Chapter Text
Michaela wakes in a bed that is not hers.
Her headaches, and she knows exactly why. She drank way too much last night.
And more than that—there is someone beside her.
She can feel their presence before even looking. The warmth, the weight. The faint shift of another's breath against the quiet of the room.
A woman. She remembers enough to know she left the pub with a woman. That much, at least, is clear.
The rest comes in fragments—laughter, a hand at her sleeve, the burn of something much stronger than what was ordered. And she had ordered plenty.
As she slowly opens her eyes, light spills through the narrow gap in the curtains, bright and unrelenting. It presses against her skull, and she winces, shutting her eyes again at once. She exhales slowly, steadies herself, and tries again—this time prepared for the assault of it against her senses.
When her eyes finally adjust, she does not look toward the window again. Instead, she turns her head.
The woman lies with her back to her; red hair fanned loosely across a white pillowcase. One arm is tucked beneath her cheek, the other curled toward the empty space Michaela has already begun to leave behind.
Michaela studies her for a moment. She cannot see her face.
Worse—she cannot quite remember it. Maybe for the better. It is easier this way after all.
She draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, anchoring herself in the quiet. Then, with practiced care, she slips from the bed.
No sudden movement. No unnecessary sound. She has done this often enough to know exactly how little it takes to wake someone.
For a moment, she actually considers staying. Long enough to place the woman.
Long enough to decide whether the night had been worth remembering.
The thought lingers a moment.
She is already late.
Her gaze flicks back once more, catching again on the spill of red against white. She exhales through her nose, a small, quiet release, and turns away.
There is no use in it.
She gathers her things quickly, pulling on what she can without thought. Her small clothes, her stockings—mismatched in their haste—then she crosses the room in near silence, lifting her black riding dress from where it has been draped over the back of a chair. It settles over her shoulders with familiar weight and by the time she reaches the door, she has already collected the remainder of her things.
Shoes in hand, she slips out into the corridor and closes the door behind her with a soft, decisive click.
The morning greets her less kindly.
Sunlight strikes her full in the face as she turns, and she groans under her breath, squinting against it as she crouches to force her feet into her shoes. The street is brighter than she would prefer. Far too awake, but it really can't be helped.
She straightens up and begins scanning her surroundings quickly.
No carriage in sight. Thomas cannot be far.
As her eyes hunt for him, her thoughts begin to return in pieces.
How long will John have been waiting now?
Mum will have my hide for this.
Dammit, Michaela. We’ve only just gotten to London.
Her steps quicken with each thought.
She passes a printing shop, its door propped open to the morning air. A modiste further along, already attended. Two pubs—quieter now, their doors shut, their purpose spent for the night.
The streets are thinner at this hour. The ton, no doubt, is at breakfast, as she ought to be.
The thought lands with more guilt than irritation.
Her mother and father had been relentless on the matter of punctuality, presentation and precision. They believed there was a correct way to exist within society, and it began, apparently, with being on time.
She had never quite managed it. Her father, especially, had taken issue with that.
And for many a reason, she had taken issue with him.
Still, the habit had remained.
She supposes it is better to indulge it now—while she still can. This evening will not allow for such liberties.
With that thought, the reminder of tonight's ball settles uneasily in her mind and she curses under her breath.
If it were left to her, she would not go at all. She has never had much patience for the performance of society.
Give her the countryside over Mayfair any day—space, fresh air, and not having to endure being watched quite so closely.
Still. The city has its uses.
A faint smirk touches her mouth, uninvited, and she glances back over her shoulder, the townhouse from which she left is long since out of sight.
She wonders, briefly, whether she could find it again should she ever go looking. Most likely, she wouldn’t.
It was in her nature to keep her physical encounters brief, and tried not to make a habit of revisiting her past dalliances.
Over the years, she had learned it was best not to linger—best not to allow those shared moments of pleasure the space to become… well, something more than what it was.
Reprieve, for the night.
So, she keeps it light. Brief. And it works. It has always worked.
Which is precisely why—
In her distracted haze, she collides, without warning, into something solid.
