Honor folded up the New York Times and tossed it on the coffee table in front of her. She wanted to care about the tenuous cease fire in Gaza but it was hard to concentrate when someone was planning their own Civil War in her guest bedroom upstairs.

Her brother had been holed up there for days, planning some sort of take down of their father, she was pretty sure. Not that she could blame him. There was no love lost between Honor and Mitchum Huntzberger. The man was an abusive asshole and a bully. And Logan had suffered at his hands more than most. It had killed Honor to leave him behind after the divorce. But at 13, what choice did she have? She'd at least been pretty certain Mitchum wouldn't physically harm Logan. She'd never seen him lay a hand on either of them as children. If their father was fed up with them, he'd just have somebody else deal with it.

Her biggest concern was the influence he'd have over her brother. Would he succeed in making Logan just like him? Would Logan grow up seeing the way he treated people, women in particular, and learn to believe that because he was rich and powerful and a man, that he was entitled to whatever and whomever he wanted? Would he think that being the reigning Huntzberger made him somehow above others? Would he become hardened and cruel?

That's why Honor had spent years of their childhood trying to hide her brother from the reality of who their father was. It's why she'd never admitted the truth of their parent's relationship to him. It wasn't because she wanted to protect him from having to know such cruelty existed; that it existed in his own flesh and blood. It was because she didn't want him to see the way Mitchum treated women and think that it was okay, or worse yet, how it was supposed to be. She didn't want Logan to become a monster like their father.

But Logan had a kindness in him that even Mitchum Huntzberger couldn't stamp out. He'd tried to hide it for almost two decades, hoping to prove himself the man their father wanted him to be. Trying to prove he had what it took to take over the company. But beneath his arrogant façade, Logan's humanity had not waivered. And when Mitchum had shipped him off to London to help him 'grow up,' Logan had finally had the opportunity to do exactly that, just not in the way their father had hoped.

Honor was proud of her little brother. Proud of the man he had become; proud to see him have the strength to walk away, the resiliency to stand up for the things and people he cared about. But she was also worried. Worried that this vendetta would drag him down a rabbit hole of revenge that would destroy the soul that had persevered for so long amidst so much cruelty.

He was obsessed with whatever plot he was hatching up. He'd been staying with her for almost a week and she'd barely seen him leave his room. And the room was starting to look a lot like a Pepe Silvia meme. It was 11AM and he still hadn't emerged for so much as a bite to eat.

"Carmen?" Honor called.

"Yes, Mrs. Kentworth?" The new maid came hurrying into the room at Honor's beckoning.

"Can you please make my brother something to eat?"

"Of course, ma'am. Anything in particular?"

"Just a sandwich will do. And some fruit. That boy is going to wind up with scurvy…or is it rickets? You know what? You better throw a multi-vitamin in there too."

"Yes ma'am. I'll bring it right to him."

"No," Honor shook her head. "Just make it, I'll bring it up to him."

"Are you sure?" the maid asked. "Mr. Kentworth said you should be resting."

"Well, when Mr. Kentworth becomes Dr. Kentworth he can put me on bed rest. Until then, If I want to walk a plate of food upstairs in my own house, I'll do it."

The maid looked unsure, wondering which of her employers she should be listening to. Anyone with brains knew you listened to the one with the almost full-term fetus growing inside her, if they knew what was good for them. "Yes, ma'am she finally agreed."

Ten minutes later, Honor was standing at the top of the stairs, bent over, huffing for breath. If she had to wait two more weeks to get this child out of her, she was going to get a scalpel and cut the baby out herself.

Once she'd caught her breath, she straightened up and made her way down the hall to Logan's room, knocking gently on the door.

"Hey," she greeted, peeking her head inside, "I come bearing sustenance."

Logan glanced up from his seat at the desk. His hair was mussed—and not in that artfully tousled kind of way—there were dark circles under his eyes, and he was dressed in a rumpled pair of Yale sweats.

"Oh, hey, thanks," he said, turning his attention right back to the open file in front of him.

Honor walked over to the desk and set the plate down by his side. "So, how's it going?" she asked.

"Fine," he mumbled.

