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benophiefest · 19 days ago

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Breakaway: Prequel to Silver

Upon opening her eyes, she spotted him.

She paused.

He paused.

And in that quiet moment as they stared, eyes locked, breaths’ caught, they had the dim awareness of something dropping into their hearts, planting itself in the depths of their chests.

“Hi,” Ben said softly even though it were only them two on the balcony.

“Hi,” the girl replied a little breathily.

Or. The fated Halloween party--a Prequel to Silver.

*~*~*~*

“Hi.”

Ben stopped fiddling with his mask, his hands dropping to his pocket.

“Hi—hey.” He cringed at the crack in his voice. The girl, wrapped in black and a cat-shaped mask, merely smiled.

“So, you’re looking fit tonight.”

“Oh,” he looked down at the refitted tux that he had borrowed from the back of Anthony’s wardrobe. “Thanks, umm you look good too.” He nodded as he noted the hem of her skirt.

“Oh, do I?” The girl looked down as if being modest before tilting her head back up and said, “You’re such a flirt.”

“Um,” he swallowed and tired to emulate the ridiculous suave that Anthony seemed to wear these days, “well, how can I not flirt with a girl whose hair is spun gold.” The girl giggled, in the way that the girls giggled in his class at everyone of Henry’s terrible jokes. She shot him another coy smile, and draped her hair to the side.

“That was cheesy—I didn’t realise you liked poetry?”

“What can I say? Shall I come thee to a summer’s day?”

She laughed properly this time and it softened her posture.

“Quoting poetry? That is so romantic.” She looked him up and down, Benedict preened slightly. “Livia never told me you were romantic.”

“Livia? Whose Livia?”

“You dated her last term.”

“Uh…”

Dated? He hadn’t dated anyone…I mean he was friendly with everyone, a little like Henry, but also not like Henry. But that did not…did this Livia think that they were dating? When had he started dating?

The girl gasped louder.

“Oh my god, you are a heartbreaker.”

Well, he certainly was if this Livia thought they were dating when he had no clue, who even was this Livia—

“I kinda dig it, you know,” her smile turned sly, “Anthony Bridgerton the heartbreaker of St Cecilia’s.”

Benedict’s stomach dropped.

“Oh, you think I’m Anthony.”

Her brows creased.

“Obviously.”

“Oh,” his heart followed his stomach, albeit a little slower. “But I’m not Anthony.” He lifted the mask. “I’m Benedict, his younger brother.”

The girl stared. With every moment the air thickened like a stuffy attic, and with each blink her cheeks reddened.

“What? Why didn’t you say something?” she squeaked.

“Well, I didn’t know your name either, I thought we were—”

“Oh god, you’re such a loser. Why would I want number two?”

“But I thought—”

She scoffed and stalked away, leaving Benedict staring and blinking rapidly because her words had pricked holes in his heart that made tears come to his eyes.

Why would I want number two?

He turned and strode out of the room, almost breaking into a run, until he reached a random corridor and collapsed against the wall, his breaths staggering.

Why would I want number two?

Benedict, number 2. Not talented at sports, not sat at the popular tables, not the centre of every room but on the outskirts of the shadows, especially Anthony’s shadow.

Why would I want number two?

Who would want the boy with dork glasses who ‘doodled’ and painted ‘pretty pictures’. Why did he even try?

Suddenly, a nerve trilled. It started in his fingers then prickled through his entire body; not quite an itch but a fizzing….like the sparking of a sparkler.

He turned towards the moon and his breath caught.

Standing on the balcony was a girl, gilded in silver and moonlight. She was twirling to the music below. And as he stared he heard her voice.

“I’ll spread my wings and I’ll learn how to fly,

I’ll do what it takes til I touch the sky

A siren call, that found his feet moving without true acknowledgement. A melody swelling and twisting around and into him as the crescendo built.

“And I’ll…make a wish, make a change, and break away!”

She finished, arms outstretched, silhouetted by the spotlight of the moon, and backdropped by a crowd of stars.

Upon opening her eyes, she spotted him.

She paused.

He paused.

And in that quiet moment as they stared, eyes locked, breaths’ caught, they had the dim awareness of something dropping into their hearts, planting itself in the depths of their chests.

