The sounds of her wails pierce my ears, and blow me away, until I can do nothing but sit and wait until she has need of me. Scarlett is laid flat on the bed, holding the man who just died in her arms. The time has creeped by, making me very aware of how long I've been staring at her, watching helplessly as she mourns him, filling the room with her loss. I hear the doctor, the nurse outside of the room speaking, but find myself unable to stop looking at her, tormented by how much she's lost already.

This feels like overkill. This feels like punishment—punishment she doesn't deserve. To find out you were given up at birth by a man who rescued you, and lied to for a good portion of your life, growing to love the person who was the cause of every pain...and then as if a bad curse, to discover the truth when it's nearly too late.

His end was a struggle, a struggle he hid from her. He told me he felt himself worsening; he said he knew his time was almost done. He said it today, and I had no idea he was so sure. I should have told her, told her to stay. Instead of fighting, I should have made her stay.

She could have gotten more time.

The inevitable sound of rustling, boots against the floor make me tear my eyes away, to the door. The men from the mortuary hover, but don't enter, realizing she's still indisposed. My eyes shut when she kisses his face, and begins to retreat, already knowing who's come.

I barely knew the man, but I know the girl.

I know the type of pain she endures day in, and day out. The type of pain she feels imperative to hide from me, despite how badly I want to help. She stands up onto her feet, dragging her hands over her face, her chest slamming as she attempts to catch her breath. I follow her out of the room, as everyone else enters. I want to touch her, my hands ache wanting to touch her, to calm her, to relieve her.

But, I'm not sure that's what she wants. Scarlett is hard-headed, and stone cold when she feels even the slightest faltering in her control. She needs it, as do I. It's the reason we're constantly discovering secrets, and built-up revelations about one another. Her steel wall is a façade, but it's sturdy, sturdy enough to resist crumbling—and sturdy enough to bar me from entering.

It's what first attracted me to her—that wall, her strength. And it's what I love about her now, even if it drives me crazy. She's consistently dragged down by ordeals, by problems that would overwhelm sane people into madness, and yet, she can still shine rays of light so blinding, that there is no use but for me to follow.

Any normal woman would have left by now. Any normal woman would have realized that underneath this person I've shaped, and formed, and molded, is a purposeless man. It's why I've clung onto her so tight—she's the first thing in my life that makes me want to be anything.

Design was an idea I happened to pick, and excel at. It's never held any real weight for me. The first time I've ever felt anything worth creating was when she entered my life. This sturdy, bookish young woman who had a razor sharp tongue, and eyes that could speak, and burn right through me. It took a second glance to see what I do now. I feel ashamed I wasted that first one, shunning her over an impression.

It wasn't her appearance that won me, it was her mouth. It was the confidence, the intelligence that rolled off her tongue so easily. She saw through me, as no one had before. She saw who I'd sculpted for the world, and called me on my bullshit.

And I knew I had to have her, by any means possible. I'd consent to anything, give her any piece of me she wanted—and force her to want more.

I thought that road would be smooth. And was immediately proved wrong. The strength, and resolve that she carried wasn't something she was born with, but a shield she designed to keep the horrors she'd seen and endured, out of her life. What I loved about her from the start was the result of despair, something she was closely familiar with, and something it took so long to force her to part with.

Some days I think I've done the job. Some days I see her smile, so wide her eyes begin to tear and I'm overwhelmed with pride. However, those moments don't last long. Just when I'm sure I've healed something within her, she'll cry out in her sleep, or unaware, she'll cast me a look so inwardly daunting that my insides shrink, toughening so I'll be able to try again.

This is one of those moments.

"Scarlett," I whisper, but it sounds like a beg.

She turns from the window, and relieves my suffering when her face is digging into my chest. My shirt wets from her tears, as she gathers fistfuls into her hands, pulling on the fabric. I let her tug me closer, and surround her with an exhale.

I don't know how to fix this. I rarely ever know how to fix what's happening to us, but this is death. This is the death of her father...a father that didn't hit or abuse her. A man who would have spent the rest of his life making up for his mistakes by doting her with affection and reassurance.

Norman was a good man. As much as I disliked him months back, I knew why he felt the need to remove me from her life. I bring her more pain, more struggles—something she's had enough of. He only saw what the rest of the world saw, not what I showed her. How could I expect him to understand why I couldn't let her go? He did his job. He found a way to ensure I'd leave, using my family to get it done, and persuaded me to believe she'd be better off without me.

I should have known better than that, but I didn't and spent months walking through a narrowed path, all sides of my life a darkened haze. My work suffered, my family suffered, my body suffered, because I'd already made Scarlett my sustenance. And that made me hate him.

It made me want to show up at her door in the middle of the night, and throw sense to the wind. It made me want to betray my own father, a man I've idolized and loved all of my life. Which is why I stayed as far away from her as I could.

