AN: You guys seriously overwhelmed me with your reviews last chapter. The views vs review ratio was crazy high. I really appreciate it, please keep it up!

Now on to the new chapter. I probably should have put this in several chapters ago, but it especially deserves saying here-trigger warning. There is graphic depiction of domestic violence in this chapter (sorry for the spoilers) so please proceed with caution.

Rory looked up at the towering building in front of her. Her unmitigated anger had started to subside during her subway trip, somewhere around Lexington and 53rd, and now she was having serious second thoughts.

Mitchum deserved her wrath—and she wanted, more than anything to give it to him; but what about his? Surely he had calmed down since last night—right? She shivered at the memories, dread creeping its way up her spine. She felt like a frightened dog with its fur standing on end. She hated that Mitchum Huntzberger had the power to make her feel like a defenseless animal; had the power to make her feel less than human. But even a dog wasn't defenseless—when backed into a corner, they had the ability to cause untold pain and damage.

If Mitchum, thought she was just some tame, docile creature who would sit at his feet and beg for scraps of his affection after being beaten—he had another thing coming. She wasn't here to cower—she was here to bare her teeth.

With a deep breath, she steeled herself and walked in.

"Good afternoon, Miss Gilmore," the daytime doorman said. She ignored him. She hated being rude, but she was on a mission right now, and stopping for friendly chit-chat could mess with her resolve.

So, she kept walking straight for the elevator. The doors shut and as she stood on the lift with nothing to do but wait, she fidgeted nervously, trying not to talk herself out of this. If nothing else, she needed her things back. And she needed to return the ring. She needed this to be done with, and she couldn't wait a minute longer.

The ding of the elevator let her know she'd arrived at Mitchum's floor. She stepped off slowly, her hand dropping to her waist to feel for the container full of mace she had attached to her belt loop, reassuring herself that it was still there.

She stopped in front of the door, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, before squaring her shoulders, and knocking.

"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bac-y," an Australian accent sing-songed. Logan grunted painfully and pulled a pillow over his head, burying his face into his bedding as the curtains were thrown open and the afternoon light streamed through the windows, assaulting his eyeballs even through his shuttered lids.

"Come on; up!" Colin added, pulling Logan's comforter off the bed.

"Fuck off," Logan grumbled, grabbing a pillow and throwing it blindly in the direction he assumed his friends were in.

"Sorry, no can do. It's 3PM already. Even I don't sleep this late," Finn replied, "Plus, we need to get ready for tonight's festivities."

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not really in a celebratory mood,"Logan groaned, turning over and sitting up.

"Eeeeg." Finn grimaced, shirking backwards at the sight of him.

"What?" Logan shook his head, immediately regretting the decision as the motion set off an unfortunate bought of vertigo. He buried his face in his hands, pressing on his eyeballs to try to stop the whirling sensation in his head.

"You look terrible, man," Colin informed him. "I think you've aged thirty years since we saw you last week."

"Great, just the age Rory like 'em."

"Ooh," Finn replied, perking up. "Now we're getting to the gossip I came here for. Rory's mystery man is an older chap than, I take it?"

"Please go away. I don't want to talk about it. I'm sure Stephanie can fill you in on all the torrid details." Logan threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood. "I'm going to have some more whiskey and pass out again."

"Woah…" Colin stepped in front of him, blocking his way. He looked at him appraisingly. "Are you alright, man?"

"Oh, sure, I'm fan-freaking-tastick. That's why you broke into my apartment—right? To share in my merriment?"

"We figured you needed to blow off some steam. Steph said you got into a fight with your reporter girl and…"

"She's not my reporter girl," he growled, pushing past his friend and heading into the great room.

"Fine," Colin held up his hands and took a step back to let him by, but immediately turned and followed him out. "But I don't think giving yourself alcohol poisoning is going to solve that."

"Nothing is going to solve it; don't you get that? Nothing except maybe some blunt force trauma to the brain or drinking myself into a fugue state. So, unless you'd like to drop an anvil or a piano on my head, I'm going with the whiskey."

"Dude," Finn piped in, "she's just a sheila."

