Rene barged into my room as I was in the middle of 'packing,' which was really more like throwing my clothes around and trying not to panic.

"Grandmere says it's not gentlemanly to invite yourself into a young lady's room," I teased, glad for a distraction.

A grin split his handsome face. "Grandmere also doesn't think it's very chivalrous to play strip poker with several female acquaintances in your father's office."

I neatly folded a blouse that Michael used to love, even if he was always unbuttoning it. "Well, she's right. Maybe it's about time for you to grow up."

"Just because you're twenty-eight going on eighty doesn't mean I have to be. You should really try being young for once, Mia. It's not quite the nightmare you'd imagine."

"I was young," I argued, scanning the room for my navy blue skirt. "And now I'm grown up. How about testing that out?"

Rene just shook his head. "So where are you going anyway? Some week-long rave?"

"Ha ha ha," I said sardonically. "No, I'm going to New York."

This peaked Rene's interest like not much else in my 'mundane' life seems to do. "Really now? What's the occasion?"

"Believe it or not, I'm not going clubbin' or anything. It's different."

"Of course it is," said Rene absently, starting for the door.

"I'm going to see Michael."

"Moscovitz?" he said slowly, his back still to me.

"No, Michael Landon of Little House on the Prairie fame. Of course it's Michael Moscovitz."

He turned on his heel, downright gaping at me. "B-but you hate Michael! He cheated on you and made you boring and took all the joy out of your youth."

"I wouldn't put it quite that way. But I never said we're best friends or anything. It's business, not some tea party."

"If this business involves any big city parties, make sure to call me. I at least want to hear the cosmopolitan-ness. Ooh, and if you hook up with Michael, make sure to tell me all about it. But don't call. That might be going overboard."

"Rene, all I'm doing is going to Michael's apartment and collecting my daughter."

"This is so wasted on you!" he practically screeched. I don't blame him. Genovia doesn't have the hottest scene.

I'd gladly send Rene in my stead if it meant no seeing in Michael again. Because all I'm going to do is blush and stutter and then high-tail it out of there with Olivia.

Rene's right. Youth is wasted on me.

- - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

My nerves had just about reached breaking point as the limo pulled up to Michael's apartment. Our apartment. The very same in which we'd practically ripped each other's hearts to shreds.

Oh, the memories.

Lars answered my quickened breathing with arched eyebrows. "Maybe you should've called ahead."

"Lars!" I panted. "Look at me…I'm so in no state to call ahead. What would I say anyway? 'So, ex-love-of-my-life, how are things? By the way, I'm taking your baby.'"

"I wouldn't call a 7-year-old a baby. At least not to her face."

No, he's right. Jeeeez. Seven? How'd I miss all that?

Oh, yes, by being 'boring' in Genovia.

"All right," I said slowly. "Let's do this."

"Do you want me to come inside?" said Lars as we trekked up the steps.

I considered the situation. "Just…uh…just stay outside the door and if I scream or Michael starts throwing things or you hear gunfire, then you can come inside."

It was probably against protocol for Lars to allow me to enter the apartment alone, but I would have even a harder time of it if my Swedish bodyguard was hovering over us.

With Lars pretending not to watch my every move, I rapped three times on the door.

"Breathe, Princess," was Lars' whispered instruction.

But just as I inhaled, the door swung open and an apron-adorned, paint-covered Michael faced me.

"Holy shoot," he murmured, gawking at me as I choked on my attempted breath.

"I'm sorry, what?" I gasped.

His cheeks flushed, reminding me of the days when Michael would willingly let me cover him in make-up. "Sorry, self-censoring. Can-can I help you?"

I took an actual breath this time. "I was thinking…maybe we could talk."

"Talk," echoed Michael, still looking utterly bewildered. "Wanna come inside?"

He pushed the door open all the way and waved me in. As I walked past him, I looked around in wonder. It's weird how things have hardly changed. Except where there used to be pictures of Michael and me, representing our coupledom, there are now framed photographs of Michael and Olivia—the new love of his life.

"Things," I said stupidly. "How are…things?"

"Things are pretty good," he replied uncomfortably, perching on the arm of the couch as I gazed around the room. "Sorry about the mess. Olivia and I were painting, and that turned into a big war, and now I'm gonna be exchanging my paycheck for cleaning supplies…so, yeah."

"Where's Olivia?"

His forehead wrinkled as he scrutinized me. "Why are you here?"

Ah, the famous Moscovitz wit is back in action. "To see Olivia," I explained, as though talking to the girl herself. "Where is she?"

"Listen, Mia—or am I supposed to call you Amelia now?—you can't just pop in whenever you feel like it and demand to see her."

"Of course I can," I snapped. "I did give birth to her."

"You wouldn't think so."

I think it's sweet how quickly Michael and I have dropped the forced politeness and resorted to outright bickering. Really takes me back.

"Michael, I have a right to see her. She's my daughter. Andmyheir," I said, muttering the last part under my breath.

"Come again?" said Michael, his brow furrowing even more.

"She's…she's next in line for the throne."

"No, she's not," said Michael easily, though he looked a bit pissed at the reminder of anything Genovian. "She's going to have a normal life with me in New York. You're supposed to take care of the heir thing. Remember? It's like you never even knew us. That's what you wanted."

I declined the opportunity to burst into tears and sob to Michael about my dream to be perfectly normal with him in New York. I didn't think it'd be kosher.

"Look, let me explain," I said instead. "About…about a year ago I found out I had cancer."

With that one word, all the color drained from Michael's face. "Holy Jeebus," he said quietly, his knees starting to tremble. "Jeebus…how long…how long do you have?" he stammered, his hand inching toward mine. "Can I do anything?"

As much as I preferred helpful-Michael to Michael the Ass, I interrupted him. "Michael, I'm not dying. It was cervical cancer, and I was treated. I'm going to be fine, except…"

"Except what?" he said carefully, still not quite back to his normal level of douchetasticity.

I cringed, even though I really do enjoy discussing the ins and outs of my body with my bitter ex-boyfriend. "Except I had a hysterectomy. I can't have any more kids."

"Fuck," muttered Michael, his eyes widening.

Just hit the button!