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Penelope Featherington adjusted her glasses and stared at her phone screen, pretending to scroll through Instagram while the warm, buzzing chaos of the Bridgerton household unfolded around her. She was perched on the edge of their plush gray sectional, knees drawn up to her chest, trying not to feel like a stranger in someone else’s family movie night.
Across the room, Edmund Bridgerton was fiddling with the TV remote, his deep laugh echoing as he teased his son Colin about his popcorn preferences. "You’d think I raised you better than this—plain popcorn? What are you, a psychopath?"
Colin groaned, but everyone else laughed, even Eloise, who was seated beside Penelope with a blanket draped over her lap. "Dad, just start the movie already!" Eloise shouted, grinning.
Penelope’s eyes flicked back to Edmund. He was wearing a worn Henley and jeans, his hair slightly disheveled, the kind of effortlessly casual look that only made him more attractive. Penelope’s heart twisted painfully in her chest. She knew this was wrong—how could it not be? Edmund was Eloise’s dad, for God’s sake. But he was also kind, attentive, and everything Penelope had spent her life yearning for.
Her own house wasn’t like this. The Featheringtons didn’t sit together for movie nights or tease each other over snacks. Her mother, Portia, would rather critique her weight or her clothes than laugh with her, and her sisters were too busy with their own lives to notice Penelope much at all.
The Bridgertons were everything her family wasn’t: loud, warm, and messy in the best possible way. And Edmund—Edmund was the center of it all.
“You’re staring,” Eloise said suddenly, nudging her in the ribs.
Penelope jumped, her cheeks flaming. “What? No, I’m not!”
“You totally are.” Eloise smirked. “Is it Colin again? I swear, if you’ve been crushing on him since middle school—”
“It’s not Colin,” Penelope interrupted quickly, her voice a little too high-pitched.
“Hmm. Fine. But you’re acting weird.” Eloise shrugged and turned her attention back to the TV.
Penelope exhaled, grateful for the temporary reprieve, but her thoughts wouldn’t stop spiraling.
“I’m so tired of having self-respect,” she whispered to herself later that night as she lay in bed, replaying every kind word, every gentle smile Edmund had ever offered her. He always asked how she was doing, remembered little details about her life, made her feel seen in a way no one else ever had.
“Let’s do something I’ll regret,” she muttered, her fingers twitching toward her phone. She stared at Edmund’s Instagram page, her thumb hovering over the message button. It would be so easy to type something—just a simple thank-you for always being so kind, or a casual comment about how great movie night had been. But she knew where that road led, and it wasn’t somewhere she could go.
Instead, she closed the app and tossed her phone onto the nightstand.
The next morning, Eloise texted her to come over again, and Penelope almost said no. But she couldn’t resist the pull of the Bridgerton house, the warmth it offered, even if it left her aching when she returned home.
When she arrived, she tried to avoid Edmund altogether, focusing instead on Eloise’s latest tirade about the hypocrisy of influencers. But as she was heading to the kitchen for a drink, she ran straight into him.
“Penelope!” he said warmly, his face lighting up in that way that made her heart do somersaults.
“Hi, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t betray her.
“Edmund,” he corrected gently, as always. “How are you? Did you enjoy last night?”
“I did,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Good. You’re always welcome here, you know,” he said, his smile so genuine it nearly broke her.
“Thank you,” she managed, before quickly excusing herself.
As she walked home that night, Penelope couldn’t stop the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She felt foolish and small, caught in a crush that was both impossible and undeniable.
But maybe burying her feelings wasn’t the answer.
As much as it hurt, those feelings were hers—something she couldn’t fully explain but didn’t have to deny. Pretending they didn’t exist wouldn’t make her longing disappear. It wouldn’t fill the void left by the family warmth she’d never known.
An act of self-respect, she decided, wasn’t denying herself the ability to feel or to dream. It was allowing herself the space to carry this ache, to let it remind her that she deserved kindness, affection, and a future where she felt truly seen.
It didn’t matter that the dreams would never come true. They were hers to keep, hers to cherish.
And as she tucked herself into bed that night, she allowed herself to dream.
The dream began slowly, like a watercolor painting blurred by rain. Penelope found herself standing in the sunlit kitchen of the Bridgerton house, though it didn’t look quite the same. The counters were polished and adorned with vases of flowers she couldn’t remember arranging, and the warm scent of baking bread filled the air. She turned her head and saw him—Edmund, his sleeves rolled up, laughing as he tried to roll out dough that was far too sticky.
“Penelope, you’re going to have to save me here,” he said, his voice rich with amusement.
She laughed, stepping closer to him, her hands brushing against his as she took the rolling pin. It was so natural, so easy, as though she’d done this a thousand times before. “What would you do without me?” she teased, the words slipping out as if they were the most natural thing in the world.
“Absolutely nothing,” Edmund replied, his smile soft and warm in a way that made her heart feel too big for her chest.
She glanced down and realized she was wearing a simple gold band on her left hand, glinting in the sunlight. Her breath caught for a moment, but before she could question it, a chorus of laughter erupted from the next room.
“Dad! Mum! Are you coming, or do we have to eat without you?”
The words rang out, and Penelope turned to see a group of children—a mix of ages, but all of them familiar. She couldn’t place their faces, but she knew them. They were hers. The smallest, a curly-haired boy with bright eyes, tugged on her dress, grinning. “Come on, Mum!”
Mum.
Penelope’s heart swelled, and she found herself laughing as Edmund reached out, wrapping an arm around her waist as they followed the children into the dining room. The table was overflowing with food, the kind of sprawling meal that spoke of effort and care. The children jostled for seats, teasing each other, spilling juice, and laughing.
Edmund pulled out a chair for her before taking the seat beside her, his hand finding hers under the table. “They’re a handful, aren’t they?” he said with mock exasperation, though his tone was full of pride.
Penelope couldn’t stop smiling, her cheeks aching from the effort. “They’re perfect,” she said, her voice catching slightly.
“Just like their mother,” Edmund murmured, leaning closer.
Her breath hitched as he kissed her temple, his touch so tender it brought tears to her eyes. For a moment, she let herself believe it—believe that she belonged here, that this warmth and love were hers. The chaos, the laughter, the way Edmund looked at her as though she were the only person in the world—all of it was so vivid, so real, she could feel the weight of it in her chest.
But then, like a candle snuffed out by a sudden wind, the dream began to fade. The laughter dulled, the light dimmed, and the warmth slipped away, leaving her with the faint echo of Edmund’s voice, soft and steady:
“You’ll find this, Penelope. Maybe not with me, but you’ll find it.”
Her eyes snapped open.
She was in her room, the pale morning light filtering through her curtains. The air was still, her bed cold where she had curled up in the night. She blinked, her heart still racing, her hand instinctively reaching for the space beside her. It was empty, of course.
The ache in her chest returned, sharper now in the wake of the dream. But instead of pushing it away, she let it sit there, let herself feel it fully. It wasn’t just the loss of the dream that hurt—it was the reminder of everything she longed for, everything she still believed might be out there for her, someday.
Maybe she couldn’t have this future, this unreal, impossible dream of being Edmund’s wife and partner, of sharing his laughter and building a family with him. But the dream itself was a gift, a reminder that she could imagine love, even if it wasn’t for her yet.
For now, she would hold onto that. Dreams weren’t just for the foolish, after all—they were for the hopeful. And Penelope Featherington, for all her self-doubt and awkwardness, still had hope.