silverhallow

[silverhallow]

It’s late but here is my Day 7 of Benophie Week Post

Invisible String

The house was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fire in their bedchamber. A faint breeze stirred the curtains, and the last golden rays of late afternoon slanted across the floor.

Sophie sank deeper into the warm bath, the scent of lavender rising with the steam. The water lapped at her collarbone, her bare shoulders gleaming in the dim light. It had been a long day, meetings with Violet, an endless stream of callers, and an exhausting fitting for a new gown. All she wanted was this moment of peace.

A soft knock on the door.

“Come in,” she called softly, knowing full well who it would be.

Benedict entered, jacket gone, sleeves rolled up, a sketchbook tucked under one arm. His gaze found her at once, warm and fond.

“I thought you might be here,” he said, crossing the room. “May I keep you company?”

Sophie smiled, tilting her head back against the porcelain edge. “Always.”

He set the sketchbook down and crouched beside the tub, one hand reaching out to trace lazy patterns on her damp arm. She watched him, heart swelling, thinking, as she often did, how strange and wonderful life was. That this was her husband. That they had found one another at all.

A thread of music hummed through her mind, a poem her Sister-In-Law Penelope had shown her: Time, curious time, gave me no compasses, gave me no signs…

“What are you thinking?” Benedict murmured, as though sensing her reverie.

She looked into his eyes. “That it’s almost ridiculous, isn’t it? How we found each other? Out of everyone in the world?”

A smile tugged at his lips. “Invisible string,” he said softly.

She blinked. “What?”

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her damp forehead. “A notion I read in a poem once. That fate ties an invisible string between two people destined to meet, across years, across oceans. The string pulls them together, no matter what.”

Sophie’s breath caught. “I like that.”

“So do I.” He brushed a curl back from her cheek, fingertips gentle. “I used to wonder, before I met you, why I always felt… incomplete. As if some part of me were missing.”

“And now?”

“Now I know.” He smiled, eyes gleaming. “The string was always leading me to you.”

Warmth flooded her, as heady as the heat of the bath. Without thinking, she reached for his hand, tugging him closer.

“Join me,” she whispered.

Benedict laughed low in his throat, his eyes darkening. “You are a very dangerous woman.”

“I’m your wife,” she said, tugging again. “That means you are mine.”

With no further hesitation, Benedict stripped off his shirt and climbed into the tub, water sloshing as he settled behind her. Sophie sighed in pure contentment as his arms wrapped around her waist, her back pressed to his chest.

For a long while, they said nothing. Just breathed, and held one another, and let the invisible string between them twine ever tighter.

Time, curious time… wouldn’t change it for the world.

[silverhallow]

They’ve finished filming!!!!!!!

Benophie is getting closer ❤️❤️❤️

[silverhallow]

Thank you everyone for participating in Benophie week!

It’s been the best year so far! We’ve got loads of stories to share with you all in the next few days so stay tuned…

Huge thanks to @fayes-fics for helping reblogging everything and her ideas and for participating!

Massive thanks to @peachwithbenophie @hablaiaracosta for their help with planning and executing the week as life massive got in the way this week with my cousin’s son dying and everything else.

Can’t wait to see what we do next year when we finally have had our season (hopefully!)

Thanks again and stay tuned for some wrap up things ❤️❤️

[silverhallow]

Benophie week day 6

Sophie Reading to Benedict/ I want your future

Fever dreams

The curtains were drawn against the pale light of the overcast sky. The day had drifted into that soft, muted hour where shadows stretched long and sounds seemed muffled. Benedict lay propped against a stack of pillows, shirt open at the collar, skin flushed faintly with fever. His dark hair stuck in damp curls against his temples. A faint sheen of sweat clung to his brow.

Sophie sat beside him, cross-legged on the edge of the bed, a book open in her lap. Her voice was soft and steady as she read aloud, a low comfort against the silence of the room.

“…and so it was that in the waning days of summer, with leaves just beginning to turn, the villagers prepared for the harvest—”

Benedict stirred, a quiet sound catching in his throat. She glanced over, eyes warm with concern.

“You should rest,” she said gently. “We can stop here for now.”

