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Benedict Bridgerton forgets the last time he had a truly proper sleep. Sleep, as he once knew, was an invitation to forget and forgetting was one thing he refused in regards to her. Her. Her.
His studio bears the evidence of his devotion: canvases stacked against the walls, sketches pinned and half-torn, pads strewn on his desk. Her face is rendered in paint, pastels, oil, pencil, charcoal—any medium he could stain his hands with—none of them were finished because they could never be a perfect match of the masterpiece in his mind, which was even still lacklustre compared to who he saw that night with his eyes. The Lady in Silver exists everywhere yet nowhere at the same time. His hands are always stained beyond washing, his clothes marked by weeks of work, because the act of creating delicate masterpieces at the price of his sanity because it was the only thing that kept her real.
Two years had passed since the masquerade ball. Repeatedly, his hand returned to the same images: the pavilion draped in wisteria, the silver of her dress made luminous by contrast in the moonlight, and the moment she first took his breath away in the crowded ballroom. She had always stood apart, lost in wonder, her gaze lifted in quiet awestruck towards the chandelier glittering above them. Nobody else in attendance gave it a second thought, not even he ever thought to admire it having lived beneath such light his whole life. However, her joy through the mask helped him see the world anew.
So he sketched, painted, drew—if immortality could be granted through repetition, it helped that loving and yearning for her this strongly might prevent her from only being a dream. Maybe he should learn how to sculpt.
The door creaks as it opens, then stills before closing but not clicking closed. Benedict does not turn from his works-in-progress. He knows the sound of his mother's footsteps as well as he knows the scrapes of charcoal against paper.
"Benedict," Violet says gently, his name carrying the weight of intention (a tone he's much too familiar with hearing from her or even Anthony), "it is time we speak of your future."
Benedict finally looks over his shoulder. His mother had already stopped short, her gaze sweeping the studio. He watches as she takes in the canvases leaning against the walls, the sketches pinned in careless devotion. The Silver, again and again, faceless and yet staring back at her from every surface. Benedict avoids her eyes as she looks over at him hiding his oil-stained cuffs and hands that haven't known rest; the evidence of his restless heart unwilling to be persuaded by another.
He exhales slowly and tiredly. Of course, this conversation was finally approaching, as he expected. A talk about settling, moving on from the lady who seemed like a figment of the masquerade ball, as though half of the eight Bridgerton children were not already wed, as though he had never watched love bloom and solidify around him as he remained fixed in a single and unchanging moment.
Violet's expression softens, but her resolve remains present. She had never been one to look away from when love hurt her children, even if it pained her in return.
"Mother," Benedict mutters, almost inaudibly, "she was my first."
"Benedict," Violet responds, "I know you better than that."
"I am serious," he insists, finally meeting her eyes. "I do not mean my first kiss, nor my first promenade or dalliance, nor even the first woman to whom I have spoken words of love. However, she is the first person who made me feel different. She never saw my face that night, but she still had a perfect view of me. I felt like who I'm supposed to be. I may have shown her how to dance, but she showed me a rebirth for my love of art and made my heart anew where life felt worth living again. She's the first image I see in my eyes before I wake in the morning and it is stronger than any breakfast tea to get me through the day."
Muses have always been a part of the creative process for poets, writers, and painters. Someone's beauty always inspires them to capture a specific moment forever. Everyone on the outside is always fixated on muses and the real story behind the art when the most exciting part is how the artist turns them into works of art. It's never easy being a muse because their compensation is that their uniqueness will be immortalized for all time.
Artists tend to speak of muses as if they are indulgences, but this Lady in Silver was a beginning. She was never solely inspiration, but the reason behind why he ever picked up his first paintbrush.
If that is not a muse, then he does not know the meaning of the word.
"You speak of futures," Benedict continues, softening his tone almost in defeat, "but she is the only thing that has ever made my future feel … possible."
Violet's resolve remains. She slowly steps closer to him, and Benedict knows that his mother is about to choose her words carefully to him.
"Fires never burn forever," she says gently. "Eventually, they consume themselves."