"Is that so?" she looked around the room. Unpacked boxes were still stacked against the walls. The bed was unmade. Empty water and beer bottles and a couple of mostly empty plates were strewn about. She wrinkled her nose up and turned to the dresser, gathering piles of clothes so she could throw them in the laundry.

"What are you doing?" He finally looked up at her.

"Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing," she replied, gesturing to the mess of papers on the desk.

"You shouldn't be cleaning, you should be resting."

She really wished people would stop telling her to rest. She was going to spend at least the next 18 years of her life being sleep deprived, she might as well start getting used to it now. "Well, I'm nesting, which rhymes with resting, so it's practically the same thing."

"Honor," Logan admonished.

"Logan," Honor mimicked with a roll of her eyes.

"I'm serious, you need to take care of yourself."

"Says the man living in a pig-sty and subsisting on beer and pretzels."

"I'm fine. I'm not the one about to have a baby."

"No, that would be me. So thank you very much for making sure I have practice taking care of another human being who can't feed, clothe, or bathe themselves."

Logan rolled his eyes. "You don't need to take care of me."

"Well, someone has to."

"I can take care of myself, I'm a big boy."

"Logan," Honor stated seriously, dropping a pile of clothes into the hamper and turning back to face him, "I'm worried about you."

"I'm fine," Logan repeated.

"No matter how many times you say that, it doesn't change the fact that you're not fine."

"I am," he insisted.

"What, exactly is your plan, Logan?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean?" Honor scrubbed her face with her hands in exasperation. "You can't seriously expect me to believe you're not planning something here." She swept her hands out, gesturing to the melee of crap on his desk.

"Don't worry about it, I don't want to get you involved."

"You're my brother, planning some sort of insurrection against one of the most influential men in media, who also happens to be our father. And you're doing it from my spare bedroom. I'm involved."

"It's nothing for you to worry about."

"At least give me a clue here. Is it a hostile corporate take-over? Legal action? An in-depth exposé?"

Logan turned away, breaking eye contact. "Oh my god, you can't be serious," Honor exclaimed.

"Play on your strengths," Logan replied dryly. "Dad taught me that. Journalism is in my blood."

"Come on Logan, you know you can't do this."

"Why not?" Logan shrugged.

"Why not? You did not just ask me that." Logan grew up as immersed in the laws of journalism as he was in the laws of physics. Asking why he couldn't write and publish a scathing exposé of his estranged father's sexual predation was like asking why he couldn't walk on the ceiling.

"I know what I'm doing."

"Clearly you don't. You cannot write this article. There has never been a bigger conflict of interest."

Logan was quiet for a moment, an internal debate going on in his head. Finally, with a sigh, he picked up a folder and held it out to her. "I know. That's why I'm not going after Dad. At least not directly."

Honor took the file and flipped it open, perusing the contents inside. "Jeffery Peterson?" she asked skeptically.

"He's almost as disgusting a slime ball as our father. I warned Dad about him months ago and he did nothing. And I've got HR files going back years to show that HPG has been covering for him. At least three non-disclosure agreements with hefty pay-outs for former employees. I'm on the verge of getting one of them to go on the record."

"I don't know, Logan," Honor shook her head, plopping down on the bed as she continued to flip through the pages in front of her. "It still seems like a long shot. I mean, have you even talked to Hugo about this? You really think he'll publish it? You're going after Peterson as a proxy for Dad; banking on the cover-up to bring him down. Which means it's still a conflict of interest. It'd be dicey for any publication to try to move forward with this, let alone a small start-up. He'll never be able to withstand the legal challenges HPG's lawyers will rain down on his head."

"If Hugo won't publish it, I'll find someone who will. My contract gives him first rights to any of my work, but it doesn't preclude me from publishing elsewhere."

Honor was quiet for a moment as she considered her brother's determination. "You can't write this article," she finally said.

"Honor, I'm sorry. I know this is going to be hard for you. For the whole family. But I have to do this. He's got to face consequences for his actions. He's gone on hurting people for far too long. He's not going to stop unless someone stops him. And if I don't do anything, the next woman he hurts, that's going to be on me. I can't live with that."

Honor sighed, standing back up and walking over to Logan. She placed a supportive hand on his shoulder. "I know; that's why you can't write this, Logan. You're too close. You need to find another writer."

