Of course! Here's a simplified version of the prologue for Forbidden Dream, starting with Mary reflecting on her dream, as you reque
Yorkshire, England – Summer, 1923
Mary sat alone by her bedroom window, watching the fog roll in across the hills. Morning light touched the edge of the sky, but her thoughts were still trapped in the night.
"I had that dream again," she whispered to herself, pressing a hand to her chest. Her fingers trembled slightly.
It wasn't like other dreams.
This one was warm, soft, and terrifying all at once. She had been dancing in a field of tall grass, the sun golden on her skin, and beside her—laughing, twirling, holding her hand—was a girl. A stranger, but somehow not. Her face was blurred by the dream, but the feeling remained. The feeling of peace. Of joy. Of being seen.
And then—she had kissed her. Softly. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Mary's eyes snapped shut at the memory, and a wave of guilt crashed over her.
She shook her head hard, as if trying to toss the dream out of her mind. "No. Stop it."
It wasn't right. It couldn't be.
She was the daughter of the city's mayor. People expected her to be graceful, quiet, and obedient. Her path was already decided.
"I'm to be married soon," she muttered bitterly, staring at her pale reflection in the glass. "To a man I've met only once. That's the life I'm supposed to live."
She remembered his name, though barely his face—Thomas Ashton, a war hero's son with a kind smile and nothing in common with her.
That dream wasn't her future. It couldn't be.
She straightened her back, smoothed her nightgown, and forced her thoughts away from the girl in the field. Away from the smile, the touch, the feeling that still lingered like a secret under her skin.
"I just need to be a good daughter," she said firmly. "No more foolish dreams."
But her heart whispered something else.
Something that wouldn't go away so easily.
Later that same day -
The soft rustle of lace and silk filled the halls. The Whitmore estate, with its high ceilings and golden chandeliers, glowed like a polished jewel in the morning light. Servants moved quickly, arranging fresh flowers in every vase and ensuring not a single speck of dust remained on the marble floors.
Mary sat stiffly before the mirror in her bedroom, watching as her mother fastened a pearl pin into her freshly curled hair. Her reflection looked nothing like the girl she felt like inside.
She looked... obedient. Polished. Tired.
"Mother," Mary said softly, her voice uncertain. "Have you ever had a dream that didn't feel like a dream at all?"
Lady Whitmore didn't pause. "Mary, not now. Dreams are nonsense. You should focus on what's real."
"But what if it felt real? As if it—meant something?"
Her mother tightened the next curl a little too hard. "Enough. You're to be engaged soon. It's time to grow up."
Mary pressed her lips together, biting back a sigh.
She hadn't meant to bring it up. She hadn't even told herself the whole truth. But the dream from last night was still clinging to her like fog—soft, impossible to shake.
The field, the sunlight, the laughter...
The girl.
The one with the warm smile and kind eyes, who had pulled her close under the open sky. Who had whispered, "It's alright to feel this," before brushing her lips against Mary's like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Mary's hand curled into a fist on her lap.
She whispered to herself, "It wasn't real. It can't be real."
By early afternoon, the summer garden party had bloomed into full color.
Laughter echoed across the estate grounds, where guests wandered among rose bushes and polished stone fountains. Tables were dressed in white linen, with fine china laid out in neat rows. A string quartet played softly near the main entrance, but their music faded as more people turned toward the newly built stage across the lawn.
Mary stood beneath a parasol, shaded and silent, sipping chilled lemonade. Her dress was pale blue with lace at the sleeves—her mother's favorite.
She hated it.
"Thomas Ashton will arrive by four," her mother said crisply, brushing invisible lint from Mary's shoulder. "Smile when he speaks. Let him lead the conversation. And do not mention that silly sketching hobby of yours."
"Yes, Mother," Mary said automatically.
The mention of Thomas felt like a pebble dropped into her stomach. She had only met him once. He'd bowed politely, told her the weather in London was dreadful, and smiled like he was thinking of something else entirely. She had smiled back. That was it. Their future—already sealed.
Mary's gaze drifted across the crowd.
And then—
The music changed.
A piano chord rang out, deep and rich. Different from the refined tunes playing all day. This was smooth, slow, and full of heat.
Heads turned.
Then came the voice.
Low. Velvety. Like honey melting in warm tea.
Mary's heart stumbled.
She looked toward the stage.
And there she was.
A woman stood at the piano in a fitted burgundy dress, her dark curls gleaming in the sun, her lips curved in a half-smile as she sang. She looked like she belonged to another world. A world Mary had only visited in dreams.
Her voice curled through the garden like smoke.
"They said the world is black and white,
But I remember gold…
In eyes that held a dream so tight,
Too sweet to ever hold…"
Mary's throat went dry.
"It's her," she whispered.
"What?" her mother snapped beside her. "Who?"
Mary didn't answer. She couldn't.
The singer's gaze swept slowly across the crowd—and stopped. Locked with hers.
Mary froze.
The world slipped out of focus. All she could hear was the voice. All she could feel was the heat rising in her chest.
The woman smiled—just slightly. As if she knew something Mary didn't. As if she recognized her too.
The spell broke when someone beside Mary whispered, "That's Isabelle Hart. Jazz singer from London. A bit scandalous, but talented. Your father invited her to 'modernize' the evening."
"Scandalous?" Mary asked, her voice shaky.
The guest laughed. "She sings in trousers sometimes. Can you imagine?"
Mary couldn't answer.
Her hands trembled slightly. She clutched her glass tighter.
Her mother leaned in. "Don't stare. It's rude. And for heaven's sake, stay away from performers."
But Mary barely heard her.
Because Isabelle Hart had turned away, just enough to glance back over her shoulder—straight at Mary.
And winked.
Mary nearly dropped her glass.
Her heart pounded so loudly she feared someone might hear it.
She took a step back.
No.
This couldn't be real.
That face, that voice… that smile.
She'd dreamed of her. Held her hand. Kissed her.
But dreams didn't come to life.
Did they?