0000. PROLOGUE
— even if i die screaming

PEOPLE ARE ALWAYS TRYING TO OUTRUN TIME, TRYING TO MAKE IT TO THE END BEFORE THE LAST OF SAND IN THEIR HOURGLASS REACHES THE BOTTOM. People exist solely to try and make their mark on the world and how they do that is by trying to outrun time. Outrun death. For it's in death that a person makes their final, and some could argue, most important mark on the world. But, no one wants to be remembered for their death. Life was not a fan of people trying to outrun the obstacles it threw at them. Life isn't kind. Though, no one is surprised to hear that. Life beats people to a pulp until they are lying on the ground, tattered and torn. The shell of a person. A beaten, bruised, and broken person who can no longer even think of running. Leaving them choking on the what if's, flashes of the things they wished for, things they wished to see, coming before them as they gasped for air. Knuckles bruised as they reached out and grasped at the air in front of them, trying to grab ahold of the time they do not have. Because everyone always expects there to be more time until it is not there anymore. And they are faced with a cliff and only one way out — down. Even cynics are left dumbfounded by time when they finally meet him (because, let's be honest, the only thing that could be as cruel as Time would be a man), even in their worst nightmares. In their worst thoughts. Their nagging dreams that told them all about how cruel and unfair the world was. Time somehow managed to surprise them. Managed to be worse than they could ever have thought. They were still left gasping for air as they choked on their words and desperate bargains for why they deserved to live, why they deserved to see the world for even just a little bit longer. Here's the thing about the world. People live. People die. No one gets to choose when that happens. Some can choose how it happens, but many do not. Yet, people are still shocked when they meet their end.

When time has swallowed them whole, chewed them up, and spit them out like an ungrateful child unhappy with the dinner its mother made them. There is no coming back from that. And, if someone did, would they even be someone that people would hope to be around?

Anthony Bridgerton was not much of a person after his brush with time. In fact, he was much more of a shell. A ghost. Ridden with fears about what could be lurking behind the next corner. He had seen too much too young. And there was only one way of coping with it, at least that was what he had told himself. Trying to outrun time (a classic mistake) seemed to be his only option, like a dog with his tail between his legs, he began a slow journey into a sprint away from the very thing that scared him the most. Anthony Bridgerton managed to escape the public's question by turning from the easy going dog that anyone could be around to one who snarled his teeth and ripped his claws into the first person who dared to speak in his direction. Pain was not something he dealt with well. No, that dog was found within in, claws tearing into his ribcage and chewing its way out. Somewhere along the way, he figured, the dog had found his heart. At least, that was what he had rationalized within himself. It was the only reason this could be happening — the only reason he could or even would be acting in such a way. He didn't want to think that this was his own fault. It couldn't be. It wasn't. Self destruction was not in his nature. No, Anthony Bridgerton was the oldest child of eight children, he had an example to set. His younger siblings looked up to him as a leader. As the person they should be like. He was set to take the mantle his father once held — yet within seconds of his father's death it was like all of the bricks put in place had been destroyed.

Ripped, torn, and tattered. Shreds of whatever fabric he believed his life was made out of left lying on the ground. Because the life he thought he would have did not start this way. It did not begin with him losing his father, watching with his own eyes as a simple bee were the very thing that caused his demise. Strange, he still can't help but think, how a thing so small could cause such a tremendous pain in his life. There was no recovering. No mending the fabric his ideal had been woven into. The only thing that Anthony Bridgerton was left to do was find a new fabric to replace what was lost. But, nothing was the same. It wouldn't be. It couldn't be. And he could have tried to match the fabric to the best of his ability, just enough so that everyone else would believe it to be the same. But he would always know it was different, there was no covering that up from himself. He would always look back and remember what it was he once wanted, everything that he had meticulously chosen and picked out while growing up for what his future would look like. His hopes would always be there, somewhere. Deep down. Buried under mountains of anger and grief. Hidden at the bottom of the ocean of regret he had become so accustomed with. He had bid his farewells to the young man he had always expected to be. Long forgotten the happiness he once expected from the world.

Happiness would only bring him pain. For, if his mother were any example, he would not survive losing the very thing he believed would make him happy one day. Even then, he was sure he would survive it (though, unhappily and against his will). It was the mere thought of leaving his wife, someone who at one time he believed would love him as much as he loved her (much like his father and mother truly had), to grieve and pick up the pieces of whatever family they may have had. The thought of leaving children without a father — though, he was certain, if the time had ever come for such a thing, one of his brothers would have stepped into his place. From his experience, nothing could fill the hole. Especially the one left within his mother. Violet Bridgerton was a shell of a person, a dull and nearly lifeless person compared to the once vibrant and exuberant young woman she used to be. It was like all the life had been drained out of her with him. He had died, sure. Edmund Bridgerton was the only one who physically left the world they lived in that day. But with him he took a piece of her soul. If Anthony cared about it more, he would argue to say it was poetic, really. Poets dreamed about that. They wrote about it constantly. What death does to a person, what love does to a person. What happens when they happen to intersect? But, Anthony Bridgerton didn't care about poetry. He couldn't have cared less, if he were being honest. Especially now.

