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The morning sun sliced through the velvet drapes of Duke Verstappen's study, but the golden light did little to warm the cold tension in the room. The scent of ink, leather, and the faintest whiff of disappointment hung heavy in the air.
Max stood tall, shoulders squared like a soldier before war, as he faced his father—the formidable Marquess Jos Verstappen. A man of few smiles, fewer kind words, and a mouth that carved expectations with each syllable.
"You will marry Piastri," Jos declared, tone as rigid as the ancient family crest behind him. "The boy is quiet. Polished. Comes from good stock. He won't interfere with your duties."
Max didn't flinch. He rarely did. But inside, a slow burn kindled, like a storm cloud gathering at sea.
"I am not opposed to the match," he said carefully, voice low and controlled, as always. "Oscar is… suitable."
Jos narrowed his eyes. "Suitable is what we need. We are not marrying for frivolity. This is not a romantic novel, Max. You are a Duke. You carry the Verstappen name. We do not marry for love. We marry for legacy."
Max’s jaw tensed, but he gave a curt nod. There was no use arguing. Legacy. Duty. Discipline. These were the pillars of his world. They had kept him upright when emotion threatened to topple him.
"Love," Jos added with disdain, "is a weakness.”
………………………………
The coach rumbled into Grosvenor Square beneath a cloudy London sky, its wheels crunching gravel with the purpose of a man who’d made up his mind before the journey even began.
Duke Max Verstappen sat rigid inside, boots polished to a mirror shine, coat tailored to perfection, every movement precise. His heart, however, beat beneath layers of armor — as it always had.
He had come to court Oscar Piastri.
It was a simple matter of alliance, convenience, and stability.
Love had no place in it.
The coach came to a halt before the home of his eccentric uncle, Lord Alonso — a man known more for scandal and sensation than sense. The very idea of staying under Alonso’s roof made Max’s father clench his jaw from three counties away.
Good.
The front door flew open before the footman could knock, and Lord Alonso — half-buttoned, barefoot, and beaming — stood there like a painting come to life.
“Maximilian Verstappen,” Alonso declared, arms wide, curls askew. “You’ve arrived in the most tragically boring square in London. Come in, come in. Before the ton senses your misery and swarms to gossip about it!”
Max stepped down, coat unmoved by the wind. “Alonso. Thank you for hosting me.”
“Oh please, your father’s going to send a raven the moment he hears you’re in my clutches,” Alonso grinned, dragging Max inside. “You’ll be married off before the Season ends, he hopes?”
“I intend to court Oscar Piastri,” Max said plainly, as Alonso flung open the sitting room doors.
Alonso raised a brow. “Intent, dear boy, is one thing. But do you even like Oscar?”
“I do not need to like him. I need a husband who does not interfere. Someone composed, predictable, quiet.”
“So a houseplant with a title?”
Max sighed.
Alonso tilted his head. “You can never plan the future. Let it run its course.”
…………………
It was supposed to be a quiet entrance.
Max Verstappen had planned it meticulously: arrive precisely fifteen minutes after the start of the Piastri soirée — late enough to be noticed, not so late as to be rude. He’d wear black, of course. Always black. A stoic color for a stoic man. He would offer a cool, practiced smile, a curt nod to Lady Piastri, and then request a moment alone with Oscar. Efficient. Dignified. Controlled.
So naturally, it all went to hell the moment he walked in.
The first thing he noticed was the sound — laughter. Loud, unrefined laughter. Then came the crash. And finally—
“Oh, bloody hell, it’s sticky!”
Max paused mid-step.
There, near the refreshment table, stood a complete disaster of a man — soaked from chest to waist in what looked to be bright red punch. He was holding the ladle in one hand and a broken glass in the other, staring at both like they’d personally betrayed him. A few startled debutantes tittered behind fans. Lord Tsunoda looked entirely unsurprised.
Then, the man turned.
Their eyes met.
Daniel Bridgerton.
Max’s eyebrow twitched.
“Ah,” Daniel said brightly. “You must be the Duke. You look like a duke. Scowly. And stiff. Very duchy.”
Max blinked once. “Excuse me?”
“Not in that way,” Daniel said, waving the ladle like a sword. “Although—well, I’m not one to judge, Your Grace. But no, I meant your... posture. It’s very... uptight.” He gestured with the sticky ladle again, dripping punch all over the floor. “I’m Daniel, by the way. Bridgerton. The fun one.”
Max stared at the red stains spreading across the floor.
“Perhaps,” he said icily, “you might consider being the dry one.”
“Oh, trust me,” Daniel said with a wink, “I’m trying. That table attacked me.”
“You tripped over your own feet.”
“I slid with purpose.”
Max turned away. “Where’s Oscar?”
Daniel smirked. “Trying to hide from this very conversation, I imagine.”
Max’s jaw clenched. “I have no interest in playing games with you.”
“Ah, but you should, Your Grace.” Daniel leaned in far too close for propriety, punch still dripping from his sleeve. “You might find you’re terrible at them. That would be fun.”
Max took a step back.
“I will speak to Oscar now,” he said curtly.
Daniel, utterly unbothered, stepped aside with a flourish and a mock bow. “Do enjoy. But remember: smile once in a while. You might scare fewer pigeons.”
Max walked away with murder in his eyes.
Daniel called after him, “I like you, Your Grace! You’re fun when you’re angry!”
Max didn’t respond.
He would not rise to the bait. He would court Oscar Piastri. He would not be distracted by a walking disaster in curls.
Not even if that disaster had the most annoyingly charming grin he’d ever seen.
…………..
The Piastri garden was blooming with lavender and scandal.
Max stood, poised with a teacup in hand, delivering what he thought was a perfectly respectable monologue about estate management to Oscar Piastri — who looked politely interested, if slightly distracted.
And then came the hurricane.
