"Natalie?" I hear Grace's voice on the other end of my phone and the knot in my stomach begins to untangle for the first time today. "Isn't it, like, 1 a.m.?"
"Grace, we've been over this: It's 'Mary.' I have to do this. I have to move forward." The stress of my conversation with Francis can be heard in the strain of my voice. I have no doubt she'll pick up on it – she knows me well. "And, yes, it is."
"Well, then, Mary," she emphasizes. "You'll have to stop calling me by my family's pet name, then. It's 'Greer' - G-R-E – " I cut her off as she does her best impression of a spelling bee participant, knowing our conversation will degrade if I don't stop her.
"Okay, Greer. I'll try my best." I sigh audibly, remembering why I called. "Do you have some time to talk? I know it's earlier on the West Coast, but I don't want to assume – "
She cuts in before I can voice my insecurities, the sigh having reached her ears. "Of course I do. What's going on? Why do I get the feeling things aren't as you hoped they would be?"
Not surpringly, she picks up my frustration from what little we've exchanged so far, being one of the few people who knows me well enough to be able to do so. "They're not but, before I tell you what exactly is going on, I'd like you to promise me you'll consider something."
There's a slight pause, a quiet on the other end. I don't normally ask for things and she knows that. "Of course, Mary. I'll consider anything. What is it?"
"I'd like you to consider moving to New York and coming to work for me as our PR director."
I hear her gasp in surprise. I have no clue what she was expecting, but my guess is that was not it. To keep our conversation moving, I add, "We don't have to discuss the particulars tonight or even why I think you're talented and overly qualified for the job – but I want you to consider it."
"Okay," she breathes. "I'll consider it. Now tell me what has made you so upset."
In the hour that follows, I proceed to tell her of all that has happened since my arrival, concluding with the fake engagement ploy and my argument with Francis.
"That's insane, Mary. You can't possibly entertain the idea of pretending to be engaged simply to boost the board's faith in the two of you. If that were to get out, it would be a PR nightmare for me to sort through. Why would you even think – "
Greer's ranting has begun, but I catch something in her statement that gives me sufficient cause to interrupt. "What do you mean, for you to sort through? Does this mean you'll take the job?"
She laughs in her bedroom in Los Angeles and I know the exact face she's making as she shakes her head at me from afar. "Yes, it does. I know you haven't told me anything about it, but I'm bored; it's an unbelievable opportunity; and you seem like you could really use a friend." Taking a breath, Greer barrels forward. "I don't know where I'll live, mind you, but I'm in. We can discuss that more tomorrow when you call me on company time. For now, though, I want to know more about why you are considering this absurd idea of Henry's. What about it is so appealing?"
I sit on the question, not having thought about it from that angle. It just seemed easiest, to go along with what Henry requested of me. I hadn't stopped to question its bearing on my own life.
"Mary?" Greer asks, hesitantly, acknowledging that I haven't spoken a word in nearly a full minute. "Can I take a stab at it, since I know you pretty well?"
She takes my continued silence as her cue to say just what she feels needs to be said.
"I think you like that they told you who to be and that's a comfortable place for you. Because I'm guessing, in the 18 hours you've been in New York, you still haven't found Mary Stuart. Maybe pieces of her, sure, but you certainly haven't uncovered her fully. And that's hard. That's a really scary place to be, Mary. You've spent so long pretending to be so many other people because that's what you were told to do – it's easier for you to do than facing all that you don't know."
My hand reaches up to wipe away a few tears that leak freely from my eyes. She's right. She's always right, even if she sometimes has a brash way of putting things. Probably the result of her mother being a respected psychologist.
"I don't know, Greer … Maybe that is what it is. Or maybe it's just I had this grand expectation that Francis would still be my ally, my friend, my defender – and he so clearly doesn't want to be. He's the one person I could always count on, and now … Well, now I don't know. Maybe I thought the arrangement would force us to spend time together, so I might find out what he remembers about who I was when I first came to their family. But maybe it's all just wrong … "
"You haven't even been there a full day, Mary. Don't be so hard on yourself. You'll both adjust. I think you should try to get some sleep. I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?"
"Okay," I respond weakly. "I'll talk to you tomorrow. Goodnight, Gra-, Greer. And, hey – thanks for the text tonight, reminding me not to drink too much. I can't imagine what that conversation would have been like if I'd also been drunk."
