinct alone, already smiling the polished smile he wore for donors and cameras alike. John joined them, posture relaxed but commanding. And then Michaela stepped into frame, silver mask glinting under the light. 

Francesca positioned herself between Anthony and Michaela, close enough that the faint scent of Michaela’s perfume wrapped around her senses. 

“On three,” the photographer called. 

Anthony’s hand rested lightly at Francesca’s back, John’s arm casually draped behind Michaela. It was unity of the two groups. 

“Now one of the two ladies,” the photographer requested brightly. 

Michaela turned towards Francesca, eyes warm behind the delicate filigree of her mask. They stepped closer, shoulders brushing with their hips nearly aligned. 

The camera captured them in perfect symmetry: dark velvet against silver, composure against quiet heat. 

“Beautiful,” the photographer said, already reviewing the images. 

Francesca allowed herself a small smile, one meant for headlines and society columns. 

Behind them, the string quartet transitioned into something lighter, signaling mingling and political choreography. 

Anthony moved towards a cluster of investors near the bar. John intercepted a trustee from Edinburgh. Violet floated through the room like a benevolent queen ensuring every conversation felt intentional. 

Francesca did what she did best. She mingled. She spoke to donors about impact metrics and expansion plans. She reassured an elderly patron about the increased security measures after Nigel’s death. She nodded thoughtfully at questions about transparency and charitable allocation. Her voice was calm, measured, and intelligent. No hint of her true plans came out with her voice. 

At one point, Michaela reappeared at her side. 

“You look remarkably composed for someone hosting three hundred masked elites,” Michaela murmured. 

Francesca lifted a glass of champagne, barely sipping. “I thrive under pressure.” 

Michaela’s eyes searched hers, lingering just long enough to make Francesca’s pulse shift. “Save me a dance later.” 

Francesca inclined her head. “Midnight, with the reveal.” 

They separated naturally, seamlessly, as if choreographed. 

Time passed in glittering increments–laughter, clinking glasses, whispered speculation about what would happen when the clock strikes midnight. 

And then Francesca saw it. 

Cressida excusing herself from a tight circle of guests near the balcony doors. A polite smile. A hand lightly brushing her temple as if overwhelmed by the heat of the room. 

What Cressida did not know was that the warmth blooming beneath her skin had nothing do to with the ballroom. 

Francesca watched from across the room before silently following her outside. 

The adjustment had been subtle. A quiet word from Francesca to one of the masked security staff about how Cressida’s glass was to never empty and a nod to the private bartender near the east corridor to ensure the amber liquor was never below a sip. 

The air outside was cooler, the noise of the ballroom muffled by the thick hedges and stone. Lantern light trembled along the pathway. The sculpted greenery created an intimate pocket of shadow. 

Cressida stood near one of the ivy-wrapped benches, back partially turned, gazing up towards the balcony as if to stop the spinning going on in her head. 

“Enjoying the evening?” Francesca’s voice carried softly through the garden. 

Cressida startled slightly before turning, her face almost the same color as her red mask. “Oh, Ms. Bridgerton, it is stunning. Truly.” 

Francesca stepped closer, heels deliberate against stone. “I’m glad you came tonight.”

Cressida smiled politely as she reached to grab Francesca’s arm. “Michaela insisted.” 

There it was. 

Francesca let the name hang between them like smoke. 

“I’m sure she did,” Francesca replied, tone even. 

The music from inside shifted again–louder now. The prelude to midnight. The crowd beginning to gather for the clock striking midnight. 

“You must feel special,” Francesca continued softly, positioning Cressida’s back towards the hedge-lined path. The one with the concealed catering entrance Francesca had memorized weeks ago, 

Cressida laughed lightly. “I wouldn’t say so. Now Ms. Bridgerton, are the lanterns going out or is it just me?” 

Francesca stepped closer. 

“No,” she said quietly. “Just you.”

The knife slid from her clutch in one smooth, practiced motion. 

It was quick and precise. 

A single, controlled thrust beneath the ribs angled upward. Close enough that Cressida’s gasp never rose above the swell of the music spilling from the ballroom. 

Francesca caught her before she fell fully, guiding her body into the shadowed recess near the hedge where the lantern light barely reached. 

Cressida’s eyes widened, confused more than afraid. 

Francesca leaned in, voice barely a whisper. 

“You were never meant to stay.” 

The light from Cressida’s eyes faded in seconds. 

Francesca withdrew the blade, wiping it swiftly against the inner lining of her clutch. She adjusted her mask, smoother her hair and checked her reflection briefly in the dark glass of the doors. 

The first chime rang out of the clock inside, symbolizing that midnight was upon the masquerade guests. 

Francesca slipped inside through the hidden catering entrance, emerging along the eastern corridor just as guests began to counting down towards midnight. 

Five.

Four.

Three.

Francesca reentered the ballroom from the opposite side, merging seamlessly with the crowd. 

Two. 

One.

Masks lifted and applause erupted as Anthony’s voice carried over the room as he announced the official partnership between the Bridgerton Foundation and the Stirling Organization. 

And right on cue– Michaela appeared before her, hand extended. 

“Dance with me,” she said softly. 

Francesca placed her hand in Michaela’s. 

As they moved across the floor beneath crystal chandeliers, surrounded by celebration and camera flashes, Francesca allowed herself the faintest smile. 

There wouldn’t have been enough time for a murder and to be present for the reveal. 

Everyone could see her. Everyone would remember her here. 

And it gave the masked security guard enough time to unlock Cressida’s phone and to send a text message to Michaela announcing that whatever relationship the two had together would be over, and to dump the body in the Thames, never to be seen again. 

The masquerade photos were still trending.

Francesca had muted her notifications on all of the social media apps on her phone. Both personal and public ones. 

The foundation office felt very different from the spectacle of the night before — glass walls, muted lighting, the quiet hum of central air, the London skyline stretching beyond the windows.

Anthony stood at the head of the conference table, tablet in hand. John had already connected his laptop to the screen. Michaela had two flat whites and slid one toward Francesca without asking.

Francesca gave her a small, grateful look.

Anthony tapped the screen.

“Alright. The partnership announcement did what it needed to do,” he said. “Press coverage is strong. Investors are circling. Francesca, you did a fantastic job with it. You weren’t kidding when you said London was the spectacle. Now, we actually build something.”

John pulled up a slide titled: Joint Strategic Initiatives – Q1 Launch

“We need something concrete,” he said. “Not just a philanthropic headline.”

Michaela leaned back in her chair. “Education?”

Francesca nodded immediately. “Rural access. Digital infrastructure. Hybrid schooling models.”

Anthony looked between them. “Scotland.”

John smiled faintly. “Specifically the Highlands. Broadband gaps. Teacher retention issues. Low-income transport barriers.”

Francesca’s fingers tapped lightly against the table — already thinking ahead.

“We don’t just donate equipment,” she said. “We create a pilot academy model. Fund teachers. Provide travel stipends. Build long-term data metrics.”

Michaela turned toward her. “And host the launch in Edinburgh.”

Anthony arched a brow. “You want to go north for the first activation?”

“Yes,” Michaela said calmly. “If this is a real partnership, it can’t just be London-centric. The rich are already accustomed to what is there for them in London. What they haven’t yet tasted is what can be provided to them in Scotland.”

John nodded. “We use Kilmartin land.”

Anthony looked at him. “You’re offering the estate?”

“It’s underutilized. There’s an old administrative building that could be renovated into a training center.”

