Meanwhile, inside the Crown Prince's Study, Boleus Imperial Palace…
Sunlight spilled over polished mahogany and gilded scrollwork as the Crown Prince reclined in his chair, eyes scanning the spread of newspapers and sketches on his desk. His fingers tapped absently against a crisp broadsheet whose headline read:
"A Wheel Turned Forward: The Magical Mobility Chair, Changing Lives Across the Capital"
Beneath it, a woodblock-printed image showed a young girl smiling tearfully as she maneuvered the lightweight chair down a gentle ramp, her family trailing behind her with equal parts awe and disbelief. The article detailed the invention's features—arcane sigils for motion, durable cloth seats, lightweight frame, and rubber wheels reportedly made from refined tree sap. Nobles had already begun placing orders for aging parents and ailing relatives, and even healers from the outer districts were calling for mass production.
Across from him, the Grand Duke sat with one leg crossed, his gloved hand laying a set of meticulously inked design sketches on the table: the now-popular Archibricks, the whimsical Wobble-Tumble, and the crowning marvel—the magical mobility chair.
The Crown Prince leaned forward, studying the inventions closely. "These aren't toys," he murmured. "They're instruments of change. Imagination, innovation, freedom of movement—this is what we should have been funding all along."
The Grand Duke allowed a small smile. "Lady Whitman may have begun with wooden animals and interlocking bricks, but she's building more than playthings. According to her, it was just an effort to atone for a past mistake. However, her work reaches both the noble class and the common folk without discrimination."
The Crown Prince nodded. "That in itself is rare."
"Rubber," the Edward mused, shaking his head in disbelief. "Who would have thought to synthesize simple sap from an overlooked tree and come up with a new type of material?"
"Because of her," Prince Alaric said. "I am now looking at our world anew with an urge to search for any other hidden treasures one could find even in the most mundane corner of it."
There was a brief pause as the prince folded his fingers beneath his chin, gaze thoughtful.
"Tell me," He said at last, "has your surveillance turned up anything… unsavory?"
The Grand Duke shook his head. "On the contrary. Lady Whitman runs her shop with integrity. Her employees are well-treated, her ledgers balanced, and she's begun reinvesting earnings to fund more inventions. No bribes, no hidden favors. And…"—his voice lowered slightly— "she's partnered with our Mage Henry in a manner that suggests mutual respect, not exploitation. Her ideas drive the work."
A flicker of something like admiration crossed the prince's face. "And her past?"
"People within the manor claims memory loss after her fall, but her conduct since then is nothing short of extraordinary. If it were an act, it would've cracked by now."
The Crown Prince exhaled slowly. "Perhaps it's time to stop watching from the shadows."
He reached for his stationary set, signaling to a waiting aide just outside the door. "Draft an invitation. A royal banquet in her honor—nothing formal at first. Let's meet the woman shaping the future of our empire."
The Grand Duke smiled faintly, then cleared his throat. "There is another matter, Your Highness."
Crown Prince Alaric looked up.
"I've come to believe that the Earl of Whitman may not be as complicit as we once feared. His father's sins cast a long shadow, yes—but the earl himself…has never forgotten his loyalty to the empire. He has begun distancing himself from certain trading partners we've had our eyes on. Subtly, but deliberately. And I believe Lady Whitman's presence is accelerating that shift."
"You believe we can trust him?" the Crown Prince asked, tone measured.
"My man inside confirmed we should do so. I believe so as well. It would be quicker for us to work on this case if we enlist Whitman's help."
"Hmm. Shall we schedule a private meeting, then?"
"Yes. I believe," the Grand Duke said, "that it may be wiser to bring him into our confidence and use his inside knowledge to finish dismantling the rot, not only at the heart of the Sutherland Company, but also at our own ports and officials."
The prince looked back down at the article. The little girl in the wheelchair smiled up at him from the page.
"Very well," he said. "But cautiously. The last thing we need is another mask hiding a traitor."
He turned to the aide. "Two letters. One for Lady Whitman. And one for the Earl."