But, we came face to face. And we simmered, we fought, we fucked our way back. She was so angry, and clueless to any of the real reasons I'd left her. And as much pleasure I got from her choosing me over him after the months of torment apart, I knew it would be fleeting. She hadn't processed what he'd told her, what was coming.

She was so stuck in her resentment, that she made his illness a secondary thought. Her denial didn't last long. And I knew his inevitable demise would shatter her. For overall, Norman was a good man, who loved her enough to try and correct his failings.

Dixon never did. Her father never did.

So, I expected her to feel a terrible loss. I expected all of this to come crashing down, at a time where she can hardly cope with anything.

"Giovanni," she cries, shaking her head into my chest. I glance over to the doorframe, as they begin to load Norman's body, frail and nearly pale blue onto the gurney. My hands hold her tighter, hard enough that she's captured, unable to turn her face to the sight.

I don't know what to say, how to help her. When my father died, I locked myself away. For days, I sat in my room, refused to come out. To talk seemed painful. But, I know Scarlett. And I know how her brain works. She can't sit in this for long, not openly.

The moment my lips press to her hair, I hear her suck in a breath, and her fingers loosen on my shirt. My eyes close when like a flick of a switch, her cries disappear altogether, and her body begins to retreat from me.

"Scarlett..."

She won't show me her eyes. "I...need to call Monica. Now."

Without another glance to the events happening only a few feet away from her, she starts down the stairs toward the living room.

"Scar, she can wait—"

Maybe she hears me. Maybe she's blocked my voice. Either way, she's forced me out, so she can recover on her own.

...

"Sasha, I want you here. I don't see any time in the near future when I'll be going back to California," I admit, quietly, leaning against the window. Norman's home feels like a prison, a haunting place that cannot seem to brighten. Scarlett's just returned from work, having left before I'd even woken to hide herself away in her office. She's come home, and disappeared into her room, to sleep.

It's only seven.

"I've already scheduled my flight for tomorrow."

I nod, breathing in. It's been three days, and I don't think I've slept even ten hours between them.

"Gio, you should get some rest. Focus on you, on Scarlett."

"I'm losing my company, Sasha. This line is my only hope of retaining some piece of what I had. I need this line to be big. I need to make money."

"Well, it's good you've got an in with the best publicist in town."

"She's got enough on her plate."

"She'd do anything for you, Giovanni. She's the CEO of White's company. She can afford to help you. Has she not offered? Is that why you feel you can't ask?"

"Of course she's offered," I growl, crossing my ankles over one another. My eyes focus on the leather design on my loafers.

"Don't be stubborn," she says. "Not with this. She can fix this. Let her."

"I'm not that fucking useless, Sasha."

"You're the only one who thinks like that, Giovanni. This hurt your family, yes. This will be publicized to death, absolutely. Will you get past it? Of course. Giovanni, this sucks, but it's a hiccup. A hiccup that can be fixed. Not everything has to be so miserable."

I'm annoyed enough to keep quiet. With a few, trying blinks, I sigh.

"We have work to do. Call me when you land."

...

My eyes leave the white roses on the casket, to watch Scarlett escape, practically in flight across the grass toward the van. This place, these graves, this moment is enough to make my insides hollow. I cannot imagine what it's done to her. Almost immediately, I hear the priest address me, giving his condolences.

For a split second, I'm at my father's funeral, and I'm able to hear my little sister wailing in my ear. Valentina's still a young girl, but old enough to realize what's happened, who is gone. My eyes are set on the priest speaking gently to my mother a few feet away, and I can't stop seeing how fast her hands are shaking.

And then I'm back, and Scarlett is back at my side. I don't know why she's decided to return, but she's calm, and bleak, and full of odd determination I can notice from here. When my mother approaches, with my sister, reminding me of how familiar this whole set up actually is, I'm momentarily stunned. But not so stunned that I cannot notice the way my mother is staring at Scarlett, and Scarlett's stomach. She seems to be piercing the flat surface with her eyes, trying to find evidence of a child.

While they speak, I sense Scarlett's distance, my mother's discontent, and I find it hard to picture a time when they might accept one another. This is something I may have to get used to. I'm almost glad when Connor steals her away, so my mother cannot do any damage.

"She looks tired," my mother informs me. She reaches up and presses her hand to my cheek, softly. "So do you."

"It's been a rough time."

"For everyone, yes. Have they told you a time frame? I need to know how long we have to pack up everything."

She knows I can't stand to hear her speak of this. She knows my guilt. She was the only person in my life who was reluctant to tell me to go to the police, to go to Scarlett. The family name, my father...she couldn't fathom that I'd go against him, dishonor him this way. She adored my father, and even hearing this, she's somehow forced herself to believe he did it for just reasons, sound reasons—reasons to better our family.