“Hi,” Ben said softly even though it were only them two on the balcony.

“Hi,” the girl replied a little breathily.

Another beat.

“You have a nice voice,” he blurted out then shrunk back.

Nice? Really, ‘nice’ of all words?

“I mean actually it’s really good, like—” Gosh, his second best lesson was supposed to be English, “like…like a wind.”

Wind?

But the girl did not shrink away instead she smiled, a smile as dazzling as the jewels on her mask.

“Really? You thought I was good?”

Unlike the blonde girl, her voice didn’t pitch or go falsetto. She looked at him with intent. For some reason it made him smile.

“Yeah, you were really good. I mean it.” The words formed and rolled off his tongue, “You’re an artist.” Her mouth parted and her eyes flicked over him as if inspecting a mirage. “I mean it.”

Another smile, smaller, like a flickering flame.

“Thank you. You are one of the only people who have heard me sing.”

“Really? You do not practice?”

“Oh, ofcourse I practice. I have singing lessons but…” she huffed, “I know that the skills of classical singing are supposed to be good but it’s not, it’s just…”

“It’s not you.”

“No, I like to sing freely,” she gushed as swiftly as her steps as she swayed around the balcony, “I like listening to my heart and pulling the melody from it until its in the air—just like the birds.” With a flourish she reached her arms out, stretching her hands to the stars.

“The birds…” Benedict said softly, as if something had finally slipped into place.

She halted, her arms drifted back down and wrapped around her.

“It sounds silly.”

“No, no, it’s not silly,” he covered the distance between them. “It is the most perfect way to describe it. The freedom,” he flexed his fingers, thinking about his half-finished canvases, “the way things just have to flow out of you in a wave, or a torrent or—”

“Like the water released from a waterfall, that continues to run down the river.”

Benedict stared.

“Exactly like that.”

Another beat. She cocked her head.

“You are a performer as well?”

“Oh no,” just the thought of stepping onto a dancefloor, let aone a stage, sent lighting down his spine.

“But surely you are an artist?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but I well, I dabble.” Maybe it was the honour of watching her performance, the act of her sharing that piece of her heart with him that encouraged him to say, “Like this mask, I made it myself.”

“You made it?” She stepped forward, inspecting every feather and brushstroke. This close he noticed the moonlight drowned in the iris of her eyes. Yet something within her made those eyes shine and Benedict ached for a pencil in his hands.

She stepped back and only then did Benedict let out the breath he was holding.

“It is beautiful—how did you make it?”

“Oh well, my dad got some domino masks for my brother and I…” he blushed, “I raided my younger sister’s craft box for the feathers and sparkles, and I painted the rest with my oil paints.”

“You painted these designs,” she gasped, “You are an artist,” she said with conviction that it held no room for argument.

But still Benedict shied away from it, cheeks flushed, and in defence he twisted the conversation.

“How did you find yours?”

“Oh…it was my mother’s.” Her fingers idly traced the crystals on her half-mask. “She has a whole trunk of outfits from when she performed. Including this dress.” The skirts swished and for a moment turned liquid silver under the moonlight.

Her animation enraptured him and he could not tear his eyes from her.

“Your mother was a performer?”

“Yes, yes she was. She went on tour, she recorded songs—she was going to be a star.”

“Is she not a star?”

“No,” She quietened her voice, light, and limbs. “No.”

“Why not?”

Even quieter she said,

“Because she had me.”

“Her own little star.”

Her head whipped up, piercing him with her eyes.

“What?”

“Oh, umm, sorry,” he fiddled with his fingers, “it’s what my mum calls us. Her little stars. She always says she never regrets us because we are stars.”

“That is nice…” The girl turned contemplative, “I don’t know if my mother thought I was a star…she did love me. But she should have been a star. She sung me all her songs as lullabies.”

“You miss her very much don’t you?” The silence spoke louder than words. “I’m sorry she is gone.”

“It’s alright,” she shrugged, “it was a couple years ago.” She fiddled with a necklace around her neck.

Seeing her so still and silent stabbed him in the stomach. In desperation he said,

“Well, maybe she did become a star.”

“What?”