Francesca glanced at Michaela — that flicker of shared understanding again.

Michaela spoke up, “John and I have always wanted to give back to the community that raised us. This is the perfect opportunity for that.”

There was no performance in her voice. No pitch.

Just truth.

Anthony studied them for a moment — John steady, Francesca focused, Michaela already calculating logistics in her head.

“Alright,” he said finally. “Then Scotland isn’t just the backdrop. It’s the statement.”

John clicked to the next slide.

Edinburgh Charity & Arts Gala – Partnership Reveal

“The masquerade got people talking,” he said. “This is where we show them why they should invest.”

Francesca leaned forward. “Not just invest. Believe.”

Michaela’s eyes flicked to her.

Anthony gestured toward the screen. “Talk me through it.”

Francesca inhaled slowly, slipping fully into strategist mode.

“The gala in Edinburgh is not a replication of London. No spectacle for spectacle’s sake. It highlights the actual work.” She began counting off on her fingers. “We unveil the pilot academy model. We announce the Kilmartin training center renovation. We present funding transparency projections.”

“And the arts component?” Anthony asked.

Michaela answered this time.

“Scottish artists. Local composers. Installations from students in rural programs we’re already in contact with. We make it clear that this partnership isn’t parachuting in. It’s cultivating.”

John nodded. “We also announce the digital infrastructure initiative that night. Satellite partnerships, transport grants. Tangible numbers.”

Michaela quickly added on, “The art created by the students will also be up for grabs. We’re not going to stop the guests from buying a painting or an installation. Just think if one person gets their big break from our event, that’s a step for the partnership in the right direction.”

Anthony gave a slow, impressed exhale.

“So the rich fly up expecting champagne and pretty speeches,” he said, “and instead they walk into a blueprint.”

“Exactly,” Francesca replied.

Michaela smirked slightly. “There will still be champagne and music, don’t worry.”

Anthony almost smiled. “Good. Let’s not terrify them entirely.”

He turned serious again.

“This gala needs weight. Venue?”

“National Museum,” Michaela said immediately. “Gives people a chance to immerse themselves with the history of Scotland while hopefully creating some new ones.” 

Francesca blinked at her.

“You’ve thought about this.”

“I’ve always thought about this,” Michaela corrected softly.

John pulled up a preliminary budget spreadsheet. “We can secure the space. Discreetly. My team already has contacts. They owe us a couple of favors anyway.”

Anthony looked between the three of them.

“And who’s leading it?”

There was a beat.

Francesca straightened. “We are.”

Michaela didn’t hesitate. “Jointly.”

“You told us last month that we’re in charge of the galas,” Francesca said matter of factly.

Anthony leaned back against the edge of the table, folding his arms.

“Well that was because I didn’t want the input of fifteen fucking people turning the masquerade into a joke,” he said. “But now that the masquerade is done and dusted and seems to be the event of the year, let’s see if you two can outdo yourselves.”

The room went very still.

Francesca’s pulse kicked once in her throat.

Michaela’s expression didn’t change — but something sharpened behind her eyes.

Anthony continued, practical as ever. “John and I handle investor relations and regulatory frameworks. You two handle narrative, rollout, and the gala execution.”

Francesca glanced at Michaela again.

Narrative.

Rollout.

Execution.

Michaela met her gaze evenly.

“We’ll need to be in Edinburgh by the end of the week,” she said. “Venue negotiations. Site visit to Kilmartin. Press curation.”

John closed his laptop. “I’ll arrange flights.”

Anthony and John disappeared into the finance office down the hall.

The conference room lights dimmed automatically as evening settled over the skyline.

Francesca remained seated, studying the projected layout for Edinburgh — stage placements, installation zones, donor tables arranged deliberately to encourage conversation instead of hierarchy.

Michaela stepped up beside her.

“We need one defining moment,” she said. “Something that makes the room understand why this partnership exists.”

Francesca glanced up. “Beyond the numbers?”

“Yes. Investors understand projections. I want them to feel the impact.”

Francesca considered that, then nodded slowly.

“We center the students,” she said. “No politicians. No scripted speeches. Two or three from the pilot communities. Let them speak. Have them explain it from their mouths why people need to invest in this.”

“Unfiltered?” Michaela asked.

“Yes.”

A beat.

“That’s bold,” Michaela said.

“It’s honest.”

That was enough.

Michaela shifted closer to the table, studying the screen again. “Alright. We open with student installations. Visual first. Then academy model. Then the panel.”

“And we close with Kilmartin,” Francesca added. “Architectural renders. Timeline. Launch date.”

Michaela nodded. “And we track pledges live.”

Francesca glanced at her. “You’re not worried?”

“I don’t do things halfway.”

A flicker of something passed between them. An alignment of sorts.

Francesca stood, closing her laptop.

“We split it,” she said. “I’ll handle the academy presentation and student outreach.”

“I’ll secure the National Museum, finalize the arts partnerships, and curate the guest list.”

“Selective?” Francesca asked.

“Ruthless,” Michaela replied. 

That earned the smallest smile.

They moved toward the glass wall without meaning to, London unfolding beneath them in reflected light.

“We leave Thursday?” Michaela asked.

“Yes.”

“Commercial or private?”

Francesca hesitated only briefly. “Commercial. If we’re asking for transparency, we start with ourselves.”

Michaela looked at her for a moment — not surprised, exactly. Assessing.

“Alright,” she said. “Thursday. Don’t wear heels.”

A pause lingered.

“For what it’s worth,” Michaela added, quieter now, “last night wasn’t just spectacle.”

Francesca met her gaze.

“It worked,” Michaela said. “People are paying attention.”

Francesca’s expression didn’t waver.

“Good.”

No masks. No performance.

Just strategy.

As much as Francesca controlled the power in London, she knew she was walking into uncharted waters in regards to the Stirlings in Scotland. She knew who they were before the partnership came to be created. 

Everyone did. 

The Stirlings were not loud in the way new money was loud. They did not plaster their name across glass towers or chase tumultuous headlines. Their presence in Scotland was older than most of the institutions that now relied on them. 

Realization dawned on her when Anthony told her that the Stirlings reminded him of themselves. 

At the time, she had dismissed it as polite symmetry. Old money recognizing old money. The Bridgertons had a hold on London while the Stirlings did the same in Edinburgh. It was only a matter of time, and generations passed to make a partnership between the two families feel inevitable. 

But sitting alone in the low glow of her penthouse, Scotland was mapped across her screen in quiet grids and overlays, she understood what he had actually meant.

Not wealth nor status. But structure.

The Bridgertons had not clawed their way into London influence. They had inherited it, preserved it, modernized it carefully. Their foundation did not dominate headlines either. It integrated. It attached itself to policy discussions early. It shaped direction before direction became public.

The Stirlings were the Scottish equivalent.

And that meant something dangerous.

Because Francesca knew exactly how the Bridgertons operated behind closed doors.

She knew how much of their public benevolence was reinforced by calculated positioning. She knew how far they would go to protect legacy. She had grown up inside that machinery.

If Anthony saw their reflection in the Stirlings, then she knew Michaela had grown up inside her own version of the same machine. 

The estate records of the Kilmartin land were easy to access in fragments with public land registries, archived heritage listings, fragments of genealogical records stretching back centuries. The name Stirling appeared again and again, woven through agricultural reform acts, railway investments, post-war reconstruction funds. 

Kilmartin had survived everything. From the Great Potato Famine in the 1840s to the Good Friday Agreement in the 1990s to now The Bridgerton Stirling Partnership. Kilmartin had adapted. 

