An audible groan slipped from his lips as the elevator doors slid open and his apartment came into view—along with the girl on the floor next to it

It looked like she'd dozed off—a jacket balled up behind her head like a pillow. But the sound must have roused her. She shook her head, trying to wake up fully.

"Oh, thank god," she said, pushing herself up off the wall next to his front door. "You're home."

He ignored her, walking right past her and, fumbling drunkenly, pulled his keys out of his pocket.

"It's 3AM. Stephanie said you left her hours ago."

Logan gritted his teeth as he stuck the key in the lock, trying not to give in and respond.

"I've been so worried."

"Well gee, Mom," he finally snapped, spinning around to face her. "If I had known about my new curfew I'd have been home earlier." She shrunk back at little at the angry slight.

He pushed the door open and walked into the apartment. He should have slammed the door in her face but instead, he left it open. Rory followed him in, gently shutting it behind her.

He took his coat off and hung it on the rack by the door. She did the same with hers.

"How did you even get up here in the first place?" he asked, not bothering to look at her as he strode across the room.

"I bribed your door man."

"Remind me to have him fired."

"Don't hold it against him," she pleaded on his behalf, "I was spectacularly pathetic looking."

"Well, you are a pro at manipulating men," he retorted, stopping at the dry bar and pulling a bottle of whiskey and a tumbler off a shelf.

Rory winced at his harsh words. "You're drunk."

"Well give the girl a Pulitzer," he sneered taking the top off the decanter and pointing it at her.

"You're drunk and you're mean."

"What did you expect, Rory?" He spun around, slamming the bottle back onto the counter, amber liquid splashing against the sides of the crystal decanter. "That you'd show up here, say you're sorry, maybe shed a few tears, and then we'd be one big, happy, family?"

"I don't know. I just…" she shook her head. He could see the aforementioned tears starting to brim over. He hated that it affected him at all. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"Maybe you should have considered that before I had the image of you in nothing but my father's dress shirt seared into my hippocampus." He turned back around, pouring himself a hearty glass of the whiskey and immediately taking a large swill. Anything to wash the memory away.

"You were never supposed to find out like that."

Logan scoffed.

"What?"

"Oh come on, you are not that naïve."

"What are you talking about?"

He took another swallow from his glass before setting it down and stalking towards her. She shrunk backwards as he approached.

He stopped. "I was supposed to find out exactly like that." She winced as his finger stabbed lividly through the air, inches from her face.

"What? No." She shook her head disbelievingly.

"Oh please," he scoffed, turning away from her. "He texted me to tell me there were problems with the financial statements and that he needed me to personally deliver them to him ASAP. I went over those reports with a fine-tooth comb. They were pristine. There were no problems, he just wanted me to find out in the most debasing way possible."

"No" she shook her head vigorously in protest. "He would'n-would," she stuttered, her face dropping at the realization, her eyes wide with horror. "Oh god, he totally would do that. He did do that."

"Yeah, you caught yourself a good one," Logan sneered.

"I'm so sorry, I never…"

"Never what? Never thought you could land the whale? That's why you were going to break up with him—right? But then he pulled out a great, big, shiny ring and offered you half his empire and suddenly all is well in Rory-land."

"That's bullshit. You know me; you know I wouldn't…"

"Know you?" he cut her off with a mirthless laugh. "Clearly I don't know the first fucking thing about you."

"It had nothing to do with money or advancing my career," she insisted.

"So it was just his winning personality?" he ridiculed.

"I don't have to explain myself to you."

"Then why the hell are you here?" he shrugged querulously. What did she think she could accomplish by showing up like this? Did she just want to rub it in his face even more?

"I—" She trailed off, standing there limply with no answer to give.

He shook his head, then turned and walked back to the bar. He'd drank half the booze in Manhattan, but still, he didn't have enough alcohol in him for this.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he took a gulp and tried to think of something-anything. Anything at all but the woman who had torn out his heart and come back to stomp all over it.

