Another long chapter.

TOWDNWTBN, Vale...thank you!

Every story has a villain.

And while some—like Iago or Sauron or Hannibal Lecter—are intellectual, tyrannical, at least complex, there are others who are just petty, selfish, miniscule in even their own meanness. And that was how Christine felt as she watched Kepler retrieve a suitcase—already packed with clothes and everything—from a top shelf of the wardrobe.

What kind of life needed a suitcase packed and ready just in case of emergency?

Perhaps villain was not the right term. It held a grandeur that was the exact opposite of what she deserved when she knew she was behaving like a bitch. Like a spiteful woman who adopted the mannerisms of a spoiled child just because her wishes were overridden, her priorities shaken, her fears evoked.

"Why can't you find Spencer from here, in London?" she asked, not for the first time.

"I have to go there, to be there, Christine. It's not some kind of experiment I can do in the lab."

"Yes, it has to be in situ." Irony laced her voice. "Why can't Dylan go after Spencer?"

The fact that she recognized her own bitchiness was hopeful for her soul. The consolation of the thought was nonexistent as Kepler unzipped a compartment of the small suitcase and stuffed in three of the laptops she had seen during her first night spent at the apartment.

"Spencer did not lose his fingers. If that were the case, Dylan would be just the man to reattach them. This is my game. I have the contacts. This is the only way to find out what really happened—quickly." Kepler wrapped the cord around each charger with infuriatingly calm movements.

Christine resented the fact that she was mad at him. She resented herself on so many different levels. Of course she had just found out about Spencer's betrayal while Kepler had had three years to come to terms with it, but still….

"How did it go with Cassie? Did she explain herself?"

Christine took a deep breath before replying.

"As if she could."

"Give it some time." He hid the chargers in another of the suitcase's pockets. Was he really in the mood for small talk?

"Should I follow your example with Spencer?"

Kepler shrugged as he went on with his task. "I'm not saying she had the right to do what she did. But her motives were always good. She put you first. She abandoned everything to come back after your father's funeral. Her judgment was wrong but I'm surprised Reyes didn't mention anything. If a friend of Dan's came and told me Dan needs more sleep, I'd call Dan, we'd talk, evaluate the situation and probably have a good laugh about it. So on my bad-scale Cassie is here," he raised his palm to the level of his waist, "while Reyes is here." He raised his horizontal palm just over his forehead.

"And the fact you're jealous of him has nothing to do with that." She wasn't defending Raoul. There was no defending the things he'd done. She was just mad at Kepler for leaving.

"It has everything to do with that—among other things—but you have to face him tomorrow morning…. That is, if the IT team finally do their job." He grimaced and carried the suitcase to the living room. "Grill Cassie as much as you want, she's your friend. I'm just not sure how wise it'd be to cut your ties at this point. Don't make her the scapegoat in this. She's the easy recipient of your anger."

She snorted at the omniscient Kepler giving advice.

"I'd better address my anger's rightful recipient then—" The deep breath didn't help her this time. "Are you serious? Are you leaving for the States, for New York, when it's the last place you should go? Now? After so many years you risk everything?"

"As a matter of fact I have 45 minutes to leave this apartment so let me explain how this phone works and what the alarms do—"

Christine turned her back to him in frustration. She was certain her current expression was not a face a lover should witness on her. If she had the physical strength and a pair of handcuffs she would honestly lock him up in this apartment till she could talk some sense into him. Or till the end of time, whatever came first. Was this how insanity felt?

"If you're leaving me your phone, how will I reach you?" At least her voice sounded saner than she felt.

"I'll get some burners when I get there. I'll send you the phone numbers."

She stole a glance at him over her shoulder. Resigned that she wouldn't pay attention to his phone, he had started scribbling notes on a piece of paper with his usual combination of arrows, symbols and the minimal amount of words. Christine wondered if she would be able to decode it afterwards.

"You have money, plenty of money. Can't you hire the right people to find him for you?"

"This is not a movie, Christine," he offered wearily while he kept on writing.