Benedict scoffs, his movement careless enough that a box of pastels wobble, one tumbling to the floor. He does not bother to pick them up and gestures for his mother not to make an effort to clean it up. He will take care of it once he's alone again. "And what became of your belief in epic and passionate love stories?"
"Benedict, please. Everyone has their own version of a memory and, sometimes, the disappointment is worth the truth."
His gaze falls away from her, drifting to the nearest canvas, to the silver strokes of her dress half-formed and unfinished. The shift in his exterior was subtle, but unmistakable, the quiet withdrawal of someone who had been struck where it hurt most.
And, obviously, his mother noticed. He knows she never meant to wound him, only to prepare him for something he never wanted to think of, something that his works of art meant to distract and give him hope for—and the distinction matters far more than she would ever admit aloud.
He was never going to find her again.
"I know more than most that the world makes little to no sense without the one you love," Violet continues. "The pain defies explanation, a constant ache in the chest that marks time like a ticking clock. Not even the greatest poets have found the words to explain why love is sometimes not enough to keep the heart from losing what it has chosen. Some people are never granted the closure they never wished for. Sometimes, an abrupt ending is all one is given even when begging for more, and no matter the outcome, clinging to her image will not heal what aches beneath it."
Benedict says nothing, breathing in the lingering paint and charcoal as his mother's words settle slowly. He looks again at all the unfinished pieces staring back at him, at the woman he had preserved in fragments and half-truth, and for the first time, he wondered if what he had been calling devotion was only grief handed a brush and permission to express itself without scrutiny.
-o-
"What is there to say to The Lady in Silver," Violet begins, "as you have captured in your watercolours, sketches, and every medium you can find ... if only I can look that woman in the eyes without the mask, and speak plainly only to say that 'my son is in love with you.'"
Sophie should've kept walking, but her feet skidded to a stop upon hearing The Dowager Viscountess's words.
"He paints and draws you in every form he can imagine, trying to hold the smallest pieces of your likeness in his hands," the matriarch continues. "He dreams, endlessly, of the day you might meet again wit the glamour and build a life together, of the home he hopes to create with you. You should see the smile that crosses his face each time he starts another easel, each time he tries to turn his sketchbook from our view when he dares to bring a pencil to the family study, and yet we all know what it is he's hiding."
Nobody heard Sophie, nor did they notice her slowly closing the gap between her and the door. The weight of folded linens press into her forearms as she peers through the narrow opening left behind. From where she stands, she could see Mr. Benedict Bridgerton seated at his desk, shoulders bowed, paint-stained and unmoving while his mother circles him slowly. Her presence is calm yet she can see the maternal concern on her face that she slowly sees the reason behind.
Sophie's breath catches. For a second, her heart stops thinking they would've heard her, but they're too entrapped in their own conversation to notice.
Sophie refocuses on Benedict because she has never seen him like this: not laughing, not charming, not distracted by wit or company, but still carved into place by something unseen. The room itself seems to mould towards him, canvases crowd together in a suffocating silence, silver glinting faintly from half-finished faces she dared not to study too closely.
Voices carry softly through the gap in the door, fragments of truth slipping freely without invitation. Words about love unhidden, about chances taken or lost, about disappointment being worth the truth. Sophie did not know the entire context of their conversation, but the words still settle deep in her chest, uncomfortably close to recognition.
Sophie thinks back to the night of the masquerade more often than she allowed herself to admit, maybe not to the extent of a tortured artist covered in his own pain and paint, but often enough that it often distracted her from her assigned housework. It was one night borrowed from circumstances, from masks and candlelight, where she had been free to choose what she wanted for a handful of stolen hours. She dance without fear of being known, spoken without weighing every word, existed without the constant calculation of consequence.
Dare she say, the life she could've lived.
She had not known then that freedom could be so brief, or that its memory would linger with such insistence. That a single evening might leave behind a shape that refused to fade, resurfacing in quiet moments like this when she least expected it and needed it most.
