The manager of the building hands Giovanni his phone, with no real clue to what's just happened. Dixon's just pulling away from the curb, and Giovanni, still firmly in protective mode, doesn't even want me to watch him go, urging me toward the elevators. "Will do, sir."

We step into the small elevator, and sit in our silence.

I hear my own fits, my chest crashing up and down in a panic. I wait for the blindness to come, for all of this to come to hilt, but my eyesight doesn't waver, frozen on the silver walls as we climb the stories with only my gasps and cheerful orchestral music as a background.

All of his work. His reputation. His family. Maria, her home.

As much as I want to leap in his arms, and douse him with my relief and gratitude, my subconscious won't let that happen, too consumed in what he's done. What he's done—because of me. What he's done against my wishes, and behind my back.

And I'm sure he knows what he's done, and what's coming. If his stance, which is still ridged and predatory, and his silence have anything to say about it, he's armed and ready for my explosion.

I go through a checklist in my mind of all that he's given up, what informing on his father's laundering will do to him. Every time I think I've come up with all of them, another appears and I'm in disbelief again.

How could he not even tell me? He sent those flowers. He knew what he was doing then.

My hands twist, my fingers gnarling as I revel in this situation. We're passing the fifteenth floor when he slams his hand onto the button to stop the elevator car in its ascent. We both falter at the abruptness. My eyes rise from the wall when he plants himself in front of me.

We both begin to argue at the same time, my anger, his defiance bubbling over our ability to think straight.

"I cannot believe you did this without telling me—"

"You were never going to let me do it, Scarlett, come on—"

"Damn right, I wouldn't have! What were you thinking—"

"He was holding you by the fucking throat! What do you think I was thinking—"

"This is my fault. This is my fault for fucking calling you. This is why I keep things from you! Because you react impulsively and hurt yourself—"

"This was my decision! Not yours—"

"BUT IT WASN'T, GIOVANNI!"

"Um...is everything alright?"

We're nose to nose, when the car is filled by another voice. We both tear our eyes away from each other, realizing it's the manager in the speakers.

Oh right, we're not moving.

The moment Giovanni turns, my whole body deflates. He exhales heavily. "Fine, sir. Thank you."

He presses on the button again, and the car begins to rise.

It's while he's turned that I'm able to look at him without him knowing it, and appreciate that he's in this elevator with me. Appreciate what he just did out there. Because it was heroic. It was powerful and declaring—I've always known Giovanni to be a different breed of man, but this is something else entirely.

I'm so angry. I'm shaking angry. But, it's not even really at him.

It's at myself. It's at the self-programmed doubt I've created over the years. It's the voice in my head that tells me he's just made the largest mistake of his life, that very loud voice that tells me he'll regret this choice, he'll regret staking his faith in someone like me.

It's something I can't control, something I've never been able to control, as hard as I've tried to force myself to think otherwise.

I shouldn't have worried him. I should have kept the baby a secret. I should have handled my shit better. If I had, he'd still be the dark and his life would still be intact.

The doors open, and his back is still to me. We both exit into the hallway, Norman's door in sight. The two bodyguards stand when we appear. I stop on the creamy carpet. "Will you please give us a moment?" I ask them, shortly and Giovanni slows to a stop. I don't want to do this in front of Norman.

Wordlessly, they enter the apartment, giving us the hall. My arms lace in front of my chest.

"So, what happens now?"

He's by the front door, when he turns. He breathes in, crossing his arms.

"They will determine how much exactly was stolen, how much of that is the government's money, and we'll go from there."

"Will they seize your assets?"

"I'm not entirely sure what they're going to do. I'm the informant, and have chosen to cooperate, which is the only reason why they allowed me to fly here." He breathes in. "But, most likely. My company was founded on his money. Most of our properties were bought under his name."

My stomach is flipping, and Giovanni's aunt's oasis in Italy comes to mind. "Maria's?"

He nods, slowly and I cover my face.

"She knows, Scarlett. My entire family does."

"And?"

"And they knew I had to do this. This isn't my fight. A secret like this wasn't going to remain hidden forever, and I'll be damned if I go the rest of my life trying to hide and fix my father's mistakes."

