"Why?" He had asked. "What would you wish for?"

"Something I can't have."

It's her first thought upon waking that morning, the dull ache behind her eyes the only true remnant of the whirlwind the night before had become. The throbbing in her temples, brought on by one too many cheap beer at the party down in steerage only further darkened her mood as the reality of the day sets in— the reality of her whole situation. She is to rise, and be dressed in silks and lace, and be made a "proper lady" for yet another insufferable breakfast with Cal on their promenade deck, and it would be just like every breakfast since the start of their engagement and this ridiculous tour of Europe. It didn't matter if they were in a train car, an Italian Villa, an ornate Parisian apartment, or on the grandest ship in the world. He would always be arrogant and insufferable, and she would always be talked over, miserable, and looked down upon.

As her mind strays to thoughts of Jack, she realizes all the more just how unfair the entire situation is. Why had she been saved by him— been given the opportunity to meet a man more caring, more charming, more interesting, talented and dare she wager the guess— loving, than Cal or anyone else suited to her station could ever be? Why had this wonderful man been placed in front of her as a beacon of all she would never have? It's cruel, and she cannot fathom what she must have done wrong to warrant her misfortune.

"Miss?"

As Trudy enters her room to wake her and get her dressed in her first outfit for the day she rises, knowing that there's nothing for her to do but to just get on with it: the day, this trip, the funeral sentence that is this marriage charade— all of it. At least she now has her memories of Jack. No one will ever be able to take those from her— her memories of being with him down in steerage, of being spun in his arms— the exhilaration, and the way that her stomach had somersaulted under the intensity of his gaze— that would be something she can retreat to when things are too much. She has very little to base her assumptions upon, but she knows without a doubt that Cal could never compare to Jack in any way. Maybe her new memories however will help to see her through. When Cal's hands touch her, maybe she can slip into these memories instead and things won't seem so bleak.

It's minutes before he finally speaks to her, acknowledging her presence at the table. She has been trying for nonchalance but his mood is palpable. She can almost see the quiet irritation just below the surface, and knows that his nonchalant attitude is also a farce. It's there, in the twitch of his eyebrow as he raises his coffee to his lips, biding time until the servants are out of the room and out of earshot.

"I had hoped you would come to me last night."

She keeps her expression composed but the fear that shoots through her at the contempt behind his words is real. "I was tired."

"Your exertions below decks were no doubt exhausting."

He had found out. Of course he had— how had she not even stopped to think last night about his lackey? The man had been directed to follow her every move since before they had departed Philadelphia, not that she had ever had much time or leave to get into any kind of trouble— before her decisions last night.

"I see you had that undertaker of a manservant follow me, how typical," she replies, knowing that her gauche attitude will only anger him further, but unable to resist it.

"You will never behave like that again, Rose, do you understand me?" he tells her, and she can see that he's fighting now to maintain his composure. There is something about it that eggs her own further, and even as the words escape her lips she knows that there will be consequences, but she simply cannot keep quiet. She cannot be the submissive, docile creature he wants her to be when her own anger is simmering just below the surface.

"I am not a foreman in one of your mills that you can command. I'm your fiancé."

His eyes lock to hers, the anger darkening them further. "My fiancé," he scoffs, rising to his feet, his hands flying, swiping the china off of the table as he lunges closer to her. "Yes you are, and my wife!"

As he flips the entire table she feels frozen in her fear. She has seen him angered before— occasionally with her, but he had never had an outburst of this scale so closely within earshot of others. Surely the servants can hear, just on the other side of the door. Surely her mother— who she knows is awake and taking breakfast in her stateroom just meters away. Their promenade deck abuts to two others on either side— Bruce Ismay's being one, and she's unsure whether the other belongs to the Countess of Rothes or Margaret Brown.

He comes closer still, grabbing onto her upper arms with a grip like a vice, shaking her. His breath is hot on her face, stinking of stale cigars and last night's brandy. "You are my wife in practice if not by law, and you will honor me," he tells her. "You will honor me the way a wife is required to honor a husband, because I will not be made out a fool. Is that in any way unclear?"

Trembling, its all she can do to shake her head. "No," she manages to eke out. His thumbs are digging into her arms in a way that she knows will leave a bruise upon her delicate skin which will displease him later. From the corner of her eye she can see Trudy entering into the room— a saving grace, as she knows Cal won't want his temper to be the talk of the day amongst the servants (although, with the mess he had made that hope is null and void).