Francesca leaned back in her chair, the soft hum of her laptop filling the room. She opened a new tab, pulling up satellite imagery and cross-referencing it with cadastral maps. Roads, rivers, old walls, preserved woodlands. Every detail spoke of continuity. Every angle suggested careful guardianship.

The Stirlings weren’t just a family—they were a network. Networks of influence, of commerce, of control that threaded quietly through the Highlands. Their presence was subtle, almost invisible to outsiders, but precise. Every acquisition, every donation, every restoration project told the story of vigilance and foresight.

She began adding to the MS folder on her laptop. In addition to the information she already had about Michaela, she added whatever she could find about the Stirling estates in Scotland. The pattern emerged quickly: Michaela’s public appearances in Edinburgh, conferences, panels, fundraisers were all strategically aligned with projects that preserved or expanded family influence. Nothing was random. Nothing was careless.

Francesca’s pulse quickened as she scrolled through old archival news clippings. A single photo of a young Michaela with a young John next to her cutting a ribbon at a newly built community center; another at a university lecture promoting STEM initiatives in rural areas. Even then, her posture was exact, her gaze direct, her movements calculated.

Kilmartin wasn’t just land. It was the epicenter of Stirling power. Every building, every road, every grant pointed to an underlying intelligence. And Michaela had been shaped within it. Francesca realized, with a cold thrill, that Scotland would not be neutral ground. It would be watched, measured, controlled—and Michaela would already know exactly how to respond to any intrusion.

Her fingers hovered over the mouse, a familiar tightening in her chest. Mapping Michaela’s movements, cross-referencing addresses and public appearances, Francesca traced a pattern across Edinburgh and the Highlands. Gym visits, charity galas, rare public appearances at family events. Michaela’s routine wasn’t random, it was deliberate, curated, disciplined. 

Francesca leaned forward, tapping keys methodically, opening another tab. She pulled up local business registries, land management documents, charity filings—anything that might hint at the Stirling presence beyond what the public eye could see. Small-scale donations to schools, discreet sponsorships of art installations, a hand in the funding of infrastructure projects. It all connected back to Kilmartin. Every seemingly minor act had a ripple, a purpose, a long-term trajectory. 

Life began with Kilmartin. Francesca intended to make sure she had all the information to have Michaela’s life end there too.

Thursday morning arrived without ceremony.

No flashing cameras. No boardroom glass. No London skyline.

Only wind.

Kilmartin unfolded in layers of green and stone as the car crested the final hill. The estate did not announce itself. It revealed itself — slowly, deliberately — as if deciding whether those approaching were worthy of the view.

Francesca stepped out first.

The air was sharper than London’s. Cleaner. Colder. It cut through her coat and settled beneath her skin.

Michaela stepped out moments later, no hesitation, no pause to take it in. She didn’t need to.

This was not spectacle to her.

It was simply home.

“Come,” Michaela said.

They walked the gravel path together, heeled boots crunching in sync. Ahead of them, the old administrative building stood slightly removed from the main house. The stone facade weathered but proud, ivy curling around its western corner like something protective rather than decorative.

“This,” Michaela said, gesturing toward it, “is what we’re rebuilding.”

Francesca didn’t respond immediately. She was cataloging.

The distance from the main residence.

The line of sight from the upper windows.

The slope of the land behind the structure. The hills allowed for natural drainage and runoff, but it also allowed for privacy.

“It was used for estate management,” Michaela continued. “Accounts. Agricultural oversight. It hasn’t been operational in years since we moved everything to digital.” 

Francesca noticed that her tone was steady as she said it, but there was a slight edge to it. Like this project meant more to her than she would admit out loud. 

“This is where the training center would go?” Francesca asked. 

“Yes.” 

Not could.

Would.

They stepped inside.

Dust lingered in the filtered light cutting through tall windows. The ceiling beams were intact. Stone walls thick — insulating, enduring.

Francesca walked slowly through the main hall, fingertips brushing against the cool stone. She could already see it: modular classrooms. Technology suites. A central lecture space. It was a clean conversion of modern infrastructure nested inside heritage architecture.

“It will remain structurally original,” Michaela said, watching her. “We don’t strip Kilmartin down to make it useful. We adapt it.”

Francesca turned at that.

Adapt.

“How far along are you?” Francesca asked, voice neutral.

“Preliminary assessments were complete before John and I came to London. Structural engineers signed off on foundation stability, we didn’t want to put all our eggs in this basket unless we were certain the base would hold. Our plan is to do phased renovation once the funding is secure. The first two phases are going to be covered by us, while the last phase is what we wanted to leave open for the donors. You know how giddy they get when they get the opportunity to name a building or room after themselves.”

Francesca’s mouth curved faintly at that.

“Yes,” she said smoothly. “They do love permanence.”

Michaela’s gaze flicked to her — sharp, assessing — as if measuring whether the comment was admiration or critique.

Francesca walked deeper into the space, shoes echoing softly against the stone floor. She paused beneath one of the exposed beams and tilted her head upward, tracing the structure with her eyes.

“The first phase?” she asked.

“Stabilization and infrastructure,” Michaela replied immediately. “Wiring, fiber, climate control. We modernize what cannot be seen first. If you build on spectacle before foundation, you invite collapse.”

Francesca almost laughed at that.

Of course.

Invisible strength before visible impact.

“And phase two?”

“Interior restructuring. Classroom partitioning. Accessibility modifications. We keep the integrity of the walls, but we make the interior adaptable.”

Adaptable.

There it was again.

“And the third?” Francesca asked, though she already knew the answer.

Michaela’s expression shifted — just slightly. A glint of something almost playful.

“Expansion.”

She moved toward the back of the hall, pushing open a side door that led to a broad stretch of open land behind the building. The wind hit them harder there, rolling down from the hills in cold currents.

“This wing,” Michaela said, gesturing outward, “is where the donors come in. A new lecture hall. Glass frontage overlooking the valley. It will be the only contemporary addition.”

Francesca stepped beside her, following the line of Michaela’s hand.

The valley opened below them — green, endless, impossibly quiet.

Strategic.

The glass facade would not face the main house.

It would face outward toward the Highlands. A statement.

“You’re letting them attach their names to something new,” Francesca observed. “But not to the original structure.”

“Correct.”

Michaela didn’t hesitate.

“The bones remain Stirling. Always.”

The wind pressed against them again, whipping loose strands of hair across Michaela’s face. She didn’t move to brush them away.

Francesca watched her instead, with ease and urgency.

Here, Michaela wasn’t negotiating. She wasn’t performing diplomacy or softening language for London investors.

Here, she was decisive.

Unapologetic.

“You’ve already chosen the architectural firm, haven’t you?” Francesca asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“And the contractors?”

“Yes.”

“And the timeline?”

A faint smile.

“Of course.”

Francesca felt something tighten in her chest — not irritation.

Recognition.

Michaela hadn’t been waiting for donor approval.

She had been waiting for momentum.

The gala wasn’t about permission.

It was about acceleration.

“You’re very confident,” Francesca said.

Michaela turned her head slightly. “It’s my land.”

Simple.

Not arrogant.

Just factual.

And there it was — the thing Francesca had been circling since she arrived.

In London, Francesca controlled rooms.

In Scotland, Michaela controlled ground.

Francesca glanced back at the administrative building — the stone, the ivy, the centuries of adaptation baked into every surface.

She imagined the gala here. The donors stepping onto this soil, surrounded by Stirling legacy, looking out over land that did not belong to them and never would.