The alarm on my phone sounds before I'm ready to rise. Whatever the thread count of the sheets on the bed, I will have no trouble getting used to them. Perhaps it's merely the fatigue of the last several days and the fact I slept on a train for most of the nights in between but, in spite of last night's emotion, I slept comfortably and without waking.
Reluctant to leave but knowing I'm expected sooner rather than later, I push back the bedcovers and pad over to the closet, where my few items have been unpacked. I try to convince myself that I'll feel more at home, more settled, once the rest of my things arrive later today. After last night's foot-powered tour from office to restaurant to pub, I realize I'm going to need better shoes. Maybe Elisabeth can help me with that – or Greer, when she arrives.
I shower, encouraging myself to become alert and trying to wrap my head around the day. My daily routine doesn't take long, but I find myself lingering under the falling water and its warmth. When it starts to turn cold, I sheepishly turn it off and reach for the closest towel, wrapping it around my body, and snatch another to rub through my hair. I decide to let it dry fully on my way in to the office. It is summertime, after all.
Venturing out into the hallway, I'm met by Sarah – dusting paintings and waiting for me to leave for the day so she can clean my room.
"Good morning, Ms. Stuart." She curtsies and I don't quite know what to do with that.
"Good morning, Sarah," I reply, taking in what little I can see of the rest of the house from my vantage point. "Have you seen Mr. Valois this morning?"
Her dusting stops for a moment as she turns to look at me, a bit wide-eyed at my question. I wonder for the first time how many ears heard our argument last night.
"He left a while ago, Ms. Stuart. Said he needed to go in early."
Or he just wanted to avoid me, I think before I can stop myself.
"Would you like me to get you some breakfast or have Stephen call for a car?"
"No, thank you," I reply – part of my conversation with Greer from last night returning to me. "I think I'll walk and get something to eat on the way. I have to get my bearings sometime. It would be helpful, though, if you could tell me which way to walk when I leave the house."
"Of course, Ms. Stuart." She smiles kindly. "You'll want to turn right."
On my way to work, I find myself lost in my thoughts as I converge with the masses, but I try to keep it focused on the workplace I'm about to walk into for the second time. A cyclist darts in front of me and I step back to avoid colliding with him.
Grateful. That's the one word I can think of to describe my feelings toward the team I'll be working with. I remember Lola and Aylee from when I was younger, their families being close friends with the Valois family. We weren't especially good friends – playing only rarely when Francis had something else, gathering only for special events and birthdays – but, still, they're familiar faces and they also have a good chance of having met the real Mary Stuart at some point, so I'm grateful to have them on-board.
From the look of her and what I gathered from being out with her last night, Lola lives up to her reputation. Meticulous. Always a critic. A perfect creative director after her standout years at the Rhode Island School of Design. Aylee couldn't be more different, however. My memories recall her loyalty, her meek nature hiding the fact that her lineage includes some of the oldest – and wealthiest – families on the East Coast. MIT accepted her at sixteen and it's no wonder Henry wanted her as his director of information technologies. With the addition of Greer and Kenna, who I hope to bring on as my personal assistant, I think we'll have a highly skilled team of personnel to support the company.
I turn north, remembering the directions Sarah gave me before I left, and I spot the cafe we ate lunch at yesterday. Popping in, I order a black tea latte and some yogurt and decide to take them to go.
The remaining three blocks, my brain starts connecting all I know of Valois Security and I come to one overarching conclusion: Henry's company structure is brilliant. He knows the importance of maintaining a traditional business model in a non-traditional world. In an attempt to convey that he and his employees can be trusted with the loved ones and assets of the company's customers – the company motto being "Known and Trusted," after all – he has only hired those he knows and trusts himself. An ingenious way to keep nepotism alive in the modern world, to be sure, and his youthful workforce allows him a prime opportunity to also attract new, younger clientele.
But that still leaves one question: Why me?
I realize I don't really fit the "known and trusted" criteria. Perhaps once upon a time, in the nightmarish fairytale that was my life when I lived with them as a child – perhaps he knew and trusted me then. But why now?
And why does he want me, of all people, to pretend to be engaged to his son?
I shove my last question aside as I grapple with the first. I suppose I am good at what I do, when I really think about it. My bosses at the LA firm I interned with for three years squeezed as much free labor as they could from my time for a reason. I've spent my life crafting and selling identity, haven't I? While most new graduates have maybe three years of experience, I have sixteen. I'm just selling a different product now.