But he shook his head faintly. “No… I like hearing you read. Your voice… it helps.” His words were rough, slower than usual. He blinked, trying to focus on her. “Sophie…”

She reached for the cloth on the bedside table, dabbing at his brow. “You’re burning up again.”

His hand caught her wrist, not harsh, just enough to hold her there. His fingers were warm, too warm.

“I should say this when I’m not… like this,” he murmured, his voice slipping loose under the fever. “But I’ve been holding it for so long.”

Sophie froze, her breath catching.

Benedict’s gaze, glassy with fever, still managed to meet hers, unguarded, raw. “I want your future, Sophie.”

Her lips parted, but no words came.

“I want… every little piece of you,” he went on, voice rough with years of buried feeling. “Not just your laughter when you think no one hears it… not just the way you curl your fingers when you read… not just your friendship.” His grip loosened, his head tilting back against the pillows. “I want all of you. I’ve wanted you for years.”

Sophie felt her heart hammering in her chest. “Ben…” she whispered.

But his eyes were fluttering closed now, the fever tugging him under. “…I love you,” he breathed, so faintly she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it. His hand slid from her wrist, resting against the covers.

She sat there in stunned silence, her pulse racing, the book forgotten in her lap. The room was still except for the soft sound of Benedict’s uneven breathing.

And Sophie, her heart aching with tenderness and something deeper, reached for his hand, holding it gently in both of hers. “Rest now,” she whispered, voice trembling. “We’ll talk when you’re better.”

But deep down, she knew everything had just changed.

[silverhallow]

Benophie Week Day 5

Be Mine

Sophie stood near the edge, arms folded against the wind, her thin coat doing little to fight the cold. The city glittered below, uncaring and endless. Behind her, footsteps approached, measured, deliberate. She didn’t have to turn to know it was Benedict.

“You shouldn’t be up here alone,” he said, stopping a few feet away.

“I like the quiet,” Sophie replied, voice steady but soft. “It’s the only place that doesn’t feel like it belongs to someone else.”

He stepped closer. “It could belong to you too.”

She turned to face him, eyes shining under the soft glow of the rooftop lights. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

She shook her head, laughing bitterly. “You’re the son of a viscount. Your mother throws charity galas. Your sister wears custom Dior. Your sister-in-law is the head of a multimillion pound franchise… and… me… I’m the bastard daughter of a man who never loved me, raised in the attic while my stepmother paraded her daughters like royalty. We don’t live in the same world.”

Benedict moved even closer now, until he was just inches from her. “Then let’s change the world.”

Her eyes widened slightly, disbelief flickering across her face. “You think it’s that easy?”

“No,” he said, his voice low, fierce. “I think it’s hard as hell. I think people will talk. I think your stepmother will spit poison, people might struggle to understand at first. But none of that scares me.”

She looked away, blinking hard. “It scares me.”

He reached for her hand. “I know. But Sophie…” He stepped closer still, gently tilting her face back toward him. His voice broke slightly as he said it:

“Be mine. Be mine right now. Be mine forever. I’ll give you anything you want. All I want in return is you.”

Sophie stared at him, heart pounding, lips parted. “And if I say no?”

“I’ll still be here. I’ll wait. But I had to say it. I had to try.”

Silence stretched between them, charged, tender, and terrifying. And then, slowly, she stepped into his arms.

“You’re mad,” she whispered.

He smiled against her hair. “Only about you.”

[silverhallow]

Benophie Week Day 4

This Love

The rain had been falling all morning , soft and steady like grief that didn’t know where to go.

Benedict stood frozen outside the iron-barred door of the jailhouse, drenched through, chest rising in jagged bursts. He’d stopped feeling the cold weeks ago. Months, really. Since the night she left. Since she looked him in the eye and told him she couldn’t do this, not when he couldn’t love her, not when she wasn’t enough.

Only she’d been everything. He just had not been brave enough to say…

He hadn’t heard from her since.

She vanished like a wisp of smoke, no trace, no letter, no scent left behind. He had searched the length of the country. Used every name, every favor, every coin. And nothing.

Until Kate, voice tight with fury and worry, had appeared on his doorstep that morning.

“She’s in jail,” she said. “For assault. Araminta.”

