My Clarity-

For those who have messaged to ask for the thirty ish chapter long chapter- I was trying to keep it until it was finished but I cannot as I am both excited and nervous and I am grateful for the interest :)

It is the story of the Titanic, but a completely different take, and a kind of different sinking, and maybe a different ending if I get to write it. I will update every few days/weekly at the most to keep a steady pace of the story (we all hate waiting for the update of our fav story!) and it is a very different take on the whole story, so try to go with it, and lose your inhibitions reading with the movie in mind.

Other than that, your reviews and love is more then appreciated. :)

Slightly inspired by the song Clarity by Zedd, and Bad Habits by Ed Sheeran. Slightly by Bridgerton and slightly by Poldark. :)

''His intentions? Just how would you know what they are, Mr. Dawson?''

''I may be male, Miss, but we are not all gentleman. I will say that much. I have been hurled all insults, been the forefront of much gossip but I have never been seen as a man of Society. Almost. They say. Almost a gentleman. But his intentions are entirely selfish, he cares nothing of you or your wellbeing. You're trapped and you'll die if you don't break free.''

''And I suppose you are the one to save me, Mr. Dawson? Then what, would your intentions be completely honourable?''

There was a pregnant pause. All silence seemed to be deafening. Crackling. The air about her seemed to be completely useless and breathing was difficult. It wasn't the strength of her corset stripping away the last remnants of oxygen, it was awaiting the answer which could change the course of her life. Everything.

His blue eyes pinned her to the spot. His hand tenderly at her cheek. Her stomach was a riot. His lips were set in a straight line, as though he was as troubled as she was.

She supposed he wouldn't answer. She supposed he didn't have an answer. A handsome man like he, with money readily available, would never have an intention to settle or marry but simply roam the world without a real goal in life aside from exploration, freedom and perhaps cavorting with ladies of leisure. The ones who were available. Widows...courtesans...perhaps, even the odd married one. What was she, a virgin, engaged to be married to his rival? An enemy perhaps. Hockley steel of Philadelphia and Dawson Steel of Boston had been competing for the latter half of the last century. It wouldn't cease now.

Now, the newly inherited Jack Dawson stood, both of his oddly trembling hands upon her cheeks. A grim sigh was exhaled and then she tilted her head, taking in his hauntingly beautiful face and then raised a brow.

''You have no intentions, Mr. Dawson. For all your words, yes, have been impressionable to me, but now, faced with it, there is nothing to be done. I will marry Cal. I love Cal.''

A deep rumble came from Mr. Dawson, his hand left her cheek momentarily to rake through his hair in that commanding, frustrated way and her attempts to look away from him were fruitless. She did want a response, if not for her own entertainment.

Finally, he was forced into something. An action. The thing he swore that he never would do. It left her wondering just how they had come to this...

Days earlier...

It signalled the end of the age of innocence, the guided Edwardian age...where science would allow us to master the world, bringing only change for the better in an upward spiral of peace, prosperity and enlightenment. Within the previous decade the automobile, the airplane, the electric light, wireless communication, telephones, motion pictures and Kellogg's Cornflakes had gone from invention to commonplace. There seemed to be no limit to what the human mind could accomplish. Man had mastered the physical world and civilised his own base nature.

Man had built the largest moving object. The most luxurious liner to cross the ocean. The blue ribband was in reach for the White Star Line and what a brilliance it would be, crowned the fastest ship of the Atlantic.

The Mauretania was now a ship of the past, once Olympic had been commissioned about eighteen months prior. That was the exact same time that Jack Dawson had learned of his uncle Eric's passing. A short illness. Before Jack could return from Paris, he was the wealthiest man in Boston and had inherited Dawson steel. From travelling alone, upon tramp steams and as a stowaway, then the boy who was barely out of adolescence was handed the deed to the business. The business which his uncle had built steadily and brilliantly. Upon his own parent's deaths in 1907, he had been sent to live with Eric, his paternal uncle, who whilst didn't agree with Jack's bohemian lifestyle, he would allow it for as long as he lived, with the promise that once Eric was in his grave then Jack would become the face of the steel business which had become his uncle's baby, for he could never produce an heir of his own. Sad, yes but also, an inconvenience for a man like Jack, who felt his life belonged on the road. He spent one year learning the ropes of the steel. The competitors. The money. The interiors and the exteriors. The employee's roles from mill hand to the top of the ladder and the fiddlers in between. Eric had paid for a tutor to sharpen his education to university level and had arranged for him to accompany him to several business meetings, exchanges and courthouses. Even then, Hockley steel was a rival, but even more interesting, it was specifically Nathan Hockley who was the enemy. Rivalry was needed. A dose of competitive action was healthy. This was not.

