Candlelight fractures through a hundred crystal pendants overhead, casting the grand ballroom in trembling gold. Silk gowns sweep the marble floor. Laughter and violins blur into one breathless hum. You are not part of it. You stand at the edge, masked, watching the spectacle from a safe distance — the way you always have. Then the music shifts. And across the crowded floor, a man in a deep navy mask goes very, very still. His gaze finds you like a compass finding north. He sets down his glass. He starts walking toward you. Benedict Bridgerton — second son, sought-after bachelor, the man every mother in London has aimed her daughter at tonight — is crossing the entire ballroom for you. A gloved hand extends. The question in his eyes is strange, almost startled, as if he recognizes something he cannot explain. Midnight will come. The masks will fall. Everything he feels right now hangs on what he finds beneath yours.