“Up there!” He pointed up. “Maybe when she died she went up there to the stars where she belongs.” He cringed. How sappy and childish he was. “Sorry that was silly,” he started then noticed she had continued to stare at the sky with a dazzling smile. All his thoughts dissipated.

“That is the first thing someone has said about my mum that hasn’t made me sad.”

“Oh, well…sorry?”

She giggled.

“Sometimes you are good with words and sometime you are not—you have the capacity perhaps you just need the confidence.”

“Is that your secret—confidence?”

She shook her head vehemently,

“Oh no, I’m not very confident. I can’t even bear to sit in the lunchroom.”

“But out there…dancing and singing, you’re a performer.”

“Yes, but that’s different. That is freedom”

“And you seem perfectly fine talking to me.”

“Well, that’s also…different.”

“Really?”

Anthony would have swiped his head, for the blatant hope in his voice.

She did not blush but stepped forward again, peering up at him.

“I do not know why or how this has been different. It is some mystery that is yet to unravel within, but one where I shall enjoy the journey more.”

“Exactly. You took the words out of my heart.” He stared at her and tried to drink all of her in but felt something akin to drowning. “You are a star.”

The air between them quivered, before ever so slowly swelling, their feet about to step closer---

BONG.

The church clock rang its own melody to the night sky. But the girl and the boy continued to stare at one another until the final bell tolled.

“I think it’s time we take these off,” he teased.

She smiled and together they untied the masks.

The mask had not hidden her prettiness, but it had shielded him form acknowledging the full force of such prettiness.

“Hi, I’m Sophie.” She stuck her hand out and now he realised that her smile flooded through her entire face and into her eyes.

“I’m Ben.”

They shook hands formally, before swinging them up and down harder and harder until they collapsed into giggles.

As one they started to walk back towards the swell of their fellow students in the ballroom.

“So, if you don’t eat your lunch in the lunchroom where do you eat it?”

Now, he could see that her blush spread from the crest of her cheek almost to her ear.

“Oh just…Mr Bowler’s classroom is nice, a little escape.” She shrugged, “he doesn’t mind, not really.”

Benedict recalled the warm, encouraging smile Mr Bowler would give him when correcting his painting technique.

“Yeah, he’s cool—I do like his wacky ties.”

“Me too! I think they’re really cool and not boring like Mr Milchek.”

“I know! Like I know you’re a teacher but come on, you need some type of flair.”

She laughed at it made Benedict bounce on his toes.

“Maybe I can join you in Mr Bowler’s room one time.”

“I’m sure you have friends already.”

“Yeah, but…well I like you. And we can be friends right?”

She looked at him, the exact same expression as that first look on the balcony, and it was just as arresting.

“I would like a friend,” she finally said.

Something reverberated through his chest, settled in his bones.

“Well, good. Although I warn you, when I make a friend, I intend to make a friend forever.”.

But even as they laughed, Benedict knew it would be the truth. This night had weaved the two of them together for a journey that Benedict could not picture but one he knew would happen.

Surely, an epic story would this be…

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benophiefest · 19 days ago

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Unmasked

For @benophiefest benophie day

The chandeliers glittered like constellations above the ballroom, casting soft golden light over a sea of masks and elegance. Laughter floated through the air like champagne bubbles, light, fleeting, intoxicating. This was high society at its most polished, its most opulent. And at the center of it all stood Violet Bridgerton, regal in Bridgerton blue, welcoming guests to her annual charity masquerade with a smile that promised secrets and spectacle in equal measure.

Sophie adjusted the delicate silver mask that clung to her cheekbones and let her gaze sweep the crowd. Her dress shimmered with every breath she took, a liquid silver that clung to her form like a second skin. Her hair was swept up, her mother’s diamond earrings catching the light. It was the first time she had ever stood in a room like this as Sophia Gun, CEO of Penwood Enterprises, and not simply Sophie from Baek Bakes, the woman who rose at dawn to knead dough and flirt with the artist next door.

She spotted him almost immediately.

Benedict Bridgerton. Tall, tousled, devastatingly handsome, and completely unaware that the woman in the silver gown was the same one who had handed him almond croissants that very morning with flour on her cheek. He looked out of place in the best possible way, leaning casually against a marble column, sleeves slightly rumpled despite his tuxedo’s sharp tailoring, his silver mask only half hiding the curious intensity in his eyes.