"No, you'll just pay for them, though. You all will." My hands uncover my eyes and burrow into my hair, pushing it from my face. I sigh, and it does nothing to relieve the tightening inside my chest. Think, Scarlett. Think rationally. "Okay, well, I have money saved. Norman's giving me an inheritance, too. I don't know if it's enough, but we might be able to—"

"I'm not taking your money."

My glare sharpens like razors and grows progressively more heated the longer he stares at me without taking back the words.

"You don't get to decide that."

"Yes, I do."

I'm so ridged it hurts. "So, what? You just lose everything and I sit by and watch it?"

"I'm not losing everything."

"But you're losing a DAMN LOT!" I shout, my voice as unstable as my mind. "I won't let you do this! You made this fucking decision without me, and I'll be damned if you don't let me help you!"

"You can yell and shout all you want, Scarlett. It won't change anything. This is happening. And I will figure out what to do on my own."

"On your own?"

"Yes!"

"And that's going to be our marriage? That's partners? I can rely on you, but you can't rely on me?"

He turns, shaking his head and grabs onto the door handle, pushing it open. Obviously, this conversation is over for him. I stand in the entranceway, and my eyes find Norman, who's sitting on the couch with a newspaper in his hands, attached to an IV drip. His eyes have darkened now, his face deathly pale, but he manages a wide smirk when Giovanni storms inside ahead of me.

"I told you you'd be in for hell," Norman hums to Giovanni, looking back down at his paper. Giovanni scoffs, and walks to the decanter of dark liquid. I don't want to step inside. I don't want to be here. I've waited and yearned for this moment for so long, when I can look upon Giovanni without secrecy, but right now, still reeling from the altercation outside, Dixon's words, and the argument in the elevator, the last place I want to be is here.

I'm going out.

I turn on my heel, shutting the door behind me. I'm by the elevator when Giovanni's voice sounds from the doorway.

"Where are you going?"

"Somewhere."

"Not on your own you're not."

"You make your own decisions, Gio. I'll make mine," I growl, knowing full well I should turn the hell around and finish this with him.

"Scarlett..."

I pivot, so I can meet his gaze. He's holding his drink by his thigh, but hasn't left the doorway.

He's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

Just the thought of his beauty crushes my heart daily, and he doesn't even know it. But right now, he's also withdrawn, reeling from his own thoughts, his own fears, his own actions.

Neither of us can find a calm place. Space and reflection is the only option.

He's just made the biggest decision of his life.

And because I love him, and because I know how difficult this decision must have been to make, I want to help him. His refusal of my help is unfathomable, because I know if the situation were reversed, he'd force me to listen to him. He'd force me to take the money.

This day has taken a turn, in the best and worst possible way. And it's utterly hard to swallow.

"You know you are my hero, Giovanni," I whisper into our silence, needing to say it, needing him to hear it. His eyes, which have been hard as stone, falter considerably at those words. "There's no denying how...how good you are, or how much I love you for that goodness."

The doors slide open with a ding, and when I begin to move, he utters my name with quickness and I stop.

I hear him speak low, and checking on him, I find him talking to someone inside the apartment. He moves to the side as I hold the elevator, and one of the bodyguards exits the apartment, on his way to me. I scowl at Giovanni, and he regards me, without affect.

"You go with him, or not at all."

Who does he think he is?

The authoritative bite in his threat makes whatever blood that had cooled in my veins, boil.

We're in all-out pissing contests. My whispered words of love have done nothing to rid us of our stubbornness. Knowing I shouldn't, I step into the elevator, waiting for the guard to enter as well before, I look up and murmur sweetly, "Don't wait up."

The doors close.

...

The sharp heel of my shoes wedges between the rod on the bar stool as the bartender sets down a drink in front of me. I sit up off my elbows, and take it with a weak smile.

"You sure I can't get you something stronger?"

I look down at the sweet tea, and shake my head. "No. Thanks."

He begins to wipe down the bar, which has emptied considerably in the late hour. I'm appreciating the dark atmosphere, the low hum of chatter from the people seated waiting for the singer to come out onto stage. My watcher is at one of those tables, giving me enough privacy to be satisfied, but hovering just close enough to be able to make it to me within seconds.

