So sorry that this took so long! There is just so much to cover in each chapter that it's taking a bit longer than usual for me to get it all exactly the way I want it. Please don't become disheartened by the strange change of events in this chapter - I promise things will begin to clear up soon!

In an effort to give credit to all of the artists whose lyrics I will be using throughout this story, keep an eye out for the *s. I will do my best to post the artists and song titles at the end of each chapter.

Thanks for reading! xx

Fading Bright Eyes Dark
If the years of frustration distort what you see
It's harder and harder to leave
- Scars on 45

One Year Later

"Well, I'm an optimist. I tend to see the glass half full."

"No," chuckles my father from across the table, "you're a day trader! You just add more whiskey!" Both gentlemen laugh loudly and I roll my eyes. "But seriously, I told him that if he couldn't handle the merger then he'd better start packing because there'd be no room for him at Salvatore and Associates, or any other firm in Manhattan for that matter! We didn't become number one by having those kind of piss poor closing skills!"

"He just has to talk business, doesn't he? Can't let it go for even one evening?" I sigh into her ear. She smiles sweetly as she rests her arm across the back of my chair and begins to lightly run her nails across my scalp in an effort to calm me. "Can someone please take the alcohol away from my father?" I attempt as a joke, but look down the table to my brother, Stefan, pleadingly.

My father waves me off in annoyance and, to spite me, takes another sip of his Scotch before continuing on in his conversation. It doesn't matter that we're in one of the finest hotels in New York, sitting in a banquet hall that's nearly twice the size of my penthouse; surrounded by caterers, servers and decorative floral centerpieces that probably cost more than all of their combined salaries. It doesn't even matter that the majority of our guests secretly loath and fear Giuseppe, despite the smiles on their million dollar faces, or that this is my party, honoring an event he initiated and that he, of all people, should be more than thrilled to be attending. He's still just as arrogant as ever.

Yup. His patronizing ways, grandiose sense of self-importance, and inability to show empathy towards anyone other than a manipulated courtroom are fully evident tonight, and hell if he's going to change that anytime soon. Not even for a night as important as this.

Caroline, who sits at Stefan's right-hand side, suddenly shoves her elbow into his chest in an effort to urge him into a standing position. Hesitantly, he rises to his feet and holds his drink in a cheers motion before tapping his fork against it. "Can I have everyone's attention please?"

My Father finally pulls away from his conversation with Mason, his most beloved financial counselor and someone I, quite frankly, despise, and acknowledges my brother. Ric leans in on my left side and whispers, "this ought to be good."

I smile, knowing he's probably right.

"I would like to thank you all for joining us tonight as we celebrate such a momentous occasion, but mainly," he pauses and grins, "thank you for being a witness." The guests chuckle slightly as Stefan acknowledges everyone around the giant table. "When my brother called me into his office last week, I was expecting him to ask me his opinion on the Knicks game… actually I was just praying to God that he hadn't just bet his entire life's savings away and now needed my help in robbing a bank. I know how hard you take those losses to Miami brother," he smirks over at me and I grin, acknowledging a simpler time when our heated conversations over sports were actually something I looked forward to.

"But when I walked in," he continues, "I saw you opening your prized bottle of Michter's – a five-thousand dollar bottle of bourbon, ladies and gentlemen -," he explains to the guests. Most of them appear undaunted, as if Stefan had just mentioned the weather, but intrigued and amused nonetheless.

"And I thought, 'yup, this is it. Either we're about to celebrate something really big or he's about to have another quarter-life crisis."

The guests, and my father in particular, laugh at their shared inside joke. My mother, at his right-hand side, shifts uncomfortably in her seat, watching me nervously from across the table. I just roll my eyes and shake my head in annoyance as I sip from my drink.

"But then, you turned and said to me calmly, 'Stefan, I've got it all figured out.'"

"Finally," my father chimes in.

"And so then I think, 'okay, we're obviously talking about the Donavan-Peterson trial, right?' I think you've finally found the missing piece that's going to turn this whole case around, when I hear you say 'which one?' I turn and look to see what the hell you're talking about, only to find three black jewelry boxes sitting on your desk."