But all he could see behind his shuttered lids was blue. Blue, blue, blue; like being lost at sea where it stretched all around you until the blue of the ocean met the blue of the sky.

The image coalesced into a set of almond eyes. Then the cut of her cheek bone materialized; the shell of her ear, the curve of her jaw. It had been months since they'd kissed, but still, he could almost feel the push of her soft, plump lips against his. He could almost taste her.

But then, there he was. Brushing her hair off her face. Running his hand down her side. Kissing her. The alcohol in Logan's stomach churned and he shut down the next image before it could fully form in his head.

"Do you love him?" He spun around, the world tilting dangerously as he swayed from side to side. Why had she come? Why was she there? At his doorstep at 3 in the morning instead of with him?

"What?" she asked.

"Do you love him?" he repeated. The whole room was a drunken blur, but not her. She was in perfect focus. Maybe he did know a little something about her. Maybe he knew why she was there after all.

"Logan, I—"

"Is this really what you want?"

Her eyes fell to the floor. She fidgeted with her fingers.

"Does he make you happy?" He pushed off the bar, moving towards her. She didn't answer, just took a couple tentative steps back.

"Does he make you laugh?" He continued his approach. She was backed against the wall now, her eyes wide with trepidation.

"Does he make you smile?" He reached out, fingering her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb.

Her breathing was coming quick and shallow. "Does he take your breath away?" His voice was low and raspy now; the urgency of the first few questions gone, replaced with painstaking desire.

"Does he make your mouth go dry?" She licked her lips, swallowing noticeably. His thumb moved from her mouth, tracing over her chin and trailing down her throat.

"Logan," she whispered, her lips parting, her eyelashes fluttering closed.

"Does he kiss you like this?" He leaned in, closing his mouth over hers. He caressed down her side, finding her hands and tangling their fingers together.

She responded, her back arching off the wall, her tongue darting out of her mouth.

He raised their arms up, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand while the other tangled into her hair, deepening the kiss.

She moaned appreciatively. He thrust his body further into hers, the hand in her hair slipping down to caress her breast.

"Logan," she breathed his name again. His mind was spinning, an intoxicating mix of alcohol, her perfume, and the feel of her body against his. Every cell in his body was buzzing, but it didn't last. The images made their way back in again. And in them, it wasn't him her body was responding to. It wasn't Logan's name she was crying out in ecstasy.

He shoved away from her in disgust, spitting on the floor, wiping violently at his mouth.

"I'm sorry," she sniffled. For what, he wondered? For lying? For making him fall for her? For sleeping with the enemy? For showing up at his apartment? There was so much to choose from.

"This is insane," he said. "I'm insane. I can't believe I…" he shook his head incredulously. "You're marrying my Dad," he grimaced with disgust. "You going to be my fucking step-mother." His stomach reeled at the thought.

He saw Rory make a face too, before she stepped away from the wall. "No," she said. "I'm not—I'm not going through with it."

"Please," he sneered, "don't go changing your plans on my account."

Rory took a deep breath in, slowly letting it out before speaking. "I have so many regrets this past year," she told him. "But hurting you is, by far, my greatest. I can't imagine what it was like for you to see that. To find out that way…I can't imagine the pain you've been through tonight." She paused, shaking her head defeatedly. "But you can't imagine what I've been through tonight either. What I've been through for months. What it's like to be in a relationship where—"

"Stop," he cut her off, holding his hand up and turning his head away. For as long as he'd known her, he'd had this intense desire to protect her—he just didn't know from what. And now that he did, he couldn't manifest a single iota of concern. She'd made her bed, she could sleep in it. "I don't care," he replied coldly.

She steeled herself, her posture stiffening up defensively, her lips pursing together as she sniffled back tears. Okay, maybe there was a single iota. But it wasn't enough. Nothing could be enough. "Get out of my home," he pointed towards the door, the expression on his face hard as stone.