There were more things in the world to worry himself over than trying to remember and learn more about the poets of England. The first born son did not have the time to care about those kinds of studies. No, he was thrust into the world of balancing books and taking up his rightful title. The person within himself had not died screaming like so many others do — his soul and his dreams did not yell until their throats were practically raw. Until it felt as though they had blades forming within them.

No, his soul had not died screaming, it died with a whimper. A soft, terribly quiet, cry to and for no one in particular. Because no one was listening. There was no need to scream. There was no one who could have helped him. After all, Anthony Bridgerton was the one who put his own hand over the mouth of his soul, he was the one who snuffed out his own life. No one could have prepared himself for that. Not even he could have predicted he himself would end up being the one to break his hopes and dreams. He wasn't sure he would have believed himself anyway.

And despite Anthony Bridgerton swearing up and down until he was black and blue in the face that there was no one in the world — no one in the Ton — who would have been able to help him. There was one person. He knew that much better than anyone. Even if she didn't know it (and she didn't, Anthony had known to be very careful and cautious around her, it was easier to make her believe he was not fond of her than to let her know that she was his weakness), there was always one person that Anthony Bridgerton knew could break his hopes and desires free once more. She was the same person he thought about when he decided to silence his hopes, the only person he had ever seen himself having a life with. The only person, in all of his years of life, he had thought he could love. Or that he had loved. He wasn't sure. Love was not his forte. Especially now. He just knew that by doing this, by keeping himself away from love and away from ever saying a thing to her again, he was saving her pain caused by him. She would not go through the very same thing his mother had. She would not know the pain of losing her husband, the man she loved more than life itself (again, he was quite uncertain that she loved him or would even begin to love him, but the thought was what counted), and she would not have to live for however long she will with that pain. She would not be forced to carry the title of Dowager Bridgerton like his mother. She would not have to raise their children alone. He would not leave his children without a father.

Outrunning time is impossible — Wilhelmina Fortescue was sure of it, but even if it was, she wasn't sure she would have wanted to do so. Life was different for women in the Ton. With each passing day of every month of every year they grow older and older. And the young ladies of the Ton will find themselves inching closer and closer to the day they don a white dress and elaborate hair updo with the gigantic feathers coming from it. Their debut to society. The beginning to their finding a husband. Lady Wilhelmina Fortescue had never really looked forward to that, not like many of her friends had growing up. Of course, as the daughter of a Duke, Wilhelmina was well versed in everything needed to be one of the brightest shining diamond in all of the Ton. She had been picked, cut, and polished from such a young age. Turned into exactly what everyone else would enjoy seeing. A young lady who was excellent at piano forte, even better with her cross-stitch, and at the top of her list, a young lady who was very capable of planning and hosting a ball. After all, she had been glued to her mother's side growing up during the season they threw a ball. Though, Wilhelmina had traits that led to some scuff marks on her previously polished and shiny diamond. Traits that she couldn't afford to let hurt her — unlike Anthony Bridgerton who has the luxury of silencing himself and his dreams all those years ago, Wilhelmina Fortescue would have to marry eventually. If not for love, then for convenience. This world was not suited for women.

At least, the society Lady Wilhelmina Fortescue had been born into was not built for women to serve any other purpose than carrying an heir. Any man with a title would soon find himself wanting to settle down with a lady from a respectable lineage, for nothing but the mere purpose of creating an heir that could take his place upon his death. That was all a woman was good for. Despite her rather unusual upbringing, Wilhelmina knew as much. She may have been given plenty of responsibilities within her own home, attending to business with her father or simply learning the ways of balancing his books. Being the Duke of Kent was tiresome, Wilhelmina had formed that opinion at a very young age. It was an opinion that only grew stronger as she aged and realized exactly what his day entailed. Suddenly her days filled with boredom that she cured by playing the piano, or reading (despite how often her mother scolded her for wasting her time), or her least favorite of all cross-stitch, did not seem to be so bad. No, Wilhelmina was certain that even with her own dislike of it, she would never have been able to survive being a Duke. Just as she was quite certain she would never be able to be a Duchess. That was more responsibility than she was sure she could take on. Or, at the very least, more responsibility than she was willing to take on. But, as she found herself mere months away from entering society, she couldn't help but question what it was she wanted to do. What responsibilities was she capable of handling? Wilhelmina was not quite certain.