All the guests hold onto Stefan's every word in amusement and genuine curiosity. My eyes wander around the room until I see the door with the word 'exit' plastered above it. If I were to be really quiet, I wonder if anyone would even notice if I slipped out.

"My first reaction, obviously, is "I'm flattered," he laughs, as do the guests, when he insinuates to himself. "You think I'm joking, but I genuinely thought they were cufflinks!" They all laugh again and I can't help but let out a small smile, knowing his story is true. "But when I finally opened the boxes and the disappointment began to gradually fade, I actually thought… wow. My brother is getting engaged."

The mood in the room suddenly shifts at his now sincere tone. Stefan is definitely the king of bullshitting his way through speeches. Hell, he could win the heart of a goldfish if it'd look him in the eyes long enough.

"As I began to examine the three diamond rings that my brother had so cautiously and meticulously narrowed it down to, I was honestly speechless. Not just that he was about to finally stop being such a knucklehead and make this beautiful woman his wife already,"

Stefan gestures to the woman sitting at my right-hand side as she smiles and shakes her head before leaning in against my shoulder. I take her left hand in mine and casually trace my thumb along the platinum band and large halo diamond that sits on her finger.

"But because he was entrusting me to help him make the final decision. And for those of you who've never read her book and may not know, the wildly successful, confident and beautiful Rose-Marie Taylor does not say 'yes' to just anyone!"

I hear her laugh softly as she shakes her head in playful agreement. I don't know why suddenly the room feels several degrees hotter. I begin to tug on my collar in aggravated discomfort.

"But for whatever reason - a reason that not even the universe can comprehend - she said yes to my brother." Stefan smiles as he raises his glass to me. "And I could not be happier for the two of them. To the future Mr. and Mrs. Salvatore… or Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, whichever she'll allow!" He chuckles, as does the rest of the room. "Cheers!"

The consensual sound of "Cheers" is echoed throughout the room, followed by the loud clinking sound of dozens of Champaign glasses.

"Oh, Stefan. Ever the eloquent speaker," I sigh softly to Rose as I finish off the remainder of my drink. He smiles across the room at me before re-taking his seat next to Caroline. I attempt to return it in an effort to show my gratitude – and, despite my tone, I am. Regardless of the perpetual pain in the ass that he is, my brother has always been the only constant in my life, and at the end of the day, we'd do anything for one another.

As the casual chatter resumes amongst the crowd and the string quartet begins to strike up another song, I feel myself growing restless. Rose, sensing my discomfort, turns to face me. I feel her hand brush against my knee.

"It wasn't that bad," she whispers warmly, moving in to kiss my cheek.

I smile, feeling guilty for all of my non-stop complaining leading up to our engagement dinner. I know it means a lot to her, and despite my annoyance with my family, I am happy to be here with her.

I pull her hand up to my lips and press a gentle kiss on her knuckles. "You look beautiful tonight." And she does. Her shoulder-length brown hair is lightly curled to perfectly accentuate her oval face; her eye makeup seamlessly heightening her emerald green eyes, and her elegant, red, Dolce Gabbana dress, effortlessly hugs her body in all the right places.

She smiles as she runs a hand across my face, too confident to deny it and too humble to agree. It's one of the many things I love about her.

After a few moments of solace spent within our own world, we finally turn back to acknowledge our guests, none of whom have so much as noticed our momentary lack of contribution to the current conversation. My mother sits in silence, still looking just as uncomfortable as ever, as she observes everyone around her. For a moment, I feel the slightest tinge of pity for her, knowing that she's probably the only other person in the room who can relate to my eternal loathing of any event that involves my father's presence. But then, I remember that she's not exactly my favorite person at the moment either.

My eyes then land on Stefan and Caroline. They are engaged in what appears to be a playful, flirtatious conversation as they both laugh obnoxiously and continue to whisper sweet nothings into one another's ears. They've been married for over a year now, but the way they act, you'd think they were still on their honeymoon.

"I love how in love they are," Rose sighs contently, resting her head on her hand as she watches them. "I hope that's us - five, ten years down the road."

"It will be," I quickly assure her, lightly brushing her shoulder before leaning in to kiss her. "I promise."

