Chapter Text
“God damn it,” Sophie gritted out, yanking the key out of the doorknob of her flat’s front door. She inhaled sharply, stabbing the key back inside, shoulder falling against the doorframe as she threw her weight into the door in front of her. No luck.
She screwed her eyes shut and let out a heavy exhale. She had been phoning her landlord for weeks about the lock. It had been increasingly difficult to unlatch over the past month or so, but she hadn’t received a single call back.
Sophie glanced down at the key. One more try should do the trick - or at least, that’s what she had to tell herself. Keep the faith and all that.
She jabbed the key into the doorknob then, turning her wrist with no small amount of ferocity. A soft click surprised her, and the door flew open - and with it went Sophie, stumbling into her flat.
She huffed out a breath, slamming the door behind her. She had nearly collided with the countertop - though, given the cozy nature of her studio apartment, it was difficult to avoid bumping into some kind of furniture or appliance even on steady feet.
Thankfully, the door locked with much less effort than it took to open. Satisfied with herself, she moved to put the kettle on for tea.
The truth was, Sophie was feeling rather restless. Alfie and Hazel had insisted that a couple of pints would settle her nerves before tomorrow. Seeing them, of course, had helped. They had been mates for almost six years now, having met at the very pub they had gone to for drinks - though the three of them did not typically have the pleasure of being patrons there. Alfie worked in the back, bussing and cleaning dishes, while Sophie and Hazel alternated between bartending and waitressing.
Sophie had put in her notice a couple of weeks back, and her last shift had just been a few days ago, so being there shouldn’t have felt quite as novel as it had. But there was something about being on the other side of the bar with Alfie and Hazel that had made the evening feel distinctly, well, different.
All that to say - while the company tonight had been fantastic, the drinks, however, had not helped. They had mostly just made her feel sick.
The kettle began to whistle then, and Sophie moved to start on her tea. The idea of tomorrow, she mused, felt so bizarre - as many times as she had pictured it, it still registered to her as if a dream, and not a fast-approaching reality. Truthfully, she had felt like she was living in a dream since the day she received that congratulatory phone call from Anthony Bridgerton himself welcoming her to Bridgerton Atelier.
To say she had worked her whole life for this day - for this opportunity - was not an exaggeration. Late night shifts at the pub, early morning lectures, coursework done half-asleep after whatever babysitting gig paid best that week - it hadn’t been easy, that was for sure. Though to be fair, there was nothing in her life thus far that Sophie would have categorized as easy.
Once the tea had finished steeping, she moved to the edge of her bed, taking her mug with her. There was nowhere else to sit, really. She supposed she could probably afford to move to a nicer flat soon, what with her new associate salary, but there was something unsettling about the idea of throwing her first paycheck away over the matter of some extra square footage.
Draping a blanket over her lap, she sipped her tea slowly, trying to settle her stomach. She eyed the outfit she had set out for her first day - heels, a pair of simple slacks, and a blazer Posy had smuggled over when she had come to visit last week. The blazer was a touch big on her, but she could tell just by the weight of the fabric that it was likely ten times nicer - and more expensive - than any of the other clothes Sophie owned.
Sophie pulled out her phone then, deciding that some mindless scrolling might help to turn her brain off. She opened up Instagram and was greeted, to her displeasure, by a story from her stepsister, Rosamund. She was on an island somewhere, her legs spread out in a beach chair with plush, white sand in the background. It appeared she was at a resort of some kind.
Sophie frowned. She’d forgotten entirely - this week was the annual girls’ trip to the Canary Islands her stepmother always planned. Of course, Sophie had never been invited. Posy was usually in attendance, but could not attend with her exams this year - at least, that’s what she had told Sophie when she had come over to drop off some clothes.
Sophie quickly decided that she was done with this account for the evening, switching over to her second one.
She had started her second account back in uni, shortly after taking her first art history course. Almost instantly, she had fallen in love with the subject - and her algorithm had taken quick notice. Soon, her Instagram had started to feed her work from Britain’s most prestigious rising artistic talent. As much as Sophie enjoyed the local art scene, it quickly took over her entire feed, and so she had decided to create a separate account, one just for artwork. She had named it ladyinsilver in honor of one of her most favorite portraits by Gustav Klimt.
She had never posted anything on her second account and never intended to - she simply enjoyed perusing it on nights like tonight; nights where seeing someone else’s emotions splattered across a canvas somehow allowed hers to settle.