Perhaps it was all too much for her to think about. At the age of nine and ten, she feared there was not much she believed herself capable of doing. That was why she had held herself back from entering society the year prior. Wilhelmina found herself wandering the halls of her family's ancestral home, the very home many generations of dukes had lived within. Her hand ran against the wooden banister, leaning over it to look down at the bustling housekeeping staff as they ran to and fro. It was quieter this season; much less work needed to be done than when balls were hosted (if and when her family decided to invite everyone to Kent and her familial home). The home felt so different as if she felt the walls shifting with her changing tide. Except, rationally, she knew that nothing had changed. Her home was no different than it was the morning prior, the week prior, the month, the year, and anything before or after that. Her home had been the same for generations, only changed slightly by decorations and furniture as times changed and new things became available. The only different thing was her. Though Wilhelmina would remark that she had not changed that much. At least not in the way that her friends had. Friends that, as she liked to remark, changed into the person a gentleman in society would want in a wife. Which, when she thought about it, seemed to work for them. After all, most of her friends who debuted into society last season had found matches. Yet, Wilhelmina felt they were all far more prepared to become wives and mothers. Wilhelmina felt as though she was strides behind all of her friends, it made her question if she was even ready to debut in society now. The floral arrangements in the front room were currently being changed out, flowers that she was sure had been picked from their garden. The windows opened, allowing the crisp August air to blow into the home. And despite the fresh air, Wilhelmina felt light-headed. As if she had been boxed into her home. She felt something within her screaming, clawing from the inside out, trying to escape. A part of her knew what this meant; she needed to get out and do something that stopped her from thinking. Because the more she thought, the more that pit in her stomach grew, and the more she dreaded anything that was coming up.

Suddenly, it was like her feet had minds of their own; they led her down the stairs one after another. Stopping just in front of the door to her father's study. She never dared to bother him; one does not just bother a Duke. But, he was also the only person other than the staff at home. Her mother and brother were both out on a trip to London buying some things they needed, though Wilhelmina was certain they were also enjoying London without the Ton breathing down their necks. Timidly, her hand reached up to knock on the wooden door. The sound echoed momentarily before she heard her father inviting her inside. Wilhelmina knew she was just about one of the only people who could knock and enter his study without getting an annoyed response. She had always been his favorite (don't tell her brother such a thing), and because of that, she had spent her childhood running in and out of his studies without consequence. Peeking her head around the door, taking note of the expression he held on his face before she fully entered. Wilhelmina placed her hands behind her back, smiling lightly, "Papa."

"Wilhelmina," her father responded, watching her carefully as he placed his quill down. Wilhelmina looked over his desk; it was not as crazy today as it had been in prior years. Fewer papers were thrown and scattered over the top, and even her father had less ink staining his very fingers. He hadn't been writing as much today as in days prior. Perhaps, Wilhelmina thought, that was a good thing. Not much was going on in Kent. That was a good thing. "Is something worrying you?"

Wilhelmina pulled her eyes up from the desk, mouth propped open as she shook her head. Yes, but she wouldn't dare tell her father she wanted to put off entering society by another year. She couldn't. She wouldn't dare to be a burden for another second. She was certain her father would not believe her to be a burden, but the rest of the Ton would. Responding, "No, Papa, I am quite alright. It's just with the weather being so," Wilhelmina paused, trying to figure out the perfect word to describe it. Her father responded before she could continue, "Yes, it is quite nice outside today, is it not?" Wilhelmina nodded, and he continued. "I'm sure you were just about to ask if you could ride today?"

Wilhelmina laughed softly, "Am I that easily read?"

Her father smiled, "You have always used riding to clear your thoughts. I am certain you have plenty you wish to work through."

Blinking for a second, Wilhelmina nodded, "It's nothing."

"If it is plaguing your thoughts, it is not this nothing you speak of," He waved her off. "Go, ride, enjoy the fresh air. I will be right where I am if the ride fails to clear up the tangle of thoughts you may be having."

