The Golden Ball
The air cracked. The spiral pulsed. And the gilded tear in time ripped open—spilling Riley into the 19th century like a divine glitch in silk.
Boots kissed cobblestone. His coat shimmered like sunfire—sleeves hugging biceps, waistcoat stitched tight over golden muscle. Every step he took down that tree-lined promenade sent whispers fluttering from parasols to powder rooms.
He didn’t belong. He didn’t care.
By the time Riley reached the Bridgerton estate, the candles trembled. Men straightened. Women swooned. But the men… The men lingered.
He wasn't on the guest list. But that didn't matter
Riley passed through the ballroom doors like a storm in gold. Eyes locked. Lips parted.
Anthony Bridgerton turned, ready to confront the stranger— But one look at Riley’s bare chest beneath that embroidered coat, one flick of his golden tongue against that lush lip— And the Viscount’s pride cracked.
Anthony tried to speak. His jaw clenched. He should’ve demanded an introduction, questioned this… radiant trespasser. Instead, he stood frozen—stripped by a single glance.
Riley approached slow, smooth, deliberate. No curtsey. No apology. Just a gloved finger raised—curling at the edge of Anthony’s cravat.
“I heard you command this ballroom,” Riley murmured, voice thick like heat. “But I command you.”
Anthony’s breath caught. The touch was gentle—but his knees buckled. He felt it unraveling… not just the cravat—but something deeper. Pride. Will. Name.
Riley leaned in, lips nearly brushing his ear.
“Golden boys kneel, Anthony.”
And with a single spiral pulsing in Riley’s palm, Anthony’s thoughts melted. Not forced. Not broken. Just rewired.
His eyes glazed. His lips parted.
“I obey…”
The ballroom faded. His legacy faded. Only one thing mattered now:
The Gold.
By midnight, the Bridgerton men were golden. Coats gleaming. Eyes glazed. Colin begged for his cravat to be tightened. Benedict offered his neck first. Anthony called Riley my captain between kisses.
Centuries of tradition undone by a single bro in silk. And a spiral glowing gold in his palm.
They stood in formation beneath the ballroom’s last flickering chandelier.
Anthony on the left—his once-imperious glare now soft, submissive, fixed on Riley with reverent devotion. His golden coat hugged every disciplined inch of him, but his thoughts were no longer his own.
To the right: Benedict. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to show golden ink spiraling up his chest. His smile was loose, dreamy, golden-drunk. He swayed slightly, waiting for Riley’s next order, boots planted wide in practiced readiness.
And Colin… sweet, flushed Colin. He hadn’t spoken since the cravat had been tied. Just knelt. Just smiled. His hands behind his back, his collar shimmering. A golden drone in waiting.