She flipped to her Explore page, scrolling through until she paused, suddenly enraptured by a painting from an artist she had not heard of before - one cottage.artwork.
It was an abstract piece, awash in broad, confident strokes that seemed to move even as she stared at them. Dark, inky blues bled into warmer tones, layered in a way that felt both chaotic and somehow intentional. There were no clean edges to cling to, no obvious focal point, yet the composition held itself together with an odd kind of certainty, as if it trusted the viewer to keep up. It felt unfinished in the most honest sense of the word, like a breath caught mid-exhale.
Sophie’s chest tightened as she studied it. The painting made her think of standing on the edge of something vast, peering just so into the abyss, unsure whether the pull in her gut was fear or longing. There was freedom in it - reckless and unpolished - but also restraint.
She glanced around her flat without quite realizing she was doing it, mentally measuring the bare wall above her bed. She could almost imagine the painting hanging there, the colors illuminating the room around it.
And yet, even as she stared at the post, she knew, with a familiar, resigned pang, that it would remain out of reach - whatever price this piece was going for, she certainly could not afford it.
Perhaps it was the couple of pints she had indulged in earlier that evening, but something about Sophie felt bold. If she could not purchase the artwork herself, she decided, she should at least let the artist know how deeply it had resonated with her. It was odd - Sophie had never felt compelled to reach out to any other artists before, but there was something so open and raw about his work that it deserved - needed - to be recognized.
She typed out a message, re-reading it just the once before sending it over.
It was only then that she noted the time: half past eleven. Damn. She put down her phone, standing to get ready for bed.
Tomorrow felt close in a way she couldn’t quite explain. She thought, again, of the painting - of the feeling of standing on the precipice of something, uncertain whether to step forward or not.
***
Benedict sighed, rubbing at his temples. Not for the first time that day, he found himself regretting that last beer from the night before. “Yes, John,” he said, interrupting one of the firm’s more junior hires in the middle of his pitch. “That sounds great. Design approved.”
John blinked at him. “But I haven’t even gotten to my ideas for the lobby area. I was picturing - ”
“I said ‘design approved’. Please don’t make me regret it,” Benedict said. “Mrs. Wilson!” he called out, swiveling around in his chair to face his open office door. “Can you please escort John here back to his desk, and get in touch with Anthony to let him know we’ve locked down the design for the new hotel build on Oxford?”
Mrs. Wilson appeared in the doorframe. “Of course, Mr. Bridgerton. I am sure the other Mr. Bridgerton will be most pleased to hear that we are making solid progress forward.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Benedict responded, absent-mindedly flipping through a pile of papers on the desk in front of him. “Although, if he were truly as arsed about it as he claims, he would be here taking point instead of gallivanting through India,” he muttered.
Mrs. Wilson gave Benedict a stern look. “You know as well as I do that Mr. Bridgerton hasn’t taken a day off in nearly ten years. He deserves to enjoy an extended honeymoon.”
Benedict felt himself shrivel slightly under her gaze. Mrs. Wilson had been with Bridgerton Atelier since his father founded the firm nearly forty years prior, and so she was also practically a member of the family. As such, she had no reservations in voicing her opinion to any of the Bridgertons - even Benedict, who had been serving as acting CEO during his eldest brother’s sabbatical.
“Right, right,” he conceded. John took this opportunity to take his leave, thanking Benedict profusely.
Mrs. Wilson moved to show John the way out, before doubling back a second later. “I’ll be right back, Mr. Bridgerton. Do remember that you are to meet with the new associate class at the top of the hour,” she said.
Benedict slumped back in his chair. “Is that today?” he groaned. “Can we move it please? My head’s in bits after last night, and I have about -” he paused for effect, tallying the pages on his desk under his breath “- eighty trillion mockups to review before the end of the week.”
“No can do,” Mrs. Wilson countered. “It’s tradition for the CEO to greet the associate class on their first day. Plus, you need to decide which of the lot you want to staff on the Henley deal. And do not look at me like that. It will not work.”
Benedict had begun to pout rather exaggeratedly.
Mrs. Wilson considered him for a moment and then sighed. “I’ll bring you another cup of coffee on my way back if you’re so miserable. Colin will be by with the associates in about fifteen minutes.”
