I originally started this story four years ago, after reading a marvelous little work of fiction. This is currently my third revision of chapter one. The first time I wrote it, I only got to chapter two - in which, the characters were so horribly off balanced, that I called the whole thing off.

The second time, the characters were still quite a bit off, but with the help and guidance from a few of my reviewers, I was able to make a more appropriate representation in the later chapters.

This is the third time. And more than likely the last. I don't think I care to rewrite this stuff a fourth time. So, I sincerely hope it's acceptable to those out there. If you read this chapter, and move on to the next, and notice a huge difference in writing styles - please, tell me which one you prefer. I don't have the other chapters revised yet. Although, throughout this week, I'll be making changes here and there. Any words of advice will be greatly appreciated.

Things weren't supposed to be like this; Rinoa Heartilly was quite sure of it. She shouldn't have had to feel as though she were a high-status criminal when slipping into work this morning. And she shouldn't have had the inclination to jump at the slightest brush and touch of a passing stranger. But perhaps more importantly, she shouldn't have been the one responsible for it in the first place.

The brunette wasted no time in mingling. Making a bee-line straight from the glass paneled entry-way to the mahogany toned work spot, she slipped into her desk and immersed herself with a stack of received faxes. Or rather, she at least made the attempt to do so; it wouldn't have made any difference if she'd been staring at blank copy-paper. She couldn't focus. It just wasn't there.

All she could think about was it.

"Rin?"

Blinking once, then twice, Rinoa tilted her chin upward toward the inquiring voice. A third blink was used to return the greeting, as if awaiting for the inquirer to finish the question.

"Wa'tcha all hunched over your desk for, like that? Y'look like you need. . . I dunno. Coffee. Y'can have a sip of mine," the other finished brightly, sliding a ceramic mug across the top counter space. "Although it's already gone a bit cold now. . ."

"Selphie, I don't think. . . I don't think I can drink that right now," came the rather melodramatic reply. Idly picking up a half-sharpened pencil that'd rolled off to keyboard's side, the distressed brunette pinched it by the middle and began drumming the eraser down with a reoccurring, 'tap', sound. "I think that'd just make my stomach churn even more."

"Huh?" Before, the co-worker had just been mildly curious about her compatriot's ailment. But with a pick-up of interest for the occurring situation, she leaned in against her elbows, peering over and down with slanted green eyes. "You ain't feeling sick, are you? You should take that home, if that's what it is, 'cause-"

Rinoa quickly cut her friend of, flicking a wrist dismissively in a 'go-away-you're-bothering-me' type motion."-You didn't happen to get the paper this morning, did you?"

"Uhhhm. . . 'Nah. I went online for the horoscope this time. Why? Did'ja get upset 'cause of some type of editorial?" Perhaps realizing she wasn't going to get a full confession anytime soon, Selphie made a disappointed pout - withdrawing from the desk space and straightening her posture. As if on cue, the phone began ringing, and with a playful mock-salute, she chirps out, "Well, I'll let yeh' get on with work then. Don't try to drown yourself in the toilet in the meantime; hold out until your lunch break, and come tell me all about it!"

While the tease was only meant in good humor, it didn't stop the flickering scowl that illuminated and faded across Rinoa's facial features. It wasn't a joking matter; not in her mind. And at this point, it didn't even feel like one of those things that she'd be able to laugh at later, either. This was truly a major life-crisis, and it very well could affect her for the rest of her working career. What her friend had apparently missed out on, by not coughing up a quarter or two for the weekly news, was the distressed brunette's very own engagement announcement. To the owner of the very corporation she worked for, no less.

But here was the real kicker: he didn't know about it yet.

Which perhaps explained just exactly why her hand hesitated over the phone receiver, refusing to pick it up until the very last second, threatening to transfer the call to an automated message. With a quivering lower lip, she pressed the phone to her ear, before feebly giving the standard greeting, "Thank you for calling Ba-"

An unmistakably masculine voice interjected over her introduction in curt, crisp tones, "I want Miss Rinoa Heartilly on the line."

She couldn't bring herself to say it. The poor girl already knew who it was, even through a mechanical device. So instead of saying, 'This is she,' she managed what she could, with a shaky, "I-. . I-I. . . !"

"Report to my office immediately. Another is already on her way to cover your shift."

-Click-!

It'd all started two weeks ago. Really, it was just a snippet of a conversation. During one of the rare occurrences that Squall Leonhart, a leader in his own industry, managed to find himself out of the office and in one of the private break rooms, she'd just so happened to be passing by. The door was slightly cracked, and while it was technically eaves dropping, the brunette had no problems with rationalizing it as an educational experience. Everyone should know a little about their employer, right?

Of course, she exercised a certain amount of dignity. Instead of desperately stealing what glances she could through the slivered crack, she flattened the side of her head to the wall in order to listen in. . .

". . . -be a bachelor forever. I wouldn't want-. . ."

Pause.

"Hn."

"You know, you can't just- . . .-What do you think. . .? . . . -just absolutely GORGEOUS. . ."