"Good," he says, rushing out.

The relief of his exit hits her so heavily that she falls to the floor, her chair sliding from behind her, and she lunges for the scattered and broken china, needing to busy her hands to keep them from shaking violently. "Oh Trudy, I'm sorry, we had— we had an accident. Here, let me help you," she starts, but the kind ladies maid hushes her with a look.

"It's okay, miss."

There's understanding in Trudy's eyes, and Rose wonders for the millionth time what she would do without her kindness and her discretion. Trudy had bourn witness to all of Rose's joys and sorrows throughout the past several years and had always done so with kindness.

"Come on," says Trudy, offering Rose a hand in support as she's helped to stand. "Let's get you cleaned up and ready for the day. The stewards will clear this away."

Rose is even more unsure now if anything will ready her for this day, or any other, but there's nothing for it but to keep forging ahead. As much as she may want to, especially after the further guilt bestowed upon her by her mother before they head to the ship's chapel, she knows that she cannot be so stupid as to attempt to end it all as she had the other night. She won't discredit Jack's efforts in that way.

As she sings the prepared hymns with everyone else, her mind is elsewhere, off with Jack, wondering what he is doing at this very moment. Everything in her wishes that she had at least said goodbye, as she had known full well that the moment she stepped back through those first class doors last night, she would never have leave to see him again. So consumed with her thoughts of him, she thinks for the slightest moment that she can glimpse him now, passing by the dining saloon windows as the hymn to the sea continues.

— — —

Keeping her mind busy is all she can do to keep from crying, or screaming out in her frustration, and so that's what she does— practicing sums as they walk along, the odd realization hitting her: there aren't enough life boats.

With the way everyone chuckles at her questioning of it, she feels small, but Mr. Andrews had at least been kind, offering a compliment upon her brightness. If only, she thinks, things could be different. If only she were allowed, as a woman, to use her brain for anything useful— anything other than to chase away her fears and trepidation and sadness.

When she feels a hand on her arm, in her distracted state, she can't help but gasp, her first inclination to think that it must be Cal, pulling her aside to tell her off for speaking to Mr. Andrews out of turn as she has. Upon realizing that it's Jack, that fear turns to an equal mix of panic, and relief at just being able to see his face again.

As he leads her off to the side, into the gymnasium they had recently toured, she can see her mother and Cal continuing ahead, oblivious to her absence, but she cannot quell the fear she feels at the prospect of being caught here with Jack—the fear of what Cal may do.

"Jack, this is impossible," she tells him as he enters behind. "I can't see you." She makes strait for the door he has just closed, but he catches her arm.

"I have to talk to you," he tells her.

"No, Jack. No."

She finds her back against the wall nearest the door, and can't help but to glance to the window again, her eyes falling on the back of Cal's bowler hat as he says something to Mr. Andrews, her absence not yet noticed. She knows, however, that it is only a matter of moments before he realizes she's not right there behind him as he wold like her to be.

"Jack," she begins, "I'm engaged. I'm marrying Cal." She says it as much to try and convince herself as to convince him— "I love Cal." She can tell from his expression that Jack sees right through her.

"Rose," he tells her, "You're no picnic. Alright? You're a spoiled little brat, even." What should have come off as an insult does not. His expression betrays his care. "But, under that, you're the most amazing, astounding, wonderful girl— woman, that I've ever known."

His sincerity makes her heart and mind race in equal measure, and she can feel panic rising within her— panic that tells her if she stays another second, hears another word, that that would be it. She wold no longer be able to bare the life she has been sentenced to: the life that she, upon passing the first class threshold last night, had sentenced herself to. How easy would it have been to just disappear then? To hide away while no one had known of her absence?

"Jack, I—" she starts, her heart rending as she attempts to bid him farewell before she knows its too late, but he grabs hold of her gently, stopping her.

"No, Rose, let me get this out. You're ama— " he sighs, stopping. The stare he fixes her with is plain, his understanding of their situation clear. "Look" he tells her. "I'm not an idiot. I know how the world works. I have ten bucks in my pocket— I have nothing to offer you, and I know that. I understand. But I'm involved now."

