I Am Elias Bridge

Before she could launch into a full-on panic attack, the man’s large hand gently grasped her wrist, steadying her.

He pulled a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket—a detail she noticed only because it screamed old money and carefully wiped at her cheek. The touch was surprisingly tender.

“There.” The man said it simply.

Lyra blinked, her cheek still tingling from the brief, almost reverent touch. “Thanks,” she muttered, rubbing the opposite side of her face just to feel somewhat in control again. “So again—who are you and where exactly am I?”

*****

“I am Elias Bridge,” he replied, as if the name should come with a drumroll or a herald with a trumpet. “You are in my estate.”

Lyra’s brain stuttered at the word estate. “Okay…” she said slowly, processing. “Estate. Got it. Fancy word for land that probably has its own name and decorative fountains.” She paused, gesturing around at the towering trees.

“Well, if you could just kindly point me toward the nearest exit, I’ll be on my merry way. Thank you very much, Mr. Bridge.” She gave him a little salute for good measure and turned as if she knew where she was going, which she absolutely did not.

“Do you intend to go out on the streets dressed like that?” he asked, eyebrows lifted with the precision of a man accustomed to giving orders—and being obeyed.

Lyra froze mid-step and looked down at herself. Her oversized sleep shirt, which had ridden up just a tad too high. Beneath it, a pair of cotton shorts she wouldn’t wear to a Zoom call, much less a fashion-forward universe. Still. “What? This?” she asked, tugging the hem down an inch with futile dignity. “There’s nothing wrong with what I’m wearing. I mean, people wear less to the gym. Or the beach.”

Elias tilted his head, clearly unimpressed by her nonsense. “I think not,” he said. “Come. I’ll find you something that covers you.”

“Covers me?” Lyra repeated, as her inner feminist stirred. “Excuse me—are you one of those men? You know, the ‘cover yourself up because it’s improper’ types?” She planted her hands on her hips, the shirt riding up again in rebellion. “Do you also believe elbows are seductive? Should I wear a bonnet too? Maybe a chastity belt while we’re at it?”

Elias looked entirely unbothered by her sarcasm. “You’re dressed like you escaped a brothel at dawn.”

“Well, I’ll have you know, Mr., I am a big girl. I decide what I wear, how I wear it, and where I wear it. I could walk the streets in my underwear if I want to, and that’s called freedom.”

“I’m afraid you’ll be instantly considered a lunatic after a few feet on these streets,” Elias said dryly, eyes scanning her ensemble again.

Lyra placed a hand on her hip. “Well, at least I’ll be a fashion-forward lunatic,” she muttered. “You know, misunderstood, mysterious, chic.”

Lyra huffed and folded her arms. “Look, I’m already emotionally disoriented, vaguely bird-poop-scented. I just want to go home. Exit, please.”

Elias shrugged, turning smoothly on his heel. “Sure. This way.”

She followed him, feet crunching on the gravel path as they walked through what looked like a botanical garden designed by someone with a god complex. The estate was a fantasy-land of stone fountains, marble archways, and rose gardens that smelled faintly like royalty. The real jaw dropper was the mansion.

“Holy Game of Thrones,” she muttered, eyes wide. “Do you live here or just squat when the queen’s out of town?”

Elias arched a brow. “I am the queen.”

“What?”

“I’m joking,” he said, although his voice didn’t sound nearly amused enough for it to be a joke. “Mostly.”

By the time they reached the front gate, Lyra was starting to feel like she’d been dropped inside a period movie scene. Elias gave a nod to the guards—actual guards with spears and polished boots and they stepped aside, opening the wrought-iron gates with a creak of exaggerated importance.

Lyra took a confident step through the gate—and then stopped dead in her tracks.

Her eyes widened as she stared out at the street beyond. It was... not familiar. Not even close. Instead of cars and sidewalks, there were cobblestone roads.

She turned slowly back to Elias, blinking.

“Okay. Okay, I just need one small favor before I have my meltdown. What’s the name of this street?”

“Whisperthon Lane,” Elias said, as if that clarified anything.

She blinked. “Excuse me? I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Whis. Per. Thon. Lane,” he repeated slowly.

Lyra stared at him, then back at the cobblestone street. “Whisperthon,” she said, testing the word. “That sounds like a password to an OnlyFans account.”

“It’s named after the first Duchess of the province.”

“Where the hell is Whisperthon Lane?” Lyra asked. Her arms flailed as she looked up and down the cobbled street as if G****e Maps would materialize in the air and explain the mix-up.

Elias, who had been quietly observing the swirl of emotions flickering across her face—confusion, panic, disbelief, and a generous dollop of sarcasm—tilted his head. “Where do you come from?” he asked gently. It wasn’t just a practical question. He wanted to understand her, this girl with the haunted eyes and the coffee-stained shirt, who somehow made bird poop seem charming.

“St. Mark’s Place,” she said, still distracted as she craned her neck.

“St. Mark…” He repeated the name slowly, as if tasting it. “Ah! I know of it.” He smiled in quiet triumph. “I can take you there.”

Elias turned to the gatekeeper, who was visibly torn between doing his job and trying to figure out if Lyra’s exposed knees were a sign of rebellion or seduction. “Get the carriage ready. And a driver.”

Lyra’s eyebrows shot up. “A driver, huh? Ooh la la. Fancy. You must be one of those high society types.”

“I like to think so,” Elias said, lips quirking in a smile that was about 80% regal charm and 20% unaware humility. His smile softened the severe edges of his face, and for a second Lyra forgot she was in the middle of a probable psychotic break.