At first, she did not know if he spoke of another woman—or if, impossibly, he spoke of her. Who else wore a silver gown that night? The thought prickles, thrilling yet terrifying in equal measure.
Sophie's grip on the linens tightens. She did what she had to in order to survive and never felt shame towards that truth. Life had taught it to her early and repeats it often with no room for softness or illusion. She cannot entertain nor be intrigued by any of these matters.
Sometimes she wonders if she should've turned away from Bridgerton when he first approached her at the masquerade ball. However, she couldn't spend her life in hiding when so much of it was already in the shadows. She had to see what could happen if she took that offer. Sometimes she tells herself that she should've, but when they first locked eyes in that crowded room, she knew something was there for her to discover.
She should be turning away now and returning to her work, yet something holds her in place, making her listen and watch a man grieve a love for a version of her that she can never truly know or experience again, wondering how it was possible for it to engulf a room so much to the point of drowning in silver.
"She does not know what she gave to me, Mother," Benedict says quietly, almost as if he's accepting defeat to a battle against grief, "and she will never know no matter how much I want to tell and thank her. That is the true cruelty of everything in this room. A muse—my muse need not know that she is the one to change everything."
Sophie hugs the linens tighter around her chest. She may need to press them again but that is not a priority as of this moment.
The word muse struck deeper than it had any right to, filling heavily and suddenly in her chest. Everything clicks to her like whiplash: the silver dress, the pavilion, the way he spoke of a woman who changed him. Her. Every fragment of his longing, every unfinished work of art that leaves her in a breathless awestruck that she was the origin of his artistic torment.
"I love you, Benedict," the Dowager Viscountess replies gently, "and you deserve a future your heart desires."
Sophie swallows hard.
A future. A muse. Her. All the silver. A love so vast it had filed a room and her head for two years and still refused to remove its roots. She had lived her life outcasted in the margins of other people's stories, careful not to ask for more than survival and risk revealing herself. Yet standing there, half-hidden and unseen yet put on display on canvases and sketches, she feels the deafening echo of that long-ago night stir within her once more, and with it, the dizzying possibility that he had always been thinking of her the same way she devoted thoughts to him.
Sophie's breath catches. She dares not move, not even breathe or blink. She risks pressing herself closer against the door. The Dowager Viscountess turns her back towards Sophie, the sharp line of her posture, the quiet maternal authority in the tilt of her head. Her gaze sweeps the studio precisely, as if to capture everyone's attention yet it passes over Sophie's head as though she were a mere shadow in the room.
And still, Sophie's heart seems to stop. Every beat feels magnified, echoing in her chest. She had known fear and desire many times before, but never so intense all at once.
Sophie's knuckles ache. She wonders if she tore through the linens she forgot she was gripping for dear life. Her chest is impossibly tight, every heartbeat thundering against her ribs as if the room itself had taken up the rhythm of Benedict's longing. She could not look away, though she wanted to shrink into the shadows she belongs in and disappear entirely.
The world tilts with every word, each image his mother described, pressing against her like Benedict's paintbrush against the canvas, painting her image as if tracing his memories.
Her breath catches shallow and rapid. She isn't sure if she were to smile or gasp, but can't risk either. Still, the realization horrifies her: Bridgerton loves her. He had always loved her, from the moment he had first seen her in that ballroom, and every painting and half-finished sketch had been a testament to it.
Sophie backs away from the door, stopping at the corridor's wall as silent as the shadow she is, letting the raw truth wash over her so much that she can drown in the inundations. For the first time in her life, she felt seen yet still hidden … how could that make any sense?
"Do not waste another moment in impossibility, Benedict," the Dowager Viscountess says gently yet edged with a weight of command.
Sophie sees Benedict's eyes lift from his desk, a flicker of something intense crosses his face for a second. "I know, Mother." Then, almost under his breath, a wry curl of a grin teases the corner of his lips. "But I find that remaining deluded and hopeful with my paints is a much healthier way to spend my days than old rakish behaviours, do you not agree?"
Violet doesn't respond with more than a shake of her head before moving sharply towards the door.