“Maximilian, dearest!” Daniel Bridgerton practically sang as he strolled up, balancing a plate stacked with an unholy amount of lemon tarts. “Do you ever talk about anything remotely enjoyable? Or is this an intentional attempt to bore poor Oscar into marrying you out of sheer pity?”
Max’s eye twitched. “It’s Max. Not Maximilian. No one calls me Maximilian.”
“I do. It suits you. All cold and dramatic.” Daniel took a massive bite of tart and gestured toward Oscar. “Darling, blink twice if you’re in danger.”
Oscar gave a tiny smile. “I’m fine, Dan.”
Daniel gasped. “Fine? Max just compared love to a business merger. He made the words yield per acre sound romantic.”
Max’s jaw clenched. “I was making a point about long-term compatibility—”
“Yes, yes, you want a husband who’s fertile soil and financially efficient,” Daniel interrupted with a sweet smile. “You’re wooing a human, not a vineyard, Verstappen.”
Max huffed. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
Daniel gasped. “Moi? Sabotage? I’d never!”
Max glared. “You told Oscar I was scared of ducks.”
Daniel grinned, unrepentant. “And yet you did jump when one quacked near the lake yesterday.”
“They’re unpredictable.”
“Exactly what Oscar deserves — unpredictability. Not someone who files emotions into color-coded ledgers.”
Max took a step closer, eyes narrowing. “You’re infuriating.”
Daniel beamed. “And yet — charming. You’re the one trying to marry my best friend. I’m just... quality control.”
“I am a Duke.”
“You’re a Duke with the emotional warmth of a snowstorm.”
“And you are a walking disaster with jam on your waistcoat.”
Daniel looked down, unbothered. “Apricot. It matches my personality — sticky and sweet with a hint of chaos.”
Oscar cleared his throat awkwardly, caught between laughter and pity. “I... think I’ll go check on the refreshments.”
Max sighed deeply. Daniel followed Oscar with his eyes until he disappeared, then turned back to Max, expression softening for just a heartbeat.
“He deserves joy, you know,” he said, voice low. “Don’t you dare make him choose duty over happiness.”
Max paused. For once, he didn’t have a retort.
Daniel’s grin returned. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to ‘accidentally’ spill tea on your trousers.”
Max looked to the heavens. “Why must it be you?”
Daniel winked. “Because fate loves a meddler.”
……………
Daniel Bridgerton was a man on a mission. A noble one, in his opinion — saving his best friend Oscar from a life of emotional drought at the hands of Duke Max Verstappen, also known as His Royal Broodiness.
He skidded around the corner, cape fluttering like he fancied himself a villain in a Shakespearean farce. “Lando!”
From the drawing room came a crash and a muffled “what now?”, followed by Lando Bridgerton appearing with a biscuit hanging from his mouth and mischief in his eyes.
“I need your help distracting Oscar,” Daniel declared. “Tell him you want to discuss embroidery or frogs or something — I don’t care — just keep him away for fifteen minutes so I can switch Max’s shaving cream with whipped cream.”
Lando blinked. “You're doing the thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The ‘you’re obsessed with the Duke’ thing.”
“I am not!”
“You are,” Lando said, munching on his biscuit. “But sure. I’ll go. For science.” He winked and sprinted off suspiciously fast, which in Daniel’s experience usually meant disaster was brewing.
He barely had a second to wonder what Lando was up to when the grand doors opened, and in floated Carlos.
Yes, Carlos Bridgerton, glowing like a painting come to life, arm in arm with his husband — the very portrait of restraint, Duke Charles Leclerc, who only smiled like that for Carlos and no one else. It was disgusting. Romantic. Annoying.
Their fathers, Lord Mark Bridgerton and Lord Sebastian Vettel, practically floated over to greet their golden son and beloved son-in-law, enveloping them in a sea of fondness and fluttering handkerchiefs.
Carlos smiled, radiant as always. “We come bearing news.”
Sebastian gasped. “You’re finally going to Italy for your honeymoon?”
Mark swatted his husband’s arm. “Darling, they’ve been four times.”
Carlos giggled. “No, nothing like that. We’re expecting.”
There was a beat — then chaos. Laughter, cheers, an excited shriek from Kimi, and someone (probably Alex) popped confetti from nowhere.
Daniel was genuinely thrilled — he adored Carlos. But he had a rant to continue and no time for soft baby news.
“Anyway,” he said, dramatically flopping onto a chaise, “your news is lovely and beautiful and blah blah blah, but can we talk about Max Verstappen?”
Carlos arched an elegant brow. “What did the Duke of Despair do now?”
“He exists!” Daniel huffed. “And glares. And breathes like he invented judgement. I swear, he watches Oscar like a falcon. Never smiles. Stiff as a rod. I think he may actually sleep in a cravat. I bet he folds his socks with a ruler.”
Charles, seated beside Carlos, blinked. “He does sound like me before I met you.”
Daniel ignored that. “And get this — yesterday, I tried to spill ink on his boots as divine punishment, and he moved just in time. He sensed it. Like some sort of cravat-wearing vampire.”
Carlos, sipping his tea, gave a regal shrug. “Mm. Sounds like someone’s paying quite a lot of attention to him.”
Daniel sputtered. “I’m monitoring him. For safety.”
“Of course,” Carlos said serenely, but with that knowing smirk that meant he knew everything.
“And I hate him,” Daniel added.
“Mmm,” Carlos hummed, setting his teacup down. “You noticed the exact brand of his boots, the number of buttons on his coat, and his shaving habits.”
“I’m observant!” Daniel cried.
Carlos leaned over, patted his cousin’s knee with a dramatic sigh. “Sweetheart, denial looks good on no one.”
From the corner, Charles finally spoke. “This is exactly how you talked about me before you confessed.”
Daniel glared. “I’m going to start throwing lemons at people.”