His blood had gone cold. Not because he believed it, never that, but because he knew what Araminta was capable of. And he’d let Sophie go back into a world with that woman in it. Alone.

The guard unlocked the door with a grunt. “She won’t speak to anyone,” he warned. “Barely eats. Looks half-starved.”

Benedict stepped inside.

And there she was.

Curled in the corner like something small and breakable, arms around her knees, eyes shadowed and swollen. But alive.

His heart lurched, cracked, soared.

This love is alive back from the dead.

“Sophie,” he breathed.

Her head snapped up. She didn’t move. Not right away. Just stared, like he was a ghost come to haunt her. Or a dream she’d stopped believing in.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said hoarsely. “Since the moment you walked out.”

She blinked once. Twice. “Why?” she asked quietly, her voice rough from silence.

“Because I love you.”

She flinched.

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t…don’t do that. Don’t look away. I didn’t say it before because I was afraid. Not of you, never of you. Of what it meant. Of losing you. But I lost you anyway, didn’t I?”

Sophie stood slowly, trembling. “You didn’t say it,” she whispered, eyes filling. “So I thought… maybe it was true. Maybe I was unlovable. Maybe she was right.”

Benedict reached for her then, gentle, reverent, like she was spun from starlight and sorrow. “She was never right. Not about anything. You are brave, kind, and fierce. And you are loved. I love you. God, Sophie, I never stopped.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, followed by another.

And then she was in his arms, shaking, clinging, breathing him in like air.

This love left a permanent mark. This love is glowing in the dark.

“I’m sorry,” she choked. “I didn’t know how to believe you. I didn’t know how to stay.”

“Then let me show you how,” he murmured into her hair. “Let me show you, every day, for the rest of our lives.”

Outside, the rain began to ease.

Inside, love stirred, fragile, aching, but alive again.

Back from the dead.

[silverhallow]

Benophie week day 3:

Staircase meetings and About You by The 1975

Forgotten

The museum hadn’t changed much. New exhibitions. A different layout in the fashion gallery. But the bones of it, the marble, the hush, the sense that time folded in on itself here, were exactly as Sophie remembered.

She didn’t plan to stop. She’d come for the ceramics wing, trying to fill her afternoon with quiet, curated beauty. She hadn’t meant to look for ghosts.

But her feet had taken her there anyway. Past the domed entrance, left of the café, through a door that looked like it should be marked Staff Only, and down the tucked-away stairwell that once felt like their secret.

Their staircase.

It was still dim, still narrow, a slant of light falling from a high, half-moon window. She paused halfway down, letting her hand skim the cool stone rail. The air smelled faintly of old wood and lemon cleaner.

And then, she heard it,

A step.

A breath.

And then him.

Benedict…

Sophie turned instinctively, like muscle memory, like music you haven’t heard in years but somehow still remember the words to. He stood two steps below her, taller than she remembered, older somehow, but just as quiet in the edges of his eyes.

His mouth parted. Not in surprise. Not exactly.

“Sophie.”

Her name didn’t echo. It landed softly, like everything did here.

She blinked. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting the past, I think.” A pause. “You?”

She let out a sound that was almost a laugh. “The same. I didn’t think, I mean, I haven’t been here in years.”

“Three,” he said quietly. “Almost.”

Of course he would remember. He always did. Dates, looks, touches. Things she tried not to think about, not when London was full of too many memories already.

He looked up at her, eyes dark and steady. “I used to come sometimes. To see if you might.”

“That’s not fair,” she whispered.

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

The silence between them filled the stairwell again, familiar and heavy and full of everything that hadn’t been said. She felt it like she used to feel his hands at her waist, his breath warm against her neck, the way he’d hum songs under his breath when she couldn’t sleep.

“Do you think I have forgotten about you?”

The question threaded itself into her chest like a needle.

“Do you think I have forgotten about you?”

He broke the silence. “You were wearing that awful green coat the last time.”

Sophie blinked. “It wasn’t awful.”

“It was,” he said softly. “But you looked, happy.”

That part stung. Because she hadn’t been, not really. Just pretending. She’d pretended a lot near the end. That they hadn’t been unraveling. That it didn’t matter that he couldn’t say what she needed to hear.