At that moment, the sound of stiletto heels clicking against the floor diverts my attention to a new guest entering the room. The clicking is so pretentious and defined, it echoes above the sounds of the perfectly tuned violins – irking me as though it were the sound of nails on a chalkboard. I feel my eyes widen and my blood begin to boil at the sight of Katherine Pierce entering the room.

"Sorry I'm late," she smirks as she struts her way through the banquet hall. "Traffic was just," she pauses as her gleaming eyes land on me, "dreadful."

"Nonsense, Ms. Pierce," my father beams. "We've barely just begun. Here," he rises to pull a chair out for her and grabs a glass of Champaign from the passing wait staff, "take a seat." He then turns back to the crowd. "Katherine is currently in the process of working on a multi-billion dollar pharmaceutical merger. She's just about damn near got it too!" He gloats to the table. "If anyone deserves to be late, it's this girl right here."

"You've got to be kidding me," I groan over my drink. Rose's hand quickly finds my knee, squeezing it tightly in an attempt to suppress the rage she knows is coursing through my bloodstream. I quickly feel guilty. If the sight of my ex has me this on edge, I can only imagine what it's doing to her. Rose, however, appears just as elegant and unfazed as ever.

"Well, I had hoped that Damon would join me," Katherine pouts, looking in my direction. "Those late nights and early mornings just aren't quite the same without him."

Giuseppe laughs, impervious to her innuendo. "Well, if only he'd invest half as much time into his career as he does into chasing women."

"Did," corrects Rose, smiling politely as she raises her glass in his direction.

"And thank God for that!" The crowd laughs amongst themselves.

"So, Damon," Mason pipes up, "what's next for the two of you? Will you be staying in New York? London? Charleston, maybe?"

A few sneers erupt from several of my colleagues. Despite it having been well over a year, my time in Charleston still remains the running joke of the office.

"Well, Damon has considered transitioning to the London office," says Rose, ignoring the joke. "It would make sense – with my family still living there. And of course, there's my practice."

"But of course, it wouldn't hurt to stay and see the merger through," I smile at Rose before turning to glare at Mason and Katherine. "Just to make sure no wrongdoings are taking place. Wouldn't want our beloved company to come down in flames over a few," I hesitate, "mishandled finances."

"My company," my father corrects, glaring at me. "Is there something you'd like to share, Damon?" He asks, his tone full of that familiar disappointment that I so easily bring out in him. The entire room falls silent. I see my mother straightening up in her seat, looking nervous and unsure if she should intervene. Caroline and Stefan quickly pause their flirtatious banter to watch the scene before them.

"No, not at all," I chuckle. "Just curious to your thought process in tasking Satan and an ex money launderer to such an important case. But then again, you did invite them to my engagement party, so there's that." Rose's hand quickly finds and squeezes my wrist, urging me to back down. She hate's Katherine and Mason just as much as I do, but she's far too classy and elegant to start a fight here.

"How about dessert?" Says Caroline, quickly jumping to a standing position and urgently motioning the servers over. "Who wants cake? I for one am dying to try one of those adorable mini cheesecakes!"

"Me too!" Stefan smiles, lifting his finger in dutiful agreement.

The rest of the guests seem to take Stefan and Caroline's lead as they attempt to resume their casual chatter, obviously making quite the effort to avoid the heavy gaze that still lingers between my father and I.

"This party," Giuseppe emphasizes, continuing on despite their best efforts, "is for your benefit, Damon – not mine! God knows we'll probably be throwing you another one next year." Rose and many of the other guests gasp at this. "And how I choose to assign the merger and run the rest of the firm is none of your goddamn business. Perhaps if you'd ever pull your head out of your ass long enough to stop making such ridiculously impulsive decisions, you could be the one calling the shots."

The room is silent; many of our guests now look down at the table for fear of being caught in the line of fire that sears between us. I glare daggers at him, ready to shoot venom and hurt him in anyway I can, but Rose beats me to it.

