This is a redo of the original first chapter.

Enjoy.

"Rose," Caldeon Hockley said coldly. "You are to choose one of the men standing in front of you to be your body guard. No questions asked."

Rose Hockley turned her head away from her controlling husband and directed her hateful glare at the floor.

Bastard, she thought with malice.

She couldn't bring herself to meet the eyes of any of the poor, bedraggled men standing before her in a silent line, their downcast eyes sunken in craggy faces, their wide bodies frail with malnourishment and hunger.

"I refuse," the quiet words escaped from between her full lips, and she was torn. Amusement at the befuddled look on Cal's face that his little mistress had voiced her opinion, or dismay that her refusal would anger him?

"Darling, this isn't a matter of whim. But maybe I heard you wrong." Cal turned to stare at her with a bemused expression, like one would stare at a cat trying to bark, or a walrus trying to fly. An underlying threat laced his second sentence.

"Did I mutter?" she raised her voice to a yell. "I said I refuse!" and she turned on her heel to exit the room. She could feel the eyes of every single man in the room on her, and it made her skin itch under the tight lacings of her corset.

A steely grip descended on Rose's shoulders, and she tensed for impact. She was pushed roughly against the wall, and vaguely she wondered if any of the men would come to her rescue.

You've always stood alone, and you always will, the thought whispered through her mind. Nobody is coming to your rescue.

Her head was jerked to the side and her cheek stung, and it took a second for her to register that she'd been slapped. The insane amounts of gel in Cal's hair had done little to tame its natural locks, and a piece of dark hair swung into his eyes. Sweat glistened on his temples, and he took a swig from a small metal canister.

It was not uncommon for Cal to sneak nibs of whiskey throughout the day, and this time was not an exception.

Her body still in shock that he had hit her, her knees gave out and she found herself kneeling at his feet, the perfect picture of a submissive housewife and dominant husband.

I will make you pay, you monster, she thought spitefully and she bowed her head so that he wouldn't see the immense revulsion emanating from her eyes.

Cal's leg twitched, and she almost thought he was going to kick her as well, but he seemed to gain some control over himself, because he leant down and grabbed her roughly by the bicep and hauled her to her feet.

He cradled her head with one hand and leant in to kiss her forehead. She resisted the urge to spit on his polished black loafers.

"Now, please, Rose. Choose a body guard. You know I'm only doing this for your safety. Because I love you." Cal's voice softened. Rose choked in contempt. She could only imagine what the eight witnesses to Cal's beating would be thinking now.

Cal turned to glare at the taken aback line of men, who were all staring wide eyed, shocked, at the violent spectacle that had occurred between the rich man and his wife.

"I will have you know," Caledon addressed the bystanders quietly, calmly, delicately wiping sweat from his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief, "that while this country no longer believes in the death penalty, I am a particularly old fashioned man."

Rose's heart jumped in her chest. She dreaded what words he was going to say next.

"I am a man of wealth, with contacts, resources at my disposal. If any of you men utter a single word of the happenings you have witnessed today, I'm sure you believe me when I say I can make you regret it. I'm sure you all love your wives. I'm sure you all take pride in your land."

Caledon let his eyes roam slowly over each man, treating them like he did his business associates. It was the reason he was so good at what he did; he came from a powerful family with a well- known name, and he was intimidating and a master manipulator, which were the two elements a person needed to become a successful player in the business game. Cal was a genius at it. The meeting of each man's eyes let his meaning sink in personally. "I believe we have an understanding?"

Rose felt ill with horror. Cal had blackmailed not only these innocent men who were witness to a crime, but their families.

"And Rose, darling, I'm sure you understand what an instrumental part you play in keeping these men and their wives safe?"

Cal's dark eyes bored into her, and she thought she might actually throw up.

I hate you, she thought as she smiled through her gritted teeth and said, "Yes, darling."

She turned back to the line of men, closed her eyes, pointed randomly, then turned on her heel and ran.

Rose threw herself face first down onto the small couch in her sitting room, and screamed into the thick duck down pillows until her voice broke and she could scream no more, but still her agony leaked out in the form of hot, salty tears.

She sat up suddenly and on an angry impulse, grabbed the pillow that was make up and tear stained, and hurled it across the room, where it hit the mirror. A porcelain jewellery box that Cal had gifted to her on their first wedding anniversary fell to the floor and shattered, beads and jewels scattering haphazardly on the polished wooden floor. Rose laughed manically. Or it could have been a hysteric scream. Or maybe she was sobbing. She wasn't sure.

"I hate him!" she said to the ceiling, her faithful companion and quiet listener. "I hate how he needs to control every aspect of my life! This body guard will only be a means to an end for him. The body guard will follow me everywhere that Cal can't, and report back to him like I'm a test subject! I'm his wife!"