*****By fate's decree, by justice sworn*****
Back at Whitman Manor, Boleus Capital…
The soft chime of silverware against porcelain was the only sound that filled the small, sunlit breakfast room. Unlike the cavernous and gilded main dining hall of Whitman Manor, this cozy room was tucked away near the eastern wing, long forgotten by most of the household staff. The Earl himself had ordered it cleaned and prepared weeks before. And ever since then, the small Whitman family could be seen having their breakfasts regularly in this, more intimate, room.
Lady Whitman, seated at a small round table draped in soft lace, blinked against the morning light pouring in through tall glass windows. Jason was beside her; cheeks puffed with bread slathered in plum jam, humming a tune between bites. Across from them, the Earl sat relaxed, sleeves rolled up, pouring warm tea into his wife's cup without needing to be asked.
It was strangely domestic.
Warm.
Peaceful.
Jason giggled suddenly. "Papa, Mama said the cook snuck a whole cup of sugar into the plum jam just to impress her."
Lady Whitman choked slightly on her tea, flushed. "I did not say that. I merely speculated."
Anthony raised a brow, lips twitching. "Did you? Then I shall have to question the cook about this sugar conspiracy."
Their laughter filled the room, light and effortless.
Just then, the door creaked open.
The butler, solemn and precise as always, stepped inside carrying a silver tray. Atop it rested two pristine envelopes, sealed with the unmistakable emblem of the imperial family—a golden phoenix rising from a crown.
All three turned at once.
"A royal seal?" Lady Whitman murmured.
"Directly delivered by imperial courier, milord," the butler said, offering it to the Earl with a bow.
Anthony took the letter, broke the seal, and read swiftly. His brow rose slightly, then he chuckled under his breath and handed a second, smaller envelope to his wife.
"For you, Countess."
Lady Whitman accepted it, fingers trembling just a little. She read aloud, voice soft:
"In recognition of your innovative efforts and contributions to the empire, you are cordially invited to attend a royal banquet in your honor, to be held at the Imperial Palace..."
She trailed off.
Jason gasped. "Mama! A royal banquet in your honor! That means you're famous now!"
The Earl leaned back, eyes glinting with something close to pride. "It means," he said slowly, "you'll need a gown worthy of this honor. And there's only one atelier in the capital that will do."
Lady Whitman blinked. "Wait—are you serious? But… I just had a whole new set of gowns from Whitman Emporium just a few weeks ago."
Anthony only smiled. "I'll summon Maison Duverelle immediately."
"Maison Duverelle is the most famous in the whole empire," piped Jason. "I heard Simon's mom and Jimmy's aunt we're fighting who will be first to have their gowns made."
She laughed; the sound laced with nerves. "I'm already dreading corsets and flounces."
But a spark of something else lit in her gaze. A memory from the past, perhaps.
An idea.
Two days later, Whitman Manor was abuzz.
The great carriage of Maison Duverelle pulled into the courtyard, its dark lacquered wood glinting in the sunlight, gold crest shining proudly on its doors. It was followed by two more carriages carrying her assistants, bolts of fabric, boxes of sample gowns, selections of catalogs, and other accessories. Footmen hurried to receive the entourage of assistants, while curious maids peeked from behind curtains.
In the drawing room, Lady Whitman stood before her easel, fussing with a sketch. She remembered watching one of her favorite drama series in her neighbor's Netflix, Bridgerton, and she just knew their ensemble would be much more comfortable to wear in this world.
"You're sure you want to pitch that to Madame Duverelle?" asked Jane, her lady's maid, eyeing the empire-style sketch.
"No corset. No hoops. High waist, soft fabrics, clean silhouette. Yes, I'm sure," Lady Whitman said. "She might laugh me out of the room, but this is the kind of gown a woman can breathe in."
Jason popped his head in. "Are you making princess armor again, Mama?"
She snorted. "Better. Princess liberation."
Just then, the doors opened and the formidable Madame Eloide Duverelle stepped in.
Tall, elegant, with silver streaks in her hair and pince-nez perched upon her nose, she regarded Lady Whitman with a single sweep of her gaze.
"Countess Whitman," she said smoothly. "An honor."
"Likewise, Madame Duverelle. Thank you for coming on such short notice."
