Let me go. Let me go. You have to let me go.

Anthony was suddenly woken up by a knock on the door.

He had been dreaming again.

He stretched his arms and mouthed a yawn as he glanced at his pocket watch.

It was a quarter past and he had fallen asleep waiting for her.

The rain was falling hard outside, and he could hear the echoes as it pattered across the windows.

He closed his eyes for a second and listened to the rain.

Let me go. Let me go. You have to let me go.

He opened his eyes again, silently cursing himself for thinking about her. 

Since the night of the Hastings Ball, those words continued to haunt Anthony, and he wasn't able to shake them away.

There hadn't been a week since that night where he didn't have the dream, and there hadn't been a day since when he didn't think about her.

Siena

He thought about her all the time, constantly.

And he absolutely hated himself for it.

The more he tried to forget about their relationship, the more the opposite occurred.

Anthony truly wanted to move on, but every fragment in his body essentially refused to let it happen.

In the morning, as he read the newspaper in the drawing-room, he unwittingly found himself looking for her name to see if it was listed in the columns.

When he went on walks, he frequently found himself inadvertently ending up across the modiste, hoping to catch sight of her.

The situation was hopeless, and Anthony was helpless.

What I know is that you are lost

Anthony shook his head, trying to rid himself of the memory.

He hated that Siena dared to tell him that he was lost, he hated it even more because he knew deep down that she was right.

He was lost.

Every time he thought he had it all figured out, it all would come crumbling down.

He had to look no further than Siena. She was a perfect example of that.

And now, that's how Anthony began to see her and their relationship: a lesson.

A lesson to never give his heart away, for how can something be broken if it was never whole in the first place.

He opened the front door and was greeted by the source as well as the solution to all of his recent troubles.

It was the girl.

The one who fondly liked to call him Badgerton.

She was carrying an umbrella over her head, her hair and cheeks dripping with raindrops.

Anthony eyed her up and down. She certainly looked better than the day he first met her, but she still appeared slightly disheveled as she stood on his front porch.

"Is everything okay?" she inquired, seeing the strange look on Anthony's face.

"Yeah, just come in," he grumbled, shutting the door before peering outside to see if anyone saw her enter.

After Siena left town, Anthony sold his old apartment and bought a new one on the other side of town.

It was one of many things he did to purge himself of anything that reminded him of her.

Unfortunately for Anthony, that resulted in abandoning almost all of his belongings.

He turned to face the girl, who was shaking the rain off her umbrella and wiping her boots on the carpet.

These last few days, Anthony had done nothing but dread this meeting but he understood it was necessary.

She was going to help resolve all of his problems.

So, Anthony did in fact, feel an inch of gratitude toward her.

Just an inch.

Because at the end of the day, he still loathed her.

The way she spoke, the way she acted, the way she completely insulted him.

No one had ever dared to talk to him like she did.

It made him furious, but deep down, though he would never admit it, he was slightly curious.

Everything about her that frustrated him, also made her that much more interesting than any girl of the ton.

What was it about her?

He knew she wasn't Rosalie Warner, so who was she really?

So why was she pretending to be someone she's not?

~~~~~~~

She stood in front of the door, an umbrella in one hand, and a piece of paper in the other.

On the night of the Trowley ball, after he revealed he knew she wasn't Rosalie, he handed her an address and told her to meet him there tonight.

She deliberated whether she was going to follow up with his ruse or not.

After Amelia went home that night, she told Rosalie everything that transpired at the ball.

She was unsettled at first, knowing that sideburns had figured out their ruse, but for the rest of the night, she mainly just teased Amelia after she quickly mentioned that he demanded her to dance with him.

She told her there was no possible way that she was going to go along with his scheme, that there was no way she was going to pretend to be courted by him.

Unfortunately, Rosalie practically forced her otherwise, saying that the two of them would be in severe trouble if sideburns divulged the truth to anyone else.

So Amelia found herself on the other side of town, late at night, standing on the doorstep of the person she'd come to loathe most.

With complete reluctance, she knocked on his door.

There was officially no turning back now.

When he opened the door, he didn't look especially excited.

In fact, he looked the very opposite.

His face bore a picture of somberness and he looked particularly glum.

Seeing his solemn face made her extremely nervous.

She wanted to run away at that very moment and never come back. 

But he was blackmailing her, so she really didn't have a choice.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, just come in."

To her grand surprise, the house was actually quite nice, charming even.

From his demeanor, she fully expected to walk into something akin to a haunted house, or a poorly-lit funeral home.

She was thankful that was not the case.

The foyer was decorated with delicate knick-knacks and antiques and a stunning mahogany table was placed in the center.

There were golden candelabras set on the table, as they lighted the hallway and beautiful portraits hung alongside on the wall.

She glanced at him curiously, what other surprises did he have in store?

She put down her umbrella, wiped the rain off her face and took a seat in the drawing-room.

Seconds of silence passed as he sat on the couch across from her, fiddling with his fingers.

"Do you want anything to drink?"  he asked.

Was he being nice?  she wondered.

Was he actually capable of such a thing?

"No, I'm fine, thank you,"  she murmured back.

She looked around the room and tried to see if there was anyone else in the house.

Did he live alone? 

He was a viscount, as he loved to remind her, where were all his servants?

"It's just me," he spoke as if reading her mind.

She looked at him with puzzlement.

"There's no one else here ...... if that's what you were wondering,"  his voice faltered.

She nodded.

"I come here when I am in need of a break. I thought it would be a suitable place for us to meet since we can't be seen anywhere else in public. Well not at least, at this time of night."

She nodded again.

This was probably why he asked her to meet him all the way across town.

Amelia realized that for any other girl in the square, this meeting would surely be forbidden.

A man and a woman unchaperoned, alone in his house, at this time of night?

If she was actually a debutante, she would be completely disgraced, and her family name would be tarnished.

But fortunately, she was lower-class and parentless, so she had no family name to be disgraced anyway.

"Who are you?" he asked, looking at her sternly.

She paused, not sure what to respond. He said he knew she wasn't Rosalie, but what proof did he have?

She opened her mouth to speak, reminding herself to not be nervous. Or at the very least, not show him that she was. "Like I told you that night, I'm Rosalie-"

"Don't lie to me," he cautioned. "I know you're not."

Amelia sighed deeply, hoping to convince him that he was wrong, that he was simply mistaken.

However, the look in his eyes confirmed that he was sure of himself and frankly, she was tired of lying to him.

"How did you know?"  she asked faintly.

"I know Grayson Warner."

Her eyes widened in surprise. Grayson Warner was Rosalie's father.

"My father and he were good friends," he continued. "A couple of years ago, I visited him and his family. I only met his wife and daughter for a mere moment. But I can say with complete certainty, that you're not her. Clearly," he scoffed, emphasizing the last part, as he eyed Amelia up and down.

What was that supposed to mean?

She felt a heaviness make its way towards her chest. She hated having to lie, even if it was to someone as horrible as sideburns.

The weight on her chest was making it hard for her to breathe, and she closed her eyes, hoping for the feeling to disappear.

"So are you going to tell me who you are, or should I call the Bow Street Runners?" he challenged.

"No, don't!" she shouted, opening her eyes.

"Please ... I'm begging you. Please don't do anything of the sort,"  she continued softer this time.

She took a deep breath, the intangible weight on her chest still present.

"You're right. I'm not Rosalie."

~~~~~~~

A/N

hey my loves
hope u enjoyed this chapter

remember to vote & comment 💗

yours truly

violet k

31/01/21