Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from James Cameron's Titanic. No profit is being made off of this story.

A/N: You all are wonderful! I'm glad you are all enjoying this story as much as I'm enjoying writing it:o) Please, keep reviewing; I'd love to keep hearing what you all think!

May 4th, 1912

Pittsburg had not changed for Cal in the six months since he had left it behind for grandeur in Europe. As his Renault rolled up the long, paved driveway of the Hockley estate, he glanced out the window, looking for something, anything out of place. Anything that would make him painfully aware of the tragedy that had just taken place. Yet as he stepped out of the car and the driver came around to assist him with his bags, there was nothing that Cal could see differently. The lawns were perfectly mowed and the gardens brilliantly landscaped, as per usual. The mansion had been freshly repainted and the windows washed. The Hockleys were fortunate; one of the finest families of the north. The Hockleys always had the finest luxuries. Hockley was a name to be loved and feared at the same time.

Cal couldn't help but hang his head as he entered the mansion. Today, the proud and arrogant son of a bitch was gone, and in its place remained a shamed, scorned shell of a man. Today, he was embarrassed to be a Hockley.

"And the bags, sir? Shall I place them upstairs?"

He nodded. "Yes. In the bedroom."

"Right at once, sir."

Cal replayed the events of the past few weeks in his head. He had spent a week in New York after the Carpathia had docked, and then it had been on to Philadelphia and his mansion on business. The wedding had been officially cancelled and the newspapers notified. Rose's death announcement had been placed, and memorial preparations had gone into act. Ruth, now living with Molly Brown and her husband in New York, had mentioned her desire to sell the DeWitt-Bukater mansion, and in turn, he had promised her that he would look into a reputable broker and get it up on the market.

He ascended the stairs slowly and made his way into his parlor that adjoined his bedroom. It was pristine, untouched aside from having been cleaned and dusted by the housekeeping staff, and it was a safe haven, and always had been. He sighed and loosed the tie around his neck, searching for his tumbler in the process. He walked over to the bookcase and removed the bottle of brandy and poured it into the glass.

He took a swig, letting the hot liquid burn the back of his throat and carried the glass with him out onto the terrace. It was there that he found his mother in his favorite lounge chair, curled up with a book in her lap. Cal managed a smile, his first genuine smile in weeks, as he came up behind her and kissed her briefly on her left cheek.

Startled, she closed her book and turned, but smiled and embraced him gently as only a mother could. "Caledon," she smiled. "How was your trip?"

He ran a hand over his unshaven face and sighed as he sat down next to her. "All business, as per usual."

"You know that's not what I was asking."

Cal swallowed. He had been avoiding talking about Titanic or Rose whenever the topic arose, but he could never hide his true feelings from his mother. Eleanor Hockley was a woman who had given her children and husband nothing but love, but was not a woman to be deceived. He knew this, and chose his words carefully, not wanting to divulge too many details. When the time was right, one day he would divulge his secret about Rose.

"It was…terrible and I don't wish to speak much of it. I acted far from how a gentleman should and I lost my fiancée in the process."

Eleanor nodded and patted his hand. The afternoon rays caught the silver in her dark brown hair as she rested back against the lounge chair. "Losing Rose was not your fault. You're far too stubborn, just like your father, and you hide your emotions well. A day will come when you will no longer be able to hide. You have to learn to forgive yourself of your sins. Forgiveness is not something you have allowed yourself to feel."

The good Christian woman speaks. "You don't understand, Mother!" He huffed and he swallowed another mouthful of brandy. "I can't even begin to explain, and I can never forgive myself."

"Cal—"

Bitterly, he shook his head and retreated away from her several steps. "Does Father wish to see me?"

"Yes." She reopened her book and peered at him over the edge of her glasses. "He's been waiting for you in his study."

Briskly, he walked forward and kissed Eleanor on her cheek. "I'm sorry for raising my voice to you. I just…need time."

"Yes, of course."

Cal nodded and closed the terrace door behind him. His mother always reached out to him; his father never, and now he had to face the latter, and he would get no sympathy from him.

The solid oak doors to Nathan Hockley's study were closed, which meant only one thing to Cal; for it had been trained into his head ever since he was a young boy. He was to knock, and then enter. He did so, gripping the brass knob tightly in his hand.

The study was neat, in working condition, and behind the rosewood desk was his father, writing in his business ledger while sorting through a stack of papers. He did not look up, and simply continued on with his business.

Cal cleared his throat, pouring more brandy from his father's supply into his tumbler. "Mother told me you wished to see me before supper."

Nathan finally glanced up, peering up at his eldest son over the edge of his glasses. "Yes…there are a few things that need to be discussed." The old man rose sturdily behind his desk, his full height of six feet nearly overshadowing Cal, and he removed his glasses. "First things first, how is the mill in Philadelphia running?"

Cal took a swig of the brandy before responding. He knew it would come to this, for it always had before. "Running well and with no problems. The orders that you had placed last month have been exported to California, and the other is en route to Boston."