"You're right, Mr. Salvatore," she says quietly, her demeanor eerily calm. "Damon is reckless and impulsive." I quickly turn to face her, feeling the slightest tinge of anger and betrayal. "He makes abrupt decisions, falls in love quickly and, sometimes, plays more by emotion and spontaneity rather than rationality," she slowly turns to look at me. Her expression is solemn and tender, and the second my eyes meet hers, I know there is no trace of malice in her intent. "He is dangerously passionate about what he believes in. He fights for his clients, his brother," she turns back to look at my father, "even you. He's a damn good attorney and an even better lover," a few of the guests in the room smile, finally cutting away some of the tension from the room. "He is wildly attractive and, when he's not being weighed down by work, ridiculously fun. He makes me laugh and, in the most beautiful way, question everything I've ever believed in."

This particular phrase catches my attention.

"He is smart, witty, charming and somehow, miraculously still available – that is, until November first. So yes, Mr. Salvatore, you are right," she turns back to look at me and gently places a hand on my cheek. "Damon is wonderfully and ridiculously impulsive, and because of that," she pauses, moving her hand along my jaw as her eyes watch mine, "I absolutely cannot wait to marry him."

I smile at her, amazed by her ability to calm my nerves and completely turn such a horrible situation around. As I lean in to kiss her, the guests around us suddenly begin applauding, probably due more to relief that the confrontation hadn't ended with fists and a body cast.

I hear my father scoff, but he remains silent nonetheless. I continue to kiss her for several moments, knowing that it irritates him, but also because I'm in complete aw of her. The fearlessness, grace and tact she'd just shown in standing up to Giuseppe was something very few could or would ever do – hell, even I still struggled and I'd had years of practice.

For the next hour or so, the dinner continues on without so much as a hitch or even one snarky comment. It seems as though Rose's moving speech encouraged even the worst of our guests to finally exert some manners.

As everyone finishes up dessert and begins to casually meander around the room - Rose and Caroline engage in wedding planning mode, Ric uselessly flirts with the engaged litigation associate he's so hung up on, and Stefan attemps to console my train wreck of a mother and calm down my father - I find myself once again feeling incredibly restless and in desperate need of air.

I feel Rose take hold of my hand as I attempt to sneak away, forcing me to look back and acknowledge the worried expression on her face. I quickly lean in to lightly brush her arms and give her a reassuring kiss on the cheek. "I'll be right back," I whisper.

"Would you like for me to come with you?" The concern in her voice has me feeling slightly guilty.

"No," I reply in the gentlest tone I can muster. "I just need some air."

She nods in acceptance as she watches me walk away. Despite their conversations, I feel the attentive gaze of almost everyone in the room as their eyes follow me until I'm out the door.

When I reach the hotel lobby and then the revolving doors, I feel a sense of relief begin to wash over me. As the cold February air begins to rush into my lungs, I feel gratitude, as though I can finally breathe. I quickly lean forward, hands on my knees, in an attempt to eradicate all the anger and hatred I'm still feeling towards my father for nearly ruining our dinner. I have no idea what the hell I was thinking – agreeing to this entire charade. It was all just a big show, an excuse for him to talk business and show off, while simultaneously attempting to prove to the world that his son hadn't completely flown off the handle. Well, mission accomplished, dad.

As I slowly rise back up and begin to look around – I feel myself questioning how the hell I got here.

It's not that I'm not in love with Rose. I am. And honestly, it blows me away because I never thought it would be possible to feel that way about someone ever again – especially so quickly after… everything.

It certainly wasn't love at first sight though.

After a string of one-night stands and drowning myself in bourbon, Stefan and Caroline had decided I needed to find myself a steady girlfriend – more so because Stefan needed a way to get Giuseppe off of his back about my 'bad' behavior and Caroline knew the "perfect" girl who could "give me a run for my money."

Little had I known just how right my blonde, eccentrically detail-oriented sister-in-law would turn out to be – and hell if she'd ever let me forget it.

At first, Rose had irritated me. Everything from the way she psychoanalyzed and challenged my every thought and decision, to the way she could pinpoint my every fear, aggravation and frustration – most of which, boiled down to heartbreak.

She was a published, private psychologist from London – whom Caroline had met, of all places, at a bar during her bachelorette party. Rose, who was in New York to promote her new book at the time, just happened to have stumbled into the same bar Caroline's minions had deemed the appropriate hotspot for the bride-to-be. And of course Caroline, being the ever-so-inclusive, happy-go-lucky drunk that she is, had instantly declared Rose to be her new best friend.