My feet carry me into the tall glass-faced building that houses our corporate offices. Bash waves from the security desk, his feet kicked up before him while he watches the morning news on one of the lobby television sets.
"Good morning, Mary," he greets me cheerfully – far too much so for how much he drank last night. The thought occurs to me that maybe he didn't ever stop drinking, but I let it go.
"Good morning, Bash," I return, eager to get on the elevator and ride up to the ninth floor. "Has Francis already come in this morning?"
He shifts his feet to the ground and kicks his chair back. "Yes," he states. "He came in about an hour ago. Say, Mary ... " he starts. "You wouldn't mind giving me your friend's phone number, would you?"
I laugh, my nervousness for the day slightly dissipating. He just looks so hopeful sitting there, I can't help myself. "Who, Kenna?" I confirm, to which he nods eagerly. "Sorry, Bash – if she didn't give it to you herself, I'm certainly not going to risk her wrath by doing so."
His face falls, but he brightens up when he hears the newscasters begin to talk about something at Coney Island. I take the chance to slip away and into the elevator as I hear him call out behind me, "Thanks anyway!"
Everyone greets me as I step through the doors and make my way back toward my suite, my path taking me past the windows to Francis' office. He's talking on the phone and visibly upset. The door ajar, I can still only decipher the occasional word.
"Could you tell Mr. Valois to stop by my office when he gets a chance?" I ask his secretary, having already forgotten her name."I need to talk to him about my new hires."
"Sure thing, Ms. Stuart," the girl replies, keeping one eye on him with a slightly enamoured look on her face. "Is there anything else I can do for you this morning?"
"No, that will be all," I reply, remembering her name from its appearance on the screen of Francis' phone the night before while we were at the pub. "Thank you, Natalia."
She starts to respond with some socially accepted nicety, but Francis' voice grows louder and she doesn't. Neither of us can help our eavesdropping.
"You can't … Father! You cannot make her do this – She's spent her whole life … She's not just a business acquisition! She's a girl you once considered a daughter, under your care. You can't … "
Hearing him start over, I slip away from Natalia's desk and into the safety of my own four walls, setting my forgotten breakfast on my desk and closing the blinds on the windows so no one will see me collapse into my chair and process any of what I've just overheard.
At least it's Friday.
The next morning, I find Francis in the breakfast nook with the Times spread before him. He gestures to the seat next to him and I take it, also taking a moment to look at him. No talk of the day or the weather passes between us – we haven't discussed more than my new hires since our argument.
Stephen quietly appears to see what I would like to eat. I suspect that, soon enough, when he realizes I have the same thing every day, he'll anticipate my morning routine: Black tea with milk and a teaspoon of sugar; yogurt with fresh fruit and granola, if it's on hand. All things I fell in love with while in college.
He places the food in front of me as Francis' phone rings, vibrating against the table. I thank Stephen and take a sip of my tea to test its temperature. It's perfect, so I swallow a little more, enjoying the way the warmth slips down my throat. My euphoria at discovering the kitchen staff's ability to make a perfect cup of tea does not keep me from listening to Francis' end of the conversation he is having with his mother. I'm becoming quite the eavesdropper, it seems.
"Of course he does … Is Henry going to be all right? No, I don't have any plans tonight. Of course I can take him. When will he be … And at the school, you said? And at – All right, Mother. I'll let you know when he has arrived. Okay. … Okay. I'll talk to you soon. Bye."
He hangs up the phone and sets it back on the table, glancing up at me. After all the staring I caught him in on Thursday, it seems it's his turn to catch me. I didn't realize I had been watching him so intently while he talked with Catherine. I clear my throat, diverting my gaze.
"So, what was that about?" I snag a discarded section of the Times and pretend to be interested. Most days I would be, but today my mind is foggy – and I'm beginning to suspect that the reason for that fog sits next to me.
He shuffles the pages in his hands a bit, resuming his own reading – or at least he appears to resume his reading – as he speaks. "That was my mother. Charles has a cotillion class this evening with his school. She was supposed to take him and chaperone, but Henry has come down with some sort of illness and she wants to stay with him."
"And your father – why can't he take Henry?" I question, impressed by how calmly Francis takes on responsibility for his brother.
