He didn't understand; he couldn't understand. How could he just sit there and pretend that he understood how she felt. And how did she feel? At the moment, she just felt angry, and it was easier to be angry at him.

"I don't think you've ever been in love, and that makes all the difference," she said. Her voice was cold and hard. When she heard it, she was almost startled—it didn't sound at all like her voice.

He opened his mouth to speak then shut it again. His usually guarded eyes opened for a moment as his tough mask slipped, and she saw a deep emotion in them. Shutting them tightly, he turned around and walked out of the room. His gait was slow and his shoulders were hunched.

Guilt nagged at her conscience, but she pushed it down.

Oh, he'll get over it. Chance couldn't understand, she thought. Come on Ilsa, he assumed the worst of Marshall without any evidence…

Except a photograph of him with a mysterious, beautiful woman, her conscience added.

She heard the elevator ding as the doors slid closed and Chance was gone.

"Ilsa," Winston said.

She looked up startled. She hadn't known that Winston was still here.

"Winston!" she exclaimed. "Why—I mean, what are you still doing here?"

He just eyed her with anger and disappointment in his eyes. She looked down at the floor; it was obvious that he had heard at least the end of her conversation with Chance.

"I was finishing up some paperwork," he said coldly. "I'm sorry I interrupted you, Mrs. Pucci." He glared at her and turned to leave.

"Winston, wait," Ilsa called. "What's wrong? Have I offended you?"

Winston hesitated before he answered, "As a matter of fact, Mrs. Pucci, you have."

Ilsa was surprised by his bluntness.

"You don't understand do you?" he continued. He sighed. "Chance, he doesn't let people in very easily. Most of his friends would shoot him in the back, literally, if they were given the chance. When he does let someone in, he really lets them in; he really loves them."

"I understand that Winston," Ilsa said impatiently. She knew enough about Chance's past, and she didn't think it should be used as an excuse or as evidence. "I know Chance loves all of you, and I know that you are his family. I'm sorry that you had to hear the end of our conversation, but what you are saying doesn't dispute anything I've said. He has never been in love. Sure, he loves this team as family, but it's not the same thing."

"I disagree, Mrs. Pucci, but it's not my story to tell. I will tell you, however," he said, "that Chance was only trying to protect you because he cares about you; he's let you in. That's why he didn't want to tell you about the photo. He wanted to avoid the way I'm sure you are feeling right now."

"Oh? And how is that?" Ilsa asked defensively.

"Confused, hurt, betrayed, angry," Winston said. "And, most of all, he didn't want you to have to think badly of Marshall. He knew that the feeling of betrayal would hurt the most."

Ilsa looked down in shame and guilt. Looking back, she realized that her words must have hurt Chance. And all along, all he had been trying to do was protect her, just like he was always doing.

"But Ilsa," Winston continued, "do you think that a man like Chance could turn away from the life that he had always known if he didn't have the strength of at least some feeling? Do you really think him incapable of love?"

Then, Winston turned and walked out the door without giving her the chance to respond. Sitting back onto her desk, she let Winston's words sink in.

"I disagree, Mrs. Pucci, but it's not my story to tell."

"Do you think a man like Chance would turn away from the life that he had always known if he didn't have the strength of at least some feeling? Do you really think him incapable of love?"

Did she think him incapable of love? She thought about it for a moment, and she realized that she didn't. She knew that Christopher Chance was capable of love—she saw it every day in the way he interacted with the team.

Sighing, she stood up and looked out the window. There he was, seeing their most recent clients off. She couldn't make out what he was saying, but she could read the gratitude on Bob's face.

It hit her then, Winston's words made sense. Chance had fallen in love, and that was what had given him the strength to leave his old life behind forever.

She watched him turn away from the boat that was taking the happy couple to safety. He walked slower than usual, and he looked more worn than she had ever seen him. It wasn't the lack of sleep that had worn him thin, it was her words. She knew, watching him, that she had voiced what he had been telling himself his whole life.

He thought he couldn't love; he thought all he could be was a killer. She had said that. She didn't believe a word of it, but she'd still said it.

And she realized that there was a story that, like most of his past, she didn't fully know or understand. Something had happened, he'd fallen in love most likely, and he had never told her. Not that she really had a right to know. Despite the fact that she claimed they were friends, that he was always there for her, she had yet to be a very good friend to him.

Finally, she saw Chance disappear into the building. He would be upstairs in a few minutes, expecting it to be empty, expecting her to be at home. And she should be at home. But she wasn't. It was time for her to finally repay all the favors that she owed him. It was time for her to be his friend.