Somewhere, a chair scuffed across the ground - as if one of them had chosen to stand up. "Whatever. What difference does it make? "

"What do you mean, 'What difference does it make' ? C'mon, man . . ."

"If . . . -desire for one. . . -just bed companions."

"Ha! If one of them could hear you now. . . Actually, speaking of that."

At that point, every nerve ending along Rinoa's spine tingled with sheer panic. Especially after a man, the one her employer had been talking to, decided to take a step into the hall-way. The door creaked open just a bit further, and there he was. A blonde-headed business suit, who still seemed to carry a casual air about him - despite the fact he was wearing at least five-hundred dollars worth of style. Quirking an eyebrow in the brunette's direction, he slapped a hand to the wooden door frame, and glanced back over his shoulder into the room - presumably at Squall. "I think you got a spy," he teased out mischievously, opening the door further to give the other a good look.

"Bring her in," came the curt reply. And it might've been Rinoa's imagination, but it didn't sound very pleased.

Well, what could she say? With a stiff nod, she forced her feet to move, and didn't stop until she was standing face-to-face with her employer. The blond, closing the door behind them, sauntered off toward the other side of the room, and found a place along the wall to lean against, with a rather bemused smirk playing across his cheeks. "Ah! Y-yes. . . Um! Good afternoon, Sir," she murmured awkwardly, pressing folded hands deep against her lap.

"Name?" Not offering even a smile, Squall clasped his hands behind his back, with his weight split evenly between feet, which he held shoulder-length apart.

Shoulders slumping, the girl at least attempted a feeble smile. "Rinoa Heartilly, Sir."

Still looking none-too-amused, Squall gave a slight nod of acknowledgement before continuing in sinuous tones, "And your position in the company, Miss Heartilly?"

"I'm the receptionist. I was on my lunch break, Sir." Pausing, she held up both hands in front of her, spreading them apart, with palms facing him. " I. . .I didn't mean to intrude."

Redirecting his gaze toward the hanging clock along the north wall, her employer responded rather dully, "Then I suggest you get back to your desk."

No arguments on her side! With a short nod of her own, the receptionist was already back-pedaling to the door. It only took a few more seconds for her to dismiss herself entirely, and to round the corner into the hallway. There, she paused to catch her breath - and consequently, heard the following snippet:

"That's why," Squall's voice stated quite bluntly, and presumably to his companion.

"Why, what?"

"Marriage . . . -mouse. . . .-would never catch me in matrimony."

The blond's response was a mere, hearty laugh, centering deep from somewhere within his stomach; however, Rinoa's response was quite the opposite. Even without hearing the full conversation, she'd heard enough to make her own assumptions - and it never occurred to her that she might've been wrong. It was such an exhilarating feeling, knowing that she was serving justice. That everyone in the world would, at least for a day or two, know that Squall Leonhart was a man that could be caught in matrimony. That he was, so very much, human, and able to fall to the charms of the fair sex.

And now . . .

Here she stood, ready to pay for it. In front of his office, and assuredly just a few feet away from a permanent dismissal for any job she could ever hope to obtain in her life span. . . . She couldn't do it. She couldn't bring herself to knock on the door; couldn't bring herself to even announce herself verbally. It was her employer's own personal secretary that finally noticed her, and much to Rinoa's horror, took immediate initiative to announce, with a page to his office, "Mister Leonhart, there's a young woman here to-"

"Send her in."

"Right away, Sir." And then, to the side, the secretary leaned over, ready to offer a few words of wisdom: "He's in a rather foul mood; it'd be best if you kept everything brief and to the point. Go right ahead."

Rinoa made a pitiful attempt to smile in 'thanks'. It was most apparent that her employer's underling hadn't fetched the morning news either. It was amazing how many people seemed to not notice; she'd seen it just as clearly as if someone had gone and painted the streets in bright, red paint. It was there, after all, in bold print all across the first page. Tossing herself into her own grave, she reached forward and pressed her palm against the door knob. Just one twist, and she was inside; inside of one of the most elaborate office schemes one might imagine for a simple corporate business. Several bookshelves and display cases aligned the walls. A tasteful blend of decorative ornaments and modern paintings accompanied them. Rich collars, mahogany finishes, and a rather plush expanse of carpet that contrasted vividly with the gray tiled flooring leading in.

And there Squall Leonhart sat. With both hands pressed to his desk, and with a rather sinister downward slant to his eyebrows. It wasn't exactly a look of contempt, and yet, it was impossible not to feel the malicious intent that seemed to permeate throughout the entire office. He didn't offer her to take a seat, nor did he indicate that she would be welcomed to do so. On his desk was a single, vanilla file folder. The receptionist had no doubt in her mind that it held all the personal documents his staff may have possessed on her. When she refused to take a step further, or offer any type of vocal greeting, he wasted no time in staring off with, "My fiance."