Carlos smiled. “You should throw them at the Duke. I bet he’d catch them mid-air and scowl.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
……………
The sun was setting like a painter had gone mad with golds and pinks, and yet here was Daniel Bridgerton — stomping through the woods behind Grosvenor Square like he was about to set it on fire with sheer indignation.
And of course, Max Bloody Verstappen had followed.
“You absolute menace,” Max growled, voice tight, boots crunching after him. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice the ink in my tea?”
“Oh, so you did taste it,” Daniel said sweetly, turning on his heel. “I was afraid your taste buds were as numb as your soul.”
Max stopped short. He looked furious. Beautifully furious. Like the kind of tempest poets dreamed of — but Daniel would never say that aloud.
“I’ve tolerated your little antics. The frogs. The glue on my gloves. The removal of all my left shoes—”
“I donate those,” Daniel cut in, haughty.
“—but you’ve crossed a line,” Max snapped. “You’re trying to sabotage something important.”
“You mean your emotionless proposal to Oscar?” Daniel bit out, stepping closer. “You don’t even love him!”
“I would make him a stable life.” Max’s jaw clenched. “Security. Dignity.”
Daniel laughed bitterly. “Oh yes, what every romantic dreams of. Cold duty and a weekly nod of approval.”
Max moved before he thought.
They crashed — shoulder to chest, hands grabbing fabric, snarling like dogs in a pit. Daniel shoved; Max caught his wrists. They twisted. Rolled. Daniel yelped as Max pinned him against a tree.
“I should—” Max started.
“Go ahead,” Daniel snapped, panting, eyes flashing. “Hit me.”
They were close. Too close.
Daniel’s breath hitched. Max’s grip slackened.
Their chests heaved. Eyes locked. The air shifted, like something fragile and frighteningly real had bloomed between them.
Max’s voice dropped, hoarse. “You drive me insane.”
Daniel swallowed. “You think I enjoy this?”
And then — Max leaned in. Just a fraction. Enough that Daniel felt his breath, warm and uneven against his lips.
Silence. One heartbeat. Two.
“Do it,” Daniel whispered, not sure if he meant the kiss or the punch.
But Max blinked — as if waking — and took a step back, fingers twitching like he'd touched fire.
“This,” Max muttered, backing away, “isn’t happening.”
“Coward,” Daniel said quietly.
Max turned, storming off through the trees, leaving Daniel slumped against the bark, heart pounding like it wanted to leap after him.
……………
It began with the ominous clink of teacups. That’s how Daniel knew something was off.
The Bridgerton drawing room was suspiciously quiet, save for the slow, deliberate sip Lewis took from his cup like a judge preparing to sentence someone.
Daniel was halfway into a biscuit when it happened.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Daniel.”
He froze, crumbs halfway to doom. “Excuse me?”
Lewis set his cup down with all the weight of being the Eldest Bridgerton — polished, terrifying, vaguely judgmental.
“You’re toying with the Duke.”
“I—what?” Daniel scoffed, flailing biscuit-crumbed fingers. “Max Verstappen? The marble statue of manhood? Please.”
Lewis didn’t blink. “You brawled in the woods.”
“It was—physical debate!” Daniel defended. “He tried to strangle me with his cravat!”
“You called him a soulless coat rack.”
“He is a coat rack! A very well-tailored, incredibly rude—look, that’s not the point.”
“The point is,” Lewis said calmly, “your cheeks were red when you came back. You didn’t speak for hours. And you avoided eye contact with everyone. Especially Carlos, who always knows.”
Daniel squirmed. “I was merely winded. From the fight.”
“Sure,” Lewis said dryly. “From all the emotional repression.”
“I’m not—” Daniel stood up, nearly knocking over his tea. “This is ridiculous. I don’t like him.”
Lewis arched a brow. “Then why are you jealous of Oscar?”
Daniel opened his mouth. Closed it. Then looked extremely betrayed.
“I’m not jealous of Oscar,” he muttered, stalking toward the door. “I’m…protective. Loyal.”
“Denial,” Lewis called after him.
Daniel stopped at the doorway, cheeks flushing scarlet. “If anyone's in denial it’s that walking stormcloud with a duke’s title.”
Lewis leaned back, crossed his arms, and said, very wisely:
“Perhaps. But unlike you, he’s not lying to himself.”
Daniel slammed the door behind him with the grace of a man in deep, deep denial.
…………..
The Lockwood Mansion was, as always, disgustingly perfect.
The glitter of chandeliers. The swell of violins. The slow spin of society's finest on polished marble floors. And Daniel Bridgerton, very much not dancing, but glaring into his champagne like it personally insulted him.
He hadn’t seen the Duke all evening.
Which was suspicious.
Very suspicious.
So when he spotted a shadow slipping out into the gardens, Daniel didn’t hesitate. He knew Max Verstappen was up to something. A secret rendezvous, perhaps. A scandal in the moonlight. Something that would finally prove he was the cold, unfeeling, social-climbing robot Daniel always claimed he was.
But when Daniel found him… Max was simply standing beneath the pale light of the moon, alone. Silent. His hands behind his back. His coat unbuttoned at the collar like he had finally let himself breathe.
Daniel blinked. "This is very un-duke of you."
Max didn’t startle. Just turned his head slightly. "You followed me."
“You were sneaking out of a perfectly good party, and that’s suspicious,” Daniel said, stepping closer. “What are you doing? Plotting world domination?”
Max glanced up at the moon. “Just… thinking.”
Daniel snorted. “That’s what you left Lady Lockwood’s famous lemon tarts for? Thoughts?”
Max gave a tired half-smile. “I never cared for dancing. Or parties. They're… exhausting.”
Daniel frowned. “You could impress Oscar. Dance a little, flirt a bit.”
Max’s face hardened, like the moment had slipped back behind a wall. “My father never taught me that sort of thing. Romance. He said a duke doesn’t dance, he chooses. He commands.”