Logan looked up at her in surprise. "What?"

"You're not the reporter of this story, Logan. You're the source. Find someone you trust and take this to them." She held the folder out in front of her and dropped it back on the desk. "Take it all to them." She motioned to the plethora of other files all over the place. "Dad, Peterson, the cover-up; all of it. I know you want to be the one to take him down, but if you're really serious about why you're doing this, then the most important thing is just getting the story out there. The whole story. And only someone who isn't you can do that."

She held her breath, waiting for his answer. She was pretty sure she knew what it would be. She hoped she was right. He'd given up the Huntzberger fortune and the title. He'd given up the power and the perks. He'd given up a lot. But would he give up this? Would he be willing to take a back seat while someone else broke the story and got all the credit?

He was quiet for a moment as he processed what she'd just suggested, and then, she watched as his lips curled up into a huge grin. "Of course, it's brilliant!" Logan grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil and turned to face Honor full on. "Who should we get? Ludlow, maybe?" He jotted the name down on his pad. "Or maybe Mayburn? How about Jenkins?" Honor sighed with relief, tears building up behind her eyes in pride. Damn hormones.

The letters started to blur together as her focus drifted off for hundredth time in the last half hour. She shook her head trying to force her attention back on the screen before returning to the beginning of the paragraph again.

Trash. She was relegated to fact checking metro articles on trash. Apparently, the city was exporting large amounts of its refuse to landfills in the Finger Lakes region. And honestly, Rory could not care less. How had it come to this? She hadn't had an actual assignment since New Year's. And she wasn't even given good articles to fact check. Peterson was being as inappropriate as ever. He'd asked her out for drinks two more times since her pitch meeting in his office a week and a half ago. She wasn't sure how much longer she could play up the car accident excuse. She wasn't sure how much more of any of this she could take.

The only good news was that it had been almost a week since she'd heard from Mitchum; no phone calls, no presents, not so much as a text message in six days. At least he seemed to have finally gotten the message that it was over, even if he was still punishing her for it.

Slumping forward she dropped her head into her hands, rubbing the heels of her palms into her tired eyes. She could do this. She just needed to wait it out and it would all blow over. Things would get back to normal eventually, they had to. In the meantime, she'd just power through. All she needed was a little coffee.

Rory stood up, stretching her arms above her head. The pain was gone, the bruises faded to a pale, almost imperceptible yellow. The only physical reminder of the trauma she'd experienced three weeks ago was a dull ache that seemed to follow her around. Once she'd stretched the kinks out, she grabbed her thermos and headed for the break room.

"Hey Margaret," she greeted the entertainment reporter who was currently sprinkling a couple packets of Splenda into her mug.

"Hey Rory, how's it going?" she replied with a smile. "I made a fresh pot—extra strong," she informed her with a nod towards the coffee maker.

"Did you ever know that you're my hero?" Rory crooned as she grabbed the pot.

"I try," Margaret winked. "Have a good day," she added as she headed out of the room.

Rory finished pouring her elixir and was screwing the top back on the travel mug when she heard the click of the door behind her. She froze at the sound of silence that ensued, her heart beating frightfully against her rib cage. Slowly she turned around. He was just standing there, arms hung loosely at his side. He looked pale and the bags under his eyes were more pronounced than normal. His shoulders sagged forlornly. Her fear settled to a muted pulse of anxiety.

She steeled her shoulders, determined not to let the sight of him affect her. "You're blocking the door," she replied coldly.

"Pooh," he said, his voice pleading.

"Don't 'Pooh," me," she growled, trying to figure out the best way to maneuver around him.

"Please," he begged. "I know you're mad. You have every right to be. And I'll understand if you can't ever forgive me, but—five minutes. That's all I'm asking. Just give me five minutes."

Rory huffed, crossing her arms over her chest, glaring angrily. But she didn't move, she didn't speak, she just stood there. She hated herself for it. She hated that little pang in her heart that ached at how miserable he looked. She hated the way she softened under his despondent gaze. But she supposed that the reaction was ingrained in her after all this time. It wasn't easy to just stop caring about someone who had been such a big part of her life for the past year and a half—the biggest part of her life.