“You left,” she said, eyes not meeting his, “Without saying goodbye.”

“You made it pretty clear you didn’t want one.”

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t need it.”

The space between them was just three steps now. Three steps and a thousand days.

“I’ve written so many versions of this moment in my head,” he said.

Sophie looked at him then. Really looked. The lines in his brow. The scar near his jaw that hadn’t been there before. The way his eyes still softened when they landed on her.

“I don’t want the versions,” she said. “I want the truth.”

Benedict took one step up. Careful. Slow. “The truth is…I still see you in every gallery. Every song. Every corner of this bloody city. I’ve tried to forget you, Sophie. But it’s like trying to forget your own name.”

The quiet stretched again.

She wanted to say something sharp. Something clean. Instead, her voice cracked.

“I thought maybe you’d moved on.”

“So did I.”

Their eyes met, and it was all there, threaded between the words: the love that never got its proper ending. The way they��d once kissed in this stairwell, laughing against the walls. The way she used to say his name like a promise.

“Do you still know me?” she asked, almost too softly to hear.

Benedict took the last step, standing in front of her now. The stairwell held its breath.

“I never stopped,” he said. “And I still dream about you. Even now.”

Sophie exhaled, her heart sharp in her chest.

Some places don’t let go.

Some people don’t either.

[silverhallow]

Benophie week day 2

The Lakes- Taylor Swift

The rain came first.

Not a storm, not a spectacle, just a steady, melancholy drizzle that softened the edges of the world. The kind of rain that asked for stillness. Sophie arrived just as it began, suitcase in hand, cardigan soaked at the shoulders, her expression unreadable beneath her damp lashes.

Benedict opened the door to her, barefoot and paint-smeared, as if he hadn’t expected anyone, least of all her.

She hadn’t warned him she was coming. She hadn’t planned to. But something had broken open inside her last night, too many city lights, too much noise, too many polite smiles masking things unsaid, and her feet had remembered the way to My Cottage.

To him.

He stepped aside without asking a single question.

They didn’t speak much that first evening. She made tea, he lit a fire. He offered her dry clothes, a thick blanket, and his silence, which she accepted gratefully.

The cottage hadn’t changed. Time had slowed here. Books still lined the shelves in quiet rebellion against the outside world. The windows fogged with breath and weather. The scent of lavender lingered on the floorboards.

She had once called it a hideaway. Benedict had called it a beginning.

And now, it might be both again.

It wasn’t until the third morning, after two days of soft breakfasts, unspoken apologies, and reading poems aloud in the late afternoon, that Sophie finally turned to him and said, “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You don’t need to explain,” he said.

But she did.

“I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you,” she whispered. “I left because I didn’t know how to be loved like that. Like I was something… precious.”

He closed the book in his lap. “You are.”

She looked away. “I didn’t believe you. Not then.”

“And now?”

Her voice was quiet. “I want to.”

Later, they walked to the lake. The path was overgrown in the most romantic way, tall grass brushing their ankles, wildflowers bending in the breeze. He didn’t reach for her hand, not yet. He waited.

The water was still when they reached it. Mist curled like ribbon across the surface, and Sophie stepped to the edge, toes nearly touching the chill. She’d always loved this lake. It didn’t need to dazzle or roar. It just… existed. Unapologetically.

“Will you stay?” Benedict asked, not demanding, just offering.

Sophie didn’t answer with words. She turned, stepped into him, and rested her cheek against his chest.

And he held her like the lake held the sky.

That night, wrapped in old quilts beneath ancient beams, Sophie whispered a poem she hadn’t meant to say aloud. Something she’d scribbled months ago in the city, in a notebook no one else had read:

Take me to the lakes, where all the poets went to die,

Let me live where words mean more than war,

Let me love without needing armor.

Benedict didn’t speak. He just kissed her temple and let the silence say what the words could not:

You’re home.

[silverhallow]

Chapter 8: fated mates

Is now on ao3 and wattpad

[silverhallow]

Chapter 16: Rescue Operation

Is now on ao3 and wattpad

[silverhallow]

Benophie week day one:

What is it to admire a woman?