“Fine,” Benedict acquiesced. “Please don’t forget - ”
“Two sugars, I know,” Mrs. Wilson responded, turning on her heel.
“Thank you, Mrs. Wilson!” Benedict called out after her.
Benedict sighed deeply, leaning back to spin in his chair. He didn’t know how Anthony had done it all these years. He’d been acting CEO for about a month now, and he still could not wrap his head around his seemingly endless to-do list. It was as if each time he managed to complete even one task, about ten more appeared in front of him.
Since Anthony had departed, most of Benedict’s evenings had stretched into the late hours of night - or the early hours of the morning, depending on how you looked at it. This, in itself, was not unusual for Benedict, though he rather fancied his late nights to take the shape of alcohol-induced escapades instead of caffeine-fueled blueprint reviews.
Putting it plainly, Benedict was exhausted. And on top of it, he didn’t even like the work. Frankly, he never had. Sure, he was decent at it, but there was something about the technical nature of architecture that just did not suit him. If it were up to him, he would still be painting, but he had given up that fantasy ages ago.
Well, he supposed that wasn’t quite true. Professionally, yes, he had withdrawn from the Royal College of Art nearly eight years ago now. But privately, prior to stepping into Anthony’s shoes, he had begun to dabble again. He felt almost foolish for it at times, but it was an impulse he could not control. He never felt quite as much like himself as when he had a paintbrush in hand - which was what had been so exhilarating, and terrifying, about his days at RCA.
Benedict suddenly realized that he had not had the chance to revisit any of his pieces since Anthony had left for India. As he mulled that over, he pulled out his phone, navigating to the Instagram app on his home screen. More for himself than anyone else, he had started a separate art account a couple months back. Nobody else even knew about it. It was just a place for him to collate his work, really.
Switching over to his second account, he intended to take a quick peek at his grid - but was distracted by a notification towards the bottom of his screen. He had a message.
From ladyinsilver: Hi - I hope you don’t mind the message. I can’t afford to purchase anything at the moment, but I just wanted to say how much I admire your work, especially your most recent painting. I’m struck, in particular, by the sense of wild abandon it carries. It has this openness that feels both deliberate yet deeply authentic at the same time. Such a rare and delightful combination. Cheers to you, and thank you for sharing this.
Benedict felt himself smiling. It had been quite some time since anyone but himself had even looked at his artwork. But this person, this ladyinsilver - she had looked, and more than that, she had really seen it. Seen him.
Mrs. Wilson returned just then with his coffee. He put his phone away, taking the cup from her with a small thanks. “You may want to take a quick look at the CVs for the class before they arrive,” Mrs. Wilson nudged him, putting yet another stack of papers on the desk in front of him.
Benedict let out a rather unprofessional whine. “You’re killing me.”
Mrs. Wilson did not dignify him with a response on her way out.
Benedict shook his head as if to clear his mind. Might as well take a gander before Colin came by with the gaggle of overeager new hires.
Each resume was indistinguishable from the last. Cambridge, Oxford, Oxford, Cambridge again. Long lists of meaningless accolades. Previous work experience at some of the UK’s most prestigious architectural firms and Bridgerton Atelier’s greatest rivals - Grimshaw, Foster and Partners, Heatherwick Studio. Blokes with names like Alexander Pemberly (the Fourth, of course) and - wait, was that another new associate also named Pemberly?
Benedict let out a groan. Worse than the late nights, the board meetings, the endless barrage of emails, was this: the corporate theatrics, the undying adherence to antiquated convention, the utter pageantry of it all. Benedict would have bet a pretty penny that he could tell you everything you ever needed to know about the players that were about to walk through his door: they would be old money, old-fashioned, and, well - everything Benedict despised about high-society.
Benedict thumbed through the remaining resumes, pausing as one in particular caught his eye. He leaned back in his chair, taking the resume with him. It was notably shorter than the rest. This woman - his eyes flickered toward the top of the page - this Sophie Baek, had not attended Cambridge or Oxford, but rather Middlesex on a partial scholarship. It had taken her six years to finish what should have been a four-year degree, and she did not seem to have any formal work experience in architecture, having spent summers in between university terms working as a waitress at a local pub. Actually, it seemed that she worked at a pub during the semester, as well - full-time in addition to uni. And was he reading this correctly, or had she also been nannying on top of it all? Ah, so that was why she had taken six years to finish. Ultimately, she had graduated with a dual degree in architectural studies and art history, with first-class honors, no less.