"Not a movie but I've known no one else who had troubles with the Russian mafia in the past. In real life!"

"It's not as if I'll be sending them my business card when I arrive. I'll go there, do what I have to do and come straight back. End of story."

"But you'll be in danger. Dylan said you'd seriously pissed off all the wrong people. What if they have found Spencer?"

"I doubt it but that's one more reason to go there myself. To find out. I have a new face, new everything. I'm safe now."

She turned to face him, exasperated.

"No, the only thing safe is the conclusion that you won't see reason even if it hits you on the head with a hammer! You crossed the Russian mafia! How could you have done such a thing in the first place? Are you crazy? Did you have a death wish?"

"I didn't exactly cross the Bratva—"

"You and Spencer stole money from them, from their off-shore accounts—"

"Well, who do you suggest I should have relieved of their…burden, Christine? Nuns? Charity organizations? Doctors Without Borders?" He patted the paper with his notes, glanced at her and then at it meaningfully. Then he folded it, put it under the phone and hid them both in a kitchen drawer. "Anyway, that's all in the past. I'm surprised Dylan knows about this. Relocating Bratva's money was before we met him. I guess his drinking nights with Spencer were not as harmless as I thought."

"The fact remains the same: if someone has spotted Spencer and then you start asking questions about him, new face or old face, you'll have problems with the Pravda—"

"Bratva, not Pravda. That's the old Soviet newspaper. The word means truth."

"Really? Really, Kepler? Do you consider this the most suitable time for Russian lessons?" An unladylike sound, very close to a groan, escaped her throat. "I don't care for the name or what it means! I just don't want you to go back there!"

"Can I at least read the newspaper?" There was no irony in his voice. It was more of a tease as yet another groan escaped her lips at watching his innocent-looking face. "I'm not sure it's still published." He frowned and she'd bet he was trying to remember. If Kepler were a student, he'd be the most irritating nerd of all time.

"Thank you for enjoying my worry over you, Kepler. It's so considerate of you!" The hurt in her voice shook some sense into him, or at least drove him away from his Pravda thoughts.

"I'm sorry. Having someone worry about you is…different. Fun." He shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. He looked remorseful.

"Forget Dylan, you've said it yourself. There is a warrant for you there. Your DNA, your fingerprints must be in the state database. That means that if you get arrested for anything in New York—even a minor misdemeanor!—a sample of your DNA will be taken."

"Has Dylan turned into a lawyer now?"

"I Googled it! I'm very skeptical about massive DNA tests like that, but it's not my word that counts. And you'll be walking into the lion's den if you go to New York."

"Then I'd better not drive intoxicated and keep my shoplifting urges under control."

"It's not funny, Kepler."

"Let me show you the safe." He took her hand, stroking her fingers with his thumb, and all she could do was follow him into his workroom. The computer screens were off. Huge, black. Their sight unsettling. "This is where I mostly keep papers and some cash, so in case something happens—"

"To you?" Her voice sounded more like a shriek.

"Not to me. To the apartment. If you have the time, all you need to collect is here. Considering your past with fires—" He winked at her. Winked! So much for remorse. "The combination is 1984."

She wanted to ask whether it was his real birth year but she was too frustrated for curiosity.

"The Orwell novel," he replied to her unspoken question.

"I don't want the safe's combination. If there is a fire, I'll let everything burn!"

"We are a team now." His voice was serious. His hazel eyes warm on her.

Christine focused on his movements—she hadn't seen or used a safe before. He made her repeat them for him till the safe was open again. She closed it with a thud—she had hoped for a louder one—not interested in its contents. As she turned to leave, her glance fell on the Modigliani painting resting in a strange angle on the sofa.

"There must be an international law against treating such an artwork like this."

"Like what?"

"Desecrating it by letting it lie there like that. Not treating it with the respect it deserves." Modi's wife looked back at her, disinterested.

"It will survive," Kepler said calmly but the back of his fingers traced the canvas lovingly, evoking an irrational jealousy in her.

She followed him to the kitchen and started making tea, letting all her exasperation show in her movements.