"I will let you know when they tell me. They are still investigating."

She shakes her head. "I can't believe we've fallen this low."

"I don't need this," I tell her, calmly, although my entire body feels inflated with air. It's hard to breathe.

"I know. I'm sorry. I just hate to see you lose so much, sweetheart."

"I have a woman who loves me, a baby on the way. My life could be worse."

She nods, sighing. My eyes search fleetingly for Scarlett's blonde waves, and when I find them, she's not with Norman, but another guest. Her body is ridged, and withdrawn, and I can only imagine how badly she wants to flee. So, I lean in pecking my sister, and mother farewell, and I start toward her, with the intent to save her from any more condolences.

The man is pale, and slightly disheveled. He stands out amongst the other guests, because he's the only one not wearing a designer suit. The closer I get, the more I notice how hard his face is set, and wonder why he's speaking so seriously with Scarlett, who he was to Norman.

"I'm Giovanni, Giovanni Martinelli," I introduce myself when she doesn't. "You are?"

He says his name is Ted. That's all he gives me. I notice the look he passes to Scarlett, and I try to dismiss the cold chill I experience at the sight. They must not care for each other, which makes me want to pry more from him.

I hold out my hand, to shake his, thinking it may lessen his stiffness. "You knew Norman well?"

I don't expect Scarlett's hand to snatch mine from reaching him, nor for her to pull me toward the direction of the cars without a word.

"What the hell was that?"

She tells me she wants to go. She's clearly overwhelmed, and I don't blame her for it. However, when she runs around the car and begins to vomit, bracing the side as if she were about to give out, I begin to worry this is more than stress. She takes the bottle I hold out to her, and turns to spit out the water. I take her face between my hands, trying to feel for fever. None of this is good for the baby, and that frightens me to no end...the fact that I can't stop her from going through all of this.

She dips from my hold, refusing to answer my concerns.

"What's going on? Talk to me."

Her eyes, which refuse to stay still, keep darting through the tinted windows of the van, back toward where we came from. Her glances aren't ones done in remembrance. They are full of a barely concealed panic, which strikes me with suspicion.

And when she asks me to promise her, to promise I will get into the car no matter what, for some reason, that man's face flashes through my mind.

"Tell me what?"

She won't. She can't get the words out. She's petrified, fearful not of what's happened. She's petrified of what I'll do. And suddenly, his name registers. Ted.

Ted was the name of...

"That was him, that was my—"

It's as if I'd been struck by a brick. I don't linger on my confusion, or my questions. I don't pause to take in where we are, or what my actions will do to her. All I can think about is the fact that I almost shook that man's hand—and how he's leaving here thinking I would have.

I leave her side, shoving my legs forward, until I'm running as fast I can possibly run. I don't know where I'm going, or if he's still here. But, I will search this whole goddamn place until I know he isn't. The headstones are in my way, barriers to keep me slow. My eyes scan the area frantically, with hope, hope that I find him.

And when I catch sight of his back, as he walks down a hill towards a small, beaten down sedan, I cannot get to him faster.

My hatred, my knowledge fuels me, until I'm upon him. He hears me coming and turns, and I watch his eyes widen in shock as I close the distance between our bodies, and shove into him, throwing him down onto the grass.

All I can think of is the scar she has on her face, the scar he made. All I can think of is the nights I've held her shaking from nightmares, or screaming from them. I see the split second when her eyes open, and can pinpoint the exact moment she realizes someone's not hurting her.

There's no timing, no grace or fluidness to this beating, and he tries to fight back. He manages to escape my hold a few times, but he's running from fear, and I'm coming with anger.

Which makes me stronger.

"I'm going to kill you," I snarl, shoving his face into the dirt, watching his teeth grit into the mud. "I'm going to fucking kill you!"

"Get off of me!"

I feel wet blood on my head, and cut skin. He wriggles out of my grasp, and heaves himself onto his feet. He's trying to open the door to his front seat, when I get to him. He shoves the door toward me and jumps inside. He locks it before I can grab hold of the handle.

No, he's not getting away like this. No.

Without thinking, I slam my forearm into his window, my elbow again and again with all my force, hearing small cracks in the glass. He's fishing his keys out of his pocket, hastily starting the car. I feel so much anger at the sound of the ignition, knowing he's about to be out of my grasp, that I use my fist, and exert every ounce of my weight into the window.

I'm not sure how it doesn't break every bone in my hand. It feels like it, but the fact that I can shove my arms through the broken window and grab his clothing means I haven't. I feel power, and satisfaction at the wide look of disbelief, of momentary stupor he gives at my action.

Yes, she's worth this.