They would feel small.

And they would write checks anyway.

“Three phases,” Francesca murmured. “Foundation. Function. Expansion.”

Michaela nodded once.

“Exactly.”

Francesca met her gaze fully then.

“I think,” she said evenly, “we’re going to raise far more than you expect.”

Something unreadable flickered in Michaela’s eyes.

“Good,” she replied. “Anything to help the land and community that gave John and I so much.” 

The wind had picked up by the time they had circled back towards the main house. 

“Anthony and John will arrive early next week,” Michaela said as they walked. 

Francesca nodded. “Yes, Anthony mentioned it to me this morning that he had some business to finish in London and wanted to introduce John to a couple of investors who might help with the school.” 

“Alright,” Michaela said as they neared the front doors of the main house. “I’ll send you over the revised donor packet tonight. 

Francesca smiled at that. “I’ll have my notes ready for when they join us.” 

They reached the front steps of Kilmartin — wide stone, worn smooth at the center from generations of use. The doors were already open. Staff moved quietly inside, efficient but unhurried.

Francesca paused just slightly.

“I’ve arranged accommodations in Inverness,” she said casually. “It’s only forty minutes.”

Michaela didn’t break stride.

“That won’t be necessary.”

It wasn’t sharp.

It wasn’t negotiable either.

“You’re our guest,” Michaela continued. “It would be inappropriate for you to stay elsewhere.”

Our guest.

Not my guest.

Family language.

Legacy language.

Francesca tilted her head faintly. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“You aren’t,” Michaela begged. “My mother would kill me and bury me in the land if I made you stay anywhere else.” 

She stepped closer, voice dropping below a whisper, “And I prefer my partners close.” 

Francesca felt Michaela’s words in her core. An involuntary twitch of her leg to hide the feeling in her lower stomach as she held her a gaze a half second longer than was polite. 

“Very well, if you insist.” 

Inside, the house was warm — wood and stone and something faintly herbal lingering in the air. Portraits lined the corridor walls. Landscapes. Generations. Faces that carried variations of Michaela’s bone structure.

Francesca cataloged them all.

Her room was on the east wing. Large windows overlooking the valley. Antique desk. Fireplace already laid.

Strategic placement as it was close enough to the main staircase, yet far enough from the private wing of the Stirling members by blood would reside.

Michaela stood in the doorway as staff set Francesca’s case inside.

“If you need anything,” she said evenly, “my room is at the end of the west corridor.”

Not an invitation. A mere fact.

Francesca gave a small, controlled smile. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”

The door closed as she waiting for the footsteps to retreat to where they once were. 

She moved immediately after that, checking the windows and testing the lock. She counted footsteps from her room to the staircase and took note on which floorboards creaked louder than others.

She sat at the desk and opened her laptop, but her focus was split. The estate felt different at night quieter, yes, as life was being called to rest. But also more alert somehow, as if the walls listened.

Hours passed and the harsh Scottish winds brushed against the glass.

Then Francesca heard it. Faint, measured footsteps creaking in the hallway. 

She froze at the desk. She knew it wasn’t the Kilmartin staff. These steps were too deliberate, as if making sure there was no pressure at all on the ground.

She rose without sound, crossing the room and opening her door a fraction when she saw it. Down the corridor was movement.

Michaela. No coat for the cold. Just a dark burgundy sweater. Boots in hand.

She was moving quietly toward the back staircase near the end of the west corridor. 

Francesca’s pulse slowed instead of quickening.

Interesting. 

She waited ten seconds, to give Michaela a head start and to not be caught herself.

Then she stepped out, closing her door without a click.

She kept distance. Stayed in shadows of the hallways. 

Michaela exited through the side entrance near the kitchen wing. The night air swallowed her whole.

Francesca followed. Not close enough to be heard but not far enough to lose her in the landscape.

The Highlands at night were vast and almost violently quiet. The sky stretched black and endless above them. Gravel shifted under Michaela’s boots as she crossed toward the treeline beyond the administrative building that would become the school.

Francesca adjusted her pace.

Why was she out here?

She had no phone, there was no Kilmartin staff awake, and there was no security to watch over her.

Michaela moved with familiarity — cutting through a narrow path between stone walls, down toward a lower stretch of land Francesca hadn’t fully explored earlier. She couldn’t, not with Michaela watching her an giving her a tour of the estate. 

The wind carried faint sound. A trickle of water. A desolate stream.

Michaela stopped at its edge. She didn’t check behind her or look around, she simply stood there taking in the site of the water traveling downstream.

Francesca remained in the shadows, watching.

And for the first time since arriving at Kilmartin, she wasn’t observing strategy.

She was observing solitude. 

Francesca returned back to her room in the main house before Michaela even knew she was missing from her bed. She quickly cataloged the day’s events with Michaela — the walk to the stream, the stillness, the way the wind had moved through her hair without her brushing it away — documenting each detail in her dossier with clinical precision before retreating to sleep.

She undressed mechanically.

Washed her hands.

Checked the lock twice.

The house had settled into silence, the kind unique to old estates — wood contracting softly, distant pipes shifting, wind pressing against ancient glass.

Francesca lay on her back, staring at the ceiling beams.

Kilmartin felt different than London at night. While London was alive with people and entertainment, Kilmartin was mellow as people wanted to disappear. 

Her thoughts did not quiet, they reorganized. Funding timelines, donor leverage, structural integrity of the base, Michaela’s certainty.

We adapt.

The word echoed longer than it should have.

Francesca turned onto her side.

At the other end of the corridor, she knew that Michaela was on her way back from the stream. The knowledge was abstract. Irrelevant.

And yet it lingered.

The image of her standing in the administrative hall returned unbidden — chin slightly lifted, shoulders squared, speaking about Kilmartin as if the land answered to her.

Francesca exhaled slowly.

Control is maintained by anticipating threats.

She closed her eyes.

The darkness behind them felt the same as the room.

Until it didn’t.

The beams of her ceiling became taller.

The air colder.

Stone walls rising around her that she had not consciously built. The administrative building was complete, but not as planned.

The stone walls were darker — slick, almost breathing. The glass donor wing reflected nothing. No valley. No sky. Only shadow.

Michaela stood in the center of the lecture hall, alone.

Just her.

Hands clasped loosely behind her back.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Michaela said.

Her voice echoed wrong, too hollow for the space in the room. 

Francesca stepped forward.

Her heels made no sound.

“This is your land,” Francesca replied calmly. “But you invited me.”

Michaela’s head tilted slightly — that familiar assessing angle. Calculating what was going to happen next.

“And what are you going to do with the invitation?”

Francesca didn’t answer.

She moved closer.

The walls seemed to narrow with every step. Stone tightening. Air thinning.

She imagined it then — not chaotic, not messy. 

A push at the edge of the new glass wing. A misstep on unfinished flooring. A fall that would look like tragedy. 

And suddenly the weight at her side felt real.

Her bag, one she hadn’t been carrying before.  

Francesca’s hand slipped inside without looking. Calm. Certain. Her fingers closed around something cool and familiar — metal resting obediently in her palm.

She withdrew the knife slowly. 

And the moment Francesca’s hand touched Michaela’s shoulder, stabilizing herself as she drew the knife in the air—

She woke. 

Not with a gasp nor a startle.

Her eyes opened slowly, as though she had surfaced from something deep and cold rather than violent. The room was still. The beams overhead solid and unchanged. No shattered glass. No narrowing stone.