"No, Finn," Logan gave a hollow laugh. "No, she's not 'just a Sheila,'' he finger quoted and then after a pause, added, "she's family."

Both men cringed. "Family, like, you found out you're actually cousins?" Colin queried.

"Ooh, or she's your long-lost sister?" Finn added.

"Eww," Logan winced. "No. But thanks for putting things into perspective for me." He reached for the bottle of whiskey, which was still out from the night before, but Colin stopped him.

"Seriously, Logan, what the hell is going on?"

Logan grimaced, the thought of saying any of this out loud was too real for comfort. It felt like his insides were being swirled together as though his intestines were strings of linguini being twirled around a fork. "I caught them together," he admitted.

"Who? Rory and her looooooover?"

"Must you talk?" Logan scowled.

"Geez, someone needs to get a sense of humor," Finn stage whispered to Colin.

Colin just shook his head at the Aussie. "So, what? You caught them out on a date or something? It's not like you didn't know she was seeing someone."

"No, Colin, I didn't catch them 'out on a date or something,'" he rolled his eyes, "I caught them half-naked in his apartment."

"What were you doing in another bloke's apartment?"

Logan turned to face Finn. "Oh, just delivering a copy of the year-end financial reports."

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Colin stiffen up as he put two and two together. "I don't suppose this was some act of corporate espionage?" Colin asked hopefully.

Logan shook his head. "Nope, just me doing dear old Dad's bidding."

"So…."

"Yeah."

"Wait—'so' what? What'd I miss?" Finn asked impatiently.

Colin turned his pitying look on Finn. "It's Mitchum," he replied, trying to hold back the eyeroll that was usually reserved for Finn's cluelessness.

"What's Mitchum?"

"Rory's boyfriend," he hissed under his breath.

"Fiancé," Logan corrected.

"Oh," was all Colin had to say.

"Wait, so you're saying the Dark Lord is the one who's been rooting Rory?" Finn asked, aghast. "And they're getting hitched?"

Colin walked over to the bar, picked up the bottle of whiskey himself, and poured two glasses, pushing one Logan's way. "As you were," Colin granted permission. Logan swallowed half the glass.

"Hey, no drinking without Finn!" Finn complained, marching over and pouring himself a glass too.

There was quite for a few minutes as the three men sipped their drinks. Logan swirled the liquor in his glass letting the whirlpool of liquid hypnotize him. Finally, Finn spoke up. "What do you think their secret is?"

"What?"

"Whose secret?"

"You dads'—" Finn mentioned back and forth between them. "How are they still getting such hotties at their age? Do you think they'll teach me their ways?"

"Shut up, Finn," Colin scolded.

"I'm just saying…"

"Well don't."

"Sheesh, fine." Finn held his hands up in surrender.

"Look, Logan," Colin started in. "I get how fucked up this is. My Dad has been pulling this shit since he divorced my Mom. I've been getting a newer, hotter stepmom every three years since I was 7. And this last one—hoo, man…" Colin's eyes rolled heavenward at the thought. Logan thought he saw a little drool.

"Please, stop."

"Listen," Colin shook himself out of it, "the point is, I understand what you're going through."

"No, you don't." Logan argued, slamming his glass down. "You have no fucking idea. Your stepmoms are hot? They give you a stiffy and you're all conflicted about it? Well boo-freaking-hoo. Come talk to me when you fall in love with one of them."

Colin's face dropped, eyes bulging. "What did you just say?"

"I think he said he's in love with Rory," Finn replied, not so helpfully.

"You're in love with her?" Colin repeated.

Logan shrugged, his whole body sagging in defeat. "I don't know. I thought…maybe…" he pressed his lips together and closed his eyes, shaking his head dejectedly. "But now—" the image of her at his father's flashed on the canvas that was the inside of his eyelids—her long, shapely legs; the surprise in her blue eyes; the curve of her mouth, hanging open with shock; her long auburn hair cascading over the shoulder laid bare by the sagging of his oversized shirt. Mitchum was all over her now. She was tainted. Everything he'd ever felt for her was tainted.

