"I know what it is to be capable and beautiful and ambitious, and be on people like Sergei and Larry's check list of things that look good to have on a shelf."

-Season 1 Episode 3, Chapter 3

Frank refilled his wine glass and took another sip, re-crossed his legs. They both loved the rare nights when they could linger over a late dinner like this.

"You said I wasn't the first one to propose to you. Who was?"

"A boy I went to high school with, spring of senior year. We were dating off and on. It was more a fun distraction before college than anything serious. One last chance to be a teenager." A smile played at his mouth as he imagined Claire as a young woman about to conquer the world.

"And who was this lucky gentleman?"

"Peter Langdon."

"Oh. That Peter…" The boy her mother had shamelessly all but arranged for Claire to marry. Her gray eyes hardened.

"He asked me to marry him at the spring dance. My mother said I was a fool to refuse. The fact that I'd gotten into the best school in the country didn't seem to matter to her-" Setting her fork down, she smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry. You don't want to hear all this."

"Yes I do. I asked, remember?"

Claire sighed, irritated with herself. He kissed her knuckles and offered a small smile in encouragement, knowing she needed this. And he needed it too. Claire was incredibly private, and even he only caught glimpses of her life before him, scattered snatches here and there in off-hand comments, or from occasional conversations like tonight, when it was late and she'd had enough wine. They were both more than a little tipsy, otherwise he wouldn't have had the courage to ask, and she wouldn't have had the courage to answer. When she didn't say any more, he reached out and took her hand again.

"You don't have to tell me. But if you want to, I'll gladly listen."

"He didn't even give me the chance to say yes or no. He just kept talking, going on about how much he adored me and how I would never have to work, and talking about three kids, two boys and girl… And it made me physically sick, Francis, listening to him go on like that about how he was going to lock me in this prison for the rest of my life." Claire took several sips of wine, watched the burgundy liquid swirl in the glass. "Nothing I wanted mattered; he didn't even bother to ask. Including whether I actually wanted to marry him. He deigned to let me have a horse or five if I absolutely must, but he wanted a yacht, a couple vacation houses somewhere nice, and a beautiful trophy wife who would make him look good and keep her mouth shut."

The glass strained under her grip, and she almost shattered it in her hand.

She threw Peter a mischievous smile as they slipped out the doors into the privacy of the courtyard. At last, she relaxed a little in the peaceful near-silence with only the fountain bubbling in the warming night air.

"Thank you for tonight, Peter," she intoned graciously. "It's been wonderful."

His wide, green eyes stared at her with unfettered adoration, like she was a goddess. He noticed the goosebumps on her arms and slid off his tux jacket. Before she could open her mouth, he slipped it over her shoulders and unfurled his vest on the edge of the fountain. He smiled like he thought himself some kind of genius.

"So you don't ruin that beautiful dress. You look perfect tonight, Claire. Well," he stumbled over his own tongue, "you look perfect every day, but tonight you look… more than perfect. Divine."

She sat because he expected her to, but her stomach twisted at his tone, his too-bright eyes, the way his hand kept brushing hers, how often his arm had found its way around her waist tonight, pulling her against him.

"I think we should get married at Christmas." Fifteen years of iron decorum kept her from tumbling backwards into the fountain. Or bolting to her feet and storming away in indignation at his presumption. Dumbly, she stared at him with incredulous gray eyes. It hadn't been a question; she wasn't hallucinating. Her lips parted, but it took her a moment to make her voice work.

"I'm going to Harvard in the fall, and even after that, it's going to take a few years to start building my career. It's going to be a lot of work and I won't have much time for anything else."

Peter stared at her with that lost puppy look he always had around her as if she'd never spoken. He slid a strand of her hair between his fingers.

"A girl like you doesn't deserve that kind of hard life. You deserve to have someone who will take care of you, to be loved and adored. I promise you you'll never work a day in your life. And we can even get a horse farm if you want."