Daniel tilted his head, softer now. “That sounds awful.”
“It was… efficient,” Max said.
Daniel hesitated. Then, after a breath, he held out a hand. “You want to learn?”
Max blinked. “What?”
Daniel wiggled his fingers. “Dance with me. Out here. Under the moon. You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it — at least once. The infamous Daniel Bridgerton asking you to waltz.”
“I don’t know how.”
“I’ll lead.”
Max hesitated. Then, slowly, like a reluctant tide drawn to shore, he stepped forward.
Daniel took his hand gently, his other hand finding Max’s shoulder, and they began to move—stiff at first, then smoother as Max followed Daniel’s lead. The music from inside floated faintly through the garden, but their world was the silence between breaths, between heartbeats, between stars.
The moonlight wrapped around them like silk. Their feet barely disturbed the grass. Their eyes met.
Something trembled in the space between them.
“You’re not terrible,” Daniel murmured.
“I’m a fast learner,” Max said, his voice low.
The moment drew tighter, closer, warmer. Max's hand gripped Daniel’s waist just a little more firmly. Daniel’s breath caught.
Their faces were so close.
Their lips brushed the edge of maybe.
But then Daniel stepped back. “We… we can’t.”
Max’s expression shuttered. He nodded. “Oscar.”
Daniel looked away. “Right.”
They stood in silence, hearts loud and unspoken.
“I should go inside,” Daniel said.
“Yes.”
But neither of them moved.
Not yet.
…………..
Daniel was not sighing.
He was merely breathing. Dramatically. While flopping onto his bed for the third time in ten minutes.
“Daniel,” came Lando’s groggy voice from the chaise near the fireplace, “if you sigh any louder, the ghosts of Bridgertons Past might rise and haunt you for being this pathetic.”
Daniel threw a pillow at him. Missed.
“I am not pathetic. I am pondering.”
“Pondering Max Verstappen's hands on your waist?” Lando yawned, stretching like a smug little cat. “Or his tragic moonlit gaze?”
Daniel froze. “I— What— You— I’m going to kill you.”
“You danced with him.”
“It was a lesson.” Daniel sat up, scandalised.
“In the gardens. Under the moonlight. You’re lucky Whistledown didn’t catch you mid-waltz and call it a scandalous elopement.”
Daniel flopped back down. “It was nothing. He’s annoying. Uptight. Never smiles.”
“Mmhm,” Lando hummed. “And yet you’re staring at the ceiling like you’re composing a sonnet titled ‘The Duke of Doom and My Doomed Feelings.’”
Daniel groaned. “This is terrible. I hate him.”
“No, you don’t,” Lando said, far too cheerfully. “You like him. You like him like him.”
“I do not! I just… don’t want him to marry Oscar because he doesn’t love him.”
“And yet when he was nearly going to kiss you—”
“We didn’t kiss.”
“But you almost did,” Lando said smugly, raising a brow. “And the fact that you didn’t is eating you alive.”
Daniel rolled over, face-first into his pillow. “Go away.”
Lando grinned. “I can’t wait to be best man at your wedding. I’ll make a toast. ‘To the moonlight, and the moron who thought hating someone would protect his heart.’”
Daniel muffled a scream into his pillow.
………….
The Bridgerton Breakfast Table – Golden sunlight, fresh pastries, and one extremely cranky Daniel.
Daniel stumbled in like a man who hadn’t slept all night. Because he hadn’t. Mostly because Lando wouldn't stop humming the waltz from last night and making moony eyes at him from across the shared bedroom.
Carlos was already glowing (pregnancy suited him), leaning against Charles, who was stoically feeding him berries with all the devotion of a knight tending to a baby deer.
Lewis was reading the morning paper with the intensity of someone waiting for it to mention Charles’s scandal again. Kimi was halfway into a stack of pancakes, expression unreadable.
Alex poured himself tea.
And then there was Lando. Sitting with a wicked gleam in his eye and a spoon held daintily like a dagger.
“Well, well, well,” Lando said, loudly enough to echo through the manor. “Look who waltzed in—literally.”
Daniel glared. “I swear on everything—”
“I thought you hated dancing,” Alex said, curious.
“I do!”
“And yet,” Lando grinned, “there you were. Last night. Spinning under the moonlight like a Jane Austen heroine.”
Lewis finally looked up. “What?”
Carlos, sipping his orange juice, looked between them. “With who?”
Lando smirked. “With Maximilian Duke-of-Doom Verstappen himself.”
Kimi blinked. “The grumpy one?”
“The one who doesn’t smile?” Alex added.
Daniel turned to his family. “I hate all of you.”
“He taught you the waltz?” Lewis asked, a little disbelieving.
“No!” Daniel snapped. “I taught him.”
Lando leaned forward, grinning like he was about to drop a bomb. “And they almost kissed.”
“WHAT?” came a chorus of Bridgertons.
Charles didn’t even look up. “Expected.”
Carlos snorted orange juice.
Lewis looked like he might need another pot of tea. “Daniel. You are playing a dangerous game.”
“It wasn’t—” Daniel paused. “We didn’t— It wasn’t like that.”
“Is this before or after you said you hate him and would ruin him?” Alex asked, calmly buttering toast.
“I do hate him!” Daniel protested. “I just—he was looking at the moon, and there was music, and—shut up, Lando!”
Carlos smirked and leaned into Charles. “He’s doomed.”
Lando raised his juice glass. “To doomed love and denial.”
Daniel buried his face in his hands. “I need a new family.”
…………..
Max opened the envelope with mechanical precision. The seal of House Verstappen cracked under his thumb like a bone — and somehow, that felt prophetic.
His father's handwriting was as cold and precise as ever:
You are wasting time.
Stop indulging in sentiment.
This alliance must be finalized by the end of the season.
You are a Verstappen. Start behaving like one.