With a deep breath and an upward jut of her chin, she turned, grabbed her coat from the coat rack, and left.

The door loomed ominously in front of her. She had to knock; she had no other choice.

After leaving Logan's she'd used the little bit of Steph's money she hadn't bribed Logan's doorman with, to get the subway home. But she hadn't thought much of what she would do when she got there.

She looked at her watch—4:10AM. And Paris had worked a late shift at the hospital last night. Her roommate would kill her if she woke her up. Maybe she should have gone back to Steph's. But then her friend would know she hadn't gone home to begin with.

Rory raised her hand, but then pulled it down again. Paris was not pleasant when she was well rested, let alone when roused from sleep. And Rory didn't think she could take anyone else yelling at her right now. But what was the alternative—to spend another 3 hours dozing in a hallway? All she wanted to do was curl up in bed and sleep. Sleep forever. Well, that or create a time machine that could erase the last 16 months of her life.

She paced anxiously back and forth for a few minutes trying to find the courage to wake Paris. And then, suddenly, her front door swung open and Paris reached out, grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her into the apartment.

Rory cringed as Paris' grip activated the tenderness in her wrist where Mitchum had restrained her. She pulled her hand away, willing back tears.

"What the hell, Gilmore?" the blonde girl screamed. "Where the hell have you been? I've been calling your cell phone for hours."

"Oh," Rory looked down, reaching into her back pocket and patting her phone. Her battery had died shortly after midnight. "It died. Is something wrong?"

"Is something wrong?" Paris asked incredulously? "Is something wrong? Of course something's wrong. You went off to break up with your boyfriend and then disappeared off the face of the planet. Anything could have happened to you. You could have been raped, or mugged, or murdered and chopped into a gazillion little pieces and throw into Central Park Lake—"

"What?" Rory shook her head at her friend's insanity.

"Hey, it's happened before. Haven't you ever heard of the Baby-Faced Butchers?" Paris stopped her rant, looking her friend up and down.

"When did you get that jacket? And where's your purse? Oh my god, you were mugged."

Rory shut the door and started unbuttoning her jacket. "I wasn't mugged," she promised her.

"Then where the hell is your stuff?"

Rory hung up her coat and pulled off her gloves, preparing to stuff them in the pockets.

"Holly, shit!" Rory turned around at Paris' expletive.

"What?"

"Don't play stupid, Gilmore. What's with the blood diamond on your finger?"

She looked down, fingering the diamond still on her hand. "Oh, that," she said sadly.

"Yeah," Paris rolled her eyes. "That…"

"That, umm…" Rory sniffled. "That was," she stuttered as her breath started shortening and the tears started rolling down her face. "That was a mistake," she bawled, throwing herself suddenly into Paris's arms. "It was such a huge mistake, and everything is a mess, and I don't know what to do."

Paris braced herself uncomfortably, giving Rory a cursory pat on the back. "There, there," she said stiffly, trying to reassure her.

"This was the worst night of my life," Rory sniveled, snot pouring out of her nose.

Paris guided her over the couch and sat, pulling her legs up into a crisscross position and patting her lap. Rory lay her head down on Paris's legs, curled up into a ball, and, finally, let the sobs consume her.

Sunlight filtered through the blinds, stirring her from her slumber. She was on the living room couch, still dressed in her clothes from yesterday. Her head was pounding, her muscles were aching, her arms were throbbing. Everything hurt—not the least of which was her heart. She pulled up her sleeve to see the beginning of a purple handprint blooming on her forearm.

She squeezed her eyes shut as a fresh wave of tears threatened to come pouring out. She managed to quell them, gingerly swinging her legs off the side of the sofa and sitting up.

She looked over her shoulder to see the clock on the microwave. It was almost noon already. The only sounds in the apartment were the sounds of traffic and pedestrians on Queens Blvd.

