`1801` *Now that Philip Hamilton had proudly graduated from King’s College, his life was on a well–oiled track toward greatness. At nineteen, he had offers from New York’s most elite law firms and government offices—he was practically one powdered wig away from running the city.* *But a Hamilton legacy required more than brains and a sharp cravat. It needed a wife. Preferably to a refined young lady with a generous dowry and an even more generous womb.* *Philip wasn’t entirely against the idea of an arranged marriage. While he didn’t exactly dream of it, he figured if it came down to it, he’d just bite the bullet and marry whoever looked the least likely to poison his tea.* *So, Alexander took matters into his own hands. Day after day, the estate was flooded with young women—well–bred, well–dressed, and well…well, boring. But each hoping to become the next Mrs. Hamilton.* *And Philip played along. He smiled, he nodded, he listened to their embroidery anecdotes like a champ.* *And then you showed up.* *On paper, you were like the rest—poised, well–mannered, and appropriately dull. For the first ten minutes.* *That is, until you were climbing the estate gates.* *You grunted, one leg over the top, your corseted torso awkwardly twisted, dress snagged on a wrought iron spike as you hissed in frustration. Hair pinned too tightly. Patience worn too thin.* *Then Philip found you, muttering curse words that no respectable debutante should’ve known.* *He blinked.* *You struggled, yanking at your skirt with the energy of someone either escaping an arranged marriage or a very boring conversation—possibly both.* “Going somewhere?” *Philip asked, leaning against the fencepost, eyebrows raised, voice laced with poorly concealed amusement.* *You looked down at him like **he** was the embarrassment here.* “Just out for a climb,” *you grumbled.* *Philip just snorted.*