Michaela stiffens, stepping back at once, her head snapping up—
—and finds Thomas directly in front of her.
“Oy—Miss Stirling!”
He is slightly out of breath, a touch flushed, as though he has been moving faster than dignity would prefer.
“I’ve been looking for you all over.”
“Please. Not so loud,” Michaela mutters, lifting a hand briefly to her temple. “I’ve a splitting headache—and we are already late.”
His expression shifts at once, alarm replacing his confusion.
“Of course, Miss Stirling. Right this way.”
His voice drops accordingly as he gestures toward the street behind him.
“I’ve the carriage just around the corner.”
“Good,” she says, already moving. “Then do try to keep up.”
He blinks once, then hurries to comply.
Michaela does not slow.
The carriage ride home is not a long one, but it feels as though it drags on for ages.
Michaela sits opposite Thomas, one hand braced tightly against the seat as the wheels catch over uneven stone. Each jolt visibly makes her wince, the pain traveling cleanly through her spine and settling somewhere behind her eyes, sharp and unyielding.
She breathes through it slowly, willing her stomach to remain where it is, and keeps her gaze fixed ahead. And it does help, but not nearly enough.
Across from her, Thomas watches her out the corner of his eye. His concern is quiet and restrained, pressed thin between duty and familiarity. But he says nothing and Michaela is grateful for it.
Thomas knows Ms. Stirling’s mother will likely be giving her an earful this morning upon her arrival, and there’s no need to belabor the point.
Knowing her mother, he will probably be receiving a talking to as well, for taking her. As if he could refuse orders.
He tries not to think about it, and they ride on in silence.
The Stirling house comes into view much sooner than Michaela would like. All of its stone and status. And expectations.
She straightens slightly, drawing her shoulders back into something composed as the carriage comes to a slow stop.
This was to be a very important day. Her cousin John—the Earl of Kilmartin—is to take a wife.
Well, not exactly that. But he was expected to begin his search for one.
And it will surely cause a stir among the ton.
For ambitious mamas in search of money and security, John would make a honorable selection for any one of their daughters, and they would surely take no hesitation in thrusting them upon him.
Michaela wonders how he will take to that.
John is quiet. Careful. Thoughtful, too. A good man.
Growing up closely, he had been more a brother to her than a cousin. And she finds herself wondering what he might look for in a wife.
It is not a question she has ever bothered to ask.
No, she made a point of avoiding the topic of marriage altogether.
Because, while John is expected to take a wife, her mother has spared no expense in reminding Michaela of her own duties.
It is her responsibility to take a husband. To secure her place in society.
The thought makes her stomach turn in a way that has nothing to do with too much drink. She had no interest in marriage.
A man would bring her no satisfaction. And her freedoms would be compromised, pared down into something small, if it were to even exist at all.
Michaela didn’t know if she could bear that, as her freedom was one of the few things she had left that remained her own.
She knew her current arrangements were unusual. But she was unusual. And the matter of her presentation only complicated things further.
An alpha. And a woman. How terribly inconvenient.
Her lips press together as the carriage comes to a full stop in front of the Stirling house.
Thomas steps down first, offering her his hand. She reaches out to take it without comment and steps onto the pavement.
The Stirling House stands as it always has—deep greens and golds marking its presence, less ornamental than others in Mayfair but no less intentional.
On the inside, the rooms are arranged with precision; high ceilings, tall windows, symmetry carried through in polished mahogany and careful detail. Even the staff, in their green and gold liveries, reinforce the same sense of order.
It suits John well; in a way it had never quite suited her. But all the same, the door opens before she reaches it and the doorman welcomes her warmly.
“Welcome home, Ms. Stirling.”
She gives him a brief nod and moves past him without pause.
There is no time for further pleasantries.
She takes the stairs two at a time, retreating quickly to her chambers. The state she arrived in will not do. Her tardiness would already require explanation; she would not allow for her appearance to draw further criticism.
And so, she changes without ceremony. A more modest arrangement this time—dark blue, structured, appropriate. Nothing that invites attention. Nothing that requires any additional comment.
When she is satisfied—or at least presentable—she returns to the main floor.
