The following days passed in a blur of whispered conversations and half-hearted smiles. Though the Bridgerton estate was filled with guests and the social calendar seemed relentless, Genevieve found it harder to ignore the growing tension between her and Anthony. Every encounter, no matter how brief, seemed to intensify the connection between them, a connection neither of them had fully acknowledged until that moment in the garden.

But it wasn’t just the stolen glances or the quiet words that lingered in her mind. It was the feeling—the unmistakable pull, like gravity itself had decided to take hold of her heart and mind, drawing her toward him whether she willed it or not.

It was maddening.

Genevieve couldn’t understand how, in such a short time, Anthony had managed to pierce the armor she had so carefully built around her. She had spent years protecting herself from the fleeting allure of a man’s attention, building walls that were meant to keep her safe from this exact sort of vulnerability.

But with Anthony, those walls didn’t seem to matter.

She was seated at a small table, a glass of wine forgotten in front of her, when she saw him across the room at yet another of Lady Danbury’s gatherings. He stood by the fireplace, speaking in low tones with several other guests, but his eyes—she could feel them on her. She didn’t need to look up to know.

The sensation was unsettling, as though he could sense her every movement, her every thought.

A chill ran down her spine as their gazes met for a fleeting second. There was no hiding it now. The unspoken understanding between them was undeniable. The way he watched her, with that quiet intensity, made her heart race and her mind spin.

She tore her gaze away, focusing instead on the conversation happening around her, though she could scarcely concentrate on anything but him. His presence in the room seemed to fill every corner, and despite her best efforts, her body responded to him in ways she couldn’t control. Her pulse quickened, her breath shallow. She wanted—no, she needed—distance.

But as the night wore on, she found herself once again standing on the edge of temptation.

It was after midnight when she slipped into the garden for some air, her mind too full to find any clarity. The moon hung low in the sky, casting everything in a silver glow. The cool night breeze brushed against her skin, but it did little to calm the storm within.

She stood by the fountain, breathing in the crisp night air, when she heard a rustle behind her. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was. The unmistakable scent of his cologne reached her before his presence did.

“Genevieve,” Anthony’s voice came, low and inviting. It was as though he had been waiting for her to retreat into the night, as if he knew she needed this moment of solitude—and yet, he was here, pulling her further into the storm they had begun.

She turned slowly, her breath catching as their eyes met. There it was again, that unspoken understanding between them, the weight of the words they hadn’t yet exchanged.

“You should not have followed me,” she said, though the words felt more like a protest than a command. “We are both aware that what is between us cannot be.”

Anthony took a step forward, his gaze never leaving hers. “Genevieve, I don’t believe you truly believe that. You cannot tell me that what we feel is nothing.”

Her chest tightened. “It is nothing but a fleeting moment,” she said, though the words tasted like ash in her mouth. “Something we both have allowed to grow too large, too real in our minds. It cannot happen. It should not.”

He closed the distance between them until they were standing only inches apart, the air between them crackling with energy. “And yet,” he said softly, his voice almost a whisper, “it has happened, hasn’t it? You feel it too. Don’t you?”

Genevieve swallowed, unable to form a coherent response. He was too close now, too near. She could feel the heat of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing. She could see the faintest glimmer of something deeper in his eyes—the very same thing she had been trying so desperately to deny in herself.

The danger of this moment wasn’t lost on her. The danger of letting herself fall, of allowing herself to be swept up in something she knew could never be.

And yet, in that moment, she found herself swaying ever closer to the edge.

“I can’t,” she breathed, her voice shaking. “I cannot—” She stopped herself, as though realizing that there was no way to make the words sound any less fragile, any less broken.

“Why?” His voice was quieter now, laced with frustration and something else—something softer, something more desperate than she had expected. “Why do we keep denying what we both want?”

Genevieve closed her eyes for a brief moment, trying to steady herself, trying to regain control of the situation. But the pull of his presence, the way he was looking at her, made it impossible to think clearly.

When she opened her eyes again, he was so close, she could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. His hand reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his touch gentle but lingering.

“I can’t risk it,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “You are not a man who will marry for love, and I cannot be someone’s passing fancy.”

He stepped closer, his hand now resting lightly on her arm. “And yet, here we are, Genevieve,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over her skin. “I have never wanted something so badly. Never felt this... alive. And you’re telling me we are nothing but a mistake?”

She didn’t know how to respond. The words that had once seemed so certain now felt hollow in her mouth. The idea of staying away from him, of refusing this connection, seemed impossible. It was as though a part of her—some hidden part she had kept buried for so long—was reaching out to him, yearning for the very thing she had denied for so long.

“I—I can’t,” she stammered, but her words sounded fragile, as if the very foundation of her resolve was cracking beneath the weight of her own desires.

And then, in that moment, Anthony’s lips were on hers.

It was a kiss as soft as it was inevitable—gentle at first, tentative, as though they both were testing the waters, afraid of the depths they might plunge into. But as the seconds passed, the kiss deepened, and everything else seemed to fall away. The noise of the world, the expectations of their families, the consequences of their actions—all of it vanished, replaced by the sensation of their mouths moving together, their hearts beating in tandem.

For the first time, Genevieve allowed herself to stop fighting it. To stop denying what she felt, what they both felt.

And when the kiss finally ended, leaving them breathless and trembling, she knew that neither of them could ever go back to the way things had been.

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