I've worked with celebrities before, represented them and for that, I know what it's like to be surrounded by security. I always wondered how they handled being watched every day, every second. Now, I know and it really sucks. Every time he looks down at his phone I think he's texting Norman what I'm doing, what I'm ordering, what I'm saying to the bartender.

"You okay?"

I look up from the counter, and the bartender is cleaning a glass in front of me, a small smirk of amusement, mixed with a hint of concern.

"Yeah, I will be," I say, an obligatory normal answer.

"Bartenders are great therapists," he says, grinning slowly.

"Life's just crazy. It's really just fucking crazy," I mutter aloud, dragging a hand through my hair. My eyes move throughout the room, at the couples, and groups of friends having fun on a night off. Which makes me think about the fact that Giovanni's here in the city, at home, and I'm out, away from him.

What is wrong with me? Why am I so angry? Why can't I just let him sacrifice what he wants to for me?

"That it is," he responds to me, catching my attention again. "What do you do? Work-related trouble?"

I shake my head. "I own a PR firm."

"Damn, big leagues. Is it successful?"

"We just franchised."

"Again, damn."

I chuckle, exhausted in every way.

"I just separated from my wife," he confesses, nonchalantly. "The marriage has been dead for some time, but turns out she wants full custody of my daughter."

Instead of becoming awkward at his candidness, I relish the fact of diving into someone else's brain for a bit.

"You want partial?"

"Yes, that's what I thought was going to happen. But, she didn't want the divorce, so she wants to punish me in other ways."

"That's harsh. Do you have a girlfriend she doesn't like or something? What grounds does she have to deny you from seeing her?"

"A fucked-up childhood, that spurred bad decisions." He shrugs, trying to conceal how difficult that is to even say, and it's like looking in the mirror. I nod, slowly, and remove the paper covering the top of the straw.

"Fight it," I say.

"It's a lot of money. The lawyers..."

"Find the money. Do whatever you have to. Even if you lose, your daughter will know you fought for her. That will mean something, someday."

He nods eventually, still drying the glass that is definitely dry.

"You're right. I probably should have just stayed in the marriage. I don't know how to do any of this, you know? My parents were really messed up and I think I just carried on their commitment problems into my own life. Maybe she's better with her mother."

He sets down the glass, bracing himself against the counter. I nearly smile, because he offered me advice, and yet, he's the one who seems to needs it most. I don't even know this guy's name.

"I'm probably not the person to give advice to anyone. I don't even take my own." I wipe the condensation from my glass onto my skirt, inhaling deeply. "Especially regarding the subject of bad parents."

"Aw, I thought you were going to be my savior," he says, chuckling. When he grows red, and I realize he's letting me know he's interested, I decide altogether to avoid his comment. At my silence, he continues. "Do you have kids?"

I shake my head, having perfected the lie. "No."

"Right, you can't be more than twenty-five. Twenty-five and a CEO. Babies would be hard."

"I'm almost thirty."

"No way."

"Yep."

"So you're older, but far better looking than I am," is all he says in reply, which is enough to make me shut down, staring hard into my drink as he takes orders from people who just took seats down the row. I'm noticeably uncomfortable as he nears again, sure he's harmless, but knowing if he continues, I'll be forced to have this drink with the security a few feet away.

"So, why are you here? Drinking tea of all things? Recovering alcoholic?"

I laugh at the irony. "No, not at all. I'm just getting out for a bit."

"Trouble with the boyfriend?" He smirks when I don't answer. "I'm assuming because you don't have a ring on your finger, so you're probably not married."

"I'm dating someone, yes. And yes, I'm here because of trouble. Not necessarily his fault, though. More my own."

I catch him hide disappointment, which makes my face heat. I've always been a grumpy, odd girl, with poor taste in clothes, with legs that are slightly too long. At the start with Giovanni, I went out and cut off my hair, bought a sleek new wardrobe full of lace and stilettos and lingerie, in an effort to feel beautiful. And it worked. People began to notice, despite the fact that my eyes would and could never leave Giovanni.