Or do not bother coming home.
Max’s chest tightened — not metaphorically, but quite literally, like invisible hands began to squeeze the air out of his lungs. The room blurred at the edges, and he suddenly couldn’t tell if he was hot or cold. His heartbeat surged like it was trying to escape him.
He staggered back, knocking over the ink pot on the desk. The black stain bloomed like rot on white linen, just like the pressure blooming behind his eyes.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t breathe.
His knees hit the floor.
And then—
"Max?"
The voice was distant. Familiar. Light.
Like a string tugging him back to earth.
“Max, hey— hey, look at me.” Hands — gentle, warm — cradled his face. Daniel was there, kneeling before him, panic stitched into every corner of his usually impish face.
"You’re alright, just breathe with me, okay?" Daniel’s voice was soft now, steady. “In—” He exaggerated a deep inhale. “Out. Just like that. You’re safe, Max.”
Max tried to copy him, his breath hitching, uneven, but slowly, painfully, following the rhythm.
“Atta boy,” Daniel murmured, his thumb brushing Max’s cheekbone. “You’re not alone. You’re not whatever voice is in that letter. You’re you, alright?”
Max blinked. A tear rolled down without permission. Daniel caught it with the back of his knuckle, saying nothing.
They stayed there for a while. On the floor, surrounded by spilled ink and discarded pride. Daniel’s arms eventually circled around Max, solid and reassuring.
It was the first time in years Max let someone hold him.
And the first time he thought maybe he didn’t have to be only what his father expected.
……………..
A few days later…
The sky was too blue. The garden too quiet. Daniel should have known. Should have seen the signs.
He had spent the entire morning rehearsing — in front of the mirror, then Kimi, then a deeply unimpressed Alex who told him to just “go confess before he dies of yearning.” Even Carlos had offered to braid his hair for good luck, which was concerning because Carlos didn’t know how to braid.
But now, standing behind the tall hedge that lined Lady Piastri’s rose garden, Daniel’s mouth ran dry.
Because there he was — Max Verstappen, Duke of Doom, Pride of the House of Verstappen, Master of All Things Brooding — kneeling.
On. One. Knee.
In front of Oscar.
Oscar, sweet and serious as always, looked surprised, glancing between his mother and Max.
Daniel froze.
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t even blink.
Max was saying something—quiet, measured words about honor, about alliance, about doing what was right. The same sort of phrases Daniel had mocked for weeks.
Oscar’s mother, Lady Piastri, positively beamed. She nodded before Oscar could even form a full sentence.
And then Oscar, sweet boy that he was, smiled softly and said:
“I accept.”
Polite applause broke out from the nearby guests.
Daniel’s heart cracked like the porcelain teacup he had broken at age seven and blamed on Lewis. Only this time, there was no hiding the damage.
But worse — so much worse — were Max’s eyes.
Because even as Oscar reached for his hand, even as the crowd congratulated them, Max was looking straight at Daniel.
Their eyes locked. Just for a second.
Just long enough for Daniel to see the storm behind that calm façade.
Then Daniel did what he had not done since he was nine years old and accidentally got locked in the pantry.
He ran.
Ran past the hedge, past the guests, past Kimi and Carlos and Lando who shouted something he couldn’t hear, ran until his legs gave out behind the orchard and his tears finally caught up with him.
Unseen.
Unheard.
Unloved.
Or so he thought.
……………….
Max felt the weight of the ring like it was forged from iron rather than gold.
Oscar’s hand was warm in his, the sun was shining, people were clapping. Lady Piastri was already plotting the wedding colors. Everything, on paper, was perfect.
But the only thing Max could see…
was Daniel.
Just past the roses, just behind the hedge — standing still like someone had struck him. The sunlight caught in his wild curls. His lips parted, his eyes wide, devastated.
Max’s breath caught in his throat.
He hadn’t expected him to be there. Hadn’t wanted him to see.
He had tried to tell himself this was right — that choosing Oscar was safe. Predictable. Kind. Oscar didn’t set his blood on fire or his mind into chaos. He was the right choice.
Daniel was the wrong one.
Too loud. Too reckless. Too much.
Too… beautiful when angry.
Too soft when he wasn’t looking.
Too devastating when he smiled like he meant it.
Max had tried to stay away.
And failed. Over and over again.
He didn’t mean to look at him now. But he did.
And Daniel was already running.
Max’s hand twitched at his side — aching to reach out, to call after him, to chase.
But he didn’t.
He looked back at Oscar.
At the expectations. The titles. The path laid for him.
“I will be a good husband,” he said out loud. A promise. A shield.
He ignored the part of his heart that whispered,
But not to Oscar.
……………..
The following days in Grosvenor Square were oddly quiet without Daniel Bridgerton’s usual shine.
At breakfasts, he no longer filled the room with laughter or knocked over the tea. His cravat was perfectly tied—too perfectly—and he hadn’t pranked Lando once in three days. Even Kimi eyed him with a wary sort of concern.
“He’s not said one ridiculous thing since Tuesday,” Kimi whispered to Carlos during tea. “I miss it. It’s terrifying.”
“He’s hurting,” Carlos replied softly, hand resting over his own growing stomach, eyes flicking toward the door as if waiting for someone. “But he won’t say a word.”
Daniel still appeared at every event, dressed well and polite, but his smiles were a performance — and even that, barely. Gone was the boisterous, mischievous Bridgerton son with his impish sparkle. In his place stood a quiet ghost of the man who once set entire soirees ablaze with laughter.
Max noticed. He noticed everything.
At every dinner, ball, promenade — his eyes searched for Daniel, then remained there. While Oscar, his intended, sat beside him. While their parents discussed floral arrangements. While the ton whispered of how well-matched they looked.
But his eyes never left Daniel.
And the others noticed that too.