The morning room is already occupied. As expected.
John sits at the table, near the window, the morning paper held neatly in his hands. He looks well rested. Unbothered and entirely at ease.
Michaela pauses in the doorway. She studies him for a moment before clearing her throat.
He looks up with a start.
“Michaela!” he exclaims. “I was almost to believe that you were no longer coming.”
She offers him her best practiced smile.
“Of course I’d come, dear cousin.”
He glances at his pocket watch; one brow lifted slightly in jest, and she fights the genuine smile that threatens at her lips.
He does not say anything more. He does not need to.
She reaches for an English muffin, making quick work of spreading raspberry marmalade over it as she takes her seat across from him.
“And where’s Mama?” she asks, lightly—carefully—doing her best to appear indifferent.
John sets the paper aside and looks at her knowingly.
“I fear her patience does not extend quite so far as mine,” he says. “She has taken to the gardens.”
Michaela nods. That sounds about right.
John does not add anything else, and so she begins taking small, measured bites of her food.
She is allowed to eat in silence for a time, and she indulges in it fully, as she knows it probably won’t last too much longer. And as predicted, after another moment, John does break the silence.
“Today will be a hard day for her,” he says. Then, after a pause, “For you as well, I presume.”
Michaela looks at him quizzically.
“It’s not like you’re marrying me off tonight,” she snorts.
He laughs, lifting his hands in surrender.
“No, no. I would not dare.” A pause. Then, more carefully, “But you know what I mean.”
“She wants you to find something… real. As do I.” His gaze drops briefly, before his eyes are on her again with renewed feeling. “And it is not lost on me that all of this is happening without them.”
Her expression stills.
“My father. Yours. It is just us now.”
The weight of it lands like a punch to the gut and she swallows back the tears that prick at her eyes.
Without thinking, Michaela reaches across the table and takes his hand.
“You need not concern yourself with me, John,” she says. “I am rarely without company.”
She intends it lightly, even tries to smile, but he does not receive it that way. He knows her much too well.
Instead, he studies her for a moment—long enough that she considers withdrawing her hand—before deciding against it.
This was John, after all. She knows he means well.
The quiet returns. Briefly.
And then—
“—Is she here?!” Her mother.
The voice cuts through the room before the figure does. Michaela exhales once, already bracing herself for what's to come.
There is no avoiding this.
“Michaela Josephine Stirling!”
Her mother enters in a sweep of movement and indignation, the full force of her attention landing at once.
Michaela does not rise and she does not speak. There is nothing she could say that would improve this situation.
Her mother, fortunately—or unfortunately—required no further assistance stirring a conversation.
“You know perfectly well what today is! Where could you have possibly gone off to? We have not even been in town a full day, and already—”
The rest follows in quick succession. Colored in anger. Michaela lets it pass over her.
She knows interrupting would only prolong it.
“I do not even wish to know where you have been,” her mother finishes, drawing herself up. “Finish your breakfast. You should already be preparing.”
Michaela grimaces—just slightly.
Yes. That would be the next thing to do.
She glances once at John, who offers her something between sympathy and helplessness, then she rises.
Right then. Let's get this over with.
When day falls to night, Michaela finds herself returned—and resigned—to her carriage once again.
This time, with even less morale than her earlier, bottle-weary form.
All she can hope for is that the evening passes quickly, and without spectacle.
This is her last thought before the carriage slows. The change in pace is subtle at first—the rhythm beneath her feet shifting. Then the full stop follows, decisive enough that she feels it in her stomach.
Outside, there’s voices. Movement. The faint swell of arriving guests. And for a moment, she does not move, frozen in place.
Michaela exhales once, steadying herself, before reaching for the door.
But opens before she can take it.
And cool evening air replaces the close warmth of the carriage.
Lanterns flicker along the steps, catching against silk and polished shoes as guests arrive in steady succession. Voices overlap. Laughter rises and falls.
Light spills outward from the house, bright enough to press upon her senses with urgency.
She steps down and John is already there, steady as ever, his arm extended toward her. They share a look—brief, wordless, and entirely understood.
