AN: So good news, you got a quick update. Bad news, it's kind of short and...well...you'll see. (Cue dramatic music)

It was almost seven and the office was unusually quiet. It was the holidays, of course, so it wasn't exactly a surprise that people were eager to get out of work on time. Not that The News stopped for holidays. Which was why he was so surprised that even his father had disappeared from the building mid-morning without so much as a word on his whereabouts.

And Mitchum Huntzberger's strange disappearance did nothing to increase the intrinsic motivation of the staff, most of which were just begging for a reason to leave early themselves.

Not Rory though. She was still sitting at her desk, when he'd walked through the newsroom fifteen minutes ago. To an idle observer, it would seem she was hard at work, but he could tell her head wasn't really in the game either. Though he knew it was for a different reason than most of her colleagues. He knew what her evening plans entailed, after all.

Logan felt a little thrill of satisfaction at knowing she would soon be free of the man who had been making her life miserable for as long as he had known her. But her rejection the night before still stung, and his pleasure was mixed in with more than a pinch of resentment.

He didn't want to be so petty, but alas, it seemed to be beyond his control. And so, he'd spent his day torn between wanting to see her and wanting to avoid her, which mostly resulted in him making a few dozen trips across the newsroom while pretending to ignore her presence in it.

And that was why he was still there himself—he'd been distracted from work all day. And with the new year two days away, there was still plenty that needed to be done.

His phone buzzed and with a sigh, he picked it up to see a text message from the mysteriously truant Mitchum Huntzberger himself.

I need a copy of the year-end budgetary reports ASAP. Accounting just informed me of some discrepancies. I need you to drop them off at my place so I can review them—tonight!

Crap. The last thing he needed was his father to find another reason to berate him. At least he'd finished them on Monday. But if there was an error, he'd never hear the end of it from Mitchum. He pulled out the binder with the hard copies and tried to force his mind to focus so he could review the forms himself before delivering them to his dad. If there was a problem, he was going to make sure he found it first.

The fire crackled warmly in the great room, accented by an array of candles permeating the air with the sweet, sugary scent of vanilla. White and pink rose petals were drizzled across the Brazilian Cherry, hardwood floors. The table in the dining room was set with fine crystal, and a bottle of Dom Perignon was chilling on ice.

Mitchum looked at his watch—7:38. He cursed Rory's lack of punctuality; the caterers had left the food warming in the oven but if she didn't get there soon, it would be ruined. That was all that was behind his restless pacing—concern over the quality of their dinner; and the desire to move on to better parts of his evening. It certainly wasn't nerves. He dealt with fortune five hundred CEOs and heads of state on a daily basis. He'd even interviewed Bin Laden once. Mitchum Huntzberger didn't get nervous—especially not over a woman.

A knock finally came and Mitchum paused midway through his march across the great room. He took a deep breath and patted his coat pocket to feel the square velvet box within—then went to let her in.

"Hey," she waived timidly.

"Hey," he flashed his most charming grin, stepping aside to make way for her to enter.

Rory started to make her way in, her eyes perusing the romantic decorations. "Oh, Mitchum, wow, this is…" she trailed off.

Mitchum bristled a little at the use of his full name, but quickly brushed it aside. He knew she was still mad at him, but he'd fix that soon enough. "All for you," he finished her unfinished sentence.

"Wow," she repeated, walking further into the penthouse apartment. She spun in a circle to take it all in. "Really, this is…I mean, it's very sweet but…"

"Ah, ah, ah," he scolded playfully. "Don't go ruining it with 'buts', now." He helped her with her jacket and hung it on the coat rack by the door.

Rory inhaled deeply, then turned to face him dead on. "I appreciate the effort, really, but," she emphasized the word, "you can't just fix everything with some grand gesture. Things between us are not good, Mitchum. Our problems are bigger than an apology and a romantic night in."

"I know that, Pooh."