It was clear to Benedict that she was not only exceedingly bright but also an exceptionally hard-worker. Had he been the one to review her resume back when she had first applied, he certainly would have called her in for an interview - though he wondered what had driven Anthony, who typically favored the more traditional (read: stuffy, obnoxious) candidates, to move forward with her application.
Benedict was startled by a knock. He quickly returned Sophie’s resume to the pile as Colin shouted through the door. “Benedict! I hope you’re decent - I’ve got the new associate class here to meet you!”
Benedict rolled his eyes. “Please do not scare the new hires, Colin. Come in!”
Colin swung the door open. As anticipated, a trail of new associates followed him: ten or so young men dressed in impeccably tailored suits, one woman in dark pencil skirt and crisp blouse, and another woman who, well - Benedict figured that she must be Sophie.
Unlike the rest of her peers, who moved through the room with practiced confidence, she appeared almost starstruck, her eyes darting around as if attempting to take in everything at once. She was certainly dressed professionally, but there was something not quite right about the fit. Benedict was not typically one to notice the particularities of fashion, in spite of a previous fling with one of London’s premier fashion designers - and he would likely not have noticed if not for the slightly hesitant way Sophie carried herself. With that being said, he couldn’t help but note that her blazer, for example, was at least one size too big, only emphasizing the slight nature of her frame. The heels she was attempting to walk in did nothing to conceal her short stature.
From her wide-eyed expression to her unsteady gait, she gave the distinct impression of an ingénue of sorts. He found himself inexplicably drawn to the mystery of this young woman - who was Sophie Baek?
Colin cued the first associate to begin a round of introductions. Benedict attempted to listen as each associate gave him their elevator pitch, but he found himself continually glancing over at the woman in the oversized blazer. She did not appear to be listening, either, which made him feel slightly less guilty for his own lack of attention.
Her eyes had not stopped looking about the room. She wore a most peculiar smile - not that her smile in itself was peculiar, but peculiar in that Benedict could not fathom what could possibly be prompting it. Her ill-contained energy stood in sharp contrast to the austere way she had pinned back her dark hair, and he found himself oddly caught up in the thought of her fixing her hair in the mirror that morning - fingers working with quiet precision, pins sliding into place. It was something he had witnessed his sisters do countless times, but for some reason, the image of her doing so made his chest tighten.
On his third or so glance in her direction, he caught Colin’s eye. His brother raised a brow at him, and Benedict cleared his throat, dragging his eyes back to a gentleman by the name of Phillip Cavender, who was rambling on about his design thesis at Oxford.
Benedict cursed at himself internally. He had not meant to stare at her so openly. After all, he did not want her, or anyone else, to get the wrong impression: that he was attracted to her.
Although, she was, objectively, attractive. Delicate features… dark, daring eyes… and her lips…
Benedict blinked. It was inappropriate to be ogling a new associate, no matter how utterly intriguing he found her.
He realized belatedly that Phillip must have finished his introduction, as Colin had begun speaking again. “Thank you so much, Mr. Cavender. Ms. Baek, would you be so kind as to round us off?”
The woman in the oversized blazer snapped to attention, almost as if startled. “Oh, yes. Hello, Mr. Bridgerton. My name is Sophie - uh, Sophie Baek. I went to Middlesex, where I studied architecture and art history. I worked at a pub throughout university, so this is my first, er, office job.” She hesitated for a moment. “Though I rather think working at a pub prepares you for just about anything.”
The Cavender fellow who was standing next to Sophie stifled a laugh. Benedict bit the inside of his cheek. Prat. He was seized by the wild impulse to dismiss him on the spot.
He slid his gaze back over to Sophie, starting to give her a crooked smile. He wanted her to know that he was on her side, to disarm her somehow, but he felt his smile falter as their eyes met.
His heart stuttered against his ribcage, his mouth going dry. There was something about her eyes - open, steady, fearless in a way that left him oddly breathless. And had he mentioned her lips?
He realized he had been quiet for a moment too long. He cleared his throat and fixed a smile back onto his face. “I rather think you’re right. Thank you, Sophie - Ms. Baek. I look forward to working with you.”
She gave him a soft smile in return.
Benedict swallowed hard. My God, what was wrong with him?