To go from an intimidating, successful woman that men avoided, to the girlfriend of a strikingly handsome fashion designer with expensive clothes and a new world of fame, is hard to come to terms with. I still feel like that girl. I still feel wonder at how Giovanni chose me, how he wants me, which only shows my own faults, the cracked layers deep in my marrow that doubt everything about myself.

Giovanni sees my beauty, even when I can't anymore.

"He's gotta be crazy."

I sit up, awkwardly. "Why? What do you mean?"

"Well, you're here. He's somewhere else. It's a given."

"I'm difficult to deal with," I say, with the utmost confidence.

"Probably worth all the trouble, though."

"He just did something really, really amazing for me, to help me and I am sitting here, angry as hell at him instead of worshipping him at his feet. How is that worth the trouble?"

"Okay, but do you have cause to be upset?"

"I think so. What he did affects more people than just himself. And he did it for my sake...I didn't ask him to. In fact, I told him not to."

"So, your anger is actually guilt then."

An overwhelming amount of guilt. This guy gets it.

He breathes in, making the peoples drinks with a memorized fluidity.

"It'll be okay."

"Why do you say that?"

He smiles. "Because he's willing to sacrifice for you, and you're willing to fight him on it. That's a natural reaction. No one wants that kind of pressure. He made the sacrifice, and he did it in your name, your honor, whatever you want to call it. Who wants that?"

"I wish he could get that."

"He will. A woman like you...he's not going to let you go."

I sigh, grabbing a fistful of my hair. It's messy and knotted from my pulling. I can still feel Dixon's grip on my neck, where he sank his fingers into the nerves to hold me in place, and am sick by the thought that if Giovanni hadn't showed up, I have no clue what would have happened.

I can still see the gaze of hatred he gave us as he got into his cruiser, the nodding he did to intimidate us, make us fear him. Giovanni showed no such fear, but I feel it for the both of us. Giovanni didn't know what he was demanding of me when he showed up.

"Thank you," I finally say, realizing I haven't answered him. I'm glad when a few people sit down at the bar, and he becomes occupied with them, wanting to sip on my drink and listen to the man crooning smooth jazz with a saxophone player accompanied.

I'm so tired. Tired of talking, tired of fighting—for everything.

My whole life is a fight. I go to work, I fight. I come home and fight through cancer with Norman. I let my guard down for one moment, and I'm fighting against Dixon. And now Giovanni.

His mother already hated me. I can only imagine how much that's worsened now. Maria, that home she loved so much, her livelihood...how is she going to make it now?

And Giovanni. If he doesn't take my money, how is he going to work? He has employees, lines of clothing to make, shows and events. His studios won't be able to sustain without funds. Even if he makes another collection and excels, he has to fund the making of that line.

He needs my money. I'll give it to him. I'll give him, and all of his family my money. All the inheritance, so this doesn't ruin his career, so their lives are as unaffected by this as possible.

He just needs to take it.

I glance up, my eyes catching sight of the television mounted near the shiny ceiling.

THE CORRUPT LATE MULTI-MILLIONAIRE FATHER OF DESIGNER GIOVANNI MARTINELLI—WHAT THIS MEANS AND HOW MUCH HE STOLE TO CREATE AN EMPIRE—FIND OUT AT MIDNIGHT

Fuck.

I swallow the lump in my throat, pushing away the glass.

"There better not have been alcohol in that drink."

I exhale the breath I began to hold the minute I heard his voice, but don't turn around, irritated by his tone. Giovanni rests his jacket on the back of the seat beside mine, and lowers onto the bench.

"You seem to think I'm dead set on killing this baby, Giovanni," I mutter quietly, pissed he'd think I'd even take a sip of alcohol with a kid inside of me.

"You're still mad."

"Obviously, so are you. So, why are you here?"

"Because it's midnight, and you're not home. Is this normal, you disappearing into the night until the wee hours of the morning?"

"Yeah, Gio. Today is just like every other day." I turn toward him on the bench, and rest my elbows against the back of the bench and the bar. "Everything I've told you so far has been one big fat lie. I don't take care of Norman. Instead of work, I come here and I drink my brains out."

He chuckles, frustrated. "Goddamn, Scarlett. You irritate me."

"Why do you put up with it?"