"Do you? Really?" she asked.

"Of course." He reached out to grasp her hand but she flinched, pulling it backwards. He felt his teeth grind together at the slight.

She squeezed her eyes shut as though trying to summon courage. When her facial muscles relaxed and her lids fluttered open, she spoke. "You hit me."

"I don't know what came over me," he assured her earnestly. "The last thing I would ever want is to hurt you. I was just so scared—for us, for you. And I acted out. All I've ever wanted to do is to protect you."

"I don't need your protection, Mitch. I've told you that a million times before."

"Maybe you did," he agreed. "But that doesn't stop me from worrying. I just want the best for you."

"Well then, maybe you should have listened to me when I told you what that was instead of trying to decide for me."

"We decided this together, Pooh. We both agreed." He didn't know why he was arguing this. He'd made his mind up. He wasn't supposed to be trying to convince her to stay in the closet. He should be agreeing with her. Trying to placate her. But old habits died hard, he supposed. He needed to get this conversation back on track.

"At first yes, but how long can this go on? I'm 24, I have my whole life ahead of me."

He felt his blood pressure skyrocketing. Had someone switched his afternoon decaf with regular coffee?

"And your whole career," he reminded her.

"Exactly. You know how much that means to me."

"And are you willing to risk it all?" He pulled uncomfortably on his collar which was feeling unusually tight.

Rory shrugged. "What for? For a life of secrets and lies? A life of waiting in the shadows?"

"For me." He replied, his heart pounding. What was going on with him? What was this feeling? It better not be a heart attack. Coranary artery disease was not about to interrupt his big moment.

Rory shook her head sadly. "It's not enough anymore. I'm sorry, I really am. But I need more than you can give me. I deserve more…" she turned away. She was going to leave. His stomach twisted painfully. Was stomach pain part of a heart attack?

"You do," he replied to her back. He felt a trickle of sweat drip down the back of his neck. This was it; it was now or never. He took a deep breath and got down on one knee, pulling the box from his pocket. "And I want to give it to you."

"I'm sorry" she shrugged," but I just don't see how you can." She was reaching for her jacket.

"Then turn around." He was fairly certain he was about to need a quadruple bypass.

"What?"

"Turn around Pooh. Turn around and I'll show you."

He saw her sigh in resignation and then, as though in slow motion, she turned. He could pinpoint the exact moment her brain registered the scene in front of her. The blue of her eyes changing from a dull periwinkle to a bright Byzantine. Her jaw slackened in shock. He felt his heart slow down; whatever strange attack he'd just had—which clearly wasn't anxiety—was starting to pass.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice a pitch higher than usual.

"Rory Gilmore," he replied. "You're right. You deserve so much more than a life of sneaking around and keeping secrets. So much more than the life I've given you. I wish I could protect you forever, but not at the cost of denying you all the greatness life has to offer, and that means it's time to come out of the shadows and take a risk. I know that being with me will mean making sacrifices, but I'm willing to make them if you are."

"Mitchum," she gasped as he flipped open the ring box to reveal the 3 carrot, square cut diamond within. "You can't be serious."

"Now, now, Pooh," he replied with a wry smile, "have you ever known me to be one for frivolity?"

"You realize what this will mean…"

"I have considered all of the ramifications, yes," he assured her with a resolute nod.

"We'll have to tell people about us."

"I don't want to hide anymore, Pooh." Besides, he knew it was only a matter of time before everyone found out anyway. Or he lost her completely.

"I don't even know what to say…"

"Say you'll marry me."

Rory lay in bed, staring straight up at the ceiling. What had she done? Had she made the right choice? After months of unhappiness she'd finally been ready to break up with him. She was tired of living a lie, of being alone, of alienating everyone in her life, of constantly worrying about being found out.

And then, just as the words "it's over," were about to come out of her mouth, Mitchum went and offered her everything she'd been wishing for for the past year. A real relationship. A life together.