"He has that safe demonstration with the company Philip recommended. Mother figured I might be able to take Charles and since I don't have plans for the evening, I don't mind."
His eyes haven't really moved, leading me to believe he has been trying to read the same sentence over and over since he got off the phone. A bit of my mental fog clears, giving me an idea.
"Maybe I could go, too. I'm new to the city, but I remember our cotillion classes from when we were younger. I could keep you company and I'd love to spend some time with Charles." I look up from the article I'm currently not reading, hopeful, and he finally meets my eyes with his own.
"All right," he agrees nonchalantly before looking down at the paper again. "But you might want to call Elisabeth. You'll need a dress. Since your things didn't arrive yesterday, maybe she can lend you something."
I finish the last of my tea, set aside the paper and push back the chair. "Thanks," I say softly before turning toward my room so I can call Elisabeth.
I step out of the salon where Elisabeth took me after our afternoon of dress shopping and I find a car waiting. The driver opens the door for me and I slip inside to encounter what appears to be a slightly stunned Francis and a seven-year-old I assume to be Charles seated across from him.
"Good evening, Mary," Francis says – rather too formally for my liking. "This is Charles." Looking to Charles, he speaks in kind. "Charles, this is Mary. She lived with Elisabeth and me before you were born. Mary," he turns back to me, his blue eyes piercing. "You look beautiful."
My cheeks flush and I'm grateful for the dim light in the car. I hear Charles whisper to his older brother that I smell nice and I smile as I smooth the skirt on the modest navy dress Elisabeth talked me into buying. We arrive at the school only a few minutes later and the driver assists me in reaching the curb, where Francis and Charles immediately join me.
Inside the school, young children are everywhere. In particular, the boys line one wall and the girls another – in spite of the efforts of several parents and the cotillion coordinators. I balk a bit, realizing the room has been set for dancing. Thankfully, Elisabeth also found me some comfortable shoes. I just hope they won't give me first-use blisters before the night is over.
The coordinator pairs Charles with a little girl named Madeleine, but he refuses to go near her. Cooties being what they have always been, I understand completely and attempt to convince Madeleine that it's all right to dance with boys because I danced with boys at her age. Apparently, that's enough logic for her and she approaches Charles, whom Francis nudges forward. They mimic the stance modeled by the dance instructor and her husband. As I walk to the side, I'm approached by a man. Attractive. Likely 30. Possibly a teacher.
"I'm Simon Westbrook," he introduces himself. "I teach English here at the academy. I don't think I've seen you here before. Which student are you with?"
Definitely a teacher, then. Something about him makes me nervous but no obvious reason for my anxiety exists. I point to Charles, stating my name and mentioning that I am a friend of the Valois family.
"We love Charles. Such a great kid. Are you from New York?"
"No," I reply. It dawns on me that I really don't know where to say I'm from – Sacramento? Connecticut? Denver? Kansas City? LA? I decide I should just tell people 'New York' from now on.
My lack of response seems to throw him, especially as my eyes have begun to dart about the room.
"And what do you do, Ms. Stuart?" He asks, this question necessitating more than a 'yes' or 'no' this time.
"I'm the Chief Information Officer at Valois Security," I relay. There – that wasn't so hard, was it?
"How did you get into that line of work?" he continues, moving a bit closer to me in the process. I think of my father and my determination to be like him. I recall the thought I had on my way to work yesterday about how I'm good at my job because I've created my own identity all these years. My hands begin to tremble, just a little. My heart rate rises.
"I just discovered at some point that I was good at it." The words that come from my mouth are a bit wobbly, but I manage a smile. I don't want to be rude, but I also don't want to be standing here talking to a complete stranger about how I came to be in Manhattan. There's also the fact that I haven't thought of a single question to ask him. My lungs threaten to seize, reminding me to breathe.
"Perhaps I've heard of your family – " Something snaps inside as he begins to ask this last question and I don't hear the rest. I just feel a hand settle on my elbow as tears pool in my eyes.
"Darling! You're missing the game!" Francis. His voice brings me back, even if just a little bit. I see he has plastered a goofy semi-inebriated smile onto his face. If only Mr. Westbrook knew that wasn't what he looks like when he's drunk.