And so, it begins.
The Stirling cousins make assured strides to the door.
She makes a point not to cause them any delay. There’s no protest that would make a bit of difference anyway.
And as much as she dreads the night for herself, she finds she does not dread it for him.
For John, she allows herself something closer to hope. And though she would rather be nearly anywhere else, she is glad—at least—that she can here stand beside him.
Her support is the least he deserves, as he has always stood beside her. Unwavering. Without question, and now it was her turn to be there for him.
So, together, they enter the ballroom.
The space opens around them all at once, a large chandelier burns overhead, and the glow of it scatters across the polished floors, reflecting movement in soft, shifting fragments.
The expanse of the ballroom is dressed in excess with florals spilling from every surface, roses and climbing arrangements woven into panels along the walls, color layered upon color until it feels almost theatrical.
Candlelight gathers in warm pockets, softened further by the height of the ceilings and the breadth of the windows.
At the far end, a raised dais waits—empty, for now—framed in rich drapery where the Queen will eventually sit and observe if she is to be in attendance tonight.
The room is already half full, but more will come. Maybe even the Queen among them.
Michaela exhales, letting a breath pass between her lips in a slow, imperceptible stream of air, and as they step forward together, measured and composed—she feels it at once. The attention of the ton.
Eyes turn. Not all at once, but enough that it becomes noticeable. And it is an unsettling feeling.
It always has been.
To be so plainly—so unapologetically—perceived. She is not certain she will ever grow accustomed to it.
Her gaze moves across the room, searching for something familiar.
It has been some time since she last stood in London.
That absence had been intentional. But, in some parts, it had not been.
Her father had thought it necessary to leave, and she had not bothered to argue. She had not wished to be here anymore when her body began to change.
The memories she carries of her time here—of schooling, of her childhood—are not unpleasant.
But they are difficult. They belong to a version of her that no longer exists.
A life that does not fit as neatly as it once did.
She does not have the opportunity to let her mind linger here long as John leans in slightly toward her to speak.
“I shall fetch us some lemonade,” he says quietly.
She nods. Grateful, if she is honest, for the moment alone. Her mind was beginning to take a dangerous turn and she needed time to self regulate.
Alone now, she resumes her quiet survey of the room.
The Featheringtons.
She recognizes them after a moment—the mother first, then the daughters arranged beside her. There is something faintly familiar about their family, or at least their youngest—Penelope, she thinks.
She can dimly recall lending her a book once or twice.
Or perhaps, it had actually been the other way around. The memory does not settle cleanly.
Penelope herself is not immediately visible, but her the remainder of her family stand at the edge of the room, with their posture carrying a kind of strained anticipation.
Michaela continues to look pointedly around the ballroom.
Just then, another face catches her attention.
Cressida Cowper.
That one she remembers clearly.
A flicker of something softer moves through her at the memory surrounding the woman.
She had liked her once, in her youth.
Not in the way one speaks of now, not with any clarity or understanding—but enough that she could remember gathering daisies and buttercups with clumsy, earnest hands and offering them up without thinking to make anything of it.
She can remember the assortment of flowers and stems, bent and uneven in her hand.
Michaela had thought them very fine gifts at the time.
She was her first girl she ever admired.
But, certainly not the last.
And Cressida looks much the same now. Refined and composed. Entirely within her place. There in her skin. And here among higher society.
Michaela’s gaze drops, almost unconsciously, to her own smudged reflection in the polished floor—then to the red of her gown.
The color is bold. Deep, saturated, and cut close enough at the bodice to suggest shape without yielding control.
It was not the sort of dress designed to let one disappear quiet and unnoticed into the night, and it had not been selected for that purpose.
Really, it had not been selected by her at all, this was all her mother’s doing.
And as she takes in her own appearance, her thoughts race through the past.
A different time.
A different person.
A different life.
John returns before she can follow that line of thinking, pressing a small glass into the palm of her hand.
She takes it gratefully, lifting it to her lips.
The musicians begin a light arrangement, delicate and well-practiced. And for a moment, she finds she rather enjoys it.
But, the moment does not last.