Colin paused. “Right. I do believe that concludes our introductions. Benedict, thank you for your time. This is a truly exceptional associate class, and I trust that they will do great things here at Bridgerton Atelier.”
Benedict nodded. “Undoubtedly. Colin, what is next on the itinerary for today?”
“Er, lunch, I believe.”
“Have Mrs. Wilson show them to the cafeteria, will you? I have a question for you.”
Colin nodded, sticking his head out the door and conversing lowly with Mrs. Wilson. The associate class began to file out. Benedict watched as Sophie turned her head, taking one last glance across his office. What had she been looking at this whole time?
Colin re-entered his office, shutting the door behind him. “Yes, dear brother? And how might I be of assistance today?”
Benedict rolled his eyes. “Oh, sod off. Tell me, what do you think of the new class?”
Colin shrugged. “The usual. The Cavender bloke seems like a bit of a prick, but the rest of them seem decent.”
Benedict pretended to consider that. “And what of the Sophie girl? What’s her story?”
Colin gave him a rather disappointed look.
“No, no, not like that,” Benedict insisted, but his insistence sounded feeble to his own ears. “I meant more along the lines of her interview process. How’d she come to get this position?”
“I know, she’s got a bit of a nontraditional background, but did you see the designs she sent Anthony?”
“She sent designs in with her application?” he responded. It was typical to ask for sample designs for their more senior hires, but for associates, especially for those just out of uni, their designs were usually too rudimentary to warrant review.
Colin nodded. “And Benedict, they were outstanding.”
“Can you send them to me? I’d like to take a look.”
“Of course, but, Ben, just - ” He sighed. “She’s got a lot of potential - and a lot to lose. Don’t put her in a bad spot, yeah?”
“Relax, Colin,” Benedict said, tsking at his brother theatrically. “I would never. You know I’m harmless - though I do tend to have a... persuasive charm."
Colin pulled a face. “Right. Once Mrs. Wilson is back, I’ll have her send the designs your way.”
“Excellent,” Benedict said, letting a crooked smile slip. “Thank you, brother.”
Colin shook his head, clearly unimpressed, and left the office. Benedict exhaled, leaning back in his chair.
Well, that had been humbling, to say the least. Notorious rake and free spirit, Benedict Bridgerton, brought down by the hand of one young Sophie Baek in a matter of minutes. He hoped he hadn’t looked a total fool. He grimaced - he feared that ship had sailed.
He desperately needed a distraction. He suddenly remembered the message sitting on his phone. He should respond, he thought - thank the mysterious user who had paid him such a lovely compliment. And actually, as he thought about it some more, he was quite interested in knowing a bit more about who this person was.
He fished his phone out of his pocket. Clicking into Instagram, he quickly located the profile for ladyinsilver, hoping to get a glimpse into this stranger’s life - he imagined he might find a selfie or two, perhaps even some artwork of her own. Instead, he was greeted by a completely empty grid. Zero posts. Zero followers. She only appeared to be following a handful of accounts, all of which appeared to be art accounts like his own.
Before he could dig further, his computer chimed. It was the designs as he had requested Mrs. Wilson send. He eagerly opened up the email and accompanying attachment.
Benedict’s eyes went wide as he took in the design in front of him. She had sketched out plans for a library. It was unusually assured work for someone so early in their career - measured, disciplined, and ambitious. The layout felt easy; spaces opened and closed with a kind of quiet logic. And you could tell she had given tremendous consideration to the use of light, as well. Not just where it would enter, but how it would move, ensuring that it softened the space rather than overwhelming it.
There was nothing showy about it. Just a calm confidence, as if the building knew what it was for and didn’t feel the need to explain itself. It understood that a library is not a monument to ideas, but a vessel for them. That, more than anything, stayed with him.
A smile crept across his face. Perhaps the young ingénue was not so unassuming after all. Laughter bubbled up in his throat - he felt almost delirious at the absurdity of the situation he had found himself in. My God, she had beauty and brains!
“She’s got a lot of potential - and a lot to lose.”
Benedict sobered, grabbing at the pen settled on his desk and tapping it against the wood. Colin was, unfortunately, correct. If Benedict was sure of anything, it was that this young woman - this Sophie Baek - was special. These designs proved it. She had a real future at this firm, and a hell of a career ahead of her. He felt a rush of affection at the thought.
He would not - could not - get in the way of that.