"Very well, indeed. And there have been no more strikes?" Nathan questioned, walking towards the bay window and glancing out onto the lawn.

"None that I have been made aware of. The overseers and I spoke in great detail." Cal lifted the tumbler to his lips once again and took another burning sip. "And the Pittsburg mill?"

"Wonderful and riot-free. There must be something you're doing wrong, Caledon, if these riots keep surfacing at the Philadelphia mill. But, perhaps, in time, you will learn.

"Perhaps," Cal replied snarkily, but it went unnoticed. "Will that be all, or…?"

"For now, yes. We can not have rioting at the mills, do you understand? I will need a weekly report from you until the situation is under control."

"For the past two months it has been under control. I see no such reason for me to report weekly to you when I report monthly on the mill as it is."

Nathan turned from the window and walked back towards his desk. "You forget your place quickly, Caledon. And as long as I am in control of Hockley Steel, you will obey my orders. When I have passed on and the business is in your hands, you may do what you wish. But that is not the case right now, I will not tolerate your insolence."

Cal scoffed and this and headed for the door. "You seem to forget that I am also your son and not one of your mill workers." With that, he slammed the heavy door behind him and headed briskly towards his parlor. Upon entering it, he paced briefly before his bottled up anger overcame him. He flung the tumbler angrily at the bookcase and watched as the tiny shards fell onto the floor before collapsing into his leather chair with his head in his hands.

New York, New York

May 10th, 1912

The days passed slowly for Rose, and in the nearly three weeks she had been at O'Neill's, she rarely retreated from her room, except for supper each night. And even at supper she was quiet and reserved, only speaking when spoken to. She knew Mrs. O'Neill and the other girls were worried about her, but she rarely paid them any mind.

She barely recognized herself in the mirror anymore. She had lost weight from scarcely eating, and it showed. Her dresses hung off of her now frail body, and her face had become gaunt and pale from lack of sunlight. Her abundant red curls hung limply now, and the color had become brassy and faded. She looked terrible and she knew it, but she didn't care. Nothing mattered to her anymore, not since losing Jack.

And Jack. As the days wore on, she had come to terms with his death. He had died saving her, and for that she could never be more thankful. In the three short days she had come to know him, he had taught her more about a life that she had yearned for all along and for that she'd be forever thankful.

At the same time, Rose was bitter. Jack had left her to build the life they had talked about building together alone and had left her to suffer this way. In a way, she had wished she, too, had perished in the Atlantic. She knew she wouldn't survive my longer if she continued living in the way she had been, yet it was too painful to take a step out of her misery, which was the only thing familiar to her nowadays. The doctor had been to see her several times, yet each time his diagnosis was the same. Depression. Shock.

The knock on her door disturbed her delirious thoughts. It had been a dreary evening, and Rose had not bothered to get out of bed, so it came as no surprise when the door creaked open ever so slightly to reveal Mrs. O'Neill. She entered with a supper tray, and the smell of chicken soup and bread permeated Rose's nostrils. Her stomach rumbled in protest, and she rolled over slowly in greeting.

"Rose, dear. I've brought you your supper." The tray was set down on the small writing table carefully, and Margaret O'Neill drew closer, wringing her small hands over her apron. "Rose?"

Rose opened her eyes, still clutching the quilt to her chest. "Yes. Thank you."

Sighing, Margaret patted Rose's leg and seated herself on the edge of the bed. "Rose…we need to talk." When there was no answer from Rose, she continued, slowly. "Walter and I, as well as the girls here, are very worried about you. You hardly withdraw from your room or socialize. You haven't eaten in days, nor have you taken care of your appearance, forgive me for saying so. You're grieving in such a way that I feel I can not reach you. Where are you, Rose?"

Rose opened her eyes and stared hazily at Mrs. O'Neill's form. "I'm here."

"There are people that can help you, Rose, if you would only let them in. Perhaps the best thing I could do for you now to send you to the hospital, where a doctor can look over you constantly. They can help you there, Rose, and then when you're better, you can come back to us."

Rose closed her eyes once again, wishing for Margaret to disappear. "Do you mean…you wish to send me to a mental hospital?"

"Not a mental hospital, per se. A clinic, for women. Your grief is so complex, Rose. I only wish I could begin to understand it."

"And if I choose not to go to this hospital?" she questioned defiantly, balling her hands into fists underneath the comforter.

"I'm afraid you have no choice, Rose. We have all tried to reach out for you. If you do not go, you will not be able to stay with us any longer."

Angrily, Rose sat up against the headboard, her tangled, auburn hair falling into her sallow face. "You're throwing me out?"

"Everyone has to contribute to the home, Rose. By now we expected you to have a job; to be making improvements to your life. I'm giving you options, not throwing you out." Mrs. O'Neill sensed Rose's anger and stood up, clutching her apron in her hands. "I will be by in the morning to see what you've decided."