A gentleman approaches—nervous enough that she can sense it before he even speaks.
He stumbles through his introductions slightly, his greetings hovering somewhere between formed and altogether abandoned. It was as if he already believed he wouldn't stand a chance.
He really wasn't far off in that assumption, so selfishly, she does not extend herself to help guide him through the awkwardness of it. Instead, she allows the silence to stretch just long enough that he falters fully.
And when he does, he recovers poorly, and offers something that is not quite a proper farewell, and takes his leave.
When he is entirely gone, Michaela releases a relieved sigh. That had been manageable.
But the second suitor does not afford her the same mercy. He approaches with ample confidence—too much of it, in fact—and asks her directly for a dance.
Knowing she cannot refuse him without societal remark, she does not.
The dance is exactly as she expects.
He speaks of his holdings. His income. His rank. The breadth of his estate, the efficiency of his management, and the advantages of his name.
He does not ask her a single question about herself. But, Michaela nods where it is appropriate and responds when necessary.
Halfway through the number she begins to count.
Each measure of the live music is marked in her mind. Every trill tracked, and every lull endured.
When the dance does finally comes to an end, she hurriedly curtsies, excuses herself, and returns quickly to John.
He is smiling when she reaches him.
“Four,” he says under his breath.
She blinks. “Excuse me?”
“Mamas,” he clarifies. “Daughters, too. I believe I have been assessed from every possible angle.”
She huffs something like a laugh.
“I am impressed,” she admits. “That many in such a short span of time?”
“Not short enough,” he replies dryly. And she couldn’t agree more.
She begins recounting her own experience—but she does not get far before another wave of suitors descend on her like wolves.
Not gradually, but all at once, several men gather with an unmistakable urgency.
John cranes his neck slightly away from her, poorly disguising his clear amusement, and she fixes him with an unamused look.
He does not help her, however, and she is quickly, and involuntarily, swept away with it.
It takes a better part of an hour for Michaela to finally get any reprieve.
Navigating conversation after conversation—surface level at best—and after dancing with three of the four gentlemen who had ambushed her, Michaela finally succeeds in extracting herself.
She takes the first unoccupied corner she sees and allows herself a breath, shoulders settling a fraction—
—and then she sees her mother.
For goodness sake.
Approaching swiftly towards her. And in tow with her is Lady Danbury.
Ah. Of course. Agatha Danbury.
Michaela remembers her well enough—an almost aunt-like figure in her childhood, close to both her mother and her father, and sharp-eyed even then.
Their embrace is immediate and warm. And gone just as quickly.
“So,” Lady Danbury begins, already assessing, “your mother tells me you are in search of a love match this season.”
Michaela’s eyes flick, briefly, to her mother.
She pretends not to see the impatient look written plainly across her features.
Yes, she would have done.
Her urgency on the matter had never been subtle.
“She has also informed me,” Lady Danbury continues, her gaze lowering—pointed, deliberate—“of your… situation.”
Michaela stills. The glance is brief, but unmistakable, and heat rises to her cheeks.
Lady Danbury continues, undeterred.
“You and your cousin John, he—”
John. Where is John?
Michaela’s gaze shifts, scanning. He had been around here earlier. He should be here now.
But he is not, and she is cornered, alone.
Lady Danbury is still speaking, though the words pass in disjointed pieces—half-heard, half-lost.
The distinct tap of her walking stick against the floor pulls Michaela back to the present conversation.
“—so yes,” she finishes. “I should be delighted to assist you. A Debling, perhaps. Or even a Bridgerton. A suitor who will be discreet and unopposed to your condition.”
Bridgerton.
The name lands with a feeling akin to devastation. And her mind moves before she can stop it.
Benedict.
Anthony.
Colin.
She had been very close to them once.
“Quite certain they are all here somewhere,” Lady Danbury adds, looking around the room.
Michaela finds herself looking too. Searching.
But nothing resolves, and so she turns back to Lady Danbury.
“I appreciate your concern,” she begins, steady enough, “but I assure you I do not require assistance. I actually—”
“Michaela Stirling. Might I have this dance?”