Biting her tongue, Wilhelmina left his study. Had she been that obvious? This was a weekly occurrence, her riding to help clear her thoughts, but she had never gone to her father for permission before. Then again, he is a Duke. He had to know everything in his home (and within his reach), so it made sense that he would know about her rides. Her very unaccompanied rides. Which was not a great look for anyone in society, even among their lands. Wilhelmina knew that much; her father knew that much. Yet, her unaccompanied rides were one of the few things Wilhelmina was certain she needed. There was freedom that came with riding. The wind in her hair, the thoughts that dissipate from her. Riding was so natural to her; she did not have to think about anything to do it. It was secondhand, just like reading was to her. She did it just like she would write a letter to one of her nearest and dearest friends and companions. Even as she found herself simply in front of the stables on their ground, she felt some of her thoughts detangling. The stablehand turned towards her, long past the shock that he had the first time she ever came out for a lone ride, simply providing her with a smile. He tended to her horse, the same horse she had had since she was three and ten, a gift from her father on her birthday. Wordlessly, he brought the horse out into the open and helped Wilhelmina mount it; then, he returned to tending to their other horses as Wilhelmina quickly rode off into the grounds.

Wilhelmina always believed that the wind blowing through her hair as she rode was the same feeling people had upon hearing waves crashing against the sands on a beach. A sound, a feeling, something that brought her peace. Peace. Was she ever going to have that? It felt strange thinking about the times when she felt the most serene; it never occurred during a time when she believed she needed it. Peace was not something that came naturally to her. Looking at the green grounds and trees before her, Wilhelmina figured this was the closest she would come to knowing peace. To know exactly what serenity must have felt like. For that, at least, she was content. Unlike some people, Wilhelmina Fortescue knew how to evoke serenity within herself. Exactly what she needed to do to have a clear mind and come to a rational decision. Many others would not know how to do so for themselves. At least not in a way that was as harmless as riding a horse. Some hunted, some traveled, and some spent their money on many (rather unnecessary) items, but not everyone knew what they could do to make themselves cool down. If riding a horse was the last ingredient in whatever elixir Wilhelmina needed to clear her mind, then so be it for her to stop herself. She liked to believe it was the very same reason her father never stopped her on her excursions and that her brother or mother never had words against it. After all, she was only riding in her family grounds. Who would be likely to see her?

That may have been why it was such a shock for her to see another horse and rider in the woods, the same woods she had ridden many times without interruption. The horse looked familiar to her; she could not place how or why on the tip of her tongue, but it looked familiar. Wilhelmina slowed to a halt as she watched the other horse do the same. Now, the two riders were feet away, wordlessly staring. Until the male (whom Wilhelmina had recognized as a Bridgerton brother; she was just uncertain as to which one it was) spoke, "Lady Fortescue?"

Tugging tighter on her horse's reigns, Wilhelmina nodded and spoke, taking her best guess as to which Bridgerton brother it was on the horse across from her, "Viscount Bridgerton, I assume?"

He smiled at her, nodding in response, "Anthony."

"That would be rather improper of me to call you by such," Wilhelmina responded, voice soft as if she were trying to hide. To pretend she was not there at all. Anthony Bridgerton was one of her brother's oldest friends; they grew up together. Especially having been only one year apart, Wilhelmina noted that her brother was friends with the three eldest Bridgertons. Dorian had always been closest with Anthony until his father's death, and then they had seemingly parted ways (outside of any school-related functions). Dorian had always described that Anthony must have had a part of himself die that day his father died; he never came back to the person he used to be. If Wilhelmina's opinion mattered (not that it does in society, but it mattered quite a good bit to herself), she would have to believe that death would do that to anyone. If someone were to carry love for another person in their heart and soul, one day, they would find themselves with a part of their heart and soul shattered. Torn to shreds. That was the price people paid for loving someone. That was why so many people avoided love at all costs. Wilhelmina would have sworn off love if she were smart (she liked to believe she was). Yet, she couldn't do so. Not for the prospect of knowing that one day, she will lose a part of herself when she loses the people she loves. But for the simple prospect of how people feel and change when they are in love. When they spend every waking day loved by another, being able to bask in the glow of love's reaches. There was much more to life than worrying about protecting oneself from heartache and pain. Because the very essence of life is heartache and pain, the only reprieve from it that people receive is the love they create.

Anthony bit his tongue before responding, "As if riding your horse unaccompanied is not improper enough?"

Wilhelmina huffed a laugh, "These are my family's grounds, are they not?"

Anthony lifted a brow, a somewhat cocky smirk playing on his lips. Wilhelmina, who had also grown up around the Bridgerton household (she was not too far off in age from his sister Daphne, who, if she remembered correctly, just turned seven and ten), knew that smirk all too well. He momentarily pointed, "Your grounds ended right behind that bench if you want to know. You are currently on my grounds."

Wilhelmina turned to look at the bench he was referencing; there was a bench; had she miscalculated where her grounds ended? She turned back to him, mouth agape, "I apologize."