He wanted to marry her.

It was a dream come true.

So, she'd said the words she'd pictured saying in her head a million times. The words she'd thought were nothing more than a crazy fantasy. "Yes, Mitch, of course I'll marry you."

She turned her head to look at her fiancé. Oh god. Was this even real? She should be thrilled and yet as she watched him, sending emails on his Blackberry from bed as though she wasn't even there next to him, all she felt was a sense of dread. A deep and unwavering fear that she'd just made the worst mistake of her life.

Which was insane because this is what she had wanted—right? Her decision to break-up with him was based on the idea that the relationship was going nowhere. Was based on the idea that she didn't want to waste anymore of her time sneaking around with a man who would never publicly acknowledge her. And that wasn't a problem anymore. She fingered the ring on her left hand. Soon she would be Mrs. Huntzberger, and everyone would know.

Everyone, she realized. Everyone would know. He would know. And he would hate her. A wave of nausea passed over her at the thought. She needed something to drink to settle her stomach. A glass of ginger ale, maybe—or better yet, some more of the champagne.

"I'll be right back," she leaned over to give Mitchum a peck on the cheek.

"Uh huh," he mumbled absently.

She rolled out of bed and grabbed Mitchum's button down off the floor, picking it up and putting it on before heading out to the kitchen.

The ding of the elevator faintly registered in Logan's head as the doors to the penthouse floor slid open. His focus was still trained on the binder full of spreadsheets in front of him. He'd gone over them all twice before heading out of the office, and as hard as he tried, he couldn't find a single number out of place. He had no clue what discrepancy accounting could have found. He was half convinced this was just some weird form of hazing his father was putting him through just for kicks.

He made his way to the front door of his father's apartment, looking up from the papers just long enough to type in the key code on the pad. With any luck his father would be out and he could just leave them on his desk.

He turned his attention back to the P&L form just to check his addition on the advertising line one more time. It all added up. With a sigh he realized it was time to give up. He went to put the page back into its sheet protector but fumbled and dropped the whole binder.

"Crap," he mumbled with an eyeroll, noting that the rings had burst open and the pages had scattered all over the floor.

He reached for a page—were those rose petals on the floor? Damn, he hoped he wasn't interrupting something kinky. His stomach turned at the thought.

He continued trying to gather up the pages when he heard the clatter of something falling to the floor and a few splashes of cold liquid. A glass rolled into his peripheral vision and as he adjusted his eyes, he noted a set of neatly polished toes standing motionless a couple feet away.

Please don't be naked. Please don't be naked. He silently begged. The last thing he needed was to see one of his father's floozies in the buff.

He reached out to grab the glass, then slowly started to stand up, his squinted eyes slowly travelling higher and higher up the set of long, lean legs until the hem of a blue, men's dress shirt came into view around mid-thigh. He breathed a sigh of relief.

"Here, you go," he replied, reaching out to hand the glass back as he stood the rest of the way up. "I'm sorry for…" his voice trailed off as the woman's face finally came into view.

She was just standing there, completely frozen, her blue eyes round with shock, her arms hanging limply at her sides. Just enough buttons of his father's shirt were fastened to hide anything immodest and yet his brain was filling in the gaps with alarming dismay. The whole world felt foreign and fuzzy, his chest felt tight and bile crawled its way up his throat.

He wasn't sure how long they just stood there like two statues staring before a voice broke them from their haze.

"Oh, Logan, good. You brought those spreadsheets?"

He tried to open his mouth but he was fairly certain if he did the only thing that would come out was vomit, so he said nothing.

"I'll take them," his father plucked the binder from his hands. "Oh, how rude of me…" Mitchum looked from Logan to Rory.

"Logan, you know Rory—right? My fiancée?"

AN: Oh I just love my cliff hangers so umm, I'm just going to sit here and drum my fingers together evilly, a la Mr. Burns. Mwah ha hah.