Hi all! I am back with a strange and complicated tale of Jack and Rose set ten years after Titanic. What will happen when Rose the actress meets the one she believed dead for ten years?

The Stranger I Loved.

London, 1922

The reviews were fabulous.

The pressure was off.

London town had accepted the play with open arms. Perhaps even more than New York had.

Post war, the life here was supposed to be thriving. And it was.

Rose Dawson stood with a champagne flute within her delicate hands, nodding along with another prominent cast member. Finger food was served upon salvers, as waiters adorned in white and black carried full and empty trays about the room, to and from a kitchen situated through small double entrance doors to the far side of the guest hall. The black lace of her dress was cut to just below the knee, tickling her leg and shoulders as she sashayed about the lovely space, just nodding and accepting the compliments bestowed upon her. Her smile was genuine, her gothic dark red lips turned up in response to the wonderful chatter and then pressed a light air kiss to the cheeks of many. Some were lords and ladies; others were fellow actors or directors and there were even whispers of British royalty been in attendance but Rose had not courted any of the gossips and simply enjoyed the wonderful evening.

The first week had been successful. Pulling in more pounds than any play this side of the war. Investors were happy, the cast were thrilled and Rose was elated, tired and—floating, somehow. Now and then, her on stage love interest, Stuart Black, would steer her in the direction of another face, she would shake their hand and exchange pleasantries before joining another clique. Playing this role was a particularly familiar one, but it was part of her façade of the successful actress and so, as the handsome moustached gentleman took her arm once more, she was introduced to yet another noted person before repeating the same routine and moving along to the next. A flash went off; the press was present. The boom startled her, and she found herself escaping the commotion of journalists and went past the bar, to the ornate and beautiful tapestry at the opposite end of the ballroom hung all the way across the back walls which gave the distinct impression of royalty; perhaps of Queen Victoria's time. If one closed their eyes, it felt old glamour of those days where women would come together with plumes stuffed in large hats and strict corseted dresses. Merely ten years before, she had been one of those young girls who was rigidly forced into a corset, unable to breathe and suffocated slowly until her freedom had come.

The row of photographers continued to watch the spectacle, their cameras going off intermittently. Speaking to the tabloids, one supposed, was part of the occupation. Especially when with a play as successful. Whilst it was wonderful for the many other talents she worked with; she was never one to court the attention. It frightened her. Reminded her of flashes long ago, which had haunted her to this very day.

The Savoy hotel was the home to the wonderful function, opening their opulent doors to many events a week and now, she was included in the one which was on top of most social calendars. Granted, if she wasn't the lead actress then she would never be here. How was she here? An actress plagued with such insecurities with herself yet the stage was the only cure for her own fright. When on stage, the world fell away and that was when she felt the most alive and soared the way she had at another time, so long ago that it felt a distant dream to her now. Sometimes, late at night, she tried to determine just whether it had ever happened or not.

Curling a stray hair about her red manicured finger, she browsed the wondrous art upon the walls. Her hair fell to just above her waist, having never followed the trends of the times and cutting it to a more manageable length. The girls of the fashion pages were waif, slender with dark kohled eyes and chopped to the chin tresses. The dresses were cut for the ones who refused to eat past midday and lived on cigarettes and cheap wine. Granted, since the war, her own figure had slimmed down but she would never quite be one of the other model-like women who drenched the fashion pages. Trends would come and go, but rarely would Rose be one to follow them. Looking at the art, she watched; some were nudes, Grecian and beautiful. Some were lovers. Some were mothers and children. A woman breastfeeding her child. A man upon a horse. The waves crashing upon an unknown shore. Endlessly she could grow lost in such scenes, and it took her just a second to slowly make her short way from one side of the wall to the other, allowing her eyes to drink in the wonderous work before her eyes. It had been years since she had fell prey so such quality. Some were paintings, others sewn into great tapestry but each a wonder to look at.

The throngs of the crowd had thinned as midnight approached, and Rose still nursed the same flute of champagne as she had since the start of the evening. Slowly, she placed it upon the wooden mantelpiece, before slowly making her way back to the centre of the ballroom to where some danced a slow waltz. Some were married, some were lovers or courting and some, no doubt would wind up in the bed of each other that evening but out of them all, none were alone but her. It would be bitter; the sting of loneliness and it was now she missed feeling the warmth of another man beside her. Just to take a dance with, enjoy an evening like this with another beside her cast mates. Would there ever be proudness found within the eyes of another man as she looked there? A sigh escaped her terribly dry lips. There had been two other men for Rose, both after the war, for before 1915 it was as though she still belonged to another man, and perhaps a part of her would always.