It was New Year's Eve, but she was still supposed to work a half-day. Of course, that half of the day was over, so it was pretty much a moot point. Missing work was the least of her problems anyway. Especially considering the problems associated with going to work. She had no idea what she was going to do.

She stood up, wincing, and headed to the refrigerator for a bottle of water, then sat down at the island. There was a note from Paris.

I had to go back to the hospital. Gearing up for all the drunken idiocy tonight. Call if you need anything. Make sure you hydrate—all that blubbering you did caused a lot of insensible fluid loss. I'll be home by 7 and we can order lots of arteriosclerosis-inducing junk food and plot how to inflict severe pain and suffering.

Don't do anything stupid.

Rory smiled sanguinely, and took a drink of her water, as instructed.

Paris was difficult, and tactless, and complained about everything. But when push came to shove, she was also a loyal friend. She'd waited up all night for her when Rory hadn't answered her phone. She'd let her cry in her lap; she'd even stroked Rory's hair. Rory had spilled the whole horrid affair to Paris, once her sobs had subsided enough. And Paris had been amazing. Sure, she'd shoved Rory off her lap at one point and marched for the door threatening bodily harm to Mitchum Huntzberger. But that only made Rory love her more.

Rory sighed and set her water bottle down, reaching for her cellphone which was plugged in and charging on the island next to her. There were a dozen missed calls from Paris, along with about 30 text messages. There was also a text from Steph.

Hey Lady, checking in. Call me when you get this.

Rory was forever grateful to Steph for last night, but she was also supremely embarrassed, and she couldn't face her just yet.

Just woke up. I'm fine, she typed back instead of calling.

She moved on to voicemails. There were a couple from work wondering about her whereabouts and there was one from her mother asking her what shoes would go best with her black, sequined skirt for the New Year's Eve Party she was attending that night. Rory knew it was mostly a ruse to find out how the breakup had gone, but still, she took a small measure of comfort in hearing her mother ramble on to her about frivolous things like they used to.

Of course, calling her Mom back would mean telling her that instead of breaking up she'd gotten engaged and she wasn't quite ready to do that. She would, eventually—but not until that ring was off her finger for good.

The ring. She slipped it off and set it on the counter in front of her, forcing herself to look at it. Forcing herself to see what she had done. How could she have been so stupid? Last night—and for all the months before that? How had she let Mitchum Huntzberger get in her head like that? How had she turned so weak and insecure? She never in a million years would have thought she could be the kind of girl who let a man manipulate and control her. Who would allow herself to be kept a secret. Who would let a man tell her who she could see and where she could go. Who would let a man get away with hitting her.

And then, as though a switch had been flipped, her self-pity and loathing were transformed and in their place was passionate, steadfast anger. Mitchum had hit her. He was evil, and she hated him like she'd never hated anyone before. He'd not only physically abused her last night, he had emotionally abused his own son.

And she wasn't going to let him get away with it.

She stood up, shoving the ring in her back pocket. She opened one of the drawers in the kitchen, pulling out an envelope of cash they kept there for tipping delivery people, and folded it up and put that in her pocket too. Then, fueled by her fury, she grabbed Steph's coat, and the mace she'd given her, and marched out her front door.

AN: So, there aren't that many of you reading this story. But those of you that are, are super engaged and leave me awesome reviews, and I so appreciate that because I love writing this story and even though I love it enough to write it for me even if no one reads it, that's not as much fun as hearing what you guys think.

So, what do you think?

Were you expecting her to go to Logan's? Or did you think she was headed back to Mitchum's? What do you think about the fact that she's headed back to Mitchum's now?

And, of course, most importantly, what did you think of Logan's reaction? He clearly still has feeling for her, which he's majorly conflicted (and disgusted) about-for good reason. But will he ever find a way to forgive her? If so, how? What about his father? How will he navigate that relationship from here on out?

Anyhow, I hope you enjoyed the chapter.

Ciao