The household had long since gone to bed. Only the low glow of the hearth lit the library, casting flickers of gold and amber across the spines of well-worn books. Sophie stood at the window, the curtains half-drawn, her figure silhouetted against the moonlight. She’d come to tidy, but lingered, lost in thought, in memory, in dreams she wasn’t supposed to have.

Benedict had been watching her for some time. Not in a way that sought to trap or intrude, but as if trying to understand a melody just beyond hearing.

He stepped inside without pretense, his boots silent against the carpet. She startled when she turned and saw him, immediately stepping back from the window.

“Mr Bridger…” she began, voice taut with instinct, as she went to curtsey.

“Don’t,” he said gently, lifting a hand. “Not tonight. Just… let me say something. Please.”

She hesitated, then gave a small nod. Her hands folded before her, as if bracing herself for him to once again renew his offer… the one she so desperately wanted to take but her past, her life… her heart wouldn’t allow her to take.

He moved closer, not enough to alarm her, but enough that he could see her eyes clearly, catching the flicker of hesitation behind her composure.

“What is it to truly admire a woman?” he asked quietly, more to the room than to her at first.

“To look at her and feel inspiration.

To delight in her beauty.

So much so that all of your defences crumble, that you would willingly take on any pain… any burden for her.

To honour her being…”

—he sighed, the words catching slightly—

“With your deeds and words.”

Sophie froze.

Not because it was inappropriate. Not because he was the son of her employer and she was a maid. Not because he had no idea who she really was, that she was the woman from the masquerade, that she was the lady-in-silver and she’d loved him from the moment they’d met…

But because it felt, or one terrible, breathtaking moment, true. And truth had never been safe.

She swallowed hard, her voice barely audible. “Why are you saying this to me?”

“Because I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “Not just your face, or your quiet way of moving through a room, but… something in you. Something I can’t name.” He studied her, his voice soft. “There’s more to you than you let anyone see. You carry it like a burden.”

Her breath caught.

“I said those words once before,” he murmured, almost to himself. “To my brother. I thought I was talking about some ideal woman. A fantasy. But now,”

He took a step closer, not quite touching her.

“Now I realise… I was waiting for you. And I didn’t even know it.”

Sophie looked up at him, her eyes shimmering, not from romance, but from the ache of being seen when she had spent her entire life trying not to be. Trying to survive, not be noticed. And yet… here he was.

“You don’t know who I am,” she said softly.

“No,” he agreed. “But I do know you. You are… Brave. Clever. Kind. And worth more than any other woman I've ever met… even if you won’t tell me who you really are...”

She looked away then, as if his words hurt more than healed. But he didn’t press. He simply waited.

And for one fragile second, Sophie let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, this man saw the real her.

[silverhallow]

Looking forward for Benophie week tomorrow!!!!

I’m glad!

I need to actually start writing.

I’ve been super distracted with work and family life…

My cousins 17 year old son has been really poorly for a while and he sadly died today so heartbroken. Especially as her husband died last year from bone cancer….

[silverhallow]

ONLY 4 DAYS ‘TIL BENOPHIE WEEK ✨

Benophie Day was amazing with all the beautiful art, fics & edits for Sophie & Benedict 💜

💫 Now we’ve got a WHOLE WEEK of love for Benophie ahead!

Check the prompts again, get your ideas ready & let’s make it magical! 👀

[silverhallow]

We’re only a few days away guys! Can’t wait to see what you’ve created!

Remember to tag us in anything you’ve created and use the Benophie Week collection on ao3!

FINALLY UNMASKED 🎭

Here are your winning prompts and themes for Benophie Week! 💜 Whether you’re creating art, videos, or fanfiction, these are your inspirations.

EXTRA INSPIRATION AHEAD! ✨

Each day has a song, quote & storyboard to spark your creativity — but feel free to choose your own song too! 🎶 Quotes 📖 can go in your fic or inspire your art/edit 🎨, and storyboards help you visualize.

Have fun & follow the day’s theme! 💜

We can’t wait to see your amazing creations next month! 🩶

✨Stay tuned for more details on what’s coming!

[silverhallow]

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.

[silverhallow]

Chapter 7: Change in the Wind

is now on AO3 and Wattpad

[silverhallow]

Chapter 15: Deal with the Devil

is now on AO3 and WattPad