Chapter Text
The morning of Benedict Bridgerton’s wedding dawned with an air of smug satisfaction, as though the day itself were pleased with how events had finally resolved.
Sophie Baek, soon to be Sophie Bridgerton, stood by the window of her small chamber, hands clasped tightly together, breathing in the scent of fresh flowers drifting up from the garden below. Violet Bridgerton had insisted the wedding be held at My Cottage, declaring it “where love had learned to be brave,” which had made Sophie’s throat ache too fiercely to argue.
Her gown was simple, ivory silk with a modest neckline and sleeves just long enough to soothe her nerves. No diamonds. No unnecessary finery. Only a narrow ribbon at her waist and her hair pinned up with tiny white blossoms Eloise had stolen, liberated, she’d said, from the hedgerow.
“You look like someone who might bolt,” Eloise observed, circling her critically.
“I am not bolting,” Sophie said faintly.
“Pity. It would improve the drama.”
Violet swept in then, eyes already suspiciously bright. “My dear,” she said, taking Sophie’s hands, “he is beside himself. Gregory says Benedict has checked his cravat six times and Anthony twice threatened bodily harm to anyone who mentioned the word late.”
Sophie smiled. “That sounds… reassuring.”
“It should,” Violet said firmly. “No man who has nearly lost everything is careless with what he’s been given back.”
Outside, Benedict stood beneath an arch of greenery hastily arranged by his brothers, trying very hard to appear calm and failing magnificently.
“Smile less,” Anthony muttered. “You look unhinged.”
“I am unhinged,” Benedict replied. “I am marrying Sophie.”
Colin clapped him on the shoulder. “Yes, we know. You’ve only said it every morning for the past three days.”
Benedict exhaled slowly, fingers flexing at his sides. He had faced duels, disapproval, and his own staggering stupidity… but this?
This terrified him in the most exquisite way.
When the music began, soft, almost shy, he looked up.
And there she was.
Sophie walked toward him as though the ground were steady and her heart perfectly calm, which Benedict knew to be a lie because he felt as though the world had tipped on its axis. She looked radiant, not in spite of her simplicity but because of it, because this was her, unhidden and unafraid.
When she reached him, her hand slipped into his.
“Hello,” she whispered.
“Hello,” he said, and meant everything.
The ceremony itself passed in a blur, vows spoken clearly but with voices that wavered just enough to betray the weight behind them. When Benedict promised to honour her, his thumb brushed her knuckles as though the vow were already in motion. When Sophie vowed to stand beside him, her chin lifted, proud and certain.
When the words were said and the blessing given, Benedict kissed her, gentle at first, then surer, laughter breaking through the applause as cheers erupted from every Bridgerton throat present.
Afterward, beneath the same trees where they had once spoken carefully and loved dangerously, Sophie found herself laughing freely, glass of champagne in hand, surrounded by warmth she had once believed impossible.
Benedict drew her aside, fingers laced with hers. “Are you happy?” he asked quietly.
She looked at him, this man who had learned, who had chosen, who had never again mistaken her worth, and smiled.
“I am,” she said simply.
“Good,” he replied, brushing his forehead to hers. “Because I intend to spend my life proving you were right to say yes.”
She laughed, soft and sure, and kissed him again, no longer a secret, no longer a dream.
Just a promise kept.