And Rose, being the kindhearted, just-go-with-it soul that she is, had not only happily obliged to Caroline's drunken whim, but had also made sure she'd gotten home safely. Hell, she'd even brought her coffee and aspirin the next morning. They'd been close friends ever since.

After the book tour, Rose had been invited to stay and assist with an "addictive-behavioral research study" at NYU, which she had called "some of the most important work of her career," forcing her to relocate back to the city for several months. It had been during this time that we'd met and everything had changed so quickly.

I hadn't meant to fall for her. At the time, she'd just been another means to help me forget about Elena. But, I suppose, there'd just been something in the way that she was so 'put-together'. She had everything so figured out – who she was, who she wanted to be, what she was going to do and even how the hell she was going to do it. Such a polar opposite from who I'd been – who I still am I guess. At the time, I suppose I'd just needed the stability.

But I do love her. I repeat this phrase over and over in my head, not allowing the doubts or 'what-ifs' to creep into my mind.

As I finally shake off whatever pieces of anger still linger towards my father and turn to head back inside, I suddenly freeze, stopping dead in my tracks as a sound reaches my ears. It's a song – something familiar.

A gentle beat, the strumming of a guitar; lyrics that I subconsciously recognize, but can't distinguish.

When I turn my head, the sound becomes faint and barely audible. I can't make it out.

I continue to listen, attempting to drown out the noise of the traffic, car horns and pedestrians that surround me.

I begin to walk down W. 56th and away from the Meridien, slowly at first, but then ever so more rapidly, desperate to rediscover the sound, desperate to reconnect with its comfort and familiarity. I have absolutely no idea what's come over me as I turn the corner in search of a sound that I can't even fully hear.

(Singing) "It's not your eyes. It's not what you say. It's not your laughter that gives you away."

There it is again, much more distinct this time. The voice isn't quite as I remember, but close enough. I find myself rushing down the street, knowing I'm drawing closer as every syllable slowly becomes louder.

(Singing) "All your perfectly delivered lies, they don't fool me. You've been lonely, too long."

Then it hits me. I know exactly where I've heard it.

"I love this song," she whispers, staring down at the record she's just put on. The room is dark, illuminated only by dimly lit candles. Rain hits our windowpane as it falls heavily outside and the strong sound of thunder rattles our apartment. Our electricity hasn't gone out, but she likes to pretend.

Only her silhouette is visible, but I can see her hips beginning to sway. She wears nothing more than my black cotton tee shirt – all of our soaking wet clothing scatters the floor around her. We'd been much too busy than to get around to picking them up.

Unable to resist, I approach behind her and wrap my arms around her. She smiles as she continues to stare down at the spinning record. "Dance with me," I whisper against her ear.

I feel her grin. Happy to oblige, she slowly turns to face me, wrapping her arms around my neck in the process. As the candlelight catches her eyes and illuminates her olive skin, I become lost in the moment. She is absolutely stunning.

As we slowly move to the music, and as I press my forehead against hers, I honestly believe that life cannot possibly ever get any better than this.

"I love you."

And just like that, she once again proves me wrong.

I finally discover the source of the music.

As I reach 7th Avenue and turn towards Carnegie Hall, I see them: two street performers, one male and one female, softly strumming their guitars, singing in perfect harmony, a guitar case laid open before them.

(Singing) "Let me in the wall you've built around, and we can light a match and burn them down. And let me hold your hand and dance 'round and 'round the flames in front of us. Dust to dust."*

I am hypnotized by the melody as I listen and reflect on old memories that still haunt me. I have no idea how she's still here; how she's still undeniably nowhere, while still absolutely everywhere.

"It's funny how music makes us remember moments – how it always takes us back."

I groan, feeling sheer agony that Elena's words can still echo so clearly through my mind despite the amount of time that's gone by. I quickly do my best to shut it out.

"Damon!"

I sigh, knowing the voice of the person behind me well. As the crowd continues to grow steadier around the two performers, I quickly toss a fifty into their case, before turning around to face him.