Rose said nothing in response, yet simply waited for the door to close. She quickly sat up and ignored the dizzy feeling in her head while she cautiously rose to her feet and walked over to the writing table. A plan was slowly forming in her head, and it was as if a second wind had been knocked into her. The grief that she had been holding inside for the past three weeks was not her top priority—for now, at least.

She sat down at the table and hungrily gulped down the steaming soup and bread. She would not let them take her dignity away by sending her to a mental hospital! She may have been grieving and suffering more than Mrs. O'Neill could ever fathom, but she would not grieve at the home any longer.

Angrily, she pushed the dish to the side and dropped the spoon on the tray. It clattered loudly, but she was determined, and she had a short period of time before Mrs. O'Neill's suspicions would be raised.

She had been bedridden for such a long period of time that her legs were not accustomed to rushing around the tiny room, but Rose trudged on as she began sorting through the select few dresses Mrs. O'Neill had offered her. She settled on a navy colored frock with lace trim along the neckline, wrists, and skirt edge. Not her most flattering color, but it was simple enough to not draw attention, which is what she so desired. She had spent her childhood and adolescence as the forced center of attention, and tonight it would not be so, nor ever again.

Quickly and carefully, she flung the dress over her arm and gathered a newfangled garment that Mrs. O'Neill had also offered her, known as a brassiere. She had never seen such a contraption before in her life, but it looked much more comfortable than the restrictive corsets she had been used to. She also added her freshly washed undergarments to the pile, while gathering a brush, comb, and a pair of scissors in the other hand.

She opened the door of her room and carefully exited it, making sure to glance up and down the hall to check for anyone. She didn't want anyone to question her, or to have to make silly and useless conversation. The bathroom was only at the end of the hall, and Rose reached it quickly. Locking the door behind her, she set all of her items on the small vanity table in the corner near the toilet before kneeling in front of the porcelain bath tub. She reached over for the faucets and began filling it with steaming hot water while she cautiously undressed and discarded her soiled nightgown to the side. She waited a few moments for the tub could fill completely and then submerged herself in it. The minutes passed, and she allowed the steam to relax her sore muscles before lathering her hair with the shampoo. It took her a few moments to work through the tangles. Next came the soap, and as she ran the ragged washcloth over her body, Rose briefly thought of Jack and how his hands had worked their way over her body that night in the Renault. It seemed so long ago, now.

She finished quickly, drained the water and toweled off her body. Making her way towards the vanity, she glanced at her features in depth. It had been the first time in over three weeks since she had seen her face in full detail, and instantly she gasped and brought her hand up to graze her cheek. Her face, pale underneath the light, was gaunt and dark circles drooped underneath her eyes to nearly the top of her cheekbones. Had she really let herself suffer this much?

She gripped the brush in one hand and began gliding it through her tangled curls, wincing in pain as it tugged at her scalp. When she was satisfied, she switched to the comb and parted it gently, and with the other hand, she brought the scissors up to her face. The first snip of the scissor shocked her, as one of her beautiful curls landed in the sink, but she continued on, cutting quickly but accurately, until her hair fell to just beneath her shoulders. It was a drastic change, as she was accustomed to her hair falling to nearly the middle of her back, but a welcome one. She smiled at the end result and ran her fingers through its dampness before discarding the towel to the side. She dressed quickly and headed back down to her room, satisfied that she had pulled off such a stunt and had not been bothered.

Without a second glance, she packed the two other dresses Mrs. O'Neill had lent her into a spare valise that had been lying at the foot of her bed since she had arrived. She had had no use for it then, but all the use in the world for it now. She added the brush, comb and shampoo to the pile, and with one last look around, she was satisfied. She clutched it tightly in her palms and set it in front of the door to jot down a quick note with the paper and pen that had been lying untouched on the writing table:

Mrs. O'Neill-

Thank you for everything, but I could not bring myself to stay under your conditions. You've been kind, and I will repay you one day.

R. Dawson

She picked up Cal's overcoat and slid her arms into it. It seemed so much larger now than it did on Titanic, and as she clutched the valise once again, fear overcame her. Where would she go, and what would she do now?

She took the stairs nearly two at a time and reached the front door without any disturbance. The world seemed so much more inviting than it ever had been on the steps of O'Neill's, and yet, she was still frightened.

"Promise me…that you will survive."

"You're precious to me, Rose."

She took the first step off the porch into the night, and sunk her free hand into the coat pocket. To her surprise, she felt something hard, yet remembered right away what it was. The Heart of the Ocean. Trembling, she slid it back into her pocket when another item scratched against her hand: something softer, thinner. The letter.

It all was coming back to her now. The steward on the Carpathia had given her the letter, but she had brushed it aside and pocketed it out of grief. And in Cal's pocket it had remained for three weeks, unread.

Rose was curious now. Who on that ship had spotted her and had gone to the trouble of making sure she received this letter?

She walked down the sidewalk, heading away from the home, and huddled underneath the gas streetlamp to open the envelope. She slid the letter out and began to scan it, her eyes widening with every word.

Cal. Cal had written the letter.