Without another thought, Sophie presses the linens towards her chest, ducking against the edge of a nearby display cabinet in the hallway. Her back lies flushed against the wood as she tries so hard to make herself as small as can be. She wills herself not to make a single sound. Every step of the Dowager Viscountess towards the door makes her pulse skip. She holds her breath, afraid that even the tiniest exhale might finally betray her presence.
Before she could think twice, before her mind could catch up, the Dowager's skirts swish past her, striding down the hallway before turning the corner. Sophie exhales sharply, heart still hammering and muscles taut as she stayed pressed into the shadows. Her pulse echoes in her ears, amplifying truths she's only heard and glimpsed.
She had lived a life in the margins while she was the centre of his story. She was a girl forced in the shadows but he's putting all the light he can find on her.
Sophie slowly rises, pressing the linens to her chest as if they could shield her from the world. Her eyes dart left, then right, scanning the hallway. The house is quiet, save for the faint rustle of curtains in the afternoon light. Every step feels impossibly loud in her ears, yet she moves with careful deliberation, as though one misstep could betray her presence.
Her gaze drifts to Benedict's studio, and her stomach twists. The doors, once carefully closed, now stand wide open after the Dowager's exit. She left the space exposed, intimate, vulnerable. Light spills from the tall windows, spotlighting the spot where she once stood to peek and listen, almost teasing a call for her ears only.
She should leave. She should turn around and go back to work, keeping her head down and her nose out of business that isn't hers.
But … isn't it?
Each step closer to his doors are silent against the polished floors but still feel reckless. However, she cannot stop herself now. Sophie slowly steps towards the door frame, peering around the edge as if the shadows themselves might protect her.
Right before her eyes, the studio stretches before her, bathed in natural sunlight. Canvases lean against every wall, brushes and pastels scatter as a victim to his storm of creation. Benedict stands in the centre with his back to her as he works on another canvas. She catches glimpses of the silver details on her dress as he's absorbed in capturing its accuracy. His brush moves with deliberate obsession and passion, every stroke echoing the intensity she heard only moments ago.
Sophie's chest tightens. She needs to turn away now, but curiosity and awe anchor her in place as she watches him work. Despite the chaotic storm around him with the intoxicating smell of paint and turpentine and the madness of her images littered all around him, his fixation and focus on her seems to calm him for he is trapped in his element.
It felt as if she was in a room of mirrors. Benedict had captured her across a dozen forms: the tilt of her head, the curls around her temples, the subtle curve of her expression, her eyes twinkling under the mask, and the light that seems to cling to her like paint.
Her stomach twists as a shiver runs down her spine. From that night at the masquerade, she wondered in some self-absorbed way if she had meant anything to him, truly, but seeing it decorated before her was overwhelming. Sophie never expected to feel so impossibly large yet smaller than ever. She—The Lady in Silver—was everywhere in this room, immortalized and raw, haunting the studio and the man like a phantom she never knew she became.
For a moment, Sophie allows herself to linger at the threshold. She knows she should retreat, put herself back in the shadows, but she couldn't look away. As much as she doesn't want to say aloud, he was completely and utterly hers in a way that terrifying and impossible, yet achingly stuck in a duality of fact and fiction.
Sophie presses herself just inside the doorway, small and hidden as she's used to being, clinging to the shadowed edge. She can be selfish and stay for another second before reality drags her back into the hallway where the world will hide her once again.
A breath later to take in the scent of paint one more time, and she takes a careful step back. She has to leave him in his open studio no matter how much his obsession as his brush moves over the canvas with a precision of longing, unaware that she was here and heard everything.
Her pulse thuds in her ears as she takes another step back. She's seen enough of his heart to leave her completely awed and unmoored. With her heart in her throat, she retreats. The shadows of the hallway wrap around her like a cloak as she blends back into the margins of the world she's meant for and never to be in the one she desires.
Finally, she takes a measured step back, the shadows of the hallway wrapping around her like a cloak, giving her the courage to move, to escape, to disappear—back into the hidden margins of the world she has always inhabited.