"No apologies necessary, Wilhelmina," Anthony smiled. "Our lands are connected; I am certain this is not the first time you have ridden on my family grounds. I am sure I have ridden on yours."

Nodding, "Yes, but I shall be more careful watching where I am riding."

"That very well may be wise," Anthony laughed. "Are you alright?"

That was an odd thing of him to ask her. Wilhelmina narrowed her eyes, "Do I not seem alright to you, Viscount Bridgerton?"

He shook his head, "I only mean, you seem as though many things are running through your mind now."

"I am set to debut into society very soon," she heard Anthony respond with a faint ah, "there are many thoughts and emotions I must work through."

"I am certain there are," Anthony looked down at the reigns in his hand, "I am not well-versed in society anymore, nor would I dare to say I know what the gentlemen in the Ton are looking for."

"Well, yes, you are far younger than many gentlemen looking for their wives."

Anthony laughed, "But I know your debut can only be what you make of it, Wilhelmina. Your mother is probably chomping, ready to teach and guide you through this season. She always has looked forward to you joining society. My mama, as well, though her efforts have now been focused on getting Daphne prepared for when she will debut in a few years, has always considered you an extension of the family. If you ever need someone to speak to, she is always open to having a Fortescue over for a cup of tea."

"Is Daphne not entering into society at eight and ten?"  Wilhelmina questioned; it was normal for young ladies of that age to enter society. It was the only reason why she felt like she must do so. But, if Daphne Bridgerton were to be debuting at a later age, what was there stopping Wilhelmina Fortescue (someone who had a much larger dowry than Daphne's already sizable one)?

Anthony shook his head, "No, I do not believe she is." He watched as all of the worry lifted off the brunette's shoulders, "You can wait until you are ready to enter society, you know?"

"I fear that I will never be ready for that," Wilhelmina laughed, pulling on her reigns as her horse grew antsy. "Perhaps I will take you up on that offer for tea with your mother, Anthony. Thank you." Anthony gave her a curt nod in response, watching as she returned with her horse toward her home. She looked over her shoulder to see him still sitting on his horse, looking at her, "Enjoy the rest of your ride, Viscount Bridgerton."

Anthony watched her for a moment, her figure retreating slowly before he spoke (louder than he had been before, in a manner he knew his mother would have scolded him over if she were there), "You as well."

Wilhelmina spared him one last glance over her shoulder, a soft smile playing on her lips. He didn't seem that bad, not at all like her brother had made him out to be. That Anthony Bridgerton, the very one she had just spoken with, reminded her of the one she grew up with. The one who was care free enough to run around Aubrey Hall with his friends and his siblings. The gentle one who had fussed over Wilhelmina when she fell during one of their escapades around the grounds, she had been on the cusp of three and ten (he was on the cusp of eight and ten), and that was the first time she remembered having a crush (what she now knows as such because of how writers explained such things). She was certain he knew about it. Everyone knew about it. But, she had gotten over it (the jury's out about that one), that totally was not clouding her judgement.

Not one bit. Not at all. It would never.

As she turned back around, tearing her gaze away from his, she couldn't help but begin to realize that he was right. She could wait to enter into society until she felt ready. Then again, she wasn't getting any younger. And she knew that if she continued to push back her debut, the older she would be, and the less desirable she would look in comparison to other debutants. Which was worse; entering into society when she was not ready nor prepared or being less desirable by the gentlemen of the ton because of her age?

That, Wilhelmina was not certain of. For some odd reason, she was sure she would never figure it out. While a part of Anthony Bridgerton died with a muffled whimper with his father, Wilhelmina refused to go down without her voice being loud and proud. She could withstand being older than the others she will debut with in the future.

Even if it meant dying alone, Wilhelmina Fortescue was determined to die not with a whimper, not with a whisper, but with a scream.

Leaving her mark on the rest of the world around them.

AUTHORS NOTE

me @ this entire chapter bc it's bad and I tried some new things (I shouldn't have it was bad). anywho, welcome to the prologue of TMOM! also welcome to this chapter which is being posted on one of my besties bday (happy bday anya) and was mostly written only *my* birthday. also it's being posted on bridgerton s3p1 premiere day (woop) (would be more fun if i could watch but alas i am stuck at work for the next two days and won't see it until sat)

let me know your thoughts & feelings!

this is just ur friendly reminder that comments and encouragement (alongside voting) can really help make authors feel more inclined to update! & if I see any "update" comments I'm going to scream (cry and throw up).

Happy Bridgerton s3 day! (Please refrain from spoilers in here, I won't be able to watch season 3 until about sat :,) sad day to be working full time).