"Christine—"

He had a way of uttering her name when he wanted her to listen to him. He dragged the second syllable out, making it sound like Christiiine, his voice deeper than usual. It was serious, reprimanding, but also melodic and intimate. He was the only one who called her Christine and he could do it in a thousand different ways with that voice of his. How could he not understand her now?

"How can you risk your freedom, your life, for a man who treated you that way?" She was not proud of her pettiness but she couldn't restrain herself anymore.

"He was my friend. He thought he was serving the greater good, his goal was to free us all from Gallagher. Before it backfired." There was no anger, no bitterness in his voice. He shrugged as a faint smile crossed his lips.
"What do you want me to do, Christine? A face like mine, the one I used to have, humbles you. You learn to have low expectations from people, life. To be patient."

"But you didn't forgive him," she risked the guess.

"No. That I can not do. I just can't." There was no smile anymore.

"I don't blame you! Spencer didn't only use you, he betrayed you. He compromised your identity showing your face to Gallagher…why do you think you owe him this?" How could you leave me for him? Thankfully, she didn't say that aloud.

"I think my worst flaw is my reasoning, my logic. I can justify almost anything in my head. I can see the other's point of view, find the right arguments, go through the process and live with it. I'm afraid I could almost go along with anything if I really chose to." She didn't understand him but she didn't dare interrupt him. "I don't know whether I'd be alive, here, talking to you, if it weren't for Spence, if he hadn't given me a way out, a chance regardless of my face even though he did use it against me later. You're right: he betrayed me, his friend, his brother. If I betray him now what kind of a man, what kind of a person will that make me?"

She just narrowed her eyes, certain that the response to that question was clearly written on her face. She didn't care for bravery or gallantry at the moment. The hell with selflessness and life debts. She wanted her man safe by her side and they could deal with the guilt later. Hadn't he said that guilt was an overrated emotion?

"You see…I'm not doing it for him. I'm doing it for me." He took a step closer to her. "I miss the point in my life where there was a balance in the scale. Or better yet when I thought that the world owed me. I was never good or virtuous or honorable. Yes, I did piss off many people, I made them angry, tricked them but I never hurt people. Not the way Gallagher does. And he does it because I allowed him to do it. I gave him the tools to do it. After Gallagher, the wrong I did took humongous proportions—"

"It's not your fault, Kepler! It's Gallagher's."

"You, more than anyone else, understand me on this. You punished yourself for three years for the exact same reason. No matter our intentions, there is responsibility in everything we do. We can't claim ignorance or idiocy. We can't create something and then watch it sail on its own, unconcerned about the side effects.

"For me the scale has tilted and more weight is added every minute. I try to block it, stop it, but new paths are formed. I can't leave Spencer behind…I can't make him collateral damage especially because I haven't forgiven him."

She poured some of the boiling water into the cup and watched the steam go up before her eyes locked on his again.

"If we are a team, let me come with you…to the States."

He frowned in surprise. Her stomach knotted under his scrutinizing stare.

"Would you leave BDS?"

"I'll take some days off. You said it yourself. We don't even know whether we'll start working tomorrow." There was a lie there. An omission. She felt the distance between her and BDS, herself and her former life growing every day, every hour. "I could help you."

"It's complicated."

"I'll keep things…uncomplicated for you. You'll be more careful if I'm with you. Dylan told me you risk more than being caught for wire fraud, or not reporting money to the IRS if you should be arrested in New York."

"It's a good thing I don't intend to get arrested then."

"What if you are?"

"One more reason for you not to come with me. Did Dylan suggest this?"

"What does Dylan have to do with us being a team? I asked him whether you'll be in danger while searching for Spencer and he answered my questions. I can help you, Kepler. I'll keep you focused on not taking unnecessary risks."

"And then we could both get in trouble."

"I want to be there for you, with you." She heard the pleading in her voice. She didn't care.

"I could let you join me under one condition—" She didn't know whether he paused for suspense or effect or whatever she was seeing on his face but couldn't interpret, but the knot in her stomach instantly tightened. "—Marry me."

