Chapter Text
“For God’s sake, Penelope Featherington, are you going to marry me or not?”
Colin stood before her, his hand outstretched, his expression open and raw. The weight of the moment pressed against her chest, so heavy she could hardly breathe. Penelope felt her lips curve into a smile—so wide it almost hurt—because this moment, this impossible, breathtaking moment, had lived only in her dreams until now.
The night had unraveled in ways she could never have predicted. The ball had definitely not gone to plan—rather it had been a disaster, but none of it mattered now. Not with Colin looking at her as if she were the only person in the world. The man she had loved for as long as she could remember, the man who had just confessed that he had wanted her too—that he burned for her as she burned for him—was standing before her, offering her everything she had ever wanted.
Her fingers twitched, aching to reach for his hand, to let herself believe in this moment. But then it hit her.
Whistledown.
The breath left her lungs, the warmth in her chest snuffed out in an instant. Reality came crashing down around her like shattered glass.
This wasn’t a dream. This was real.
And Colin Bridgerton could never love her—not truly.
He despised Lady Whistledown, had made his feelings more than clear. He had spoken of her betrayal with such bitterness, such anger, that Penelope had felt the sting of it deep in her bones. And if he ever knew… if he ever realized that the woman he loved and the one he loathed were the same, his love would curdle into hatred.
And worse—he would be right to hate her.
She had built Whistledown on secrets, wielded words like weapons, hurt people she cared for. She had exposed Marina, convinced herself it was for Colin’s sake when deep down she knew it had been for her own. She had nearly ruined Eloise, all in a desperate attempt to protect her. She had justified it all, told herself it was necessary. But the truth was, she had made selfish choices, and now, standing here in front of the only man she had ever wanted, she had to make the hardest one yet.
Her fingers curled into her skirts. The pain of it was unbearable, like something inside of her was being torn apart, but she forced herself to say the words.
“I cannot.”
The light in Colin’s eyes flickered. His hand dropped to his side. “Penelope… you cannot be serious.” He let out a short, breathless laugh, as if saying it aloud would make it untrue. “Surely you jest?”
She shook her head, tears already slipping down her cheeks. “I cannot, Colin.”
His expression darkened. “And why in the bloody hell not?” His voice rose, frustration laced with desperation. “I thought that we… I thought that you—” He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair, looking at her like he was seeing her for the first time and not understanding a thing.
Oh, how she wished she could be selfish. How she wished she could reach for him, let herself have this moment, this life. But she knew better.
“I do, Colin,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I love you.”
Hope flared in his eyes, but she crushed it before it could take root.
“But you do not love me. Not really. You may think you do, but you don’t.”
His jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists. “And how, exactly, do you presume to know my heart better than I do?”
She let out a shaky breath. “Because you don’t know me.”
Colin recoiled as if she had struck him. “That is absurd—”
“You don’t, Colin. Not truly,” she said, voice thick with unshed tears. “If you did, you would hate me.”
The anger in his face melted into something softer, something achingly tender. He reached for her, wrapping his fingers gently around her wrist.
“Penelope,” he murmured, “there is nothing—nothing—that could ever make me hate you.”
Her resolve wavered. For a moment, she wanted to believe him. Wanted to pretend. But she knew better.
Her breath hitched as she gently pulled away, shaking her head. “But there is, Colin. There is.” She forced herself to take a step back, then another, ignoring the way her body screamed to stay. “And it would destroy me to see that look in your eyes.”
His grip tightened for the briefest moment before he let her go, as if realizing he couldn’t hold onto someone who was already slipping away. His voice cracked when he spoke. “Penelope… whatever it is, we can face it together.”
Her heart shattered. He didn’t understand. He never could.
She reached for the carriage door, gripping the handle so tightly her knuckles turned white. She forced herself to look at him one last time, committing the way he looked under the moonlight to memory—the way he looked at her, before he knew the truth.
“Please, Colin,” she whispered. “Let me be selfish one last time.”
Then she shut the door.
A heartbeat later, the pounding began.
“Penelope!” His voice was raw, desperate, but she squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself not to listen.
She knocked on the roof of the carriage. “Please take me home.” Her voice was barely audible, choked by sobs.
“Yes, miss.”