And he was staring at her.

Sophie’s heart stuttered.

He didn’t recognise her.

Why would he?

This world wasn’t the one they shared. In this world, she was the ice-cool CEO who made quarterly earnings calls and chaired meetings in glass towers. Not the woman who joked about burnt scones and offered him her last cinnamon roll with a blush.

She knew she should look away. Disappear into the crowd. Stick to the script her assistant had carefully drilled into her, say hello to the donors, smile for the press, make a dignified and quick exit.

But then he began to move.

He crossed the ballroom like a man pulled by invisible string, cutting through clusters of chatting guests with a singular focus. His gaze never wavered.

And despite every rational instinct screaming at her to run, Sophie stayed exactly where she was.

Benedict stopped a polite distance from the woman in silver, but his smile was anything but reserved.

“I’m not usually one to interrupt a goddess mid-brooding,” he said, voice low and smooth, “but I was starting to worry you’d disappear before I had the chance.”

Sophie turned her head toward him, lips curving slightly beneath the delicate silver mask. “You assume I was brooding?”

“Brooding. Judging. Debating whether to set the curtains on fire. Hard to tell with masks,” he said, a glint in his eye. “But you looked like someone worth risking embarrassment for.”

She arched a brow behind her mask. “Is that line supposed to work on all the mysterious women at masquerades, or just the ones in silver?”

“Only the ones who look like they belong in stolen paintings,” he said, stepping just a touch closer, enough to feel the heat between them. “Besides, I’ve never been good at lines. I just follow instincts.”

“Dangerous habit,” she murmured.

“And yet… here you are, still listening.”

Sophie tilted her head, her tone drier now. “Perhaps I’m just deciding if you’re interesting or merely persistent.”

He grinned. “I can be both. But give me a dance, and I’ll let you judge for yourself.”

She pretended to hesitate, letting the moment stretch, watching the flicker of amusement, and intent, in his eyes. It was unnerving, how effortlessly he wore charm like a second skin. But she knew that smile. She’d seen it before and it hurt a little he didn’t realise who she was.

Tonight, though, because he didn’t know who she was, she thought that maybe she could allow herself this moment, just once. Let her have a moment with the man who stole her heart when he smiled and flirted with her over his coffee.

“Fine,” she said at last, placing her gloved hand in his. “But if you step on my toes, I’ll vanish before the next song.”

“I’ll consider that high-stakes motivation,” Benedict said, and led her onto the dance floor as the strings began to rise.

The orchestra shifted seamlessly into a waltz, its melody slow and elegant, with just enough drama to make a statement. Benedict guided her into the rhythm effortlessly, one hand at her waist, the other curled around her gloved fingers. His touch was practiced, confident, but not presumptuous. It was infuriatingly graceful.

“You dance well,” Sophie said, her voice calm despite the way her pulse had begun to race.

“I try to excel at the things that matter,” Benedict replied smoothly. “Besides, dancing is easy when the company is intriguing.”

She let out a soft, amused breath. “Yet, you don’t even know who I am.”

He leaned in, just enough for only her to hear. “There is something vaguely familiar about you… something which makes you intriguing.”

Her gaze flicked up to his mask, silver with deep charcoal trim, elegant and sharp like the man beneath it. “You say that now. But mystery tends to fade fast under daylight.”

“Good thing it’s still night, then.” His smile returned, softer this time. “Though I have to admit, I’m tempted to tear away a little of the mystery. Just enough to learn your name.”

She gave him a look that was equal parts playful and warning. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“You’d rather remain a riddle?”

“For now.”

He spun her gently beneath the glow of the chandeliers, his hand never leaving hers. “You realise, I’ll be thinking about this all night.”

“Only tonight?” she asked, lips tilting, thinking that perhaps she was merely tonight's conquest. His playful charm was something that drew people to him like a moth to a flame.

He laughed under his breath. “You’re right. Probably tomorrow too. Maybe longer. Depends on whether you vanish like a ghost at midnight or let me see you again.”

Sophie met his gaze steadily, heat curling low in her stomach.

“Maybe I will vanish,” she murmured. “Maybe that’s part of the spell.”