Christine was certain she was gaping like an idiot. It took her a while to compose herself and realize he must have been kidding. He had less than an hour to leave. He couldn't be serious.

"Is this supposed to keep things uncomplicated?" Her smile was forced.

She felt his silence tightening the knot in her stomach.

"It will protect us both. You'll be able to invoke spousal privilege. You wouldn't be forced to testify against me in case I were to be…so careless as to be arrested," he explained in a calm, moderated tone but his smile confirmed it. He was kidding. He was testing her or kidding or both.

"Aren't we getting ahead of ourselves here?"

"Isn't that what we're supposed to do in order to be cautious? Always?" His smile became slightly broader. "So, what is it going to be, Christine? Now that you know what it takes to come to the States with me."

"You're not serious. We don't have the time." It took two to tango. She smiled back wickedly even though the unsettling feeling inside her hadn't subsided.

"I'll postpone my—our—departure for a few hours if we're going to the Registry."

Her smile fluttered.

"I can't marry you, Kepler." He didn't move a muscle. "I can't marry anyone," she rushed to add.

"I'm not anyone."

"Don't play games, Kepler—"

"Who said I'm playing games? If we're to go to the States together, we'll go as husband and wife. That's all I said."

"You can't be serious. You don't have to marry me. You know I'd lie for you." Her voice lowered at the last part. It wasn't shame because she would lie. It was shame because there was no question about it.

"I don't want you to lie for me. Especially when there is such an easy solution to prevent that."

"And we'd travel as what? Mr. and Mrs. Kepler?" she joked to show him how absurd all this was.

"As Mr. and Mrs. Radek Alionin. That's what my driving license and my passport say. I suppose you'll keep your surname. I'm not old-fashioned. I'm Radek Alionin, brother to Olek and Wera Alionin, son of Kalina and Emil Alionin.

"Radek Alionin was born in the USSR, a country that does not exist anymore, in a village that may not have kept its original name, to parents of Polish origin. That's why Olek is Olek with a 'k' and not a 'g' as it is in Russian. If you want to irritate Olek call him Oleg." He smiled at the inside joke. "Even though in his house they spoke Polish—especially when his grandmother was alive—he still has a hint of Russian in his Polish accent, though you'd better not tell him that either."

Christine felt she was about to freak out at any minute. You can't talk to me about your fake family! This is not happening! I can't marry you! The small voice screamed inside her. How could he miss it? It must have been all over her face. That voice was deafening her now.

"—After Perestroika and when everything collapsed they moved to Poland. The family scattered when the parents went to work in Germany and the kids stayed with their Polish relatives. They both had degrees but factory assembly work was the best job they could find at the time."

Her brain was unable to fully focus on the Alionin family story. Not when she had to concentrate on her breathing. Was this what people described as a panic attack? Was he serious? Was his proposal serious?

"My mother often tells the story of the broken bicycle I fixed for me and Olek to ride. I have the legal papers and at least four people that would swear I'm Radek Alionin."

"But you're not."

"Of course I'm not."

"Then how?"

"I told you one can buy anything in the Deep Web, even though the word 'bought' is harsh when it comes to a family but when you need a new identity you need more than a name and a real social security number. You need a past. Papers, public records, photos of that past, mementos. I bought their papers, the identity of their first-born five-year-old son who never left that village in the USSR—the circumstances were ideal for the traces to get lost or get easily tampered with. I bought their silence."

"But how, why?"

"I needed a new identity. Wera has a chronic disease. Olek's parents were desperate for money. They are good people. They practically adopted me. A long distance adoption but it works. They're more generous than our agreement instructed and Olek is a good man. I first found him and then them."

"Is the girl all right?"

"Of course she is!" he said in Kepler's matter-of-fact manner. "She's now a beautiful young lady living with her parents."

"They feel gratitude."

"That, too."

"That's why you want to marry me, Kepler? Out of gratitude? That's why you're attracted to me? Because I gave you a face? Don't you see that it's all too soon—" Her voice faded.

He lifted a questioning brow. "When you thought I was paying your father's medical bills, did you consider marrying me because of the goodness of my heart?" She snorted. "Did you sleep with me for that?"