"Well?" she asked after a moment of silence, her foot tapping impatiently.

He looked up, meeting her eyes with a forlorn look. "How are you doing?" he asked.

"Seriously?" Rory scoffed turning to grab her coffee off the counter so she could leave. What was wrong with her? Why did she still give a damn?

"No, wait!" He reached out to place a gentle hand on her arm. She shirked away and turned to glare at him. "I'm sorry." He held his hands up in front of him. "I'm so sorry," he added, clearly talking about more than their current exchange. "I just—I care about you, Pooh. I miss you. I miss just hearing how you're doing."

Rory shook her head. "If you really cared about me, if you ever cared about me, you wouldn't be doing this."

"Doing what?" he asked.

"Don't play stupid, Mitch. You know how I'm doing; you orchestrated it."

"Orchestrated what?" he asked, a baffled look on his face.

Rory rolled her eyes. "Oh come on, I'm not an idiot. You really think I don't know that you're the reason I'm fact checking garbage article—literally and figuratively?"

"Garbage articles?" he queried.

"You're punishing me for breaking up with you and you're doing it with grunt work."

"Grunt work?" he repeated. "Are you saying you don't have any assignments?"

"Oh please, don't pretend you don't have anything to do with it."

"I don't!" Mitchum insisted. Rory rolled her eyes. "I don't," he repeated. "I mean, Jeffery mentioned something to me about your work slipping a little lately, but I didn't know that he had you taken off all your stories."

"Oh really?" Rory asked, more than a little skeptical. "What else have you and 'Jeffery' been discussing?"

Mitchum's eyes narrowed in confusion. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Did he know?" she asked, hands on hips, her eyes boring into him.

He sighed. "Seriously, Rory, I can't keep playing guessing games with you. If you're going to accuse me of something can you at least tell me exactly what it is you're accusing me of?"

"Did Jeffery Peterson know we were together?"

"Of course not," Mitchum dismissed as though the mere idea was ludicrous. "No one knew."

"So it's just a coincidence that he started sexually harassing me the second we broke up?"

"What?!" Mitchum roared, lurching forward. Rory flinched back in fear at the sudden display of anger. "Did he touch you? I swear to god, I'll kill him!"

Rory couldn't move—except for the uncontrollable shaking. Mitchum finally seemed to take note of her paralyzing fear. He stepped back, his anger receding as fast as it had come on. "Oh god, Rory! I'm sorry. I don't want to be this way, I swear. I just get so jealous. I know it's not right, but I can't help myself when it comes to you. You do things to me."

"So it's my fault?" she managed to croak out.

"No, of course not, that's not what I'm saying. I'm sorry. You just…you have to forgive me. I need you, Rory. I don't want to be like this. I want to be better. But I need you. I need you to help me. I'll do anything. I'll talk to Jeffery for you. I'll make it clear in no uncertain terms that his behavior is inappropriate. I'll make sure you get your assignments."

"I thought my work was slipping. You're going to force your editor to publish my substandard writing?" she asked pointedly.

"You've been distracted. Understandably so. I have been too. I haven't exactly been doing my best work lately. But if you could just forgive me we could forget about all of this and just move on. Everything can go back to normal."

"Forget and move on?" she asked incredulously. "For how long? Until you get mad and hit me again?"

"Never!" he promised. "I'll change. I'll be better. Whatever it takes, I swear," he said, crossing his finger over his chest. "I can take an anger management class. We can go to therapy. Whatever you want. Please."

She looked at him, begging in front of her and her heart ached. He really did seem sorry. He really did seem to want to change. Maybe he could. Maybe she could help him be the good man she'd fallen for. Maybe he was still in there.

"I don't know, Mitch," she replied wearily. "I want to believe you."

"So believe me," he urged. "Things will be better this time, I promise. Things can be like they used to be. Before Christmas, before the fighting, before Logan came between us."

Logan. That one word was all it took for reality to come sweeping back in. The good man she'd fallen for wasn't still in there. He'd never been in there. She'd fallen in love with a lie. He could beg and plead and blame passion and love and insanity all he wanted when it came to her. But what he'd done to Logan—no man with a shred of humanity could treat his own son the way that Mitchum had. That wasn't passion and anger; that was cold, calculated premeditation. Mitchum was nothing more than a con artist—and she'd come a hair's breadth away from falling for his con…again.