Powder couldn't conceal the raging blush that threatened to overtake her facial features by this point. Giving the inside of her cheek a quick gnaw, she dared to take a step forward, intent on minimizing whatever punishment she would be receiving, "Sir, I could explain. . ."

Making a softened, yet clearly uninviting vocalization of, 'Hn', Squall leaned backward against his seat - allowing her an attempt to do so.

". . . But you might not like it," the receptionist warned. "I-. . . I really don't know why I did it myself, it was really more of an impulse, and I-"

Deciding to cut her off here, Squall raised a hand up, signaling for her silence before interrupting with a curt, "I don't like being an engaged to a woman I've never met before-"

"-Sir . . .!"

Rising his tone up even further, interjecting sharply over whatever objection she seemed intent on making, "Furthermore, I didn't enjoy hearing about said-engagement over the phone, when I received congratulations from a colleague. Now tell me, what explanation is it, that you have," drawing his gaze off of her for a moment, and onto the folder on his desk, he began shifting through the files it contained, "that can account for this." Finally finding what he was looking for, he withdrew a single sheet of paper, scanning over its entire body before finally focusing in on the middle section with a pointed index. "No mental illnesses to speak of, an impressive grade point average," Peering over the edge of the paper with a narrow silvered gaze, he paused just a moment before adding, "It goes beyond my fathoming."

Perhaps it was the singular fact that he wasn't yelling, that made Rinoa mentally cringe with every single softly spoken word that rolled off of his tongue. And it wasn't even what he was saying - he could've been speaking in a different language, and she would've still understood every single syllable that escaped from his lips: 'Who are you, why are you here, and who do you think you are?'

And yet . . .

That same exact feeling that'd raged within her two weeks ago, centering from the core of her being, began steadily building up. Naïve she might've been, but as a receptionist (and the taker of many customer service calls!), Rinoa knew when she was being bullied, and had more than enough experience with the little nagging sensation known as intimidation. It was a business tactic, and even if her employer didn't vocally threaten her, it was the implication in his tone that finally inspired her to straighten her shoulders, and manage out, "I understand that you have every reason to be angry with me, Sir. And I fully understand that, if you truly wished, there could be some type of legal-"

"I'm already well aware of what I'm capable of; if you-"

Asserting herself, Rinoa raised her voice, just as he had earlier, to a shrill pitch. "Don't speak over me! Let me finish!" Pausing only for a second regain to her composure, the brunette finally closed the distance between herself and his desk. Taking the liberty to lean forward, she slapped both palms down onto the polished surface - causing a slight, irritable twitch in his eyebrow - before pouring out; confessing all, "You have met me before, Sir. Two weeks ago. And that's why I did it! Because of what you said. Because of what you said about. . . About. . .!"

One brow raised above the over, and with an incredulous parting of the lips, he questioned softly, "And that prompted you. Something that I said."

"I. . . I wanted you to eat your words! And you called me a mouse!" "Indeed," her employer murmured silkily, casting one final glance toward the information in his hands before filing them back inside the folder's contents. "And for that you've landed us in this mess." Folding his hands on top of it, Squall leaned forward against his elbows, invading against his receptionist's personal space should she so choose to remain hovered over his desk. Not offering another verbal prompting, he merely stared at her, locking eyes with her onyx gaze. One eyebrow remained perched above the other - a sort of, 'Well, what do you propose?' type expression.

Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, Rinoa stood her ground - even if she did feel compelled to look down, toward his hands, rather than face up to his steely gaze. "I . . . I could retract it! Say it was all a mistake. I-if . . . If I did that, wouldn't we-"

Even if his lips didn't flinch one bit from the tightly drawn line they formed, the receptionist had a distinct impression he was smirking at her, especially when quickly interjected with his own trump, "That won't be possible. In my half dazed state to the revelation that I was betrothed," he gave a tilt of his head toward her direction indicatively, "I accepted my colleague's congratulations; we're expected to attend a little celebration party-"

"You didn't accept!" Both eyes widened in horror, and shock, perhaps to Squall's delight, the brunette flinched upward, withdrawing from his desk space.

"They wanted," he continued in a drawing voice, as if he'd been relaying the final score of an athletic match, "to get a look at my new fiance."

"Couldn't you have. . . Couldn't you have told them . . . I-it . . . It was a mistake! That you wanted time alone with me to celebrate! Anything! Why did you. . . !" Cutting herself off short, Rinoa clasped a hand against her mouth with a tight hold.

Finishing in a dull tone, her employer held both hands out, palms upward, in a, 'What could I do?' type of gesture. "We don't all have your devious mind." And then a pause. With a tinge of irony, he quickly concluded, "Miss Heartilly, I'm in business. After careful consideration, of both your files, and of the situation, and of the timing, I've decided the engagement is to stand. You've effectively forced me to 'eat your words', as you put." And, perhaps with just the slightest bit of humor slipping through - even if only a dark and bitter type, "We'll see how well you eat yours; to the bitter end."

Hopefully better, my friends, hopefully better! Remember, R&R if you'd like to see the rest of these chapters revised, all the way up until 6.