Her hand rested against the mattress.

Empty.

She flexed her fingers once, as if testing for weight that was no longer there. Then she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, her pulse even. 

She smiled at nothing in the sky but allowed her thoughts to drift towards the act again. If all went according to plan, the dream would become reality in a month’s time, anyway. So what if she chose to indulge on the act. 

Two weeks later, Kilmartin no longer felt still.

It felt alive.

The old administrative building was open to the bones now. Scaffolding climbed its exterior. Temporary wiring snaked along stone walls. The smell of sawdust and damp earth replaced dust and abandonment.

Anthony surveyed the scene with quiet approval. “You weren’t exaggerating,” he murmured.

John gave a low whistle. “You move fast.”

Across the courtyard, Michaela was already speaking with the site foreman. Hard hat tucked beneath her arm, sleeves rolled, hair caught back at the nape of her neck. She gestured toward the upper windows, precise, economical movements. The foreman nodded twice before hurrying off.

“She always has,” Francesca said evenly.

Anthony glanced at her, amused. “That sounded almost fond.”

“It was observational.”

Michaela crossed the courtyard toward them, boots crunching over gravel, expression composed but faintly flushed from the cold.

“Structural reinforcement is complete on the western wall,” she said without preamble. “We begin interior framing next week. If we stay on schedule, the mezzanine will be safe for a controlled walkthrough during the gala.”

John’s brows lifted. “You’re planning to bring donors into an active site?”

“Not active,” Michaela corrected. “Curated.”

Anthony smiled faintly. “They’ll love it.”

“They’ll feel like pioneers,” Francesca added. “People are generous when they believe they’re stepping into something unfinished.”

Michaela’s eyes shifted to her.

A quiet beat.

“Exactly.”

There it was again — that wordless calibration between them. Not disagreement. Not alignment. Something sharper. Measuring.

Anthony stepped forward, gaze sweeping the building’s exposed interior. “And the final phase?”

“Reserved,” Michaela replied smoothly. “The east wing remains unfunded. Naming rights for the lecture hall and research suite are still open.”

John nodded approvingly. “Scarcity creates appetite.”

Francesca’s attention drifted briefly upward — to the unfinished mezzanine overlooking the central hall.

In the dream, it had been glass.

In reality, steel and timber.

Solid.

Michaela followed her line of sight. “I’ll walk you through,” she said. “Mind your step.”

Francesca met her gaze.

“I always do.”

For a fraction of a second, something unspoken flickered between them — recognition, perhaps. Or challenge.

Then Michaela turned toward the scaffolding staircase.

“Shall we?”

And Francesca followed.

The temporary staircase groaned faintly as they climbed.

Anthony went first, steady and unbothered. John followed, muttering something about liability insurance. Michaela ascended behind them, one hand grazing the railing more out of habit than necessity.

Francesca came last.

The higher they climbed, the more the building revealed itself — not as ruin, but as framework. The central hall opened beneath them in clean geometry. Steel beams cut decisive lines through old stone. Sunlight filtered through the upper windows, catching dust in suspended gold.

At the mezzanine level, the air was colder.

Wind slipped through an unfinished seam near the eastern wall.

“This will be glass,” Michaela said, stepping toward the edge where temporary barriers stood in place. “Floor-to-ceiling. The valley will sit directly in the line of sight.”

Anthony nodded, impressed despite himself. “Dramatic.”

“Intentional,” Michaela replied.

John stepped closer to inspect the sightline. “You’ll stage the principal donors here.”

“Yes. They’ll look down into the lecture hall. It reinforces scale.”

Francesca moved toward the edge last.

The valley stretched outward in layered green and shadow. The hills rolled with deceptive softness. The drop from the mezzanine wasn’t catastrophic.

But it would be enough.

Michaela stepped beside her.

Not touching.

Close.

“In two weeks,” Michaela said quietly, “this won’t look like potential. It will look inevitable.”

Francesca kept her gaze forward. “You’re confident.”

“I’m prepared.”

A beat.

Wind moved between them.

Francesca turned slightly. “And if funding stalls?”

“It won’t.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

For the first time, Michaela looked at her fully.

“If funding stalls,” she said evenly, “we adapt.”

The word landed differently now.

Francesca held her gaze a fraction too long.

Behind them, Anthony was already descending the staircase, satisfied. John followed, calling something about revised projections.

Michaela didn’t move.

Neither did Francesca.

The unfinished railing stood between them and open air.

“You trust this?” Francesca asked softly.

“The structure?” Michaela replied.

“No. The future.”

A faint curve touched Michaela’s mouth. Not amusement. Not softness.

“I don’t build things I intend to lose. This is going to stay in the Stirling history forever.” 

Silence stretched — not uncomfortable, but charged.

Then Michaela stepped back first.

“Careful,” she said lightly. “The edge isn’t secured yet.”

Francesca’s expression didn’t change.

“I know.”

That night, the estate felt different again.

Not dormant.

Not industrial.

Anticipatory.

Anthony and John had retired after dinner, both satisfied with progress and already discussing donor tiers. The staff had settled. The construction crew gone.

Only a handful of lights remained on in the west wing.

Francesca found Michaela there.

The temporary project office had been set up in what was once the estate’s library. A long table, scattered blueprints, laptop screens casting cool light across dark wood shelves.

Michaela stood at the far end, sleeves rolled again, studying a spreadsheet.

“You’re still working,” Francesca said from the doorway.

Michaela didn’t startle.

“I prefer momentum.”

Francesca stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

A small sound.

Intentional.

“John thinks we should push naming rights harder,” Francesca said. “Create artificial competition.”

Michaela leaned back against the table, arms folding loosely. “Artificial urgency cheapens the ask.”

“It increases yield.”

“It attracts the wrong kind of donor.”

Francesca tilted her head slightly. “There’s a right kind?”

“Yes.”

“And how do you identify them?”

Michaela’s gaze sharpened.

“They build for legacy. Not vanity. I don’t want to people to donate to us just because they feel it’s their obligation to. I want people to donate to us because they fucking believe in the cause and change we’re trying to help here.”

The room quieted.

Francesca stepped closer to the table, resting her fingertips on the edge of a blueprint. The same steady gesture she’d used on the mezzanine railing.

“And which are you?” Francesca asked.

Michaela didn’t look away.

“I don’t build for recognition.”

“No?”

“I build for permanence.”

The word settled between them.

Permanence.

Francesca felt the echo of the dream — the blade, the edge, the almost.

“Everything can be dismantled,” she said quietly.

Michaela pushed off the table and stepped closer.

Not confrontational.

Measured.

“Then dismantle it,” she replied. “If you think you can.”

The challenge wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

For a second — one thin, electric second — the space between them narrowed to something that felt like the mezzanine edge again.

Unsecured.

Exposed.

Neither stepped back.

And neither touched.

The night before the gala, Kilmartin glittered.

Not with grandeur.

With preparation.

The scaffolding was gone. The administrative building stood restored — stone cleaned but not polished, heritage intact. The mezzanine was finished now. Steel sealed. Flooring laid. The skeletal suggestion of glass panels stacked carefully along the eastern wall, ready for installation at first light.

Temporary uplighting washed the facade in muted gold.

Inside, staff moved with quiet efficiency. The caterers rehearsing flow, event coordinators marking placement with small strips of tape, security testing entry and exit points. It helped that Cressida’s murder was painted in the light of a disappearance, guests were less likely to be on edge. 

Francesca watched none of it.

She watched Michaela.