Carlos, hands folded over his belly, narrowed his gaze across the room and muttered, “If that Duke dares to look at him like that again while engaged to someone else, I swear I’ll throw my shoe.”
Lewis grumbled into his brandy. “I’ll throw a fist.”
Lando, strangely quiet for once, added, “He’s not worth this, you know. Daniel’s light is meant to shine, not flicker for someone too afraid to catch fire.”
Even Papa Sebastian and Dada Mark watched their son fade with hearts heavy and helpless.
Only Daniel still refused to speak. About Max. About anything.
Until one night, he sat alone in the Bridgerton garden, staring at the stars he once joked about loudly and now whispered to in silence.
He didn’t say it aloud, but the ache was plain:
He had given his heart to a man who had already promised it elsewhere.
And worse, the man still carried Daniel’s name in his gaze — but wore another on his lips.
………….
The morning of the wedding arrived, and the air in the Bridgerton household was thick with a kind of nervous energy that couldn’t be masked with the usual laughter and high spirits. The house felt oddly quiet—save for the occasional murmur from the staff and the rustle of fabric as the Bridgerton family prepared for the grand event.
Daniel stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his cravat with meticulous care. His reflection was a familiar one, but the smile he forced onto his lips was foreign. He looked at himself for a long moment, trying to convince himself that the look in his eyes wasn’t a reflection of the heartbreak pooling beneath the surface.
“Dan,” a voice came from behind him. His Dada, Lord Bridgerton, stood there, a gentle hand placed on his shoulder. “It’s alright. You don’t have to do this alone.”
Daniel turned around, and there stood both his fathers, Lord Bridgerton and Lord Vettel. They were as different as night and day, but their love for him was unwavering.
“Papa,” Daniel whispered, his voice tight, “I don’t know if I can watch him marry someone else. I thought I could, but...”
Lord Vettel pulled him into an embrace. “Son, I can’t tell you what to feel. But I can tell you this—your heart is your own, and you deserve to follow it. If you feel like you need to speak, then do it. If you need to walk away, then do that too. Just don’t lose yourself in someone else’s life.”
Lord Bridgerton nodded in agreement. “You’re not alone in this. Whatever you decide, you have us.”
Daniel swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. “Thank you.”
But before he could slip back into the world of wedding preparations, his eyes wandered to the window. The garden was peaceful, save for one thing — Lando wasn’t there. Lando, who had been acting suspiciously distant these past few days, was nowhere to be found.
“I’ll go check on him,” Daniel muttered, but his voice had a tone that suggested he wasn’t really looking for Lando at all.
“We’ll keep an eye on you, Daniel,” Lewis said, with a smile that was both comforting and understanding. “And we’ll help with whatever you need. Even if it means taking a... less-than-diplomatic approach with that Duke.”
Daniel chuckled weakly. “I don’t need anyone killing Max. I can fight my own battle. I’ll face him on my terms.”
But even as the words left his mouth, he wasn’t so sure. His heart pounded as he made his way to the door. He had been preparing for this moment for days, weeks even. But it felt as though it was all crashing down on him now, right in front of him.
The wedding bells would soon ring, and with them, Max would marry Oscar.
But Max didn’t know what Daniel knew. Daniel wasn’t sure if he would even make it through the ceremony without shouting out that everything he was feeling, everything he’d hidden for so long, would come tumbling out. That Max... was the one.
But Lando, his ever-reliable brother, was missing, and that in itself was starting to feel like a sign of impending chaos.
Daniel wasn’t sure whether to thank Lando for the sudden disappearance or curse him for it. But as he walked down the hallway, his mind swirled with questions.
Where had Lando gone? Why was he acting so strange?
And more importantly — could Daniel truly watch Max marry Oscar, or would he crack under the pressure of holding everything in? Would he be able to stand by, or would the truth spill out before he even made it to the ceremony?
……………….
Max stood at the altar, his back straight, his face expressionless as he gazed out over the sea of faces gathered in Grosvenor Square. The opulence of the ceremony, the polished smiles, and the scent of expensive flowers all felt distant. His father sat proudly in the front row, his usual stern demeanor softened by a rare, approving smile. It was everything Max had ever wanted—his father's approval, a family legacy fulfilled.
But in the pit of his stomach, something gnawed at him. It should have felt like triumph, but it only felt like a hollow victory. Because as he stood there, dressed to perfection, every inch of his body and mind screamed for someone else.
Daniel.
His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he looked around at the faces in the crowd—his father's, his uncle Alonso's, the distant aristocrats, all waiting for Oscar to arrive. But Max knew Oscar wasn’t the one he wanted. He hadn’t been for a long time.
Oscar was a beautiful, dutiful son, a perfect match in many ways. But Oscar wasn’t the one who made Max’s heart beat too fast. He wasn’t the one who turned every glance, every touch, every moment into something far more meaningful than it had any right to be.
Daniel was.
His mind raced back to last night’s conversation with his uncle, Lord Alonso, who had quietly but firmly urged him to follow his heart. “Duty is important, Max. But love... love is a choice. And sometimes, the choice is the hardest one to make.”
Max’s jaw clenched as he remembered the words. Could he really follow his heart? Could he really throw away everything he had been trained to believe in?
He looked again at the aisle, and his heart sank when he saw Daniel standing near the edge of the room, his eyes lowered, avoiding Max’s gaze. It was as though he could feel the weight of Max’s turmoil, but wouldn’t look him in the eye.
The room was buzzing with whispers. The orchestra had begun playing, and still, Oscar hadn’t arrived. Everyone was waiting, but Max knew he couldn’t wait any longer.
With one last look at his father—who was now staring at him, curious but silent—Max felt the walls he had carefully built around himself shatter. All of his training, all of his years of quiet obedience, suddenly felt utterly meaningless.
In that moment, all Max could think of was Daniel, standing there, lost and uncertain, just as he had been for weeks. No, months. Daniel had always been right in front of him, but Max had been too stubborn, too afraid of the truth.