"For the Earl of Whitman and a royal banquet? I would have come yesterday if I'd had wings. Now, show me what you have in mind."
Lady Whitman handed her the sketch.
Madame Duverelle studied it.
And blinked.
"No corset?"
"Correct."
"No petticoats?"
"Exactly."
Silence.
Then, a strange smile curved the corners of Madame Duverelle's lips. "You wish to start a rebellion in silk."
"Only a small one," Lady Whitman replied. "A breathable one."
Madame Duverelle barked a short laugh. "Let me show you our fabric stores. We must ensure that a woman's natural charms be celebrated. We may need something from our enchanted silk vaults."
The next hour was a flurry of motion. Measurements were taken (amid Lady Whitman's horrified shrieks at the measuring tape and groans at having her arms spread wide for long periods of time), fabrics draped over her shoulders, Jason giggling at his mom's antics while giving enthusiastic thumbs up or vehement thumbs down at the colors.
"No green. She looks like a cabbage," Jason declared solemnly.
Anthony passed by just long enough to smirk and say, "Cabbage, noted."
By the time Madame Duverelle prepared to leave, she was humming with creative fervor.
"I shall return in two days with the final piece. If it turns out as we envision, Countess, you may very well set the fashion to a new generation."
"Okay."
"How about we keep this design a secret and unveil it only at the royal banquet, hmm?" A glint of mischief twinkling in the designer's eyes as she envisions the amazement of those who would see her creation for the first time.
"That sounds nice," was all Lady Whitman could say. She just wanted to be rid of the corset.
Lady Whitman sank onto a chaise the moment they were gone. "I think I have bruises from the pins and measuring tape."
Jason placed a cookie into her hand. "You were very brave."
She smiled and hugged her cute little boy.
Outside the manor, the ton was abuzz with whispers: of gowns and glory, of banquets and rebellion in fabric.
The sun filtered softly through the silken canopy of the garden salon where four noblewomen reclined around a wrought iron tea table set with delicate porcelain and three-tiered trays of fruit and cakes. Roses bloomed in perfect order beyond the trellis walls, the scent of lilac and jasmine swirling through the warm spring air.
"Did you hear?" drawled Lady Yverelle, stirring her tea with calculated ease. "The Earl's wife—Lady Whitman—has received a royal summons. A banquet in her honor."
Lady Tamsin, younger and wide-eyed, gasped. "Truly? A banquet? Whatever for?"
"For… toys," said Lady Yverelle, voice dipped in sarcasm, though her raised brow betrayed her uncertainty.
"Oh, come now," interrupted Lady Emmora, who had lately visited Whitman Manor during a relief donation. "They're not mere playthings. My nephews haven't stopped raving about the building bricks—ArchiBricks, they're called. Ingeniously designed. One can make carriages, towers, or a dollhouse—using the same pieces!"
"My son actually used those ArchiBricks for his school project. It's really quite versatile."
"I heard even the imperial architects and engineers were now using them to create miniature prototypes for their building and restoration plans."
Lady Mortaine, an older matron with silver in her hair and shrewdness in her gaze, sniffed. "It sounds suspicious to me. A villainous countess, suddenly praised by the Crown? And what of those rumors… that she fell from a window not long ago? How did she rise from the depths of scandal sheets to royal notice in just a few months?"
Emmora sipped her tea. "Because she changed. People can decide to change themselves, my lady. I saw her with my own eyes—joining the church and personally overseeing food distribution for the sick, organizing children's toy lines so no child was left behind. She speaks little, but when she does, you listen."
"Perhaps a clever mask," Mortaine muttered.
Yverelle waved a gloved hand dismissively. "Perhaps. But the real scandal is this—did you know she sketched her own gown for the royal banquet? The owner and designer from Maison Duverelle was called to Whitman Manor. And rumor says she refused a corset."
A collective gasp fluttered around the table.
"No corset?" Tamsin whispered in awe.
"None," Yverelle confirmed with relish. "I wonder what she'll look like without one? I couldn't imagine not wearing a corset, especially when one is inside the imperial palace."