He steps in close, as close as Cal had been hours earlier, but despite Jack's proximity she feels no fear. She can feel the warmth of him radiating into her space. Her eyes snap to his and he holds her gaze, the intensity of it boring into her. "You jump, I jump, remember?" he asks. "I can't turn away without knowing you'll be alright."

Even as he says it she knows that she can't convince him— can't convince herself. She cannot even begin to try. Her mind reels, and she glances again over her shoulder to see if she can spot her group, seeing that they're still up ahead, Cal apparently immersed in conversation as he points to one of the boilers above— the boilers his company had been commissioned to provide the steel for. She want's to protest to Jack's insinuation that she won't be alright, but can't find it within herself to argue. She knows that in reality, that while she may be breathing, with them she will never truly be living. She won't be alright at all. As Jack speaks again, following her gaze, she holds her tongue.

"They've got you trapped, Rose. And you're gonna die if you don't break free. Maybe not right away because you're strong, but—" He pauses, his hand rising to rest upon her cheek, caressing it. "Sooner or later that fire that I love about you, Rose— that fire is gonna burn out."

The sincerity behind his words is devastating. The way he can see right through all of the walls she has erected in her mind— all of the defensiveness, and the bristling spikes she employs to keep herself going and to keep those around her believing that she's fine and that this is all by her own design. He can see right through her bullshit, down to her core— right into her fears and emotions, to dig them all out and bring them up to the surface, illuminated. His sincerity and compassion has her rooted to the spot, her focus now fixed solely on him.

"It's not up to you to save me, Jack," she tells him. She knows that its true. As much as she may want him to be able to, he can't. The mess that she's in, while not by choice, is her mess, and she is the only person with the power to stop it. Looking in his eye now, however, she wonders whether maybe, with the knowledge that she has his support— that he may be there waiting for her— if she may yet somehow be able to save herself.

"You're right," he tells her, echoing her thoughts in a way that he can't even know. "Only you can do that."

She feels rattled, tears springing to her eyes as she realizes just how much hinges upon this moment— upon this choice, and yet as she continues to look at him, frozen under his hand upon her cheek, she can see nothing in his gaze except the adoration— the admiration for there that he has just spoken of. She finds that he believes in her, somehow, and that she trusts him. She believes in him and his intentions. Her hand rises to cover his, their fingers threading together as she lowers their clasped hands between them.

"Jack, you're right," she tells him, the tears escaping her eyes. "I'm trapped with them. I'm trapped and alone and scared, and I— I want to break free, but I just can't see a way. It's useless!" Her frustration boils to the surface, her tears now flowing hot and fast, and Jack steps closer still, his hand not holding hers rising to wipe at her tears with his thumb.

"It's not useless, Rose. Not if it means you can live a life you deserve."

"Maybe this is what I deserve," she whispers, nodding towards the window and to the others. She can see Cal now starting to look around, looking for her, and she's glad for the frosted glass. Jack gives her another look of exasperation.

"You can't believe that. I won't let you."

"But what can I possibly do?" she asks, seeing that Cal and Lovejoy are growing closer to their hiding place. Jack glances up and sees it too, both hands rising back to cradle her face as he meets her eyes again.

"Do you trust me?" he asks, and she nods.

"I trust you, Jack." She can feel her heart pounding in her chest as she says it and feels the weight of hit— the truth.

"Then meet me. At sunset. Find some way to sneak away. I'll be by the bow, waiting for you. I'll think of a plan."

Pulling his borrowed hat low over his eyes, Jack gives her one more meaningful glance before he steals quickly from the room, hurrying away.

"Sweetpea?" she can hear Cal calling, the annoyance plain in his voice. Taking a breath to calm her beating heart— still racing form the proximity to Jack and all he had said; what they had decided, she steps out of the doorway, calling for Cal's attention, putting her acting chops to good use.

"I'm here, Cal," she tells him, as he approaches, looking to her for an explanation. "I was feeling queasy, and needed to look for a lavatory. I apologize for not saying anything but I didn't want to cause a distraction for the others."

Cal nods, with a sigh. It's a reasonable excuse that even he can't argue with. It's Lovejoy who surprises her now, sparking an idea of how she may be able to pull off sneaking away to find Jack.

"Perhaps miss Rose should be escorted back to her rooms to lie down before dinner?" he suggests, and Cal nods.

"Very well."