"I've already had two glasses of wine! Every time a kid steps on another kid's feet, we must take a drink." I feel composed enough that I look up at him, sensing his concerned eyes tracking my every movement. "Simon!" he turns, extending one of the two wine glasses he carries. "Still teaching, are we? Here, have a glass."
Francis leans in toward me, brushing a finger of his free hand lightly against my nose and leering cheekily, "I have another game in mind for you."
Before I'm aware of exactly what is happening, Francis has taken me into the hallway and pushed me up against the wall. His hands move constantly as I try to keep them from landing just below my ribcage – and everywhere they do land, it is as though a spot fire erupts at their touch.
"What are you doing?" I ask uneasily. For the first time, I'm close enough to detect his cologne, which only makes me more eager to be out of his grasp.
"Don't move," he replies calmly, firmly. "Don't push me away. You're shaking."
And he's right, I am shaking.
"What happened, Mary?"
I shake my head, hopefully conveying that this isn't Mr. Westbrook's fault. Words slowly choke their way out of my throat, "He just asked me about myself. Why I do what I do. My family."
"Ah," he affirms. The quiet cool of the hallway leads my body to relax, the shaking subsiding a little as I grapple to regain full composure. His hands lift from my body and he settles in next to me. Air rushes into my lungs as I force myself to breathe.
He breaks the silence after a few minutes, speaking low so that we aren't overheard by the few others in the hallway. "My father won't relent. I have no idea why he's so insistent, but he still wants us to go along with this engagement ruse." A sigh escapes him and I see him run his fingers through his hair – a sign of frustration I've come to know well since my arrival.
"It would be easier for me," I find my voice. "I mean, it's easier for me to pretend to be engaged to you than to try and figure out who I am."
"But isn't that a good reason not to go along with this? You need that chance." His words tip me off that he suspects I've come to New York to find myself. The only emotion I can ever seem to read clearly from him is concern and his eyes are filled with it.
In and out, I remind myself to breathe again. My heart rate begins to slow.
"I do but, as you saw just now, I'm not really ready to take that chance in public." I realize he has leaned into me a little in order to hear my soft answer.
"Well, then." He straightens, setting his jaw determinedly. "Can you do this?"
My face surely reflects my confusion until I register the meaning behind his words. He's offering shelter, even if just from the passing storm.
"Absolutely," I resolve as I stand upright. "Can you?"
That's really the question, isn't it? Because he has made it pretty clear that he doesn't want this at all.
He answers by taking my hand and pulling it gently through the crook of his arm, moving us back toward the room where the children continue to learn their dances.
'Intoxicated' might be the only appropriate word to describe how I feel as Francis and I dance amongst the children. As if I've consumed a steady stream of alcohol for hours. Every inch of my skin flames with something I haven't felt before – that I've never let myself feel before. I find myself thankful that his arms hold me up because, at this point, I'm not sure that my own legs are able to do so. His legs were always longer than mine, but when did he get so tall? And lean?
"You've gotten better," he whispers into my ear and I feel something unnameable spread through my body. The feel of his breath against my neck distracts me enough that I step lightly on his toes. A chuckle rumbles from his lips. He briefly leans his temple against mine and I can feel the laugh lines in his forehead. "Then again … "
"My roommate in college danced," I manage to squeak. "She gave me some pointers. Grac- I mean, Greer. You'll meet her Monday."
"The new PR director? You referred to her as 'Grace' the other night at the pub, didn't you?" My head bobs in affirmation, a little surprised that he actually remembers anything that was said at the pub with how much gin he imbibed.
"Yes, Greer. Her family calls her 'Grace' because that was what her dance teacher called out to her repeatedly as a child – 'Grace, Greer. Grace.' It stuck. She's trying to get away from it, going by her given name to earn the respect of her peers. Respect is the greatest achievement in the Kinross household."
Even the increasingly less-present space between us has become comfortable as our feet find the steps to the waltz the dance instructor has just announced. I catch myself engrossed in the idea that maybe we can actually pull off this fake engagement. But maybe that's still just my desire to be near him because he knew me long ago, as I told Greer. Maybe it's just because he came to my rescue, as he did when we were young.
"Well, what do you think, Ms. Stuart?" his voice drawls in my ear, his face close enough that his light beard leaves a tickle on my skin. "Will you marry me?"