She disgusted him, and yet—somehow still—beguiled him in equal measure.

"I don't know—" Logan shook the image from his head. "I just…I don't think I can do it. See her. See him. See them together." He took another gulp of his whiskey. It might be the last time he could afford such an extravagance if he was really going to consider going through with this. "I think… it might be time to leave HPG."

"Rory," Mitchum greeted as the door swung open. "Great, you're here. I've been working on our wedding announcement…" he trailed off, turning around to find she was still standing in the doorway.

She gaped at him in confusion. Wedding announcement? Was he insane?

"Why are you just standing there? Come in, come in."

She continued to stand there, blinking in disbelief. He was acting like last night had never happened. Well—not entirely. He seemed to remember the first half of the evening alright.

She took a deep breath, trying to center herself. Head games; that's what this was, she reminded herself. He was just trying to mess with her head. That's what abusers did. He was going to try to make her feel like she was being unreasonable. She had to stay strong.

"No," she declared.

"No?" he asked, seemingly perplexed.

"No, I'm not coming in," she clarified.

"What on earth are you talking about, Pooh?" she cringed at the nickname she'd once found endearing. What the hell had she been thinking?

"I want my stuff," she put her hands on her hips, trying to act more confident than she felt.

"Well, it's right there in the coat closet," he pointed.

"I'm not coming in," she repeated.

He looked at her, head cocked to the side, and then laughed. "Oh come on, now. You're not still upset about that little tiff we had last night, are you?"

"'Little tiff,'" she scoffed, the pitch of her voice rising. "'Little tiff?' You mean that thing where you purposely tried to traumatize your son and then went berserk on me? That 'little tiff.'"

Mitchum rolled his eyes. "If you're going to make a scene, can you at least not do it in the middle of the hallway?" He walked up to her, placing a hand on her hip to guide her into the apartment.

"Don't touch me." She shrugged out of his grip but the movement only solidified her entry into the apartment and Mitchum shut the door behind them.

"Really, Rory, you're overreacting. "

"Oh really?" She asked, holding her arm up and pulling her sleeve down to reveal the deep purple welt wrapping around her forearm.

"Oh, Pooh," he murmured sympathetically, reaching for her. She ducked backwards, her back pressing up against the wall of the foyer.

"Rory," he said, keeping his voice even, his hands up in front of him as he approached her more slowly. Her body tried to mold itself further into the wall. She wished it would open up and swallow her. Anything to get her away from the man in front of her. He looked just like the man she'd always known. He was being calm, and rational. His face was soft, and sympathetic. But she saw something else now too; something sinister. She wondered how she had never noticed it before. "You're not wearing your ring," he noted. He reached for her left hand.

"Don't touch me," she said again, pulling away and reaching into her pocket. "Here's your god damn ring," she said, pulling the jewelry out and throwing it at his face.

He ducked. "Rory, please," he said, reaching out to tenderly tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I never meant to hurt you."

"And Logan?" she asked, trying to summon up all the boldness she could despite the fact that every single molecule of her was trembling with fear.

Mitchum scoffed, throwing his hands up in the air. "What the hell did I do to Logan?" He took a slight step backwards and she could feel her lungs expand with air as the crushing weight of his proximity dissipated slightly.

"Don't play stupid, Mitchum. I know you arranged for Logan to walk in on us."

"I did no such thing. Him showing up here was a coincidence."

"Really? It was a 'coincidence' that you texted him and asked him to deliver those financial statements to you?"

"Did I ask for copies of some documents for work? Yeah. But he could have e-mailed them, or had a courier bring them over, or he could have waited until today to bring them over. I didn't know he'd show up and…" Mitchum stopped suddenly, his whole demeanor changing. He took another step back and yet, somehow, this time, the air around her didn't feel lighter. "How did you know that?"

"What?"

"How did you know I asked for those documents?" He moved closer again, so that she had no escape.

Rory could barely breath as she took in the callous sneer on his face. One wrong word and she knew the consequences would be dire. "Well…he had them with him…" she managed to get out.

