Welcome! As a "newbie" to Fanfiction, I must first begin with a disclaimer. This story was inspired, of course, by brilliant Margaret Mitchell and her beloved characters. Although this is a modern take, you will see some of the original plot intermingled within this story. Anything you see that belongs to the Mitchell Estate is clearly not mine. I hope you will enjoy, and I look forward to your thoughts!

1. Scandal

I took a sip of my vodka infused cranberry juice.

When I saw the news-crews and the paparazzi gathered outside my house, I knew that my end had come. I just hope that they're gone before Rhett gets back from his yacht race in Saudi Arabia. The truth of the matter is, I just hope that he doesn't get internet service in Saudi Arabia - because this is going to be the story of the summer.

I put the glass down and pick up the bottle of vodka instead. It's half-gone…the bottle that had been full when I woke up this morning.

I step away from the window half-blinded by the flash photography and turn on the flatscreen on the wall to see if E! has the story yet.

This is the headline:

Breaking News: Oops. I Did It Again. Pop Princess caught red handed with Christian Crooner.

In front of the news desk sit three entertainment analysts around the show's host, Kessler Carson, who was wearing the same expression he had when reporting on say, Princess Diana's car crash. Grim death. "This is the story of the day, guys," Kessler said.

Well, at least not the summer, I think to myself.

"…If not the major entertainment news story of the summer," he finishes.

Shit.

"If you're just joining us folks, let's take it from the top. A major news story for both the entertainment community broke this morning at 4:30 AM Pacific Time - TMZ first broke that a source close to the Wilkes camp confirmed that Ashley Wilkes will be issuing a statement via his manager. Sources quote a member of Ashley Wilkes's family as stating that this is a private matter and a deeply personal one; however, we are told that Ashley and Melanie Wilkes will be making a joint statement today - the pair was due to appear at a charity concert to benefit homeless teens today, and all sources indicate that the concert will still take place."

I don't want to hear it, and jam down the channel button of the remote to CNN.

We're the top story there too. If only Rhett's yacht had sunk. Been attacked by Saudi pirates. Anything.

"If you've been living under a rock," the silver-haired commentator was smirking at me, "…you might have missed the turbulent storm of rumors and scandal which have inextricably followed troubled starlet Scarlett O'Hara since she first broke onto the music scene at the age of sixteen. She scored six platinum hits and a host of Grammy's and other awards. Unfortunately the former sensation has gone through rough patch after rough patch. After two whirlwind marriages and a bitter divorce, her remarriage to music mogul Rhett Butler seemed to be a fairytale, at least outwardly - although the nighttime exploits of the famous duo have provided fodder for tabloids and news media alike. After a truly dismal and alcohol-laden performance at this year's VMA's, there was speculation of rehab for the troubled songstress - however, we have learned this morning of an alleged phone call leaked to TMZ and posted on their website which has been validated as evidence of a years-long affair with the Golden Boy of Christian rock, Ashley Wilkes."

Ashley's face flashed on screen, his smile big as his wife, Melanie, was holding onto his arm like the "Golden Boy of Christian Rock" could provide God's own protection.

There was nothing said about Melanie. Oh no. She might as well have been the Virgin Mary - never mind that she and Ashley had a six-year-old son. Perhaps he'd been immaculately conceived. Or maybe he's really mine and she took him to raise, I think, trying to turn off the TV before I throw the remote at it. I fail to get it off, so settle for turning the volume down.

There's really brilliant June sunlight coming in through the window, and it's all I can do not to cry. Okay. The alcohol might not be helping.

From down the stairs, comes a yell. "Jesus Christ, chile! What'd that crap on the TV for? Miss Scarlett!"

I jerk my eyes open. "Mammy, quit shouting goddamnit! I've never in my whole life slept with Ashley and if he tells everybody I did then he's a dirty damn liar."

"You've been drinkin'! Ah's done tole you all your life 'bout the evil in dat there bottle - and you's drinkin' in the mornin' like some no-count 'ho!"

I look over to where she's standing, which takes some effort on my part.

"Don't you ever speak to me like that again or by God, you'll be out on the street!"

Mammy's head pitches back to look up at me. "Ah knows you's hurtin', chile, but I'll never understand why you's done killin' yo'self this way."

The phone rings. It's Mother.

The news keeps repeating my life story behind me.

Scarlett O'Hara was born in 1987; the oldest daughter of renowned Metropolitan Opera soprano Ellen Robillard O'Hara and Gerald "Gerry" O'Hara, Irish tenor and fiddler and member of the popular trio, Sons of Erin. The couple have been divorced since 2003.

"Don't get it," I warn Mammy. "Pa'll be next, but I don't want to talk to him either."

"He ain't callin'," Mammy grunts. "Mist' Gerald's recordin' a song with what's-his-name."

Right. Pa was playing fiddle for Mick Jagger's flirtation with Celtic rock. I forgot.

"There!" Mammy points to the TV.

There's a black SUV coming to a halt at some community center downtown. I don't bother turning up the volume; I know who it is.

The paparazzi not staked out at my house where surrounding the car for the hundred thousand dollar shot, then moved back slightly as the driver opened the door. Then they came.