"You know I didn't."

"Then why do you believe my feelings for you have to do with you giving me a face? Gratitude has its limits."

"Because it's too much and too soon!" Because no marriage proposal felt like a punch in the gut, but thankfully she kept that for herself. "You can't marry me, Kepler!" she reversed the phrase. She didn't want to hurt his pride. Or him.

"Just for the sake of argument, why should I not marry you?" He crossed his arms over his chest. She couldn't tell whether he was amused or offended. His posture was serious but that hint of a smile on his face confused her. "Humor me, Christine. Let me see your point of view."

He couldn't be serious. Was he doing it to distract her from his leaving?

"Because you don't know me. That's why! I don't know you!"

"I thought you knew the basics."

"There are so many things I don't know about you, Kepler!"

"You'll get to know me as you go. That's what couples do. Otherwise, people would get married on their deathbeds." Oh, he had to be kidding her!

"I'm not talking about huge stuff, I don't mean details or dates and events that could send you to prison—"

"You know plenty of those, too."

"—I believe that you trust me and I trust you but I'm talking about little things—" She didn't make sense even to herself.

"What do you want to know? Ask me and I'll tell you. You've already asked Dylan. Ask me." He paced away from the kitchen. Away from her.

Her mind was blank as her stare locked on his broad back. Kepler felt like a wall moving away from her, his proposal like a chain around her neck. She couldn't find a single question. If there really was a "fight-or-flight" instinct, she was on "flee" mode even though she realized how irrational she was. She wondered how she could think rationally when only half of her brain worked.

He propped his shoulder lazily against the doorframe of the workroom and kept looking at her with that unnerving, examining stare of his.

"No questions?" His tone was that of the Kepler she'd met in Wales. Neutral, unreadable. "I thought they would never stop. It feels as if I'm constantly replying to questions these last few days, explaining myself. Not exactly like an interrogation but close."

"And yet you claim you want to marry this person who does that to you, who'll keep doing that to you."

"Christine—" The reprimanding Christine once more. "I don't claim anything."

"You have all these walls around you and I feel like I have to climb them all and it's hard," she tried to explain.

"I hope you're not expecting any impressive discovery after all that climbing. We are at a point where what you see is what you get."

"Do I remind you of Jeanne Hebuterne?" Of all the questions she could ask, how did that slip out? It was almost funny to watch the confusion on his face. "Are you attracted to me because of the resemblance with the painting?"

He stood straighter. A faint blush crept across his pale face. She heard her sharp intake of breath. He must have heard it, too.

"Don't throw this back at me, Christine." A warning. "Between you and me, I'm not the one who doesn't know who his partner is. There are times you look at me and I don't know who you're trying to find. Kepler, Radek, your P8—" Even in her confused state she recognized a deflection when she heard one. She wouldn't let him draw her into this.

"I remind you of her, don't I? You had this painting before you really met me. Before you knew whether you'd even like me!"

"Okay, let's work on this assumption…. You think I saw Modi's wife, bought the painting because I was infatuated with her—with a two-dimensional woman on a canvas—and then I was attracted to you because you look like her? Doesn't that fit better in a fairy tale or something?" His confusion was gone. There was even a smile in his eyes. "Isn't that supposed to work the other way around? Wouldn't that make more sense? If I did like the painting because it reminds me of you?

"I mean if a man—I won't characterize his sanity—had fallen for a woman in a painting—we're talking about a woman existing only in his dreams…isn't he supposed to be slightly disillusioned when the living, breathing woman who resembles her in real life turns out to be stubborn, strong-willed, short-tempered with a tendency to analyze and worry about everything? If I were that man, I should run away from you!"

Not want to marry me! He had a point.

"If you wanted a silent martyr for a girlfriend, you should stick to the painting."

"You have your pros—"

"Did you make a list?"

"I have a good memory." There was something in his smile that warmed her inside. Was this a game? A test for her to pass? Why did he want to risk what they had?