Peter had been tall, handsome and kind. Chicago Times had called him their Batchelor of the Season and it turned out, he had been just that. He was a fellow actor, who eventually ventured into politics. Their courtship had lasted about eight months with no promise of anything but wonderful strings of dinners, weekends in New York and the odd time she met his parents, she was glad to leave. They ended when she moved out West to follow the theatre production. After a year out there, Samuel had proposed to her right off the bat and whilst she had refused, they had courted somewhat seriously before both realised, they were never going to be quite a match. Rose was not to be wife material, or the mother of his children, that much was clear. So, two years after that, she had not entertained the prospect of another courtship. It wasn't for lack of the attention, men were riveted by her, even now as she approached thirty and had lost the vibrance of her youthful auburn hair to a bright blonde four years before after allowing the director of the play to dye it. Work was the only constant fix in Rose's life and had been since she had left France and nursing after the War had ended. Spending three years out there was an eye-opening experience for her at that tender age and so, she had taken the plunge to finally audition on Broadway the very same day her ship docked back in New York City.

Contemplating her life back then, it was dark and filled with thoughts of only one. Jack Dawson. The man who had been her widow, or so she claimed. After surviving the sinking of the Titanic, Rose had spent two or three years working as a governess, as a waitress or shop assistant. Perhaps that was where she had sharpened her tools of playing the perfect role; Rose Dawson, a recent widow. She had felt lost, in a never-ending pool of blackness until she had volunteered to become a nurse.

Now, her life was spent on stage, for when she was off stage, it was always a struggle to be herself, for one had never fully discovered just who she truly was. A wonderful laugh caught her attention and it was as though its owner would be just as beautiful as the sound was. A gentleman seemed to be engaged in a pleasurable conversation with a pretty female just in front, the crowd surrounding them were the regular photographers. For a blinding moment, she thought of Jack. He was good at flirtation. That much she recalled vividly. Perhaps although the champagne had indulged her own memories a little more. A set of eyes were upon her, sending goosebumps all across her body. His gaze was hazy, although unwavering and sending the familiar shiver straight to her stomach where it shook her very core yet this time it occurred more. It never stilled. Never settled. Fluttering more than it had done years before. Now it clenched as well.

His eyes glowed. Wide toward her. In the large, expansive ballroom, she stood centre and beneath the gloriously glowing chandeliers which adorned the ceiling and bathing her in such an ethereal light that it was painful. Somewhere off in a corner, the band played haunting melodies of some sort but it seemed to fade into the background along with the rest of the people, the clatters of champagne flutes and the world. It went still, but as though the earth had been tilted on its axis. Above everything, she heard the pounding of her own heart within her ears as both stood, solidly still like a deer in a head lamp fixed and unable to move.

Tall. Broad. Hands clenched at the small of his back, then unfolding to join at his waist. Those hands...

From afar he was ghostly, in a light brown matching three piece and then, after several steps, the features were certain. Long, lean legs but broader than one recalled took him from the crowd towards her, although time had slowed down. There was the sound of his shoes scuffling along the thick wooden floor, propelling him forward and then, the features which were once unclear came to be like crystal. Blue eyes, sparkling with some unshed emotion, but lined slightly with time. Hair, darker than she remembered but certainly worn in the same style, neatly creamed to keep in time with the fashions. Hair dusted across his chin, down his neck and disappeared below a loose collared shirt and...

There he was. Jack Dawson. Stood before her. Or—so it appeared to be.

Her eyes travelled the length of him; shoe to hair and then, before she was about to scream from terror of seeing an actual ghost, she was steadied by two hands as familiar as her own as they took her hands within their own. Tanned, long lean fingers which felt rougher to touch than before. Upon his fourth finger, he wore no ring. Nothing. Music started from the band, soft and tender replacing a lively jig of some sort and before her legs could even buckle, she was caught by strong forearms. Wordlessly, her left hand was in his right and he stroked a finger just once across her fourth, near her knuckles as though checking for a wedding band there. Electricity pulsed through her entire body, spiralling her into some kind of dream like state. It was hazy, slow...

Then, she was dancing. I don't know the steps...

Rose didn't know the dance. The music. The steps. It was a blur but she moved. Riveted beneath his gaze, beneath the way in which he held her. He could be real, he may not be, either way, she feared finding out.

His eyes were lighter in colour, a watery ring seemed to surround his iris. The scent of him was the same; the scent of his bare skin pressed to her own, writhing in the back seat of a car in which he had lovingly taken her heart and her virginity. His back was broader, his chest harder as she placed her hand right there against the button of his waistcoat to steady herself, she found there was a heavy pounding beneath it which seemed to answer every question of his existence; a heart. He was warm. He was perhaps real.

He moved effortlessly. Gliding. Leading. Teaching. Could this be her Jack, dancing in such a graceful manner? A man who had limited means, barely an education or a dollar and yet, there was an heir of importance about him now. Now, he was a man. Upon his face, she could make out the slight lines of time here and there, but other than that his face was unaltered. He held her tightly, at an appropriate length away and yet, there was something wonderfully intimate about how now and then he clasped her hand tighter or run his hand down to her curved hip and back to the base of her spine.