“And here I was thinking I was the one casting it.”

He held her a little closer then, not improperly, just enough to make her breath catch. And for a moment, surrounded by the music and candlelight and the blur of other couples around them, Sophie let herself forget who she was supposed to be, and remembered only what it felt like to be seen.

Not as the CEO.

Not as the girl next door.

But as herself, a woman dancing in silver with the man who had unknowingly haunted her thoughts for far too long.

The song slowed. He looked down at her, voice low again. “One more dance?”

The final notes of the waltz faded into the air like silk unraveling, but Benedict held her hand a moment longer, reluctant to let the moment end.

BeforeSophie could reply, a voice, clear, composed, and unmistakably familiar, sliced through the gentle murmur of the ballroom.

“Benedict, darling. Forgive me for interrupting.”

He turned, surprised. “Mother.”

Violet Bridgerton approached with the same grace she carried everywhere, her sapphire gown pooling at her feet like water. Her mask was simple, elegant, her eyes, anything but.

Sophie’s posture straightened, but she kept her expression smooth as Violet’s sharp gaze landed on her. There was a flicker of something behind the viscountess’s eyes, recognition. Calculation. But Violet’s voice remained pleasant.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” she said. “I’m Violet Bridgerton.”

Sophie accepted the offered hand with practiced poise. “Sophia Gun.”

There was a pause. Violet’s eyes narrowed slightly, barely perceptible, but she recovered with seamless politeness.

“Miss Gun,” she said, her smile pleasant but meaningful. “Of course. It’s a delight to finally meet you. I’ve heard your name before.”

Benedict looked between them, intrigued. “You have?”

“Oh yes,” Violet said lightly. “Miss Gun and I move in overlapping circles, but Penwood Enterprises has been my biggest donor this year… I was terribly sorry to hear about your father’s passing…”

Sophie offered a small, knowing smile. “Thank you Lady Bridgerton and it’s my pleasure your charity does great work.”

Benedict blinked at her, clearly trying to place the meaning behind her words.

Violet glanced between them again, her expression now unreadable. “Well. I’ll leave you to it, then it was lovely to officially meet you Miss Gun.”

And just like that, she drifted away, her interest carefully disguised behind an air of effortless detachment.

Benedict turned back to Sophie, narrowing his eyes playfully. “That was interesting.”

“What was?”

“She knew you. Or at least she acted like she did.”

Sophie tilted her head. “ The Bridgertons are memorable.”

“But you’re the memorable one tonight,” he said, voice low. “And I can’t shake the feeling there’s something I’m not seeing.”

Sophie gave a teasing smile. “Maybe that’s the point of a masquerade.”

He stepped closer. “Or maybe I just need to change the setting.”

Her brows lifted. “Change the setting?”

His eyes glittered with intent. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere but here.” His hand slipped into hers again, warm and certain. “Just for a few minutes. I need… I need to know who you are.”

Her pulse jumped. “And you think dragging me out of a ballroom will reveal that?”

“I think I’ve spent too many months ignoring the things I feel,” he said, half to himself. “And now, with you here…”

“But you said you don’t know me,” she interrupted softly.

“I know enough to want to…” he said.

And before she could come up with a reason to resist, Benedict led her out of the ballroom, through a side corridor lit only by soft sconces and the hush of distant music.

Behind them, the masks and laughter continued.

But ahead of them, something far more dangerous. Something real.

The corridor spilled out onto a stone terrace, quiet and hushed under the night sky. The hum of the masquerade softened behind them, muffled by heavy doors and distance. Only the faint music lingered, like a whisper from another world.

Sophie stepped into the cool air, the scent of blooming roses drifting from the edge of the garden. She let go of Benedict’s hand, but not far enough for him not to notice.

He turned to face her, the soft golden light from the windows casting long shadows over his mask.

“All right,” he said. “We’re alone. Tell me something real.”

She lifted her chin. “Everything tonight is real. Just not everything is revealed.”

He laughed under his breath, not cruel, but frustrated. “You’re good at this.”

“At what?”

“At dancing around the truth.”

Sophie’s voice was quiet. “And you’re used to people handing it over too easily.”

That stopped him.