"You knew they were financial documents, though. And you knew I sent him a text. Were you with him last night?"

She was breathing faster now, as he towered over her. She was still trapped against the wall. Like prey cornered by a predator, she puffed out her chest, trying to make herself look bigger than she felt.

"Are you jealous?" she sneered.

"Were. You. With. Him?" he ground out.

"You should be jealous. Logan's a thousand times the man you ever were."

"Damn it, Rory!" he pulled his fist back, slamming it into the wall right next to her head. Her heart thudded frantically in her chest. She fumbled at her waist, finding the small canister of mace and pulling it loose, holding it protectively in front of her.

"Get away from me!"

"So what?" Mitchum sneered. "You're going to leave me for Logan?" He laughed mercilessly. "You really think he gives a damn about you? He doesn't want you; he just wants whatever is mine. He's nothing but a cut-rate version of me."

"I swear to god, Mitchum," Rory hissed trying to get by him. He slammed her back against the wall. Without thinking she pressed the aerosol on the top of the can in her hands, releasing an abrasive gush of pepper spray straight into his eyes. He recoiled in pain.

"Fucking bitch!" He hissed, wiping furiously at his crimson eyes.

She tried to scramble around him, racing for the front door. She grabbed the nob and tried to turn it but before she could, Mitchum was there, one hand holding it closed, the other flipping the lock.

"You think you can get away with that?" His eyes were still squinted painfully but apparently not enough to fully blind him. She raised her hand up again, but he knocked the weapon from her hand. She lifted her foot to stamp on his—it had worked last night—but this time he was ready for her. He grabbed her by the upper arm, spinning them around and shoving her further into the room. She stumbled backwards.

"You think you can just walk out on me?" he hissed, "You could have had it all. Fame, fortune, success." He was back on her again, sending a backhand flying across her face, even harder than the others had been. She had just a moment to contemplate whether it would leave a mark before the present moment came rushing back in.

"With me by your side you could have been a star. Walk out that door," he pointed behind him, "And see if you ever work in journalism again."

"I don't need you," she replied, arching her head back to spit in his face.

He grabbed her by the arm again with one hand while the other wiped at the saliva and pepper-spray-induced tears on his face. "You're going to pay for that, you fucking whore." His grasp tightened as he twisted her arm painfully until her own eyes started to fill with tears. Still, she refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing her beg.

Then, the strangest memory came to her. Sandra Bullock. In lederhosen and pig tails. Just remember to S.I.N.G. Solarplexus, Instep, Nose, Groin. She silently thanked her Mom for making her watch Miss Congeniality eight thousand times.

She pulled her free hand back, palm open and slammed it into his nose. He recoiled backwards. She went to lift her knee to smash in the boys, but he side-stepped just in time, grabbing her leg and pulling it out from under her.

She toppled backwards, her head slamming against the side of an end table. He whole body shuddered with pain and she reached up to feel the back of her head for blood but before she could, his foot came barreling into her stomach, knocking the wind right out of her. She pulled her knees up to her chest to protect herself, but the blows kept coming—her back, her side, her butt. Over and over again, for she didn't know how long.

And then, finally, mercifully, it stopped. She could still feel his presence above her as she rocked back and forth on the floor, crying. And then, with a disgusted scoff, she heard him say, "Get the hell out of my house you ungrateful slut."

She didn't move at first, she waited until she heard the shuffle of his footsteps fall away and an inner door close before heaving herself up off the floor. Pain shot through her body unlike anything she'd felt before, but she pushed through it, until it faded to the background.

She shot nervous glances over her shoulder as she made her way for the coat closet door. She wasn't sure why, but she was determined not to leave her stuff behind again. He'd taken everything from her. She wasn't going to let him get this last, little thing. She opened the door slowly, tensing fearfully when the hinges let out a creak but fortunately, Mitchum didn't return. She grabbed her outerwear and her purse and took one last tentative glance around the apartment—noticing the engagement ring on the floor a few feet away, just laying there, discarded like she had been. She felt nothing. No emotion, no sadness. Nothing but the dull aching left behind by his blows.

And then, she turned and left.