His eyes lock with mine, and I don't see the monster she sees. I see a weak man, who's realized his mistake in coming here, which is what I wanted him to discover. He's stunned, stunned enough to not press his foot upon the pedal. We're both gasping for breath, but I won't let go of him. Won't move to hurt him more either. His mouth is bleeding, his skin red and splotchy from punches and force.

His shirt is stained with the blood dripping from my fingers.

"I hope you die alone," I say, through my teeth. "I hope you die alone, and I hope you think of her when you do."

His jaw is locked, but he manages to growl, "Let go of me."

"Don't try this again," I warn him, loosening my hold on his shirt. The second he feels me retracting, his car shoots into motion, speeding through the drive. I stand, and watch him go, the dirt rising into the air behind his tires.

And then I hear her call my name.

...

The sound of my own pencil irritates me. It could be the fact that it's four in the morning, or the fact that my entire body is in pain, or the fact that Scarlett—and Norman—just forced my hand, swindling me expertly into submission.

Whether he left the money to me in guilt, or because he truly wanted to help doesn't matter. He's given the task of delivery to Scarlett, smartly, because he knows how hard it is for me to refuse her.

She's made valid points. Her help, his help would solve a great deal of problems. I'm not ridiculous. My eyes swoop over to the couch where she's sleeping, and I just stare at her. Her feathery hair, her face, her hands clenched into fists by her cheeks, her rosy lips parted in deep slumber. It's the first time she's slept four hours straight since Norman died. So, as much as I want to wake her up and beg her to make me forget all of my worries, my failings, I don't and turn back to my work.

My drawings are useless, and without a single ounce of vision.

I haven't felt it in so long. Before I knew her, before Scarlett came into my life, to work was easy. I could do it day in and day out. Well, that and fuck. I did that a lot to. I never found myself unable to draw a design, never found myself dazed into a gaze of nothing. I'd go to work, and find a party, some club where I could pick up a woman to bring her to a hotel, or to the car, or to a corner, where I'd take out my need, my pleasure and move on.

When I met Scarlett, she disrupted that routine, and she ignited my soul, a place in my mind that had been dormant. Her innocence, which quickly became awakening passion, stirred my veins, and as if possessed, I was willing to show her in any way what she'd done to me...even design her a dress I had every intention of tearing off of her.

When I saw her in it though, in the pearl-colored silk that I'd created myself, and watched every man turn and gaze at her as though she were the only woman in the room worth gawking at, I knew I had to go slow. I wanted to feel the curves the fabric accentuated. I wanted the silk to caress her skin enough to sensitize her nerves, and make her needy. I wanted to feel every tremor, hear every gasp, watch every twitch as I removed that garment from her body, knowing it had quickly become my favorite piece of work, one I intended to share with no one but her, never to replicate.

She made that dress mean something. For the first time in my life, what I did meant something. And I felt a drive to work more than I ever had. I wanted to impress her, I wanted to show her what I could be.

And here I am. A goddamn mess. There's not an inch of that man left in me. My confidence is shredded, my pride torn down to pieces. I'm just lucky she still sees something she likes, something that keeps her fighting.

I want to keep fighting. I want things to get better.

I want her to want this baby. I want her belly to grow, and I want to hold her and kiss her and show her that I'd never be able to hurt her, or our baby. That I'll be a good husband. That I'll make her believe in men again.

I want to find a way back to who we were before this chaos, before Dixon reappeared, or her father. Before Norman was dying. Even before she knew she loved me.

I want to watch her come alive, and strive to find perfection with me again.

"I want to marry you."

I'd been circling the same shape, wearing down my pencil, but my hand stops when I hear her voice. Her words sink in slowly, finding their way through my skin into my veins. I turn enough to see her, not sure if I imagined them. She's standing now, in jeans and a t-shirt, and I notice how she shakes from here. When her lips curve into a small, neurotic smile, I begin to breathe again.

She did say them.

"I don't want to wait. I don't care where we do it, how we do it, or who goes. I just want to be married to you. I-I want to be your wife. I want you to be my husband. We don't have to wait...we can make our own happiness, Giovanni."

I stare at her quizzically, unsure if she has the ability to read my mind. I'm rarely ever speechless, but this has done it. Because in all of the despair, right in the middle of this cold, eerily apartment that carries so much loss within its walls, she's asked me to marry her.

She wants to marry me, to tie herself to me forever. And after being stuck in my own head for hours, I find that hard to believe. But, there's no way in hell I'd ever let this moment pass. This isn't something she'd say lightly—this is something she needs, something she knows we both need.

I move toward her, watching her head tilt until I'm right before her eyes. Her pupils widen, her throat swallows. And I'm done for. My chest is thumping truly for the first time in hours, days, weeks.

"Your car or mine?"

At her exhale of relief, while her body deflates with the sigh, my hands take hold of her flushed cheeks, and drag her the few inches it takes to get her to my mouth.