Nathan Hockley's fourteen-year marriage had produced one child, a son, Caledon Hockley. He was around a decade older than Jack, if he recalled and had briefly taken an interest in a woman who Eric had suggested Jack take to a Society dinner in New York. After exchanging merely a few words, Jack had left with the young girl upon his arm and Caledon with the sourest face which he had borne witness to, of course been seventeen or so at the time, the adolescent in Jack had felt accomplished and triumphant over the lady who he had only kissed the hand of, nothing further, for winning her affection rather than Hockley been the man to do so was terribly satisfying. Although now, there would be no need to quarrel with such a man over a girl, no less.

Once that year was up, Jack was free to roam the world as he pleased, as long as he writes on a monthly basis to allow his uncle know of his travels and be kept abreast on the business changes from time to time. There were many and far too many to comprehend at times but Jack was adamant to do so.

Eric had been sixty years old at the time of passing. Jack became a millionaire on the eve of his eighteenth birthday. By his nineteenth, he was in Liverpool, having lunch with the head of the White Star Line after agreeing to provide an undisclosed amount of steel to the shipping line and by his twentieth, his hand clutched a ticket to board their new and most luxurious liner Titanic.

The hype about her building and commissioning had dominated the headline for as long as Jack could recollect and so as his ice melted into his served whisky, with a newspaper at his fingertips instead of a notepad or sketchbook, the newly appointed head of Dawson steel was to take to the seas upon the finest quality of shipping which man had ever built. He could marvel at her beauty, at the speed of which she was supposed to travel, but more than that, perhaps take pride that the steel his own uncle had provided was upon the very ship. There had been an heir of smugness within him at that point, knowing just how much Nathan Hockley had pressed for a meeting with Bruce Ismay, the managing director of the White Star Line as soon as news of the three luxurious ships was commissioned. Eric Dawson had still lived and breathed and cursed upon his grave if Hockley had any involvement with the company.

''Fine weather tomorrow,'' one gentleman commented smoothing out his curled moustache, ''fine for sailing.''

''Indeed.'' His companion nodded. ''I heard the commotion and apparently sailing this afternoon at Southampton this morning was worse than a Whitsuntide gathering.'' He exhaled his cigar. ''All crammed into that dock like peasants. All for a bloody ship.''

''Oh, do lighten up, Heath,'' his companion laughed. ''One could only wish to travel on such a liner.''

''Yes, I do hear that she is the ultimate in luxuries.''

Tapping his glass for a refill, Jack nodded to a black coated server who raised his brows in return and went to proceed with the order.

''What about you, young man? Are you familiar with the ship?''

Jack raised his gaze to the two men who had been sitting on the nearby table putting the world to rights for the last forty-five minutes. After a quick glance over the pair, in their mid-forties he would guess, he responded flatly.

'Somewhat.''

''Fresh from London are you, for the trip to France for the first time?'' The elder of the gentlemen eyed him, expectantly. "It can be filthy out there, you have to know the right places to wager and drink."

''No, actually,'' Jack smiled, ''I took my final turn about Paris before I am going home to America on the Titanic.''

At that moment, the server fetched Jack a tumbler of whisky and ice on a tray, he took it and left a large tip in its place before sipping the drink. The silence which proceeded was the desired effect. His three-piece suit and waistcoat were beginning to grow irritating. His starched collar was digging. His patience wearing thin. It always did in establishments such as this. Takes White Gentleman's club as an example; whilst in London, he had taken a turn to Mayfair to examine just what treats it would hold for an unmarried man who was bored in a strange city, and instead of finding a passion for gambling and taking whores, he had simply found himself submerged into the local galleries and museums which was mostly attended by either courting couples or unmarried women battering their eyes at him as though hay fever had taken over them. No. Jack Dawson was not a man for complications and nor would he find himself with the need of a woman whilst there. Yes, one urged for one, but he had been self-sufficient for quite some time.