Rose moved her feet, as though the steps were ingrained within her and yet she was entirely clueless. There was a fluidity to her movement, as though her entire body was made of water and contained within her skin and if he let go then she would just collapse and drown.

Rose felt as though she wanted to tremble, but was too pinned beneath the intense gaze. She was almost frightened to remove herself. What would happen when the music stopped? What could happen?

As the ends of his lips curled into a smile, Rose saw how the rest of his face seemed to become illuminated with his radiance and the roof could have caved in to allow the sunlight through for the first time in so long. Wasn't that the way Jack had always made her feel? Like she had never felt the sun light and now, it was warm upon her back and filling her with such happiness and it seeped into her bones, her heart then chipped away any pieces of rigid ice which had grown from her life within the confines of a harsh Society. Now, the coldness was disappearing, replaced by a distinct warmth that was a distant memory to her now.

He loosened his grip. Letting go of one hand. Then, she was swirling, turning and twisting just holding on with one finger to his own. Her hair went about her, the lace of her dress going with her and soon, she allowed the jazzy sounds of the band to reach her ears and realise that the pace had changed. He could dance. This was a dance she recognised. One she had never done off stage though. Wanting to scream, as he continued to twirl her about, that same beautiful laugh which she had heard initially broke everything and it belonged to him. Her own laughter joined his, as loud as the band and no doubt attracting attention from every other partygoer present but somehow that was insignificant. She was dizzy, breathless and joyous.

In the heat of the moment, she was pulled back to him. Their bodies pressed together, before he grasped her shoulder and waist before dipping her, using his hip to move to her and then once she was back upon two feet their eyes were merely an inch or so away. He repeated it and she turned to fluid in his arms, as though she was back to playing a part. A woman dancing with a man who she had been desperately in love with for over a decade. Sweat lined her forehead, she was out of breath and after he dipped her for the final time, noticed that every pair of eyes were on them as though they were the only two lovers in the entire world. The lights were the flashes of the photographers as they immortalised the moment of the two in film. The interest wasn't a distraction, it forced her to focus on only him as memories seemed to reawaken of a time so long ago it was almost none existent. A time when she had danced within the arms of an almost stranger and felt the safest that one ever could.

He was in control of the dance. Of the pace. Of her. Jack. Or was it him? With widened eyes, Rose was back pressed right up to him, her spine poker straight with a fiery trail threading up it as his left hand rested at the base. Beneath the thin material of her dress, she felt how his fingers twitched. Her own hands were at his shoulders, and contained within his. Wordlessly, still, she took her right hand from his shoulder and slowly reached up, towards his face to just touch him once there, perhaps would be a true indication of the reality of the night. Just as she reached the warm skin there, on his cheek, there was a loud cheer and then she held her breathe. Blinking several times, she turned to see the commotion, then she was let go.

Given up.

Alone.

With another blink, she turned and he was gone. Lingering behind was a coldness seeping into her bones but a glittering, twisting, nerve shattering tremble running through her spine, into her legs and tingling into her stomach.

''I-I.'' There was nothing she could say.

Alone in the centre of the ballroom. Where she has started the evening. All alone.

''Are you all right?''

The voice was familiar. But not Jack's. It was-

Turning, numbly, she found Stuart, her on stage love interest. He turned her to him, tilting his head with such a concerned face that she could only smile.

''Yes. Sorry. Just—could you get me a ride back, I feel dizzy.''

Stuart laughed, raising his hand to one of the waiters she assumed to get attention. ''Of course. Although, I am not surprised with just how you twirled and danced. I have never seen that of you in the several years I have known you.''

Rose's mouth drew dry. ''I did? I danced...''

Stuart furrowed his brows. ''Perhaps, I will assist you home myself, it appears you have consumed far more champagne than I had seen.'' Taking her elbow, he steered her toward the exit, nodding goodnights as they went.

''I am quite all right.''

''You don't recall dancing just minutes ago, love.''

''Yes, I do. It just-'' Rose paused on the threshold of the exit, taking one final glance about the glamourous ballroom in which she had just been swept about by a man she thought to be dead. ''Who did I dance with?''

Stuart was silent for a second, reaching out for her to steady the trembles which her body had finally succumbed to. ''Names Jack Dawson, or so I heard. He's a well-known photographer. He did famous landscapes, landmarks and then moved onto movie stars and such. Got a pretty good name in London or so I hear, maybe even just opened a gallery up Bond Street or so I heard.''

Squeezing her eyes closed, Rose's legs finally buckled. The weight of the evening took her away. Stuart's arms caught her and the final thing she remembered was his voice, soothing away the fears she never knew to have. I thought you might have known him, that's all, or I would have intervened. But with Dawson been your surname and his...

Thanks for reading. I wanted this to have a very Dicaprio Gatsby-esque feel to it to start with. I hope this worked, somehow.