"I'm not the woman you see in the painting." She wanted to make that clear. He leaned again against the doorframe, knowing there was more. "I don't know whether I can live up to your expectations."

"I have no expectations—" he mouthed the words silently while his eyes were smiling at her.

"I'm a simple, even boring woman and you look at me as…I don't know what. You'll only be disappointed." He shook his head in denial. The "let-me-know-better" attitude of his hit a nerve. "This is not healthy," she stated. People started with unshakable certainties like his and ended up living in different continents to avoid each other. "You said you wanted us to be a team—"

"I thought you wanted it, too."

"—that night, when you were in BDS as my P8 and promised me and yourself that you'd make it for my sake…Spencer had betrayed you. Your team was in shambles. You felt alone. You formed an obsession with me. A kind of transference." She didn't want to say more. She didn't enjoy seeing his face turning pale again. She didn't want to shatter his hopes. "That can't be healthy," she whispered.

"I think I'm repeating myself telling you that I wish you hadn't minored in Psychology." Despite the light tone his voice was hard. "I'm the son of an alcoholic. I know how addictions work. I've seen plenty in my life. If I'm addicted to you, I'm goddamn lucky. It's the best, the safest, the most pleasurable addiction I could have."

His stare on her, unrelenting, forced her to avert her eyes. He hadn't denied it. Why did she care? Even if he had denied it, what would be the difference? Would she believe him? She started biting a nail.

"You are the scientist who's interested only in facts. In danger of repeating myself again, I'll give you facts. No matter what I thought about you before I really met you, you entered my life—that's a fact—you were attracted to me—that's also a fact—you chose me even when you wanted to hurt me—another fact—you didn't shy away from all this nightmare I carry with me. "Do you expect me to let this go? Under any circumstances?" His voice was calm, soft but she could almost see that tiny vein beating under his eye.

"What would the odds be for the Kepler you met at the cottage to let you go without a fight? For Radek Alionin? They're the same man. Since when is fighting for what you need an obsession? Why can't you see this? If I were still deformed, would your pity have worked to my benefit? You would be more understanding towards my obsession, my addiction, my Modigliani painting or the fact that I don't regard marrying you as the insane thought of a patient who suffers from transference towards his therapist. Not to mention that you are not my therapist!
"I bet that when you read the book the nights you were watching over me at BDS you were more sympathetic towards the Phantom of the goddamn Opera—by the way, I should comment on your wicked sense of humor…. But it's not the same in real life, is it? I'm not a musical genius but I'm not a psychopath either. Does it matter what people call me? Does it matter if I wasn't honest with you about my name? You know who I really am. You must know at least that—"

"I can't marry you, Kepler." Why did this keep slipping through her lips no matter what? "You want me because of the way I reacted to you? Not because of who I am?"

"I want you because the way you reacted to me showed me you're strong and intelligent and daring and compassionate and caring and witty and I could go on and on but it wouldn't matter because it's not my feelings that are in question here."

She had hurt him. She had to make a mental note to think about it later because now all she could think of was how trapped she was, how she couldn't marry him—anyone for that matter—and how she could get out of this mess with the least possible damage.

"You can't marry me." The same, damnable mantra kept playing like a broken record. She couldn't stop it. She wanted to be clear, honest, not to raise expectations she couldn't fulfill. Not to create illusions that would turn sour. Not to need an Atlantic to separate them.

"Why can't you marry me?" To his credit there was no emotion in his voice. No complaint or accusation or anger or despair or anything that could make her feel worse than she already felt which was awful enough. He seemed just curious, willing to understand. "Why? We are a team, we're partners, we're in a relationship," he grimaced at the words, "we sleep together and in a very unmanly—no doubt—way I consider myself yours. Why can't I marry you, Christine?" How could he say such words with no emotion in his voice? "I know all this—" he waved a hand around, "is not normal. We didn't meet under normal circumstances. There was no common friend introducing us, we didn't meet in a pub or a bar…. Would that be any better? Why can't something good come out of this for a change?"