"She will likely look frumpy and fat," snickers one.
"And scandalous!" Another covered her smirk with a fan.
"Well, what if she appears in that dress at the banquet... and the Crown applauds it?"
"…She'll set a fashion revolution," Tamsin murmured, wide-eyed.
"Well, if it turns out to be beautiful, I'd definitely follow her style. I hate those corsets as well, to be honest," Emmora added.
Mortaine gave a grudging nod. "Hmph. Maybe then, we can consider her as a force to be reckoned with. Still… I wonder what game she's playing."
Emmora smiled, eyes glinting. "I don't think it's a game at all. Perhaps Lady Whitman simply decided to stop playing anyone else's."
A thoughtful silence settled over the group, broken only by the soft clink of spoons in tea cups and the distant hum of city carriages.
*****One life fade, another reborn*****
The grand staircase of Whitman Manor had not seen such grace in years.
Standing at the top was Lady Whitman, a vision in silk and understated elegance, her silhouette framed by the soft afternoon light streaming through the tall stained-glass window behind her. The gown she wore was unlike anything the manor—or the empire—had seen. Designed in the modern empire-cut style, the soft ivory fabric clung gently beneath her bust and flowed freely down in graceful layers, the absence of a corset lending her movements a natural poise that was both regal and refreshingly unencumbered. Short puffed sleeves adorned with tiny mother-of-pearl buttons caught the light with every motion, while silver embroidery spiraled from her waist down like blooming vines.
Jason stood at the bottom of the staircase, his jaw slightly slack, the daisy in his lapel forgotten.
"Mama looks like a fairy princess," he whispered to his father.
The Right Honorable Earl of Whitman—Anthony—had not moved. His eyes were fixed on her, and something unnamable twisted inside his chest. He had expected her to be presentable. Refined, perhaps, even charming. But this... this was different.
She was breathtaking.
And that realization, warm and sudden, left him unsteady.
It wasn't just the gown, though the gown suited her to perfection. It was how she held her head high despite the nerves he could see just beneath the surface. It was how her gaze briefly scanned the two of them with fondness, even while her fingers trembled against the banister.
His chest tightened. Attraction. He could name it now. But desire—the desire to hold her close, this angel who graced their household—was that allowed? Had he earned that? Does he even have the right to feel it? The guilt, never far behind, returned in a quiet ache.
She had suffered so much since entering his house. Most of it was because of him.
He didn't deserve to want anything more.
But gods help him, he wanted to at least hold her hand in front of everyone tonight. To declare to all that she was his wife. His.
Lady Whitman descended the stairs with the grace of a woman walking into a new chapter. She had practiced it only once in her room, and now all she could think was, Don't trip, don't trip, please for the love of silk heels, don't trip—
Jason held out his hand gallantly at the last step. "You look beautiful, Mama. I think everyone at the palace will faint."
She laughed softly. "Let's hope not, or it'll be a very short banquet."
The Earl stepped forward and offered his arm. "Shall we?"
She took it, her hand fitting into the crook of his arm like it belonged there. It surprised her how natural it felt.
The carriage waited outside, a lacquered dark green coach bearing the Whitman crest, freshly polished for the occasion. Jason scrambled in first, practically bouncing with excitement.
The Earl turned to assist her in. One gloved hand at her back, the other clasping her hand, he lifted her slightly as she stepped onto the carriage footboard.
But once she was in, he didn't let go.
Not immediately.
Her eyes met his.
"Is something the matter?" she asked, her voice soft, uncertain.
He blinked, as if waking from a trance. "No. It's just... you look radiant."
She blushed, caught somewhere between her Earth-trained sarcasm to diffuse the situation and the strange flutter in her chest.
He stepped in after her, the door closing behind them with a gentle thud.
Inside, the plush seats and curtained windows offered a cocoon of privacy.
Jason leaned forward with a wide grin. "Don't be nervous, Mama. You invented amazing things! And the emperor wants to see you. That means you're awesome."
"I'm just worried I'll do something wrong. Spill soup on the crown prince. Trip on the dowager empress."
"You won't," the Earl said quietly. "You've already done more than anyone expected. Tonight is not about perfection. It's about recognition."