From the upper landing of the main house corridor, Francesca observed her cross the courtyard to the school. 

She already knew Michaela’s cadence. How long she paused before issuing instruction. The slight narrowing of her eyes when recalculating. The half-second delay before she answered a question she already had the answer to.

It had taken months to compile, ever since her and John stepped into the Bridgerton Foundation’s office in London. It took two weeks to internalize after Francesca decided she had enough information.

Now the dossier no longer required reference. It lived in her.

Michaela entered the finished building alone, to take in everything she had spearheaded in the past month. 

Francesca waited twelve seconds.

Then followed.

Not close enough to be seen in peripheral vision. Not far enough to lose rhythm.

Inside, the new lecture hall lights were dimmed to rehearsal settings. The mezzanine overlooked it in clean, confident lines. The temporary safety barriers were gone.

In their place: glass anchors awaiting panels.

The drop was unobstructed.

Michaela walked the perimeter first. Habit. Always checking boundaries.

She paused at the eastern edge.

Wind pressed faintly through the open seam where glass would soon seal the view.

Francesca stayed in shadow near the stairwell.

She did not blink.

Michaela leaned forward slightly, assessing measurements.

She always led with her right foot near an edge.

Balance strong.

But forward-weighted.

Francesca calculated. Distance from railing to floor below: survivable? Possibly. Angle required for irreversible damage: 27 to 32 degrees of forced displacement. Surface friction coefficient: moderate. 

Witness density during gala peak: high.

Noise level during speech crescendo: optimal cover.

She stepped back into darkness.

Tomorrow would be louder.

Crowded.

Less controlled.

Better.

Michaela turned then, walking the full span of the mezzanine, counting paces beneath her breath — checking symmetry against architectural plans only she seemed to hold in her head.

Francesca matched the timing.

Thirty-two seconds from east end to west.

Three-second pause at center of the room so the audience could see the Highlands in the background. 

Fourteen seconds scanning lower hall, letting her words marinate over the donors. 

Everything about her was consistent.

Predictable.

Francesca’s pulse remained level.

The dossier had begun as strategy.

It had evolved into study.

Now it was instruction.

Michaela descended the staircase and made her way back to the main house. 

Then she moved.

Tomorrow, during donor remarks, Michaela would stand on the mezzanine’s centerline. She would gesture outward toward the valley. She would speak about permanence.

Anthony would be positioned slightly behind her left.

John near the base of the stairs.

Caterers would be clearing champagne flutes.

The crowd’s attention would be elevated — literally and figuratively.

All it would require was one step into her space, one controlled shift of her weight. One moment mistaken for misjudged footing.

Tragedy, in a building not yet fully secured.

Scotland would mourn.

The donors would double their pledges.

Legacy would remain intact.

Francesca stood in the dark corridor outside Michaela’s door that night.

Not breathing loudly. Not moving. Listening, making herself as scarce as possible to not draw any extra attention to herself right before her magnum opus.

She saw the light beneath the door extinguished and listened to the silence followed.

Francesca closed her eyes briefly.

Tomorrow required composure.

She returned to her room without sound, choosing not to open the laptop to see the MS folder on the desktop. She knew it by heart at this point. And she knew the margin of error for the kill: less than two seconds.

And Francesca Bridgerton had never missed her mark.

Gala night transformed Kilmartin.

The facade of the restored administrative building glowed against the Highland dark, uplighting warming the ancient stone while glass reflected candlelight and starlight alike. A quartet near the entrance played arrangements of traditional Scottish melodies — fiddle threaded with low cello — modern but rooted.

Inside, the lecture hall had become a gallery.

Scottish artists lined the walls — sweeping Highland landscapes in oil, abstract interpretations of Celtic knotwork in mixed media, stark photographic portraits of rural youth, steel sculptures shaped like wind-bent thistle. Small plaques beneath each piece bore the artist’s name and hometown. The art wasn’t decorative.

It was declarative.

This building belonged to Scotland.

Donors filtered in beneath crystal and timber beams, champagne flutes catching light. Anthony moved through the room with diplomatic ease. John handled pledges and introductions with polished efficiency.

Francesca observed.

The first donor expressed interest in the research suite after looking at a mockup of what the suite would look like after it was finished being build. A tech magnate from Edinburgh asked about naming the mezzanine, wanting to have his name plastered on it. 

Then through all the chatter, Michaela stepped forward to begin the formal program.

She stood at the base of the stairs first.

Not above them.

Among them.

“This building,” she began, voice clear but unforced, “was once where Kilmartin managed its land. Tonight, it begins managing something far more valuable.”

A subtle shift in the room.

“Opportunity.”

She spoke about rural education gaps. About access to digital infrastructure. About keeping talent in Scotland rather than exporting it. Not sentimental.

Strategic.

Then she invited the first student forward.

A girl of sixteen, hands steady despite the crowd. She spoke about traveling two hours for advanced coursework. About wanting to study environmental engineering but lacking lab access.

“This center,” she said, voice growing firmer, “means I don’t have to leave to matter.”

The donors softened.

Not dramatically.

But enough.

Two more testimonials followed — one from a local tradesman describing apprenticeship pathways, another from a university partner outlining mentorship programs.

Then Michaela gestured upward.

“If you’ll join us,” she said, “we’d like to show you the future.”

The mezzanine walk-through began.

Donors ascended in curated clusters. Champagne refilled halfway up the staircase to slow pace and manage spacing. Staff positioned subtly along edges.

The glass panels along the eastern wall had been installed that morning. Floor-to-ceiling clarity. The valley stretched beyond like a promise made visible.

Michaela stood at centerline.

Exactly as Francesca had predicted.

She gestured outward, describing the final east wing — still unnamed. Anthony stood slightly behind her left shoulder. John near the stair entrance.

Applause rose.

A pledge was made publicly — seven figures — for the research suite.

Another donor asked about endowment structuring.

The room swelled with approval.

Francesca watched Michaela as she spoke about permanence.

About the building and the legacy she wanted to go with it: something that outlasted them all.

For one suspended moment, the positioning was perfect.

The distance from the edge was minimal. The crowd of donors was dense, people bumping into each other to get a better look of what was created. The noise was loud as the notes from the quartet made their way through the school. 

Her body angled slightly forward.

Right foot leading.

One step, one shift would be enough. 

And Francesca did nothing.

Not because she couldn’t.

Because this was not the right stage.

Too visible.

Too symbolic.

Michaela deserved privacy.

Control.

Precision.

The applause crescendoed.

The tour concluded without incident and the formal program dissolved into dinner and music. Donors were satiated. Pledges logged. Smiles abundant.

Francesca approached Michaela. “You’ve earned a moment,” she said smoothly. “Anthony and John can manage the floor.”

Michaela exhaled — the first visible fatigue of the evening.

“Five minutes,” she agreed.

They crossed the courtyard together, the noise fading behind them. Gravel muted beneath their steps. The main house stood darker now, staff occupied elsewhere.

Inside, the corridors were dim.

Portraits watched from the walls.

“You were impressive tonight,” Francesca said quietly.

Michaela gave a small, tired huff of amusement. “That sounds like you’re surprised.”

“I’m rarely surprised.”

They reached Michaela’s door.

She opened it without suspicion.

The room was orderly. Bed turned down. Desk lamp casting soft amber light.

Michaela stepped inside first.

Francesca followed.

The door closed with a quiet click.

“You’ll want to review the final numbers tomorrow,” Francesca said, moving further into the room. “The east wing may not remain available for long.”