She leapt up from the couch and strode over to the vanity, kicking chairs out of the way, knocking various items and accessories off of things on the way.

"I'm his wife!" she repeated in a tone that was akin to the keening of a wild animal. "I'm his wife, and he treats me no better than he would a serving girl! They s-said I was the luckiest woman in the world!" she strode angrily, stomping, ripping at her hair like a mad woman, ripping at her fine dress.

"They said I would grow to love him!" she stopped in front of the mirror on her vanity. "You're a bastard, Caledon Hockley!" she yelled at her reflection. "And you," she addressed herself, pointing an accusing finger at the woman in the glass. "You're the bastard's wife!" just as she was about to punch the mirror, someone cleared their throat, and in the mirror, she saw a handsome young man standing awkwardly behind her.

He had a ratty backpack slung over one shoulder, and his clothes were old and tattered. Frankly, he looked as out of place amongst all of Rose's finery as an African American would look amongst a group of Albinos.

Rose dropped her clenched fist and spun around, suddenly embarrassed and self- conscious. How much of her childish temper tantrum had he witnessed? By the way he was staring at her, more than enough.

She thought back to how she had looked in the mirror. Her wild red hair standing out from her head like she'd been electrocuted, half in and half out of its former fancy up do. Her cheeks were feverishly flushed and her mascara and eyeliner smudged from crying. She probably looked like the raccoon Cal had brought home as a trophy from hunting one day (she shuddered at the thought).

Rose crossed her arms over her chest (and she was suddenly aware that in her rage, she had shredded her bodice to pieces, and her corset was showing) in an attempt to appear at least a little bit dignified in front of him, as the Lady of the house.

"A just what are you doing in my private rooms, mister?" she demanded, in no mood to deal with lost servants who claim that they're new and just learning their way around.

"I'm your new body guard, Mrs Hockley," the man said apologetically.

"I go by Dewitt- Bukator," her tone was stiff, despite her racing heart.

He was young. He was handsome. He wasn't Cal. This was the opportunity she had been waiting for. A chance to defy her husband's iron rule.

The man was obviously confused, and Rose didn't blame him. She had gone from glaring at him like he'd called her a cruel red head name, to smiling at him, a seductive, hungry look in her green eyes.

He was handsome. Not playboy handsome, the type that Rose despised. His straight blond hair framed his face and emphasised his bright blue eyes, his jaw square, his mouth thin and shapely.

He's beautiful.

I want him.

"But… since we're sort of stuck with each other now, you can call me Rose."

She held out her hand, and willed it to stop shaking so noticeably.

"It suits you." His voice was low as he dropped his back pack, and took her extended hand firmly. She had intended for him to shake it, but instead he brought her hand to his lips. His mouth brushed her skin, and sent thrills all through her body.

"I saw that once in a Nickelodeon and always wanted to do it," he whispered with a small smile, his voice tinged with a playfulness that Rose only just realised that she needed in her drab life.

Their eyes met, and she smiled back. "What should I call you?"

He released her hand. "Jack."

Jack.

"Jack Dawson."

Jack Dawson.

It's perfect.

He's perfect.

Her mouth dry, Rose swallowed and said, internally wincing at the breathiness of her voice, "I assume my husband has found accommodation for your imminent stay here?"

Rose went about her room cleaning up her mess, and without being asked, the man, Jack, began helping her in what ways he knew how: putting chairs up the right way and returning cushions to the couch where they obviously belonged.

"I hope you don't mind, Miss- Rose, but I'll be staying here. On your couch. At least, until Mr Hockley has arranged for a cot to be installed."

Rose opened her mouth, but before she was even sure what had been about to come out, Jack continued by saying with a wry smile, "I'm not sure either of us had a choice to begin with."

Jack handed Rose an elaborate comb, and their fingers met. Sparks flew (in Rose's imaginative mind) and she couldn't stop a shiver from running its course through her body.

"No," she murmured, taking the comb, and sliding her fingers into his instead. She didn't care that she was being forward, and probably over- confident. She just wanted someone to talk to that wasn't a ceiling, or her hairbrush, or a fish in the pet store. And she'd never been good at talking to people. "It's not choice, or circumstance, or even coincidence. It's just fate. Destiny."

She looked up at him, fresh tears welling up in her eyes. He reached to brush a stray curl that was stuck to her face. She flinched involuntarily and her cheek throbbed inadvertently. He squeezed her hand instead, and she squeezed back harder than was probably necessary.

"And we should make it count while we can."

Constructive criticism welcomed. Thanks for reading :)

- MPSB