She looked at him.
"And you'll be by my side, right?"
His lips curved, just faintly. "Every step."
As the carriage rolled forward, Lady Whitman exhaled. She touched the fabric of her gown—the empire-cut design she had secretly sketched in her study days ago. No corsets. No crushing boning. Just flowing beauty. Her small rebellion not only against centuries of fashion but also for days of discomfort. Thank you Bridgerton!
And tonight, the empire would see it for the first time.
And she would be seen—as herself.
The carriage flew past beautiful sceneries and gorgeous architecture, but none of that registered in Lady Whitman's mind who was busy making sure she forgot none of the things she would be expected to say in front of the royal family.
Ah, Mary Jane, when had you ever spoken in front of a public gathering? She berated herself for dropping out of school early because earning money was more important to her at the time.
And yet, she recalled the times she spoke in front of their guests in Whitman Manor when introducing her toys. They both went well enough, she rationalized to herself. I'm sure it'll be fine. It'll be okay.
She didn't even realize she was fidgeting and tapping her foot restlessly on the floor of the carriage until Jason laid down his hands on her knees and Anthony squeezed her hands reassuringly.
For Lady Whitman, it felt like no time at all, but their carriage was already stopping in front of the palace steps that will lead them to the grand ballroom.
The massive double doors of the imperial palace swung open with dignified grandeur as the royal herald's voice rang out, polished and precise.
"Presenting The Right Honorable Earl and Countess of Whitman, accompanied by young Lord Jason Whitman!"
A hush fell across the arched entrance to the grand ballroom. Heads turned. Fans fluttered. A sea of elegantly dressed nobles and high society elites paused mid-conversation, eyes drawn to the stately figures standing at the threshold of the gargantuan room especially appointed and decorated in honor of the incoming family.
The Earl of Whitman made a move first, striking in his deep navy formal coat trimmed with silver, every line of his posture regal and composed. But it was the subtle grace and a dash of intimacy in how he turned and offered his hand that drew more murmurs—a hand extended not to a political ally or dignitary, but to his wife. The countess.
"Is that—? Is he really escorting her himself?" whispered a viscountess, her jeweled fan trembling slightly.
"This is truly unprecedented," whispered the lady beside the viscountess.
"And he's being so... attentive."
"Hmp! I'm sure it's just because the royal family ordered him to do so."
Several ladies covered their snickers behind their fans.
Lady Whitman emerged slowly, her hand on her husband's arm, her empire-cut gown catching the golden light from the overhead chandeliers. Soft ivory chiffon layered over sparkling blue silk whispered as she moved, the gown's high waistline flowing into graceful pleats that required no corset, no boning—only confidence. Pearl buttons traced her elbow-length gloves while her gown shimmered under the light as a delicate silver embroidery of vines and stars swept along its hem and bodice.
"She looks... radiant," someone breathed.
"No corset?" a duchess sniffed with thinly veiled disdain. "It lacks the structure of proper fashion."
"Are you blind?" a younger noble countered. "She moves like a water nymph. I've never seen anything so elegant."
"I better have the seamstress visit our home as soon as possible," a lady murmured to herself.
Jason stepped beside his mother, his small hand protectively clasping hers, his smile unrestrained. He glanced around the crowd as if daring anyone to speak ill of her. Several older nobles softened at the sight.
"The boy is glowing. He's proud of her." The men were even making their own observations.
"Can't blame him. She's done more in a season than some have in decades."
And then there was the Earl again—his gaze resting on Lady Whitman longer than propriety required, lips parted slightly as though he'd nearly forgotten they stood before a hundred noble eyes. His hand lingered at her back a breath longer than needed as they moved forward, guiding her into the ballroom with a care that did not go unnoticed.
"Did you see the way he looked at her?"
"What would Lady Margella say?"
"Shh! That's mere speculation!"
"What a strange turn of fate... to think we once pitied her for being overshadowed by another lady in the eyes of her husband."
But as the Whitman family passed beneath the golden arch into the ballroom proper, the murmurs were swallowed by music and candlelight—and the stage was set.