Another damned suitor.
Rokesby, she thinks. She can't be bothered to recall or care.
Lady Danbury smiles at this and Michaela fights the scowl that threatens to break to the surface of her composed expression.
“No,” Lady Danbury says mildly, “I suppose you do not.” And just like that, Michaela is pulled away, yet again, to the dance floor.
Thankfully, this dance passes quickly, and when it ends, she wastes no time—slipping free, searching once more for John.
She finds him at last, his back is turned, and he appears to be deeply engaged in conversation.
He turns mid-sentence and sees her out of the corner of his eye.
“Aha! Here she is now, my cousin—”
“Michaela Stirling,” she supplies, stepping forward, extending her hand.
Two women stand before her. And she is immediately relieved to have safe haven.
The first woman is a bit shorter than the other, with dark brown hair and a look on her face that suggests that she too would rather be anywhere else. Michaela takes immediate comfort in having found a kindred spirit.
“Eloise,” She says. Michaela nods, shaking her hand with genuine contentment.
And in that moment, it hits her.
Not a sight. Not a sound. But something altogether more primitive—a warmth dropping into her chest without warning, deep and unrelenting, like the way heat radiates off stone that has been in the sun all afternoon.
Jasmine perfume.
Sweet and soft, cutting straight through the candle wax and the press of two hundred bodies into a single ballroom, as though none of it even existed.
And beneath the jasmine, was something warmer, more private, that the jasmine was never going to be able to mask.
She knows immediately what it is.
After all, she has been navigating this particular terrain since she was seventeen years old and had developed, out of pure necessity, a very reliable sense of it.
Most alphas did.
The ability to read a room was not out of social curiosity—it was survival, especially for someone like her, who could not afford to be caught off-guard by her own instincts in public.
And at the present moment, she found herself very grateful that she had taken her suppressant before leaving the house tonight. Though, she always did.
It was what every proper, unbonded alpha was expected to do in shared company—a matter of basic decorum, like wearing gloves, or like keeping one’s voice down indoors.
The alternative was considered deeply ill-mannered, the olfactory equivalent of making a scene, and Michaela had never been remotely interested in making scenes.
But her suppressants only worked in one direction.
They could quiet what she put into the air. But they could do nothing about what she caught from someone else.
And what she is catching now, from somewhere just to her left and not nearly far enough away, is doing something very inconvenient to her composure.
She turns her head.
And that is a second blow entirely.
Part of her can’t even believe what she is seeing. This woman—
She is absolutely, unambiguously, the most beautiful woman Michaela has ever seen in her life. And Michaela has seen a great many women.
Her heart does something her ribs were not designed to contain. Her mind, which she has always trusted to be sensible, goes briefly and completely blank.
But thankfully, habit intervenes and she recovers. Though, it takes just a moment longer than she would like.
She thinks somewhere, at the back of her mind, she hears her own voice prompt—And you are?
And it is enough to anchor her in the present moment. And yet—so lost in thought, Michaela only just becomes aware, belatedly, that she is being spoken to. That she is being offered a name.
She nearly misses it. And she completely misses the slight hesitation with which it is given.
Francesca.
A beautiful name. Michaela thinks she should like to hear it on her own tongue, and in a much different setting.
She realizes at once, how inappropriate that thought really is, and banishes it away quickly.
It is only a moment later—a moment too late—that she realizes Francesca’s hand had been extended, waiting expectantly. And that she had not taken it.
That she had been looking—too long, perhaps—at her face, at her mouth.
Something in her recoils at the offered hand.
Not in aversion.
The very opposite of aversion, which is exactly the difficulty.
They are already standing too close—closer than an introduction strictly required, and close enough that Michaela can catch her scent a bit more properly now, without the noise of the room getting in the way.
That warmer, quieter note, just beneath the jasmine, calls to her in such a way, that no amount of perfume would ever have been designed well enough to fully conceal—the fragrance is specific, unguarded and pure. Entirely unaware of itself.
And though it is faint, she finds herself seeking out more of it subconsciously.
It was wrong.
Michaela knew an unbonded omega had no means of controlling what scent they gave off. It was much the same for alphas too.
