Ellie Thompson's last thought in her first life was embarrassingly mundane.
'I should've bought bubble wrap for that shipment.'
Then blinding headlights. The roar of an engine barreling through a red light. A sickening impact—
—darkness.
And then light again.
Except not the soft yellow of her workroom. Not the twinkle lights she'd woven through shelves full of linen and lace.
This light came from the sky—too bright, too blue, too wide.
And she was falling.
Wind tore at her hair. A scream ripped from her throat. Beneath her, the world spun in a blur of green and earth and—
A horse.
A horse she was no longer sitting on.
Pain exploded through her small body as she hit the ground wrong—too light, too tiny, the air punched from her lungs.
Her left arm snapped like a twig.
Her vision blurred dark around the edges.
And then—
A chime.
A cold, clean, digital ding that absolutely did not belong in the year…
…whatever this was.
---
⟦ SYSTEM BOOTING… ⟧
⟦ WARNING: HOST BODY TRAUMA DETECTED. ⟧
⟦ INITIATING EMERGENCY SOUL-STABILIZATION. PLEASE WAIT...⟧
Light burst across the inside of her eyelids—golden, soft, warm like morning sun on embroidery floss. It wrapped around her, held her, breathed life back into her fading consciousness.
Her pain dulled. Her breath steadied.
And over her heart, something glowed.
She gasped, clutching at her chest as a constellation of faint, shimmering dots pulsed beneath the skin—stars forming a pattern leading toward her heart.
Not fully formed.
Not bright.
But there.
Half-awakened.
Her heart dropped to her stomach.
*No. Oh God. This can't be—*
The System chimed again, calmer now:
⟦ HOST IDENTIFIED: ELEANORA "ELLIE" THOMPSON
REINCARNATED INTO BODY: PENELOPE FEATHERINGTON (AGE 11)
YEAR: 1807 ⟧
---
"Oh, you have got to be joking," Ellie whispered, voice trembling.
Bridgerton.
She was in Bridgerton.
The books or the show?
Both? Some fusion?
How much canon did this world even follow?
Before the panic could swallow her, another notification popped:
⟦ SYSTEM CREDIT TRANSFER: COMPLETE
TOTAL BALANCE: 1,426,000 SC ⟧
A breathless, hysterical laugh escaped her.
Her Etsy empire…
Her painstaking hand-embroidered dresses…
Her savings…
All of it had converted into whatever this was.
Because of course they had.
Another notification materialized in soft blue light:
[MISSION: STABILIZE THIS BODY]
[Status: IN PROGRESS
Objective: Prevent shock, immobilize injury, maintain consciousness
Reward: +500 SC]
Right. Right. She needed to live long enough to panic.
With her unbroken arm, she reached toward the glowing menu instinctively. A list of starter skills unfurled—fandom-coded, impossible, familiar:
I Shall Survive Using Potions – Basic Healing Potion (Beginner Recipe).
"Please work," she whispered.
Her fingers brushed the icon and—
A small vial appeared in her palm, warm and shimmering like liquid sunlight.
She uncorked it with her teeth and drank.
Sweet warmth pooled down her throat, spreading through her limbs like honey. Her broken arm shifted with a series of soft, unsettling cracks—but the pain receded, replaced by a deep, soothing pulse.
Not fully healed.
But stabilized.
She breathed again.
And that's when she heard the shouting.
"—Penelope! Penelope, dear God—!"
Portia Featherington's voice. Shrill. Panicked. Closer than Ellie expected.
Penelope Featherington, Ellie thought with a sinking, curling dread.
She was Penelope.
Eleven.
Overlooked.
Dismissed.
Destined for heartbreak.
Not if she could help it.
The System hummed, reading her rising determination like a signal flare.
Another screen opened:
[MISSION: SURVIVE THE FEATHERINGTON HOUSEHOLD]
[Difficulty: Moderate
Reward: +5,000 SC
Penalty for Failure: Emotional Degradation // Social Instability]
And beneath it, a new interface like the system saying 'By the way...'
[SOULMARK STATUS]
[Available Soulmate Slots: 3
Bond Trigger: 90% Affection Level
Note: Identities Unknown]
Ellie froze.
Three soulmate slots.
Three unknown men—three future husbands, if she wasn't careful or strategic.
A soft warning pulsed beneath her skin. A feeling, a reminder: soulbonds were irrevocable.
Even kindness could be dangerous.
Even friendship.
Even a glance.
"Penelope!" Portia shrieked again, closer now. "What were you thinking?"
Time was running out.
Ellie inhaled—slow, shaking, but steady enough to think.
She couldn't win this life with brute force.
No—she would win it with soft hands, careful plans, and survival stitched into every seam.
'Play meek Penelope,' she told herself.
'But plan like Ellie Thompson. The woman who built an empire from thread and stubbornness.'
She lifted her head toward the approaching figures, eyes wide, small, trembling—perfectly Penelope.
But inside?
Inside she was already rebuilding her future.
Stitch by stitch.
Choice by choice.
Life by life.
And the System glowed warmly in agreement.