It felt like his hand had clamped over her nose and mouth. Like she was suffocating and he wouldn't let go. His words surged in and out of focus as her heart pounded against her sternum.

"…I'm going to need your support in Dallas if I'm ever going to have a legacy like my father's. I need you by my side. Having you on my arm will do wonders for me. Politics is my parents' thing, but as long as we make them happy, I can eventually build my own life. And earn my own money." He shrugged. "Maybe someday I'll wake up and find taking over my parents' company isn't going to be so soul-sucking and horrible after all…"

Her hearing throbbed again and she re-crossed her legs, wishing the movement would knock her out of this fog, this nightmare. Claire gave him an icy smile so sweet it had fangs.

"…and I think three children would be perfect. Two beautiful little boys and a girl with your cheek bones…"

Needles stabbed her arms and her scalp as she tried to remember how to breathe, how to keep herself alive. He was going to kill her, and damn it if she kept herself from killing him first.

She seethed the entire flight home from Andover.

Her mother was waiting for her when she got through the front door. She ambushed her in the living room, presumably so Claire didn't have the chance to escape upstairs.

"I think you should get married in the winter," she mused from the couch, sipping coffee. "It's such a lovely time of year, and summer weddings are far too overdone to be tasteful."

"You knew about this?" Claire snapped. A solitary raised brow met the outburst.

"Of course I knew. I'm rather worried that it seems you didn't."

"I don't want to marry him."

"You think Peter was dating you because he liked you? This is empire building; it can't be done without sacrifices."

"I'm not giving up Harvard for a boy, Mother!"

"You can still go to Harvard married, Claire. But here is where your future is, with him. With us. I'm sending you to Harvard to prepare for this."

"I'm not going to be someone's trophy," she threw back desperately. "You don't get to decide my life for me, Mother!" Elizabeth shot to her feat. Her hand cracked across Claire's cheek, leaving two stark red slashes in its wake where her rings had cut her.

"You will listen to me, Claire! You will do as I say!" Her eyes narrowed dangerously, her voice abruptly tightly controlled and bitingly crisp. "You will smile for the well-wishers, you will conduct yourself in a manner worthy of your family and your standing. You will pick out a wedding dress and come December, you will say your vows and go back to Harvard after Christmas a married woman. Peter is a little rough around the edges now, but he'll come around to his sense of duty with age. This is an alliance. You will have two of Texas's most powerful families behind you, Claire. Surely you can see what I'm trying to give you. You're eighteen years old; you have to think about your future now. This is no time for a child's games and temper tantrums. Do as you're told, Claire."

It was all she could do not to smash the antique tea pot over her mother's head and watch her crumple to the ground limp and unconscious. Her fingers twitched at her sides and vision narrowed.

She would suffocate chained to this boy for the rest of her life. Peter Langdon could scarcely see outside the city, never mind as far as Washington, DC or Khartoum. His biggest concerns were his race horses, his wardrobe, and his sports cars. He adored her; he worshiped her. To him, she wasn't a woman - she was a goddess. To be coddled and cared for and served with the utmost devotion.

He would never let her lift a finger.

She would die with his hands around her throat and his ring on her finger.

Claire stood silently next to her husband while he scrubbed the pots and pans from dinner, watching his wedding ring flash in and out of the soap bubbles. A boy like Peter never would have thought to do the dishes. A boy like Peter never would have asked her about herself or smiled softly at her as she told him a story, or stayed up late planning the future and charting a course to the life and careers they were going to build together. Boys like Peter knew nothing of love or anything beyond themselves. Francis did – her partner, her husband, her best friend.

"Thank you, Claire, for trusting me. I always like learning about a new piece of you." Francis's eyes crinkled at the edges, his smile sweet and warm. She stepped over to slide her arms around his waist and rest her cheek between his shoulder blades.

"You're the only man I could've ever married, Francis. I want you to know that."

"What? Why?"

"Because you never put me on a pedestal. You've never degraded me like that. You treat me like a human being, and that means more than anything else."