They can mask it, yes, partially and imperfectly, in the way that perfume had always been used to serve a dual purpose in polite society without anyone ever saying so directly. But mask was not the same as hide. She was sure nothing could hide this.
And innocent Francesca almost certainly did not know. That was the thing about omegas who had never been told—and plenty were never told, not properly, because the subject was so thoroughly avoided in respectable households that the education simply never came.
They felt things they couldn’t name. They put things into the air they weren’t aware of. They stood in ballrooms extending their hands to strangers and had absolutely no idea what they were doing to the stranger in question.
Michaela’s alpha nature pulled against its restraint with a directness she had not felt in some time. She had never felt this before.
She did not take the offered hand.
If I feel all this without having ever touched her…
Better not.
Instead, she withdraws her own hand and curtsies in its place.
It was a small, quick correction. And a part of her hopes the woman does not feel slighted by her actions.
Nothing seems amiss, and the conversation continues—cheerful and measured—but Michaela does not trust herself to add much to it. Her mind is racing too wildly.
In her quiet observation, it isn't lost on her just how much John seems to be enjoying his conversation with this woman.
And for some reason, this observation registers bitterly in her mind.
She means to explore the matter deeper, to really understand why, but before she can uncover the thought—
“Michaela Stirling? As I live and breathe—I see you’ve met my sisters!”
Michaela looks up with a flash. That voice.
And there he stands.
Benedict Bridgerton.
Grinning. Warm. And entirely unchanged.
Sisters?
The word lands with a sickening drop in her stomach and her eyes cut back to the ethereal woman who stands before her.
Oh. This would not do at all.
She had known what Francesca was before she had even known her name. Before she had seen her face.
Michaela’s alpha anatomy had told her of Francesca’s presentation, loudly, and with little to no regard for her own preferences.
But she could never have guessed who this woman was.
Yes, the recognition between an alpha and omega was immediate and involuntary, as much a reflex as pulling your hand from a flame, except that the direction it pulled her in at the present moment was considerably less convenient.
She had heard it described once, by a woman who was old enough to say anything she liked, as the universe deciding for you.
Michaela had always found this description irritating, as she did not enjoy the universe deciding anything for her.
And now here she stood, at the edge of a ballroom, with the potent scent of Benedict Bridgeton’s sister sitting in her chest like something she had swallowed, and the full shape of the problem assembled itself in her mind with horrible clarity.
A female alpha was already an irregularity.
She knew what she inspired in people—the faint discomfort, the not-quite-knowing-where-to-look, the particular quality of silence that fell when someone was deciding how to arrange their face.
She had grown accustomed to it. She had grown accustomed to a great many things.
But this. This was a different kind of complication.
An unbonded omega at her debut was considered, in the quiet understanding of those who knew such things, to be in a delicate position. More receptive. More vulnerable to attention she might not know how to read.
This was why the chaperones were so relentless, why the rules around proximity were so strictly observed, why certain things were managed with such careful, deliberate discretion—because the alternative was chaos, and society had decided long ago that it preferred order.
But she could feel her inner alpha rebelling against that order now, and it was a very potent recipe for trouble.
Benedict Bridgerton’s sister.
And John!
The thought arrives with a horrible feeling that washes over her like a summer storm, bent on destruction.
What if John intended to court her?
John, who was steady and decent and entirely beta and therefore constituted, in the calculus of these things, a perfectly sensible match. A respectable match. The kind of match that would raise no eyebrows and require no explanations.
An omega who married a beta was not considered to have done poorly, precisely—only to have settled for something that did not quite satisfy the particular gravity of what they were biologically.
Pull it together, Stirling. You must stop this.
Michaela was not going to think about the particulars of Francesca’s biology. In fact, she was going to stop thinking about it right this moment.
She kept her expression very carefully composed.
And despite every effort, she found she was quite incapable of redirecting her thoughts.
But Benedict Bridgerton was still standing there, smiling expectantly at her, as though nothing in the world had altered at all.
And perhaps, for him, nothing ever really had.
But for Michaela—everything had changed.