From Contract to Vow

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Zipper Incident

Colin's POV

Aubrey Hall smelled faintly of lavender polish and history.
It always did.

I was standing in front of the mirror in my old room, adjusting my cufflinks for what felt like the hundredth time. The crown's photographers were already downstairs, setting up for what was supposed to be the Bridgerton family portrait — the picture that would likely end up on the society pages before the ink on the next scandal had even dried.

I exhaled. Tightened my cuff. Adjusted the lapel pin — the little butterfly that matched Penelope's family crest.

And then she walked out.

From the walk-in wardrobe, Penelope stepped into the light, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe. Her hair was styled in soft curls, pinned loosely at the back so that one rebellious strand framed her face. The gown — a deep, iridescent blue — flowed around her like something born of starlight and silk. It wasn't just a gown. It was Bridgerton blue, meant to match me, meant to match the family.

She walked toward me, her hands behind her back, struggling with the zipper.

"Can you help me with my gown, Colin? The zipper won't close."

Her voice was calm, but there was already a note of frustration in it. I turned to face her, suppressing a smirk.

"I can try."

"Careful, Colin, okay?" she warned, eyes narrowing in mock sternness. "Your hands are trained for rugby. Please don't ruin the gown."

I breathed a quiet laugh, pretending to be offended. "I've removed a lot of gowns in my lifetime, trust me. I have a delicate touch."

She gave me a look — sharp, amused, and dangerous. "Well, you haven't taken mine off, so how would I know?"

Touché.
She had a point. We were a year into our marriage and still found ourselves... orbiting. Affection and restraint. Intimacy in every sense except the one the world expected.

She turned around, and I froze for a heartbeat.

The gown was half-zipped, exposing the smooth line of her back, a faint shimmer in the light. Her skin looked soft — too soft for the kind of hands I had — and there, just below her shoulder blade, was the small birthmark I'd memorized the shape of long ago. A tiny, imperfect heart.

Her scent was the same as always — vanilla and white tea — faintly sweet and utterly familiar. I breathed it in like muscle memory.

"Don't just stand there," she said, snapping me out of my trance.

Right. The zipper.

I placed one hand gently on the fabric near her waist and the other on the zipper, tugging it slowly. The metal teeth resisted, catching midway.

"Hold still," I murmured.

"I am holding still," she replied, voice tight.

It refused to move. I applied a little more force, careful but determined.

Then — crack.

We both froze.

The head of the zipper came off clean in my hand. I blinked at it, horrified.

"Colin..." she whispered. "Please tell me that's not—"

"I... I'm sorry," I said, eyes shut as if I could will the moment away.