He stepped closer again, not touching her, just enough to make her feel it.

“You walk into a ballroom full of people who pretend they matter. But you? You walk in like none of it touches you. Like you’re playing a game they don’t even know they’re in.”

She said nothing.

“I’ve seen confidence before,” Benedict continued. “But you… you’re not just confident. You’re hiding.”

A flicker of something crossed Sophie’s face. It wasn’t fear, it was recognition. Not that he knew who she was… but that somehow, he’d struck too close to the truth. She didn’t want the CEO role, she loved her bakery, and she was hiding. She didn’t think the people of this world would accept her double life.

But still, she didn’t flinch. “Maybe I am. Maybe I like masks better than mirrors.”

He stepped around her slowly, circling, as if trying to solve her by proximity. “You speak like someone who knows my family. You speak like someone who’s been in a room with us before.”

“I told you. The Bridgertons are impossible to miss.”

“But you don’t just know of us. You know us.”

She turned toward him, lips parted… almost as if she’d confess. For just a heartbeat, he thought she might.

But then she tilted her head and smiled. “Maybe I’ve seen you before. Maybe I haven’t. Maybe this is the only night we ever speak properly….”

He stared at her.

She stared back.

And then, without breaking eye contact, she stepped close enough for her voice to be barely a whisper. “Would it really be so terrible… if it stayed that way?”

His breath caught.

“Yes,” he said.

Her smile faded slowly, like a candle burning down. “Then you’re not ready to play this game.”

Benedict leaned in, closer now, so close the silver of her mask brushed against his. “I’m not playing.”

Sophie exhaled slowly, her voice barely audible. “That’s the problem.”

And before either of them could say anything else, a voice called from within the house, someone looking for Benedict.

Reality reasserted itself. Sophie stepped back. Just slightly. But it was enough.

Enough to remind them both that no matter how close they’d come, the truth was still wrapped in silk and shadows.

A footman opened the door to the terrace behind them. Voices spilled out, light, unhurried, unmistakably Bridgerton.

“Ben! There you are!” Colin called, stepping out onto the terrace with Eloise trailing beside him, both laughing at some private joke. “Mother said you’d wandered off with a woman, not unusual… but now I see why.”

Benedict didn’t look away from Sophie, his voice a bit tighter than usual. “Colin, Eloise, this is—”

“Sophie?” Eloise interrupted, already halfway to them. She squinted beneath her mask, and then her face lit up. “Oh, it is you! I didn’t realise you were invited to this sort of thing!”

Sophie froze.

Benedict turned to her sharply. “Wait….what?”

“Sophie… you know Sophie!!!,” Colin added, as if clarifying for his brother. “You know, Baek Bakes! We’re in there at least twice a week, Eloise is single-handedly funding her new espresso machine.”

Eloise waved a hand. “Oh, don’t act surprised, Ben, you’re just as bad. You flirt with her every time you pick up your boring, flavorless croissant…”

“Wait,” Benedict said again, louder this time.

His gaze whipped back to Sophie… his Sophie, in silver and silk and shadows…and suddenly, everything shifted. She didn’t speak, didn’t deny it, didn’t even try. Her silence was its own confession.

“I…” he started, but stopped himself.

His jaw tightened.

“You’re her?” he asked, voice low now. “All this time…”

Sophie’s shoulders squared. She gave Colin and Eloise a polite glance, cooler than usual, and then looked back at Benedict.

“Yes,” she said simply. “I’m her.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t see the point,” she replied, too softly for the others to hear.

The silence that followed was thick. Charged.

Eloise, very wisely, began to back away. “We should… probably go back inside.”

Colin nodded. “Yes. Absolutely. Lovely to see you again, Sophie. Gorgeous mask. We’ll… let you two… chat.”

They vanished like smoke.

Leaving the terrace colder, quieter, and far more dangerous than before.

Benedict stared at her. His voice, when it came, was hoarse with disbelief.

“All this time, you’ve been the girl next door.”

Her eyes shimmered, but not with tears. With clarity. With something final.

“Yes,” she whispered. “And you never saw me.”

Sophie turned, the hem of her silver gown sweeping across the terrace as she moved toward the doors.

But Benedict was faster.