"Save your breath, Stefan," I sigh, walking straight passed him back towards the hotel. "I'm going."

He quickly grabs onto my arm as I pass him, pulling me back around to face him. "Actually," he hesitates, "I was just going to ask if you were okay?"

I nod, feeling guilty for snapping at him, but pull away from his grip on my arm nonetheless. "Fine. Never better."

Stefan nods, but doesn't seem to buy it. As I turn to leave and begin walking away, I barely make it ten steps before I hear him ask, "Do you love her?"

I halt dead in my tracks, both shocked and angry at how casually he can ask me such an insulting question. I slowly turn around. "Excuse me?"

"Do you love her?" he repeats.

"What the hell kind of question is that?" I shout, forcing passing pedestrians to look over at us. "Do I love her? I'm fucking marrying her, Stefan!"

Stefan nods as he moves towards me, slowly closing the gap between us. "I'm well aware. I helped you pick out the ring," he says coolly. "But what I'm asking you is, do you love her?"

"Is this about me walking out? Because you know damn good and well that if Giuseppe hadn't gone and made a complete ass out of himself by trying to insult our engagement then I wouldn't have had to,"

"Damon," Stefan slowly repeats, cutting me off. "This isn't about dad."

"Isn't it though? Isn't it always about how that," I pause, gesturing with my hand back towards the direction of the hotel, "arrogant son of a bitch has to always find a way to insert himself into our lives? Always has to try and find a way to ruin everything good! Me, you, mom," I wince – it's so weird calling her that. "He ruins everything he touches, Stefan!"

"I'm just worried about you," he says softly with a shrug. Its funny how at small moments like these, the appearance of my younger, and often very naïve, brother suddenly resurfaces, forcing me to want nothing more than to protect him at all costs.

"I'm fine," I assure him. "Never been better. Rose and I are happy, and we'll be even happier the second we get the hell out of here." I turn to walk away again, knowing I need to get back to the hotel.

"It's just that you're different this time," he continues on, forcing me to stop and face him again. "I can't really explain it, but you're different."

"What do you mean?"

"It's just that," he hesitates for a long time, "when you were with Elena there was this life about you, this presence, this excitement. It was almost like I'd never really met you before. Never truly seen you. Every time we'd talk or I'd come see you, it was like you were just so," he pauses again, "alive."

I glare at him. I can feel my heart beginning to race in my chest at the mention of her name and the remembrance of those visits.

"None of that was real," I hiss, stepping closer to him. "You, of all people, know what a mistake that was. In fact, I precisely remember you calling it just that, a mistake! Ring any bells?"

"Damon, I,"

"Elena almost ruined me, Stefan!" I nearly shout, forming a fist in my hand. "She put me through more misery and more agony than any woman in my entire life ever has!"

"Damon,"

"If I was more 'alive,'" I mock, "then it was only because I was just another idiot who got caught in her web of make-believe, lies and deceit. That's not love, Stefan. That's just stupidity."

Stefan watches me nervously before letting out a long sigh. "Okay," he gives in. "I'm sorry for bringing it up."

I huff, unaccepting of his apology.

"But I just have to say," he continues, slowly taking a step back from me. "In the ten minutes that we've been standing here, not one of your responses was simply just a, 'Why yes, Stefan, of course I love her.'"

His watches me for a brief second before slowly stepping around me and walking away, leaving me to stand in the lonely, New York City crowd on 7th avenue with his words to wash over me. As the street performers strike up another song, I feel my heart beginning to race, my chest constricting and my breathing becoming shallow. I'm angry and annoyed, and want nothing more than to chase after my brother and punch him, but the feeling of anger seems to be too paralyzing and overwhelming.

I'm not thinking as I suddenly find myself grabbing a taxi and jumping inside. My head is everywhere and nowhere as I rationalize reasons why I'm abandoning my fiancé and returning home to my penthouse without her – none of which are excusable.

The cab ride takes nearly twenty minutes, but feels like only a few short moments as I remain lost in thought; oblivious to the passing city outside my window, my ringing cellphone or even the light snow that is beginning to fall.