Jack had arrived at Cherbourg, with the expectance of boarding the ship at five p.m, but there had been a delay of some sort. By quarter past the same hour though, it was on-board the SS Nomadic, along with his small stack of luggage that a pair of hands upon his shoulders had startled him as he had smoked another cigarette.

''Well, don't you look wonderfully handsome, young Jack. From the side there, you were almost identical to Eric.''

The Southern twang in her voice was evident and the warmth caused him to smile as he took one black gloved hand and brought it to his lips.

''Well, hello, Mrs. Brown. You certainly do get where water doesn't.''

''Mrs. Brown? How old do you think I am? Its Molly to you.'' Beneath a large velvet black and purple hat, Margaret Brown's red cheeks flushed with some sort of rush. ''And I have returned from Egypt.''

''Egypt, huh? How have you fared out there in that heat?''

''Oh, it's wonderful but none of that. I shall tell you about it over dinner, some time. How are you? My sincere condolences on your uncles passing. I was thinking of you the year before last.''

''Well, thank you, but as you say, time has passed.''

''And you look so wonderfully grown up and handsome. I hear business is booming though.''

''Yes,'' Jack pressed his lips together in a somewhat grim line. It wasn't that he didn't wish to discuss such a topic with Mrs. Brown, but simply had spent too much time touching on such a matter. ''Where is Mr. Brown?''

Mrs. Brown waved her hand about to dismiss him. ''Oh, he will never accompany me. He lives his life, and I live mine. I see him a few months of the year and that is fine for us both.'' Her infectious laugh pierced the passengers who waited. ''It must be two years since I saw you last, such a boy you were then.''

''It was the benefit in New York and you were in charge of the committee.'' Jack recalled. ''Uncle Eric had invited you and your husband over for dinner but you had prior engagements.''

''Yes. It was unfortunate. Mr. Brown and your uncle do go way back.'' Molly took in a saddened sigh, then tilted her head, taking in Jack's appearance with a raised brow.

''Are you all right?''

''Yes. You are a fine man, Jack! Taller than I recall and definitely taking an interest in outdoor sporting pursuits.'' Laughing, she pulled at the collars of Jack's outer jacket in such a mothering way that he couldn't help but genuinely smile. ''When I am away, I have to worry if my sons are eating and withering away or my husband has eaten too many pies but you're growing out of your clothing in another way. Maybe you'll need a visit to the tailor in Boston.''

She was, indeed correct in one way. The clothing had fitted him eighteen months ago, but due to the constant travel, endless meetings and social dictations, Jack had taken to rowing, to sparring occasionally and even running to fend off the frustrations of his life. Although, he would never complain, he was never happy with the path which appeared to have been chosen for him. One which he had very little interest in him.

''I will call upon one as soon as I arrive home, Molly. Rest assured of that.''

''Well, good to know.''

A commotion about them caused an interruption and it grew apparent that Titanic's smokestacks were now visible and the vessel was given order to proceed through the choppy waters to the outer waters to meet her.

A gangway was erected between Nomadic's flying bridge deck and Titanic's E Deck to allow passengers to transfer, with fifteen 1st Class and nine 2nd Class passengers disembarking after making the cross-channel passage. Difficulties arose, where one woman fell and twisted her ankle, several men held down the swaying gangway for the 142 First Class, 30 Second Class. Luxurious French products, such as champagne, wine and cheeses were also transferred to Titanic and it was just after eight p.m, when the sun was a glorious red and orange across the sky, with the lights of Cherbourg harbour in the backdrop resulting in a beautiful postcard effect. The passengers already aboard Titanic watched the tender vessel alongside the majestic ship on which they travelled, looking as tiny as a rowboat.

''Well, I wasn't about to wait all day for you, sonny.'' Molly dropped one of her suitcases to the plush carpeted floor of Titanic's reception room as a steward had rushed to aid her. ''I can manage myself and have the strong back of a young man here in Mr. Dawson.''

Jack, himself, dropped Molly's additional two trunks and kept a firm hold of his single trunk. Taking a wondrous gaze about the ship of what one could see thus far.

''Can you manage?''

The porter staggered through something, leaving Molly, the straight-shooting wife of a self-made millionaire frustrated even more.

''Here take two. I shall have one.''