He caught her hand, his grip firm, not forceful, but intentional. Unwilling to let her slip away. Not this time.

“Don’t,” he said.

She paused, eyes closed for a second too long. Then slowly turned back to him.

“I should go.”

He stepped forward, still holding her hand. “You think I’m going to just let you walk away after that?”

“It was never supposed to go this far,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Benedict’s voice cracked with emotion, confusion, disbelief, want. “You’ve been right there. All this time. Right next door. And I…”

He stopped himself, ran a hand through his hair in frustration, then looked at her, really looked at her. His gaze flicked from her eyes to her lips to the fall of her hair beneath the mask.

“That mask,” he muttered. “Does a bloody brilliant job.”

She let out a shaky laugh, more self-preservation than humor.

Benedict stepped closer, voice rough. “Tell me. You’re the CEO of Penwood Enterprises. You were the big donor tonight. Why the bakery? Why not just…?”

“Because it’s not a side hobby,” she said, the first hint of steel in her voice. “It’s not some novelty I picked up after a corporate retreat. Baking is the one thing in my life that’s mine.”

He blinked.

“My mother was Korean. She ran a bakery in London when I was little,” Sophie said, softer now. “She loved it. She taught me everything, how to knead dough, how to listen to the sound of a loaf when it’s done, how to smell sugar just before it burns.”

Her voice caught. “She died when I was nine. Suddenly. And I… I kept baking because it was the only way I could still feel close to her.”

Benedict’s expression shifted. The tension in his shoulders gave way to something heavier, something that wrapped itself around his ribs and refused to let go.

“You never told me,” he said gently.

“I never told anyone,” she replied. “Not really. I use her name, Baek, for the bakery. I wanted to keep it separate from my father… from Penwood, from the expectations, the board meetings, the bloody networking events. The bakery is… mine. And I like the version of me that gets to be there. I am sure you know what I mean”

Benedict did… his art, his photography… he traded under his mother’s name but Sophie knew his true identity after coming in with his siblings… so it hurt a little that she’d not told him. He of all people would understand… “You didn’t think I deserved to know that version?”

Her gaze met his. “You speak to me every day… every single day, you saw me this morning… and yet you didn’t see me…”

His grip tightened just slightly, pulling her closer, close enough to feel the tension between them shift, turn into something even more dangerous.

“I saw you,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t know I was looking at the whole story.”

Sophie’s breath hitched. “Well. Now you do.”

A long pause passed between them. Neither moved. Neither blinked.

Then, gently, Benedict reached up and touched the edge of her mask.

“May I?”

Sophie hesitated.

Then nodded.

He peeled the mask away slowly, revealing her face in full. The same woman who handed him warm pastries and sharp smiles each morning. The same woman who, behind this silver armor, had made him feel seen for the first time in years.

God, how had he not known?

He exhaled. “You’re… extraordinary.”

She looked up at him, stunned.

And for a brief moment, she wasn’t hiding.

She was just Sophie.

The air between them shifted, warm and fragile.

Benedict still held her mask in one hand, his other wrapped gently around her wrist as if afraid she might vanish again. Sophie stood perfectly still, her face unguarded now, eyes locked on his.

And then, without another word, he leaned in.

There was no rush, no sweeping dramatics. Just closeness. Breath. Heat. The barest pause as his lips hovered above hers, an unspoken question.

Sophie answered it with a whisper of movement, tilting her chin just enough to close the distance.

The kiss was slow at first, soft and reverent, like he was memorising her, savoring every second he hadn’t known he was missing. His hand rose to cradle her jaw, fingertips brushing the edge of her cheek, grounding her in the now.

She melted into him before she realised she’d moved, her hands finding the lapels of his jacket, fingers curling into the fabric like an anchor.

The silver silk of her dress rustled faintly as he pulled her closer, fitting her against him like she’d always belonged there.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads pressed together, both of them breathless.

Sophie let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. “That… was not how this night was supposed to go.”

Benedict smiled, genuine, lopsided, him. “I’m glad it did.”

He looked at her again, really looked, and murmured, “No more masks?”

She nodded. “No more masks.”

And for the first time all night, Sophie felt like she wasn’t pretending to be anyone else.

She was just… Sophie.

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