Michaela set her heels aside near the chair. “Good. It shouldn’t.”

Silence settled, heavier than it was between them at the gala.

Michaela turned toward her.

“And you?” she asked. “Did tonight meet your standards?”

Francesca stepped closer. Intentional.

“It exceeded them.”

Michaela searched her face — perhaps for irony, perhaps for challenge.

“You look,” Michaela said slowly, “almost proud.”

Francesca stopped within arm’s reach.

“I am,” she replied.

The admission hung there, and in the quiet of the room, something shifted. Time seemed to stretch. Francesca’s gaze locked on Michaela’s every micro-movement — the tilt of her head, the inhale, the subtle shift of weight from one foot to the other. She cataloged, memorized, anticipated. Every breath Michaela took, every flicker of expression, became a beat in a rhythm Francesca had studied long before.

And then, when the tension was taut enough, the moment was enough. One elbow to Michaela’s temple, practiced and exact. Michaela’s body sagged, unconscious, in Francesca’s arms.

Francesca carried her to the bed. The restraint kit was already in place: soft leather ties, secured carefully around wrists and ankles. Michaela’s limbs were bound, perfectly still, the only sound the faint exhale of unconscious breathing. Francesca paused, kneeling at the bedside, tracing the line of Michaela’s jaw, her thoughts racing.

This was the culmination of everything Francesca had observed: the careful construction of Michaela’s public persona, her disciplined habits, the mirrored structure of the Stirling influence in Scotland. Every accolade, every calculated gesture now converged here — at Kilmartin, in a quiet room, stripped of audience and applause.

Michaela stirred. Eyes blinking open slowly. Awareness creeping in.

Recognition hit first — the bed, the restraints, Francesca’s precise calm. Then comprehension: Debling. Nigel. Cressida. Everything fell into place.

“You…” Michaela whispered. Her voice trembled but carried steel beneath it. “You killed them.”

“I did what needed to be done,” Francesca replied softly, almost apologetically.

Michaela’s gaze sharpened. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” Francesca admitted. “Or maybe I’m just like you.”

The tension snapped between them like a live wire. Words became a dangerous duel. Michaela pushed at Francesca, trying to leverage the few inches of movement she had, testing limits. Francesca leaned close, knife in hand, precise, poised — but she didn’t strike the lethal spot. Instead, the blade scraped beside Michaela’s temple. The warning was clear.

Michaela’s breath hitched. “You…you’re fucking unhinged.”

Francesca’s lips hovered near hers. “Unhinged? Or calculated?”

She pulled back slightly, just enough to let the space between them crackle with danger. Francesca’s eyes never left Michaela’s, reading every flinch, every microreaction. 

“Calculated,” Francesca said softly, almost a whisper. “Everything I’ve done… every choice… led me here. The minute you walked into the Foundation office, I knew it was only a matter of time before we would end up like this.” 

Francesca let the knife hover for a heartbeat longer, the point inches from Michaela’s temple. Then, just as deliberately, she eased it aside, leaving a line of tension instead of blood.

Michaela’s eyes didn’t leave Francesca’s. Every inhale she drew was shallow, measured, as if she were already calculating her next move despite the restraints.

“You’ve been watching me,” Michaela said, voice low but steady. “Every word. Every gesture. Every… routine.”

“I’ve been learning,” Francesca replied, the knife’s tip tracing an idle line along the edge of the bed. “Not just observing. Understanding. Anticipating. You’re meticulous, Michaela. Precise. Just like me.”

A flicker of fear — or was it fascination? — crossed Michaela’s face. Francesca could taste it. She leaned closer, the knife never fully leaving her hand, just hovering, teasing.

“You think you’re untouchable,” Francesca whispered, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from Michaela’s face, “but here, there’s no audience. No polished image. No rehearsed applause. Just us.”

Michaela’s jaw tightened. “And what the hell does ‘just us’ mean to you?”

Francesca smiled faintly, sharp and dangerous. “It means… everything we’ve built, everything you’ve built… comes to one point. Right here. Right now.”

The knife scraped lightly against the bedsheet, a metallic whisper that made Michaela flinch. Francesca pressed closer, the heat between them immediate and undeniable. Lips nearly brushing, breath mingling, but the danger — the knife — kept Michaela tethered to reality. 

“I could,” Francesca whispered, letting the tip hover near Michaela’s temple for a heartbeat, “end this in an instant. Just one motion…” Her voice trailed off as her hands slid over Michaela’s bound wrists, pressing lightly, almost reverent.

Michaela’s lips parted, a quiet defiance in her eyes. “You killed them. Why not me?”

Francesca’s jaw tightened. She pulled the knife back slightly, then, in one swift, fluid motion, drove it into the mattress beside Michaela’s head — sharp, loud enough to jolt them both. The sound echoed in the quiet room, a violent punctuation. Francesca froze immediately, the adrenaline spike cracking something inside her.

She stepped back, chest heaving, gripping the knife tighter than necessary. “I… I can’t,” she admitted, voice trembling. Her eyes met Michaela’s, unguarded now. “I can’t kill you.”

The tension hung heavy, broken only by the ragged exhale of both women. Francesca lowered the knife completely, letting it rest on the sheets, and leaned forward, forehead brushing Michaela’s. Slowly, deliberately, she pressed her lips to Michaela’s — tentative at first, then claiming, urgent, desperate.

The knife, still in Francesca’s hand, rested lightly against the mattress. A dangerous prop in their chaos, it gleamed faintly in the dim light — a reminder of everything that had brought them to this impossible moment.

Breath mingled, bodies pressed close, the line between obsession and intimacy blurred completely. The unspoken history, the murders, the stalking, the mirrored perfection of their lives — all of it was there in the heat between them. And for the first time, Francesca let herself feel it fully: the thrill, the fear, the connection.

Francesca’s hands slid along Michaela’s restrained form, careful but unrelenting, mapping the tension and heat in real time. Michaela’s sharp intake of breath echoed between them, a mixture of fear, arousal, and acknowledgment of the chaos Francesca embodied.

“You’re insane,” Michaela murmured against her lips, but the tremor in her voice betrayed more than just fear.

“Or…” Francesca whispered back, voice low, “exactly what you’ve been looking for.”

Francesca’s lips lingered against Michaela’s, the heat and danger between them electric. The knife rested on the sheets, a silent witness. Michaela’s chest rose and fell rapidly, her eyes dark, sharp, and assessing.

Then Michaela tilted her head, her voice low, husky, carrying that same calm but deadly precision Francesca had come to know.

“Bring that knife back over here,” she said, almost a command, almost a challenge. “Don’t pretend you’re not going to use it.”

Francesca froze, a shiver running down her spine — part fear, part thrill. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted the knife, letting it hover again, the tip tracing the line of Michaela’s jaw.

Michaela’s lips parted, and for the first time, Francesca saw it: the mirrored calculation, the same obsession, the same darkness she’d admired — and feared — in herself. Michaela wasn’t afraid. Michaela was ready.

“And don’t think I’m innocent here,” Michaela whispered, the tension in her voice taut and dangerous. “I’ve done things… things you wouldn’t believe.”

Francesca’s grip on the knife tightened slightly, but her other hand slid over Michaela’s bound wrists, teasing, mapping, testing.

“Good,” Francesca murmured. “Because I’m not stopping either.”

Francesca’s eyes lingered on Michaela, calculating, precise. The knife, once a weapon, became a tool, tracing lightly along seams and edges of the fabric that clung to Michaela.