Max turned to face the crowd. And without a word, he stepped down the aisle.
“MAX”, His father shouts.
Gasps echoed through the room as he made his way past rows of shocked faces, all of them expecting him to stand by the altar and wait for Oscar. But Max couldn’t wait. Not anymore. He couldn’t live a life dictated by duty when everything he wanted, everything that made him feel alive, was standing just ahead of him.
He reached Daniel and stood before him, breathless, his voice thick with emotion.
Daniel hisses looking around, “What are you doing, Duke Verstappen? Oscar will come any minute now. Go away.”
“No, Daniel,” he said, his voice hoarse. The words felt foreign on his tongue, but they were the only ones that mattered. “I hate how much I love you. I hate it because it terrifies me. But I can’t stand this any longer. I can’t stand pretending that I’m not aching for you every damn second of the day. I can’t stand pretending that I don’t wish I could be the one who makes you smile, who makes you feel... everything.”
Daniel’s eyes widened, his lips parting in surprise. He opened his mouth to speak, but Max held up a hand, stopping him.
“No,” Max continued, his chest tight with emotion. “I’ve spent my whole life doing what I thought I was supposed to do. Following the rules, being the perfect heir. But when I look at you, Daniel... I realize that all of that was a lie. Because what I’ve wanted all along... is you.”
The room was silent, as though the world itself held its breath, waiting for Daniel’s reaction. Max’s heart raced.
“I know I’ve hurt you. I’ve pushed you away when I should have pulled you closer. But I’m asking you now—begging you to forgive me. Will you... will you let me love you the way I should have from the start? Will you marry me, Daniel?”
Daniel’s eyes were wide with shock, his expression a mixture of disbelief and raw emotion. He took a step back, his voice a mere whisper as he struggled to form words.
“Max...” His voice cracked, and the tears that had been threatening to spill for so long finally escaped.
Max swallowed hard, taking a step closer, reaching out for Daniel’s hand.
“I’m not asking you to be my wall piece, Daniel. I’m asking you to be the one who shares my life, my heart, my everything. I’ve waited too long. I’ve made mistakes. But please, if you can find it in your heart to forgive me...”
Max’s voice faltered, his throat closing up with the raw emotion he had never allowed himself to feel before.
And that was when Daniel’s defenses finally crumbled. He reached up to wipe away the tears that were streaming down his face, still struggling to process what was happening.
But before he could say anything, Max moved forward, his lips crashing against Daniel’s in a kiss so desperate, so full of longing, that it felt like the world was collapsing around them. The room gasped in shock, and whispers erupted, but Max didn’t care. He couldn’t care.
He pulled Daniel closer, as if trying to prove to the world that this was real, that this was the only truth he had ever known.
Daniel responded with equal intensity, wrapping his arms around Max and kissing him back like he had been waiting for this moment his entire life. For a brief second, nothing existed but the two of them—the kiss, the heat, the emotions finally coming to the surface.
And as they pulled apart, breathless and flushed, Max whispered against Daniel’s lips, “I love you.”
Daniel could barely form words as he looked up at Max, his heart pounding. But there was only one thing he could say.
“Yes. Yes. I love you too, You idiot.”
………
As Max and Daniel stood there, breathless and tangled in their embrace, the room fell into stunned silence. Every single eye in the room was upon them, but neither of them cared. Not anymore.
Suddenly, a voice boomed through the silence—a deep, enraged growl that sent a chill down Max’s spine.
"Maximilian!" His father’s voice, thick with fury, rang out from the back of the room. Lord Verstappen's face was contorted in pure rage as he stormed down the aisle, his eyes blazing with betrayal. "What is the meaning of this? Have you lost your mind?"
Max froze, every muscle in his body tensing at the sight of his father’s fury. But before he could say a word, Daniel—ever the reckless force of nature—stepped in front of him, blocking Max from view as if he were protecting him from the world.
"I’m not afraid of you," Daniel said, his voice low and steady, but full of fire. His eyes glinted with defiance. "And I’ll be damned if I let you come here and tell Max what he should or shouldn’t do. He’s a grown man, and he’s made his choice. Now you can either accept it or leave, but you will not treat him like this—not today, not ever again."
The room was in an uproar. Daniel’s words cut through the tension like a blade, and everyone—his father included—was momentarily stunned into silence by the fierce loyalty in his tone.
Max stood there, his heart swelling in his chest, his eyes locked on Daniel. It was a side of him he hadn’t seen before—bold, protective, unwavering. He felt a rush of gratitude and love, and he knew, deep down, that this was the person he wanted at his side, no matter the consequences.
Before anyone could respond, a flurry of movement at the door interrupted the standoff. Lady Piastri, flustered and breathless, burst into the room, her face pale with shock.
"Lord Verstappen, I—" she began, only to be cut off by the loud and unmistakable words she uttered next.
“Oscar has eloped!” she cried, her voice full of disbelief. "He’s gone with Lando Bridgerton!"
The room went absolutely still.
Max’s eyes widened, his chest tightening as he processed the words. "Oscar… and Lando?" He turned to look at Daniel, his mouth opening to ask something, but the words caught in his throat.
Around them, the entire room erupted into whispers, gasps, and outright chaos. The Bridgertons were scandalized, the aristocrats murmuring about duty, honor, and what was proper. But all Max could focus on was the shock settling in his chest.
"How could he do this?" Lord Verstappen hissed, clearly furious. "To betray his family, his name, and... and everything! This is a disgrace!"
But Max wasn’t listening anymore. His thoughts were spinning, his mind racing to comprehend what had just been revealed. Oscar, his intended groom, the one who had always been perfect on paper, had eloped with Lando Bridgerton, of all people. A scandal that would send shockwaves through the ton.