The carriage jerked forward, and Penelope forced herself to ignore the desperate calls that followed them around the corner of Grosvenor’s Square.
But she didn’t look back.
Because if she did, she would break.
And she could never put herself back together again.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Penelope had not left her house in a week—had barely left her bed. The excuse was simple enough: the failure to secure Lord Debling’s proposal had left her humiliated, or so she let others believe. But the truth was, she had scarcely spared a thought for him or their fleeting connection. How could she, when the ache of losing Colin consumed every part of her?
The cruelest part was knowing she had no one to blame but herself. No interference, no circumstance had stolen her happiness—she had torn it from her own grasp. And the weight of that realization left her hollow, an emptiness she could neither escape nor ignore.
Her mother had given her space, somewhat guilt-ridden over her harsh reaction to Debling’s rejection. But as the days passed and the new Viscountess’s first ball approached, she grew more insistent. Penelope had resisted at first, but the whispers had already begun—Whistledown had not published in over a week. The silence could not go on. If she had nothing else left, she still had Whistledown—as crazy as it all had gotten. And so, with leaden limbs and a carefully composed mask, she forced herself from bed, dressed in her finest gown, and stepped into the Bridgerton ballroom.
It should have felt familiar. How many times had she stood at the edges of this very room, invisible among the glittering ton? And yet, she had never felt more like a stranger.
She could feel him watching her.
Even without looking, she knew where Colin was. Knew the weight of his gaze from across the ballroom, though he had yet to approach. The tension coiled in her stomach like a tightened spring, leaving her breath shallow, her fingers trembling against the stem of her untouched glass of lemonade.
She could not bear to face him.
So she focused on anything else. The dancing. The whispered conversations. The secrets hiding in the corners of the room—anything to keep her hands steady and her mind occupied.
But she didn’t notice the stranger until it was too late.
A presence loomed behind her, closer than propriety allowed. Before she could turn, before she could move, a searing, sharp pain bloomed in her abdomen.
She gasped, her body jerking in shock. The glass in her hand slipped through her fingers, shattering against the marble floor. Lemonade splattered across the hem of her gown, but she barely registered it.
A voice, low and venomous, brushed against her ear.
"From Lord Beckworth, Lady Whistledown."
Her breath hitched. No.
She barely caught a glimpse of him as he disappeared into the crowd, slipping away unnoticed through a side door. She should have followed. Should have demanded answers. But the fire spreading through her body made it impossible.
Her hands, desperate to understand the damage, pressed against her stomach. The second they pulled away, she saw it—crimson staining the white of her gloves.
Blood.
Her blood.
She’d been stabbed.
The realization sent her reeling. The room tilted, the chandeliers blurring into dizzying streaks of gold and candlelight. The music, the laughter, the hum of conversation—it all became distant, muffled, like she was hearing it from the bottom of the ocean.
Someone was speaking to her. A voice. Concerned. Frantic.
“Miss Featherington?”
She knew that voice. She should recognize it. But her mind was sluggish, drowning in panic and pain.
Shadows swam before her eyes. Her knees buckled. She swayed, her body no longer her own, no longer strong enough to hold her upright.
"Somebody get a physician!"
And then—
“Pen?”
That voice. His voice.
She knew it, would know it in any lifetime, in any dream.
She blinked, struggling to find him, but the faces around her blurred into a smear of indistinct colors. She could not see him. Could not find him.
Her body collapsed, the last of her strength abandoning her—but she never met the floor.
Instead, she fell into warmth. Strong arms. A familiar embrace.
She gasped as her vision focused just enough to make out his face. Colin.
He was holding her. Cradling her against him. And he was looking at her with something that shattered her heart more than the pain in her stomach ever could.
Fear.
No— anguish.
“Penelope, please stay with me,” he begged.
She blinked sluggishly, her body growing heavier with each passing second. She wanted to answer. Wanted to tell him she was sorry. That she hadn’t wanted this. That she didn’t want to leave him.
But the world was slipping, pulling her under, and she could barely keep her eyes open.
Through the haze, she saw something she never had before.
Tears.
Colin Bridgerton was crying.
She wanted to lift her hand, to brush them away. Someone as beautiful as him, as kind, should never have to cry.
But she was too tired.
Too heavy.
So she let go.
And the world faded to black.