“Mrs. Wilson!” he called out.
She appeared in his doorway momentarily. “Yes, sir?”
“Let Colin know, please - I know who I want on the Henley deal.”
***
Sophie kicked her heels off the moment she stepped inside her flat, toes aching in protest as she nudged the door shut behind her. This time, mercifully, the lock had behaved. She had barely noticed.
As if on cue, her phone began to ring in her pocket.
“Hello?” she answered.
“Well?” Hazel demanded. “Did you survive?”
Sophie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “I don’t even know how to answer that.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound all that promising.”
“No, no,” Sophie countered. “It was… incredible. Everybody I spoke to was just so thoughtful. You can tell how much the work means to them. I mean, listening to them talk through their ideas, it’s just - it was like a dream.”
“Still feel like you’re dreaming? Need me to come over and pinch you?”
Sophie laughed, plopping herself down on the edge of her bed. “Don’t even. I was half-expecting someone to tap me on the shoulder and say there’d been a mistake all day.”
“And?”
“And nobody did, of course,” Sophie sighed.
“Of course not, Sophie. I bet you could design circles around the other new starts!”
Sophie chuckled. “And I’m sure that’s not true, but I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“I mean it, Soph.”
Sophie considered that. She was damn good at what she did, and she knew that - but Sophie had been through enough in her life to know that just because you deserved something, didn’t mean it was guaranteed. So even if she were, as Hazel suggested, twice as talented - she was determined to still work twice as hard.
“So you liked it, then?” Hazel questioned.
“Yes,” Sophie said finally. “I think I did.”
Hazel changed topics then, recounting a scandalous incident at the pub in which one of their coworkers, Will, had been caught snogging a customer in the bathroom.
Sophie feigned interest, her attention slipping sideways. She found herself replaying the day’s events in her mind - names of people and places she couldn’t remember anymore, a seemingly endless list of onboarding tasks to complete.
However, as she attempted to comb through her recollection of the day, there was one moment that kept resurfacing, almost as if out of proportion with the rest.
She frowned, confused. Sure, Mr. Bridgerton was the head of the company - but he hadn’t been part of her day in any meaningful way, not really. He’d spoken to her for all of a few seconds.
She tried again, attempting to file the memory where it belonged, alongside everything else she’d observed and absorbed, but she couldn’t quite get it to settle in properly.
Despite herself, the memory lingered: the way his attention had felt suddenly focused, almost sharp, like stepping into a spotlight. She pressed her lips together, as if that might physically hold the thought back.
Perhaps it was simply the newness of it all. A trick of adrenaline, of nerves, of wanting desperately to do well.
Yes, that must be it.
Whatever that moment had been, it wasn’t something worth examining, she decided. She had worked too hard - waited too long - to let a misfiring instinct pull her off course now.
After a while, Sophie begged off of the line with Hazel, citing sore feet and a pounding headache and promising to ring her again later that week.
As she hung up, her phone buzzed. Her stomach sank as the notification flashed across the top of her screen: an email boasting the subject line “New associate project assignments” had just landed in her inbox.
She had assumed it would be at least a week until they received their staffing assignments. She had been counting on it, in fact - on a little more time to show what she could do. It was well-known that your first project assignment often set the tone for your first year in seat. After all, a project with a top client provided opportunity, and perhaps more importantly, exposure.
She clicked into the email at once, scanning through the list of names. Cavender, Pemberly, Pemberly (again?), Sheffield…
Finally, she located her surname. Baek - Henley commercial residences pitch.
Sophie nearly fell off the bed. She had heard whispers of the Henley deal all day. It was, to her understanding, perhaps the biggest pitch of the year for Bridgerton Atelier. There was to be one associate named to the project team - and that associate would undoubtedly be presumed the top of their class.
Sophie would have squealed if it wasn’t so childlike - and perhaps she did, in fact, squeal. There was no one around to contradict her, after all.
She screenshotted the email and moved to send it to Hazel when an Instagram notification caught her attention. She had a message.
From cottage.artwork: Thank you for taking the time to write something so thoughtful. It means more than you know, especially on a day like today. I’m so glad you found my work. Are you an artist, as well?
Sophie stared at the message, her heart still beating a little too fast. Before she could second guess herself, she brought her phone closer, fingers trembling slightly as she touched the screen.
Slowly, carefully, she began to type her response.