''No. M-ma-''

''For Heaven's sake, sonny, have two. I can manage the one.''

Without another word to him, she had led him off to the left in search of presumably, her staterooms all the while she was schooling the poor steward of one thing or another. Out of the windows of the tender, Jack had seen Titanic, standing beautifully silhouetted against the illuminated sky. She was certainly a floating palace with what appeared to be millions of beautifully lit portholes. The First-Class reception room was the first impression for many passengers and so, appreciating his vision, he took in the vast glamour of his surroundings. It was mainly white, airy and as he glanced about, noted JJ Astor leading his new bride, Madeline, aboard from the tender. The pretty woman smiled in an acknowledgment in passing with a fur stole at her mid-section, and he returned the gesture with a nod to both her and the elder gentleman who had once or twice visited his uncle Eric due to their Harvard day connections and kept in communication via letter at times until his death.

Around the corner from the Reception Room, forward of the staircase, was the set of three First-Class elevators which ran the length of the stairwell. The Titanic and Olympic both featured duplicate entrance vestibules on their port and starboard sides within the D-Deck Reception Rooms, from what Jack recalled of his time aboard the Olympic. There were sets of double gangway doors within the hull, screened by wrought-iron grilles. The vestibules were partially enclosed areas in the same white Jacobean-style panelling and each contained a large sideboard for storing china. One set of French doors led into the Reception Room, but there was also a broad arched entryway leading to the elevators. Separate corridors led off of the vestibules to the First-Class staterooms in the forward part of D-Deck. The Titanic's vestibules differed from those on the Olympic – they were reduced in size to make the Reception Room larger and they eliminated the communicating corridor between the two sides in order to enlarge the elevator foyers. The Olympic vestibules contained Third-Class staircases that led down to E-Deck, which were eliminated on Titanic, and the elaborate wrought-iron grilles which covered the gangway doors were unique to Titanic.

The corridor was bustling with those in attendance to take dinner, to browse the newly boarded ship or to simply take note of any familiar faces boarding at Cherbourg.

Breezing through them, with head high and eyes forward, Jack located his cabin on the port side on C-deck. C-28 was decorated in a French style, with dark oak panels, and filled with a wonderful fireplace, a writing room and a sitting area along with two bedrooms each about 12' by 18' with a mahogany sleigh bed and burgundy furnishings. The scent of the newness was evident and placing his single trunk upon the bed, Jack was finally alone and away from prying eyes.

Alone.

Despite the pleads of his uncle, he had never felt the need to hire a valet. He was a twenty-year-old man, physically able to dress himself, to shave and to wash himself. He was not a cripple in need of his bottom wiping, regardless of the money which was stacked in the seams of his coat. It wasn't a necessity to him but it was helpful. Eric had taught him how to spend money wisely, and Jack had decided that by giving to those less fortunate was also much healthier.

After unpacking the majority of his things, tucking them away neatly, he examined the bathroom space and was suddenly grateful for a proper place to wash up after those days spent in Montmartre washing only when able and in cold water. The lack of amenities for such luxuries did enable him to feel lucky to have running water at his fingertips. Taking a long look at himself in the large oval mirror above the sink in the bathroom, he was faced with what he now was; a man with responsibilities.

He was hardly recognisable from the man who just days before had slept beneath a Parisian bridge, watching the stars and smoking cheap hand rolled tobacco. Now, his hair was styled away from his face, nails dirt free and mind fully in a state of awareness. Awareness of the chatter surrounding him. New money. Or something of the sort. Navigating the corridor, he had briefly heard the words uttered once or twice...

Shrugging out of the coat, Jack realised that Molly was, indeed correct, he had gained size over the last few weeks alone. His frustration had caused him to learn how to fence of all things whilst in London. Molly and her mothering ways were appreciated but also, caused him to pay attention to himself for once. As usual, he was scowling. A permanent wrinkle there was already starting to make its appearance between his eyebrows. There in the depths of his blue eyes, he found his mother, gazing back to him in the same way which she always did before ruffling his hair out in the gentlest of ways. The rest of him, was his father, and his uncle. Dawson genes were strong, or so it seemed. But Jack would never have a son to find out...or he hoped to not, at least. Why would anyone wish to bring a child into a society full of such misery?

No, the Dawson name would die with him. It had to.