When the cab finally stops, I pay my fare and climb out. I barely make it up the elevator and through my front doors before I'm yanking my tie from around my neck and tossing my jacket to the floor. My cell phone continues to ring, but I ignore it. I'm sure that by now it's become quite obvious to everyone, especially Rose, that I won't be coming back. I can already hear the hurt and disappointment in her tone.

God, what am I doing?

I still feel like I'm struggling to breathe as I lean my hands against the wall, anger continuing to course through my veins at Stefan's ridiculous accusation. I punch the wall in anger, doing far more damage to my knuckles than the wall. I curse out loud in pain and frustration before running a hand through my hair and beginning to pace.

Of course I love Rose! It's why I'm marrying her! Stefan doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about. How can he possibly think that I haven't been happy for the past six months? I've been happy! I am happy!

I walk from the kitchen to the living room, unsure of why I'm this upset – it's not as though it's that unusual for my family to piss me off this badly. I should be used to being the punch line in their jokes, the topic of their conversations, or the recipient of their condescending advice...but for some reason, that doesn't stop me from feeling betrayed.

Stefan, of all people, should know by now to steer clear of all topics Elena. I mean, what the hell was he thinking? Where does he get off to accuse me of not loving Rose? Just because we don't act like him and Caroline - two ridiculous, love-struck, immature idiots– every second of every day, doesn't mean we're any less in love.

My phone begins to ring again. This time, I pull it from my pocket, finally checking the caller id. As Caroline's name flashes across the screen, I instantly send it to voicemail.

Great, Stefan and Rose have sent in the reinforcements. I will, quite literally, never hear the end of this.

Eight missed calls. I stare at the number for a brief second before tossing my phone down on the coffee table. No point in calling back now.

As I make my way into the bedroom, a weird feeling of guilt washes over me. The sight of Rose's jewelry on my nightstand, her perfume on my dresser and her clothing in my closet are all a very familiar sights by now, but yet somehow, still so unfamiliar.

Attempting to avoid the guilt, I turn away and walk back down the hall, passing by my large, overly-used office in the process. I stop and head back towards it, pausing and lingering in the doorway for a few moments as I stare inside. I let out a long sigh and cross my arms, finally acknowledging why my guilt still hovers around me at every turn in this house like a ghost.

Twice the size of a typical bedroom, there's no better room for holding secrets - but it's not the books in the cases that line the walls, or my executive mahogany desk, or even the locking filing cabinet that holds my attention.

There's a door – a door that no one but myself knows exists – and its hidden inconspicuously between two bookcases; blending perfectly with the neutral wall scheme and crown molding. A French painting of Rose's choosing - filled with so many colors it makes my head spin – sits in the center, making it even more undetectable and hidden to the inattentive eye. I'd discovered the room's secret shortly upon moving in, only after I'd drunkenly stumbled and the sound of a hollow wall had broken my fall.

I'm sure the room that lies behind it had been built for the intention of extra storage or to hide valuable property, and I suppose, that is what I'm using it for as well.

Don't get me wrong, I wish it were for something as cool and badass as a James Bond gadget room or, hell, even a Christian Grey Red Room of Pain at this point. But no, instead it's simply just a depressing reminder of a life I used to know with a woman I used to love.

As I maneuver my hands along the crown molding at the lower half of the door, pull upwards and then apply a small amount of pressure, I feel the wall give and begin to swing open. I step inside the room and hold my breath as I flick on the lights to illuminate the old, familiar sight of all the hundreds and hundreds of dusty records that now line the elongated bookcases on each side of the room. The LP12, restored and unharmed, sits on a small wooden desk at the end.

Indeed, there it is. Despite my anger and best intentions, I'd still, after all this time, been unable to throw them out. When Ric had attempted to make good on his promise and help me get rid of them, he'd returned only to find them already gone. I told him I'd already taken care of it – a lie that continues to haunt me.

The unpacked, unopened box labeled "Elena's things" lies on the ground a few feet from me and catches my attention. I hate myself for saving everything, and even more for even setting foot in this room, but it doesn't stop me from making my way over toward it, kneeling down and slowly opening it up.

A worn leather journal sits on top of a stack of old sweaters, photographs and random other knickknacks. I hesitate – knowing that right this second I should walk away; that I should get back to my livid fiancé, and pretend I'd never been here; pretend that this room doesn't even exist.