"Because I like it too." He turns in his seat as well, and plants each leg on either side of mine. He doesn't touch me though. "It means you have a conscious. It means you give a shit about me."

"Can I get you something to drink?"

Once again interrupted in a prime moment of an argument for the second time today, we both slowly look from one another to look at the bartender. The guy is smirking, knowing that I'm fighting, and that this is the elusive boyfriend that has me tucked protectively between his legs, but his eyes round into circles as he catches onto who my boyfriend is.

I nearly laugh. He sputters, and his eyes flicker to mine in disbelief. And within seconds, I can tell he knows who I am as well. He chuckles, and asks the question again.

"Same as her," Giovanni mutters.

"Long Island Iced Tea?"

Giovanni eyes widen and the guy begins to laugh, with me. "Kidding. Sweet tea coming up."

Giovanni looks at me, scowling.

"He knows quite a bit about our fight."

"Ah, indulging the bartender were you?"

"Sure."

"At least he knows you're taken."

"Had to fight off his advances somehow," I reply, smirking wider when his features harden, his teeth gritting together. The smile he answers me with is full of annoyance, and frustration—and adoration.

"You probably just made it known I'm pregnant though with that look."

He shakes his head, sighing. "Our lives are public knowledge anyway. That might as well happen too."

The bartender shows up, and deposits his drink, but Giovanni doesn't reach for it.

"I bet this isn't what you were expecting when you got here today," I say to him, to get rid of the silence.

"This is exactly what I expected. I knew you'd be pissed." He scoffs, rolling his eyes. "You'd rather be abused by a fucking lunatic than ask for help from me. There's truly something wrong with you."

"Yes, there is."

He looks at me, as if he were hoping for me to get upset by that and snap back at him, and that I've failed him with my answer to make him look bad.

"Put yourself in my shoes, Giovanni. If the roles were reversed, would you let me give up everything for you? I know for a fact you wouldn't because you were prepared to leave me once before for that exact reason. You'd force me to take your money. You'd force me to let you fix it."

"Scarlett."

"Why is it different now? You made the decision. You did the hard work. Now, let me fix it. Is it because I'm a woman and you're a man that you have trouble accepting it?"

"I could say no, but that would be a lie. I've been raised a certain way, Scarlett."

"I'm going to be your wife. I'm going to be the mother of your child." His eyes widen at the heaviness that accompanies those words, and I take his hand on his lap, squeezing. "In my eyes, that means that everything I have will be ours, not just mine. I didn't even want the inheritance. I told Norman I didn't want it and he insisted. Just take it."

"No."

"Goddammit, Giovanni!" I growl, trying to turn toward the bar, but his legs are strong enough to pull my knees back toward him. "You're being ridiculous—"

His hand grips my chin with strong fingers, and his lips cut off my words, landing on my mouth with hard determination. When he feels my mouth give way to his probing tongue, slackening with not an ounce of resistance, he releases his grip on my chin and his hand curls around my face, and around the nape of my neck, having succeeded in his statement of power. It's a sore area, but I'm too worked up to stop. My hands work their way up from his smooth shirt, and up into his hair, clutching the ends of the curls tightly.

"I'm so mad at you," I whisper against his lips. He nods, gasping against my skin.

"I know."

The bar is staring at us. Bartender guy has realized there's no way in hell he's got any chance. I feel the eyes; catch the cell phones pointed our way out of the corner of my eye.

I'm not surprised. Giovanni reconnecting and tonguing his girlfriend in a bar is news. Considering that he's already made news, this is just more gossip to run. Maybe it will lessen the rest of it.

I should pull back, but I don't. I clasp my hands behind his neck, holding them there. He nuzzles his nose against mine, wrapping his arm around my back.

"You know why I had to do it," he admits, low enough only I can hear it.

I nod, my forehead pressed to his and he leans in, kissing my cheek with a sweet gentleness.

"You know why I had to hate it," I whisper back, and he nods too, holding me tighter.

My chair begins to buzz, and I sigh against him, closing my eyes. We detangle enough for me to reach onto the corner of the chair, where my purse rests. I answer Norman's call.

"We're on our way. Don't worry."

My smile fades when the voice that answers me is his nurse.

"Scarlett...it's Deborah..."