Ashley and Melanie. They both wore jeans and coordinating white-and-navy shirts. I try to read their faces for fear, humiliation…anything.. But all I can sense is that Ashley is relieved to be somewhere - or maybe he's relieved to have her by his side.

"Melanie! Melanie!" I hear members of the press shouting. She grabs hold of his hand and waves with her free one. A friendly greeting. As if she's there for a perfectly normal charity event.

Then, they walked into the community center and a strong looking black man said, "That's all, folks." As the glass doors shut behind them, they disappeared from sight.

And so I and all of America had seen it; that was all there was to see.

Melanie had managed to diffuse the situation without saying a damn thing.

I wanted to hate her. Passionately hate her for stealing the man I loved from me. But something was lacking in my hate. Perhaps it was the disappointing lack of drama. They were back to my teenage years now - my Grammy victories - and losses.

I was a shoe-in for Best New Artist in 2003.

My single Little Green Dress was top of the charts for 23 weeks and counting. And little miss mealy-mouthed Melanie showed up with her H&M dress and her shoes from Goodwill, which looked like they were from Goodwill, by the way - she had recorded an album on Ashley's independent label, which did mainly his trademark Jesus-Pop-Rock stuff. It was her and her piano, and the critics said that she had the sweetest voice coupled with the most mature vocal range they had ever heard, and that teen poptresses like Scarlett O'Hara should take note. And that kind of criticism stays with you…or at least, it did with me.

"Miss Scarlett, you ansa' that phone or I swe'a to Gawdalmighty-"

My two older kids are looking curiously our way, having overheard her outburst.

Hopefully not the news…not yet, anyway.

"Do something with them," I tell her. Not wanting them to think that something is any more seriously wrong with me than normal, she whirls around and takes them by the arm - one on each side - and steers them toward the kitchen. She'll light up a Virginia Slim and eat a candy bar for stress relief when she thinks she's alone; as for the kids, she'll set them in front of the downstairs TV with a crap-load of ice cream. Sure-fire way to shut them up for a couple of hours.

I answer the phone. "Hello, Mother."

"What happened?" she asks in a low voice. "Philippe and I are in San Maritz for the weekend… but Suellen left a message for me at the concierge desk to turn on the news and I haven't been able to, yet - there's been something terrible happening, she said. Did someone die? Your father? I told him for years to give up smoking, but-"

"It's not Pa."

"Oh. Well that's a relief."

She doesn't sound relieved.

"Mother, I have to go."

"Scarlett? Scarlett, listen to me. What's happening there that you aren't saying? You've not been in another accident, have you?"

I wish it was only that.

"Nope."

"Is it something with Rhett?"

"Nope."

Not yet anyway. Unless he kills me when he gets home…

"Well, the Oscars are tomorrow; don't forget."

Oh shit.

I had forgotten about the Oscars. I'm supposed to present the award for Best Original Song. Melly is the favorite to win. Some ballad she sang for some movie Ashley has a small part in. I think it's about the Civil War, but I'm not sure.

"Scarlett, Philippe was telling me that he knows a charming man from Universal…he'd be happy to make you an introduction."

"I'm not recording anything now, Mother."

"Well, Rhett has been a terrible manager. If you'd had any sense, you would have stayed on Frank's label after the divorce."

"I don't want to see Frank, Mother. Or talk about him or anything else."

"Well, there's always Ashley's label…"

"I don't want to talk about Ashley, Mother."

"What do you mean, you don't…Scarlett, what is the matter with you? What have you eaten this morning?"

"It's ten o'clock, Mother; I just poured myself a glass of cranberry juice."

"And what was the ratio of vodka to cranberry, my dear?"

Mother can always tell. Even on the phone.

"Mother, just watch the news. You'll understand it all then."

"I will, but not now. Philippe's ready to go parasailing. I'm not, naturally. No, I have a massage at ten. And then lunch with darling Cindy Mc-"

"Okay," I say, wanting to tell her that I could give a shit, but restraining myself. Because it's not her fault that she's happy with Husband #2, who in all fairness should have been Husband #1. Fortunately for me, he wasn't. Fortunately for her, she's living in married bliss with the love of her life - and it's not her fault any more than it's mine for living in perpetual hell because Ashley (…who should have been my Husband #1) is happy with his skinny twit of a wife.

"I love you, darling."

"Goodbye, Mother."

Click.

Bitch! I think to myself. But Mother's not a bitch. Hardly. She just thinks that I'm the sort of girl who doesn't need comforting, soothing words.

Who am I to judge her for making something good out of her life..? When all I am good for is attracting negative headlines: alcoholic, husband stealer…total shit at everything. No career. And no husband, for that matter! I look up at the digital clock. He's been gone eighteen days. Of course he has.

And I have an oncoming migraine and an upset stomach.

Mammy's pounding on the bedroom door again, but I ignore her.

Instead, I choose a fistful of pills, which I wash down with a gulp of vodka straight from the bottle.

Here's to you, Ashley and Rhett, I think to myself.

It's my last coherent thought before I close my eyes…and try to remember something pleasant. But all I can muster are memories from the 2003 Grammy's…

Makes sense. That's the day I met Melanie. (…and Rhett.)