Featherington dinners were chaotic.
Bridgerton dinners were warm.
Combining the two?
Social calamity in three courses.
Penelope took her place at the far end of the long table, posture perfect, hands folded in her lap, trying to appear as small and uninteresting as possible.
Survival strategy: Be invisible.
Especially tonight.
Anthony Bridgerton had brought company.
Simon Basset, not yet Duke of Hastings, newly returned to London.
Two men with sharp gazes.
Two men who noticed far too much.
Two men Penelope desperately wanted not to catch her watching.
Across the table, Anthony (23) carried the weary dignity of an eldest brother who routinely held together an entire household.
Simon (also 23) possessed an effortless arrogance wrapped in elegance—eyes like polished steel.
Their banter flowed with ease:
Anthony teased.
Simon deflected.
Simon provoked.
Anthony groaned.
Penelope knew that rhythm—she'd seen it in her past life between childhood friends who loved each other but would rather perish than say the words out loud.
Eloise Bridgerton—Penelope's sole source of sanity at most gatherings—sat beside her, fidgeting with her napkin like it was stifling her very soul.
"Your mother is particularly insufferable today," Eloise whispered behind her hand.
Penelope almost laughed.
Almost.
Instead she whispered, "She always is."
Eloise blinked.
That tone—quiet, steady, not quite the meek Penelope she was used to—caught her attention.
But Eloise didn't comment… yet.
Her gaze drifted toward Portia Featherington, who was loudly bragging about Prudence's supposed "talent" for singing.
Eloise leaned closer.
"You know, Pen, sometimes I wonder if your mother even likes any of you."
Penelope's heart tightened.
Her friend didn't realize she had spoken the most honest words of the night.
Penelope reached for her fork.
A ghost of her old injury pulsed through her arm.
A sharp sting.
Just enough to make her inhale too fast.
Anthony's voice cut through conversation like a blade.
"Miss Featherington? Are you hurt?"
Before Penelope could answer, Portia let out a brittle laugh.
"She's perfectly fine. Penelope, stop drawing attention."
Eloise stiffened.
Her eyes snapped to Portia with unfiltered disgust.
"That was a perfectly reasonable question," Eloise said, voice cool. "Penelope flinched, Lady Featherington."
"Girls her age are always dramatic," Portia replied.
Penelope bowed her head.
"I'm fine," she whispered.
Anthony didn't look reassured.
Simon, though…
Simon watched her like a puzzle with one missing piece. He tapped his finger against his glass.
"You're not quite like your sisters," he murmured, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "There's something… quieter. Sharper."
Penelope froze.
Different was dangerous.
Different got you noticed.
Eloise interrupted before panic rose too high.
"She's nothing like Philipa or Prudence," Eloise said proudly. "She reads. And thinks. And has a personality."
And her mother and sisters glared at Penelope as if she were the one that made the comment.
"Eloise," Penelope whispered, horrified and touched at once.
"What? It's true."
Anthony hid a smile behind his drink.
Simon's eyebrow arched, intrigued.
Penelope wanted to melt into the floor.
A soft shimmer flickered in Penelope's vision.
[Soulmate Resonance Detected]
[Anthony Bridgerton: +2%
Trigger: Protective response.]
[Simon Basset: +1%
Trigger: Analytical intrigue.]
Penelope's heart nearly stopped.
'Absolutely not. Not happening. Not now. Not ever. Stop it, system.'
The system responded with a cheerful chime that felt like mockery.
Eloise leaned closer, whispering, "You look pale. Should I cause a distraction? I could overturn the soup tureen."
Despite everything, Penelope smiled.
"Not tonight," she whispered. "But keep that in reserve."
Dessert came and went.
Penelope spent the entire evening trying to make herself invisible.
But the universe seemed determined to drag her into the spotlight.
Every time she dared to look up, Anthony was already looking at her with quiet concern.
And when she looked away, Simon was already analyzing her like a code he intended to crack.
Eloise stayed close—unusually close—maybe sensing something was off but not yet understanding what. She elbowed Penelope whenever Portia spoke too sharply, muttered snarky commentary, and generally acted like a one-woman emotional support cavalry.
By the end of the night, Penelope was exhausted.
She had wanted nothing more than to disappear.
Instead, three people had noticed her.
Two men.
One best friend.
And Penelope had the uneasy feeling that this was only the beginning.