“Stay still,” Francesca murmured, voice low, dangerous. Michaela didn’t flinch — instead, her eyes darkened with anticipation, almost challenging Francesca to take the next step.

With deliberate, practiced motions, Francesca drew the blade along the lines of Michaela’s clothing, cutting silently where it wouldn’t harm her skin, letting the fabric fall away in controlled strips. Each movement was measured, intimate, charged with the same thrill that had pulsed through them since the first touch.

Michaela’s breath hitched, body reacting before her mind could. The bonds of the bed were taut, but every inch freed from fabric made the tension between them unbearable.

Francesca’s hands followed, brushing over skin now exposed, mapping, exploring, teasing. Michaela responded instinctively, pressing against the knife and Francesca’s touch, eyes locked, hearts racing, danger and desire entwined.

Francesca moved her lips away from Michaela’s and brought them to her neck, sucking on the exposed skin. Her left hand moved to Michaela’s chest, palming her breast in it while her right hand stayed on the handle of the knife, to the side.

She used her years of piano experience to play with Michaela’s nipple. She rolled it between her fingertips before twisting it and biting down at the skin right below her ear at the same time. 

“Fuck,” Michaela groaned out as Francesca used her body for her pleasure, and arched her back slightly to get more attention from the girl on top of her. 

Francesca smiled as she continued to attack her neck, listening to Michaela wither under her. She kissed her way up from her neck to her ear. 

“Are you begging for me, Michaela?” Francesca asked in a low voice, teasing her while still playing with her nipples, although this time switching hands. 

Michaela moaned at Francesca’s ministrations. “If I admit to it is there a chance you can free one of my hands?” 

Francesca pulled back, removing all contact away from Michaela, who whined at the loss of contact. “I think I’m going to need a little bit more from you, if that’s what you want Michaela.” 

Michaela’s eyes locked on to Francesca’s, “Francesca, I need you. So fucking bad right now. I just want to be able to touch you while you use me however you want me.” 

Francesca dove back in to Michaela’s lips while grabbing the knife and cutting one of the leather ties around her hands. “Because you asked so nicely,” she said while kissing down her body, “I’ll allow it,” before cutting one of the ties around her ankles too. 

“Thank you,” Michaela said, reaching out with her free hand to grab Francesca. “Now get back up here so I can properly kiss you.” 

Francesca moved back to Michaela’s lips as she felt Michaela’s hand grab her hair at the base of her skull. 

“You and I,” Francesca said against her lips, “are one in the same.” 

Michaela smirked, “How so, Francesca?” as she moved to find the zipper behind Francesca. 

“We’re both from old money families and we work to invest our money into something that will live long after we’re both gone,” Francesca said as she guided Michaela’s hand to the zipper on her side. “But most importantly, we’d both do anything to protect the things we love.” 

Michaela surged forward, grabbing the zipper with her teeth as she pulled it down, exposing Francesca’s ribs to her mouth. 

Francesca pulled back on more time, and slipped the unzippered dress off of her body. She picked up the knife once again before running it over her own naked body. 

Michaela watched her in a trance as Francesca moved the blade over her skin, not caring if it nicked her or not. She moved her free hand over her body, mimicking the movements Francesca was doing. 

Francesca smiled as she saw what Michaela was doing tied to the bed. She dragged the blade over her inner arms first, then her neck, before landing on her lower stomach, not allowing it to pass any lower. 

Michaela did the same, but as she began to pass her hand towards her vagina, she saw Francesa’s head there in a flash as she felt a long flick of Francesa’s tongue against her clit. Instinctively, Michaela put her hand on Francesca’s head to keep her in place. 

Francesca looked up at Michaela through hooded eyes as she felt the pressure of her hand on the back of her head. She put her left hand, holding the knife, on her stomach to stabilize her as she took her right hand and placed it on her thigh to spread her legs apart further. 

She continued to lap at Michaela’s clit as she felt Michaela lift her hips off the bed and grinding them on her face for more friction. She moved her hand away from her thigh and inched it slowly to her center, adding in one finger. 

“Francesca. Fuck,” Michaela chocked out as she felt Francesca curl her finger inside of her. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.” 

“Begging aren’t we,” Francesca said. “Beg some more and maybe I’ll let you.” 

Francesca added a second finger, and curled them inside, coaxing Michaela to cum. 

Michaela felt Francesca nibble the slightest bit at her clit. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck Fran. Don’t stop,” she whined now. “Please don’t stop. Please, please, please.” 

Francesca pushed her stomach further into the bed while increasing her tempo. “Let go for me Michaela,” she murmured against her clit. 

Michaela felt the her eyes roll to the back of her head and she felt Francesca’s fingers fuck her through her orgasm. 

Francesca quickly pulled them out of her and then took Michaela’s free leg and pushed it up into the air. She repositioned herself so that their clits lined up and started to grind her hips into hers. 

Michaela’s eyes grew wide once again with Francesca on top of her. She used her free hand to push herself off the bed slightly to play with Francesca’s nipples. 

Francesca just smirked as she saw Michaela pull against the remaining restraints to touch her body. She pushed Michaela back down against the bed and forced the fingers that were just inside her in her mouth. 

Michaela started to suck on them slow, matching the pace Francesca was grinding her hips at, tasting herself on her fingers. She began to increase her tempo as a way to have Francesca speed up, but Francesca saw right through Michaela. 

She grabbed the knife once again and pressed it under her chin. 

“Don’t try and take control Michaela,” Francesca said, stopping her hips as a whole. “Remember who has all the power here.” 

All Michaela could do was nod to Francesca’s command and slowed her tongue against her fingers again. 

Francesca once again began to grind her hips against Michaela, this time speeding up slightly. She pushed her fingers deeper into Michaela’s mouth as well, wanting to watch her choke on them. 

She took them out of her mouth and dragged over her chest. She reached forward and cut the remaining leather tie off of Michaela’s hand, leaving her one of her ankles remaining bound. 

“Oops,” Francesca said while smirking, “look at the mess I made.” 

Michaela fully surged forward and wrapped her arms around Francesca’s body, licking the saliva off of her chest. She also slipped Francesca’s nipples in her mouth as well. 

Francesca threw her head back, a broken moan escaping as Michaela’s mouth moved over her skin, trying to erase the evidence of saliva, of teeth, of control. Her hips never stopped moving. She chased the high with ruthless focus.

She hadn’t listened to the voices.

She hadn’t killed Michaela.

But tying her up. Watching her struggle. Feeling her yield.

It was enough.

Her mind fractured into flashes — Alfred Debling. Nigel Berbrooke. Cressida Cowper. The blade entering flesh. The exact angle. The warmth. The silence afterward.

The same rush surged now — not blood, but breath. Not death, but surrender.

Francesca groaned first, the sound raw and unguarded as pleasure overtook her. Not identical to killing.

But close.

Michaela followed with a cry of her own, body arching despite the lingering restraint.

Francesca’s breaths came ragged as she eased back, hands shaking slightly now. She reached down and released the final leather tie from Michaela’s ankle.

The knife slipped from her fingers and clattered against the hardwood floor.

Not dropped in panic.

Dropped because she no longer needed it.

She fell back onto the bed beside Michaela, chest rising and falling hard.

Michaela turned onto her side immediately, not recoiling. Not afraid. She pulled Francesca in by the waist, deliberate and sure.

Her fingers brushed hair away from Francesca’s ear.

Then she leaned in and whispered, soft but certain:

“I know if I’m haunting you… you must be haunting me.”