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Lady Whistledown has once again written of you, the "sleeping beauty" as she likes to call you. It's been a month since you've fallen ill, not being allowed any visitors. Colin overhears a conversation between two women discussing the new paper.
"We should consider it our luck that she has fallen ill the moment ball season started." "I agree, her beauty outshines even Daphne Bridgerton's."
Colin catches a glimpse of the drawn portrait of you. It being the first time he had set eyes on your face since you've fallen into a deep slumber. His face changes into one of sorrow, praying for you to make it through this awful disease. He whispers to himself:
"The name she has given you couldn't be more fitting.."