Christine remembered Dylan grumbling they were not able to live like normal people but while the complaint, the weariness, had been evident on the blond man's face, Kepler's features were a mask of pale indifference, of emotionless, sterile curiosity. She wanted to cry. She wanted to burst out in tears, maybe scream at his detached tone and his persistence that threatened to tear them apart but she had to be strong for both of them. How couldn't he see? Why did he want to ruin everything? People did get married every day. It was easy, expected. They got divorced every day. Why was it so important to him?

"Is it weird that I find all this a bit confusing?" Nothing was louder than the desperation in her voice.

"No." He shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Then why can't we wait a little? Give ourselves some time." She had to push that marriage-thing away from her. Exile it into another universe. "I'm not saying no to a relationship with you, you know that, but marriage?" Even the word felt sour in her mouth.

He took the few steps that separated them. Bending his head, he smiled at her before his lips brushed hers, his hands still in his pockets. He deepened the kiss, lazily toying with her lips, her tongue, with nothing close to the urgency, the desperation she felt, nor her need, until she wrapped her arms around his neck to pull him closer. Her hand moved to his nape, to his hair, soft and thick as it dried after his earlier shower while damp, straight strands fell over his forehead down to the level of his eyes.

"You need a haircut," she whispered when he rested his forehead against hers, his hands always in his pockets.

"That sounds quite wife-y."

She took a step back, her hands falling on his waist.

"I can't marry you, Kepler." She winced at the finality in her voice but she'd be damned if she let him destroy what they had. No kiss would change her mind. People did not decide on life-changing matters based on their basic instincts. They used reason and she already knew marriage was not for her. She didn't need her mother's bitterness, she had tasted it firsthand and if marriage to Ben Goodman was enough to do that to a woman, marriage to Kepler, who already could make her do anything he wanted, who had turned her life upside down, would be like jumping out of a plane with no parachute. If she had to be the strong one, the sane one here, then that was the role she was going to play.
"That doesn't mean I'm rejecting you. I love what we have," she tried to explain but words failed her. "I just can't marry you."

"I think I got that, but repetition is the mother of learning. Or the father? I don't remember—"

He was the same cool, almost amused Kepler, in control and composed even though, come to think of it, he had never overreacted or lost control during the whole time she was fighting the marriage-induced panic attack. She would have to think again later about what happened. It was a hazy blur in her mind.

"I guess I'd better get going. We'll talk more when I get back." Meaning he wouldn't let this go. His eyes challenged her. She didn't dare to ask him again to take her with him. "Before I go I have something for you—"

He walked to the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

Please let it not be a ring. Not a ring!

There was no reason to panic. It was an irrational fear. After all, his proposal had been a spontaneous one. There was no way he could have had a ring. And there was no way he'd think that a ring would make her change her mind when his words hadn't succeeded. Still, when he came out of the room with his coat draped over his arm and a huge box in his hands, she let out a sigh of relief.

His grin spoke volumes.

"Open it," he urged her gently.

The most amazing leather bag appeared under layers of soft off-white paper and silk fabric that carried a famous designer's logo. It was the luxurious, light and practical yet elegant version of her backpack in soft brown leather urging her to stroke it, smell it. Beautiful, businesslike but feminine, too, full of inner pockets, small, large, tiny or hidden, with enough storage space for her laptop and more she had to explore.

She grinned, relieved. No ring, no chains, no broken dreams and expectations. Kepler knew her. How could she doubt that? And this bag, this so-very-practical gift showed that, reduced everything that had just happened into a minor misunderstanding. It could be even less than that. Could this whole proposal have been nothing but a huge deflection on his part? A way to keep her here, safe?

"It must have been very expensive—" Perhaps more expensive than a diamond ring but she wasn't declining the gift. She didn't have the heart to do it. "Kepler—?"

"It's okay, Doc. We're okay. We're good." Once more, he answered her unspoken question. It was his turn to say the words. He put his black coat on and picked up his suitcase.

Her stare followed him as she held her new backpack in her arms like a baby or a kitten.

"Bye, honey. I'll be back soon." His faint smile and his exaggerated tone mocked her fears as the elevator doors closed.