We tuck a sleepy Charles into his bed shortly after we arrive back at home and tiptoe backward out of his room. It's still early, the cotillion ending just as most of the city's inhabitants make their way out their front doors for dinner. I stop by my room to kick off my heels and am in the middle of a debate over whether to change into something more comfortable when I hear footfalls stop in my doorway. I look up to see Francis leaning against the frame and I can't describe the way I feel when I see him except that I like what I see.
He holds up a bottle of wine and two glasses. "Would you like a drink?"
I follow him into the living room, where I sink into the deep couch and instinctively curl my feet up under me – a luxury, I note, because of the tea-length of my dress.
A glass filled with the red liquid soon finds its way into my hand.
I still haven't wrapped my head around the idea that this could be more than just a living arrangement – that I could put down roots, that I can be part of this family again.
"If we're going to make this work," his voice stirs me from my contemplation. "We should probably get to know one another better." He adds, "You know – as adults."
I sip the wine. It's good. Flavorful. A little fruitier than what we had the other night with dinner.
"What do you want to know?" I offer, inhaling deeply. The teacher at the school tonight had given me a panic attack when he asked questions – but I get the feeling it won't be like that with Francis. And I agree with him. If we're going to pull this off, we will need to be more familiar with each other.
"Well, for starters," he grins. "Did you ever figure out how to sit through a story?"
I roll my eyes, knowing he references my terrible impatience as a child. Games, too, were often left unfinished.
"Okay, okay," he laughs easily. "Why did you only have one drink the other night?"
He still has given me an easy question, one that shows he has been paying attention.
"You remember Greer, right? I mentioned her earlier – " I begin, only to be interrupted.
"I'm sorry to intrude, Mr. Valois." Stephen stands by patiently. "There is someone here to see Ms. Stuart. Ms. Stuart, might I show him in?"
I agree and move to reposition my body and cross my legs. Francis tenses protectively to my right as Stephen shows in a middle-aged man wearing a full suit and carrying a briefcase.
"Good evening, Ms. Stuart, Mr. Valois," he says evenly.
We stand and he greets each of us with a firm handshake before we return to our seats.
"Good evening," I respond cautiously, perplexed by the stranger's appearance at this hour on a Saturday night. "What can we do for you, Mr. … ?"
"DeGuise, Ms. Stuart. Claude DeGuise."
"Well, then, Mr. DeGuise. Would you like to sit?"
"No, thank you," the man declines. "This won't take long. I just need to drop off some papers." He retrieves a legal folio from from the case and sets it in my waiting hands. "Your case manager told us to wait a year after you were released from the program to contact you, so you might regain some sense of normalcy after all you have been through. These papers merely inform you as to your father's desires concerning his estate. They are long overdue. I am so sorry for your loss, Ms. Stuart."
I feel my eyes brimming as I sit there in a state of shock, the weight of my father's life resting in my lap. Francis rises again to thank the man and Stephen escorts him back to the door.
A hand comes to rest on my arm as Francis kneels down to be at my level. "Are you going to be all right?" he asks. I nod.
"Would you like to know what the papers say?" he follows.
"Yes," I croak.
"I'll leave you alone, then." He returns to an upright stance.
"Francis – wait," I call out after him as he turns to leave. I'm on the verge of breaking down entirely but my desire to know looms more strongly. "Could you tell me what the papers say? I've never been good with legalese."
He returns to my side and takes the folio from my hands, opening it and removing the contents. After a few minutes of studying the pages while I watch him, he exclaims in surprise.
"Mary," he starts, looking up for consent to continue – making sure I still want to know. "You're set to inherit your father's company when you turn 25."
I don't remember much of what happens after he relays this piece of information, or the several other smaller ones that follow for that matter.
All I know is that I now know the why and my blood runs cold as I acknowledge it.
This is why Henry chose me.
Author's Note: A lot of you are asking how closely I'm going to keep to the story. I will admit, that as much as I'd like to mirror the exact story, I have to be faithful and creative in adapting it to fit both the Frary narrative I love and some of the other themes I'm choosing to focus on. Regardless, I hope you enjoy! The next chapter will probably be out next Monday, as I am finding very little time to write while I'm on a brief trip. Thanks for all of your reviews so far! Let me know what you think of this beast ... I didn't intend for it to be so lengthy, I promise – it just happened! :)
Disclaimer: As with the previous chapter, this one also borrows scenes and dialogue from the show itself - primarily 102. Only the adaptation is mine.