And then, like a slap to the face, it dawned on him—Oscar hadn’t loved him. Not like Max had thought. Not like he had hoped. Oscar had gone off with someone else, with someone who had made him feel alive, and Max had been nothing more than a placeholder.
Suddenly, the weight that had hung so heavily on his chest began to lift. Max turned to face Daniel, who was still standing protectively in front of him.
"Are you okay?" Daniel asked softly, his expression full of concern. He seemed to understand the turmoil in Max’s eyes without needing to be told.
Max didn’t answer immediately. He just stared at Daniel, taking in the warmth of his gaze, the way Daniel’s eyes never left his, even in the midst of the chaos. And then, with a sudden clarity, he realized that this... this was real. The love he had been too afraid to embrace was right in front of him.
And now, with Oscar gone, it was Max’s chance to fight for what he wanted.
Max stepped forward, pulling Daniel into his arms once more, his lips finding Daniel’s in a kiss that was not about duty, not about expectations—but about love, pure and simple.
The room gasped again, but this time, Max didn’t care. They could judge him, gossip about him, but in this moment, the only thing that mattered was the man in his arms.
As they pulled apart, Daniel smirked, his eyes alight with mischief. "Guess we’ll have to figure out the rest of the scandal later," he said, still catching his breath.
Max chuckled, shaking his head. "I think we’ve already caused enough scandal for one day."
But as the chaos continued around them—Lady Piastri frantic, Lord Verstappen still yelling, and the rest of the ton gossiping furiously—Max finally allowed himself to smile, a genuine, free smile that had been a long time coming.
He had Daniel. And that was all he needed.
“All I asked for was one peaceful season”, Lord Vettel groaned.
“They are our kids after all, they inherited our passion it seems”, said Lord Mark Bridgerton with a smirk.
Lord Vettel just hits him in the chest.
……………..
EXCERPT FROM LORD WHISTLEDOWN'S SOCIETY PAPERS
Scandal Edition – Vol. 13
Distributed promptly (and with a glass of brandy) the morning after the grand wedding-that-never-was
Dearest Gentle Reader,
It appears the Ton has outdone itself in chaos, scandal, and romantical absurdity. And your ever-watchful Lord Whistledown was very much present for what is now being dubbed: The Day the Aisle Was Abandoned.
Let us begin with the Duke of Disdain, Max Verstappen, who until last evening could barely tolerate a smile, let alone feel. He arrived in Grosvenor Square with the solemn purpose of marrying the quiet and dutiful Oscar Piastri—until the devilishly annoying (and charming?) Daniel Bridgerton quite literally pranced into his life with the chaotic energy of a glitter bomb in a cathedral.
And then, dear reader—then came the moonlight dancing, the wood-brawling (yes, fists were thrown, shirts torn, glances lingered), and the most public confession of love since Lady Lockwood tried to marry her footman during the Spring Ball of ’02.
But what truly made this reporter drop her quill was not the Duke’s romantic "I hate how much I love you" proposal to Mr. Bridgerton. No. It was the utterly deranged entrance of Lady Piastri, who, in a dramatic frenzy of lace and pearls, declared:
“Oscar has ELOPED! With Lando Bridgerton!”
Reader, I spat my tea.
Oscar. Piastri. The shy, soft-spoken heir. With Lando “Menace in Velvet” Bridgerton, who once tried to propose to a marquess with a frog. I leave that image with you.
As for the Bridgerton Brothers:
- Lord Lewis Bridgerton is reportedly suffering from an emotion known only as “bureaucratic despair.”
- Sir Carlos has not stopped smiling since Daniel threw a flower vase at Max three weeks ago.
- Lord Kimi remains unsurprised by literally anything.
- And Sir Alex has fainted twice due to Lando’s unexpected criminal level of mischief.
Oh—and Lord V** and Lord B**** (you know who they are) have been seen sipping brandy by the fireplace, nodding silently like it’s just another Tuesday.
The ton is on fire, my darlings, and I suspect this is only the beginning.
One wedding gone rogue, two couples reborn from scandal, and a thousand hearts still gasping for air.
Until next time—keep your fans ready, your secrets close, and your dance cards open.
With quill always sharp,
—Lord Whistledown 🖋️
………………
The grand front doors burst open. Lando Bridgerton, wild curls windswept, cravat untied, and a suspicious hickey on his neck,( but that’s a tale for another day), struts into the Bridgerton drawing room like he hasn't just detonated high society with his scandalous elopement.
Lando (grinning, arms out):
"I'm hooooome! Miss me?"
Lewis (without looking up from his paper, deadpan):
"Unfortunately, yes."
(mutters) "And so did the entire House of Lords."
Carlos (clapping delightedly):
"You look radiant! Oscar looks radiant! This is the best scandal since Lewis tried to duel Max with a salad fork."
Alex (wide-eyed):
"Do you realize what you’ve done?! You stole a groom! From his own wedding! This is worse than when Kimi brought a raccoon to a ball!"
Kimi (sipping tea):
"He was wearing a top hat. He had class."
Lando (collapsing onto a settee with drama worthy of the stage):
"Oh, come on, I saved Oscar from a life of silent dinners and emotionally constipated dukes. You're welcome."
Lewis (exasperated):
"You’ve made us the laughingstock of the ton."
Lando (grinning):
"Yes. But we’re laughing."
Daniel (wandering in, clutching a biscuit, suspicious):
"Did you just... leave the honeymoon early?"
Lando:
"We may have accidentally boarded the wrong carriage in Bath. Ended up in Dover."
Alex:
"HOW do you accidentally end up in Dover?!"
Carlos (smirking):
"Leave them alone. True love does wild things. Max just burned down the church to be with Daniel. It's a season of passion."
Lewis:
"It’s a season of madness."
Kimi (to Lando):
"Did you bring souvenirs?"
Lando:
"Oscar's heart. And this scandal. Ta-da!"