And he wasn't going to give up. He would do anything to get his way. He'd ruin her career. He'd sic sexual predators on her. He'd make her life a living hell just to prove that she couldn't live without him. Then he'd beg and plead and cajole. He'd make her believe everything could be better if she just took him back.

She couldn't wait this out. She couldn't just soldier through until he got the message and moved on. He would never move on. Because the only thing that mattered to Mitchum was winning. And what he couldn't win, he would destroy. She could stay, or she could go; it didn't matter. He'd ruin her either way. She couldn't do this anymore.

"No," she shook her head. "It can't be. It won't be."

"What are you saying?" he asked, eyes wide with alarm.

"I'm saying it's over, Mitch. We're done. I'm done...And I quit."

Rory's head flopped to the table in desolation. "I'm done. Finished. Toast. This is it. You're stuck with me forever. I hope you don't mind that fact that you're going to be one of those people who's 40-year-old child lives in their basement and spends all day playing video games and eating Ramen noodles."

"This house doesn't have a basement," Lorelai responded.

"It's a metaphorical basement," Rory mumbled.

"Of course, you're only 24 so that gives me plenty of time to move into a new house that does have a basement. Although I'm pretty fond of this house. And Luke had all that work done to expand the bedroom. Maybe we should have bought the Twickham house; that had a basement."

"Do you find pleasure in mocking my pain?" Rory glanced up at her mother.

"Of course I do, I'm a Gilmore. It's what we do."

"Other people's pain. We're supposed to mock other people's pain. Not your only daughter who just lost everything she's been working for her entire life."

Lorelai sighed, sitting down next to Rory. "You didn't lose everything," she assured her.

"Yes, I did," Rory insisted. "What am I supposed to do now? Half the papers in the country are Huntzberger owned."

"Which still leaves half that aren't."

"And they're going to hire a baby reporter who walked out of her last job with no notice? You think anyone from The Voice is going to give me a reference after that; even if Mitchum somehow decided not to put the word out that I was persona non grata in the profession?"

"You'll find another job."

"Not in journalism I won't. I'm going to wind up working at the Gap. Or I'll get coerced into going to work for Grandpa in insurance," she made a disgusted face. "Insurance. With the numbers and the shmoozing with the stuffy, old men."

"To be fair, there were plenty of stuffy old men in journalism too."

"Exactly!" Rory cried, throwing her hands up in the air. "And look where that got me. Ostracized and alone and moving back home with my Mommy."

Lorelai placed her hand over Rory's, squeezing it reassuringly. "I know this sucks kid. What happened to you isn't fair, and it isn't right. And it kills me to know what that man did to you. And it kills me to know that you're facing the consequences for his bad behavior. But you did the right thing by leaving. And everything may feel hopeless right now, but you are strong and smart. You're a fighter and you will get through this." The doorbell interrupted Lorelai's speech. "Are you excepting someone?" she asked curiously.

"No," Rory shook her head in the negatory.

"Hmm, maybe Babette's cat got out again?" she pondered. "I'll go check."

"I'll go," Rory sighed. "I can use a distraction from my bleak, destitute future."

"That's the attitude," Lorelai smirked, clapping Rory on the shoulder. Rory rolled her eyes at her mother before pushing herself up from the table and heading to the foyer.

She removed the chain and pulled the door open, her eyes widening with shock at the site on the other side of the threshold. "What are you doing here?" she squeaked.

Logan drew in a shaky breath, running his fingers through his slightly overgrown blonde locks. He looked tired, and slightly disheveled. But he also looked good; really good. Rory's heart fluttered involuntarily in her chest. "Hey," he replied. "Can we talk?"

AN: So we finally get a glimpse into what Logan is planning. And Rory finally quit which I know a lot of you were jonesing for. But what is Logan doing at her door? Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. I had to re-write the first quarter of it after my computer crashed the other night. And I had to ignore the impeachment proceedings all day while I concentrated on writing-which was probably for my own good as much as it was yours, but it still required Herculean efforts. So as always, please let me know what you think in a review.