Instead, I pick up the journal. I brush the worn markings, silently wondering and appreciating how often she'd held it. My question is answered quickly when I begin to flip through it, noting that every single page has an entry – often, more than several to a page.

My heart is racing with both guilt and curiosity as I admire the curves of her handwriting, the markings of her pen against the yellowing pages.

Every. Single. Page.

Elena's words are once again everywhere. They are once again within reach, once again at my grasp.

I hold my breath, my head telling me to put it back and walk away, but my heart racing with anticipation and the need to know. I flip back to the first page and begin to read the first entry:

I couldn't spill my heart
My eyes gleam looking in from the dark
I walk out in stormy weather,
Hold my words
Keep us together*

I stare at the words in confusion. "What the hell?" I whisper out loud. I flip over a few pages:

If you leave,
When I go…
You'll find me,
In the shallows.
When the time comes,
On the last day….*

I read the entry again, feeling more confused than ever. I find myself flipping through the pages backwards and forward – realizing that there is no logical order – until I finally catch an entry on the back of the front cover – "Lyrics I love. Lyrics for us."

I sigh in sheer disappointment while simultaneously hating that I am disappointed. I have no idea what I was expecting to discover, what answers I was hoping to find. But of course I know, when it comes to Elena, just like always, there are no answers.

Only riddles and more games and strange lyrics I don't recognize.

I look up, examining the hundreds of records that surround me. "They hold many of the answers that I'm afraid I'll never be able to give you." I recite the words of her letter in my head before looking back down at the journal. Shaking my head, and acknowledging the stupidity in my actions, I decide to read one more. I flip to another random page.

Shadows on the water,
From a memory that turns inside,
From the last time I saw you happier, …
And it seems to me it all worked out so different.
Funny how distance and time they don't change at all *

I still don't understand. I decide to read just one more:

This melody
We will never speak
All the things that I regret if I could say anything
My apologies for the way I ended things
See I loved you but it scared me,
You scared me*

I read them again…. and then again… and, just for good measure, one more time. I find myself studying them for several moments before I turn the page. I turn page after page, slowly at first, but then ever so more rapidly, desperate to take in ever single word she's left behind, desperate – just like a good book that you can't put down - to devour and understand her every emotion and intention behind the words she had chosen as important enough to declare the "lyrics for us."

"Damon?"

I slam the book shut. "Shit," I whisper under my breath. What the hell am I doing?

"Damon?" She calls out again from the front of the house.

I quickly toss the journal back into the box, stand and race back over to the door, and quietly close it behind me, once again concealing its identity.

Just as I turn away from the wall and begin to make my way towards the voice of my fiancé, who is continuing to desperately call my name, she appears in my office entryway. I attempt to gain control of my heavy, nervous breathing to avoid suspicion.

She looks as though she's been crying, and I instantly feel wave after wave of guilt as it hits me like a ton of bricks.

I begin to make my way towards her, praying that she'll somehow forgive me. "Rose," I plead, not knowing where to start.

"Why haven't you been answering your phone?" She says softly. Her tone is somber. There's no trace of anger.

I have no answer, but begin to make my way towards her. A tear slowly falls down her cheek as she shakes her head.

"Damon, I've been trying to call you," she sobs.

I shake my head. "I know. Rose, I'm so, so very,"

"Damon your dad," she interrupts.

I am prepared for yelling. I am prepared for fighting. I am prepared to have to beg and plead for her forgiveness. I am prepared to hear the list of demands I must do to make it up to her - but I am not, under any circumstances, prepared for the next sentence that slowly leaves her mouth.

"Damon your dad had a heart attack."

I gawk at her, unsure if I've just heard her correctly.

"Damon," she whispers, reaching out to hold onto my hand. "Damon, your father is dead."

Such a long way to go dear readers! Hold tight, the next chapter is about to introduce a LOT of Delena backstory.

Songs for this chapter:
The Civil Wars - Dust to Dust
The XX - Night Time
Daughter - Shallows
Ben Howard - Cloud Nine
He Is We - Our July in the Rain

All great songs! Make sure to check them out! :) xx