APOV

At eight am, even though I'm tired from a late night I'm up, showered and ready for the day. We have a private tour of the Vatican scheduled for noon so Hem and I make plans to meet up with the guys then. Christian was a bit apprehensive about letting me go alone, and by alone I mean with only three CPO's, but he acquiesced when Hem ribbed him about the fact that it was to look for a wedding dress.

His mood shifted immediately, going from apprehensive to pleased at the idea of me planning our wedding. For as complicated a man as he is, he's actually pretty simple. He just wants me. So after a lengthy monologue on the rules of travelling around the city without him he gave me a hearty kiss, a smack to my ass and sent me on my way.

"You have an idea of what you like, no?" I sigh because other than knowing I want simple, I haven't thought about the dress at all. I could figure everything else out; the logistics, the decorations, even the song I wanted to dance to with Ray but the dress…the dress just always seemed so monumental. Devin tried, he really did but I couldn't get into it no matter what he sent me. "Baby girl? The dress?"

"Sorry, I zoned out there. Um, I know I want something white, fitted but not inappropriate and something I can move around in. Oh and long, he was adamant about it being floor length like a real wedding dress." Hem rolls her eyes and motions for me to hurry up.

"Of course it will be like a real wedding dress. Men. Come now, finish your coffee so we can go." While I sip the last few bitter sips of my Café Americano she tuts, wiping the table and gathering our purses. When I stand Sawyer is right there, the café a last minute stop that I'm sure put more gray in his hair than he'd like to admit. My phone beeped within seconds of us sitting, a text from Christian that started with, "What part of only to the shops didn't you understand?" and ended with "Follow the security protocols, Anastasia!"

"These are the things that you liked?" She flips through the pictures I'd torn from the magazines, expressing her love of my choice of flowers and helping me to make a final decision on the centerpieces, whipping out a piece of notepaper to cross them off a list she must have made last night. It causes my heart to nearly burst.

At the first dress shop we're greeted by a young, perfectly put together sales team that hands us Proseccos garnished with raspberries and pulls dress after dress after dress out. No less than six women bombard me with questions about everything from who's invited to what flavor cake we're having and even though they've all signed NDA's I know better than to reveal details. Their interrogation feels less celebratory and more intrusive so I keep my answers vague and get out of there as fast as I can without waiting for a sketch.

The next shop is the same, the designer showing up in a flurry to announce what an honor it would be to design for me and how she'd be happy to do it for free so long as she could use our name to promote her business. This one even had the balls to ask if I would sign an consent form so that she could do an interview with a bridal magazine once the wedding was over on the 'Grey Experience' as she referred to it. Sawyer appeared out of nowhere then, holding out his hand to help me stand before whisking me out of there without so much as a goodbye.

"Pariah fuckers," is all I caught as he mumbled on the way to the car, the door slamming behind me harshly. Hem followed shortly after and reached one hand over the seat to pat Sawyer on the shoulder.

"What a stupid woman," she bit, shaking her head in frustration.

"I'm used to it," I shrug. "I would have left had I been given the chance but that stuff happens all the time now." This is why Christian has kept his circle very small. Everyone wants to be associated with him, everyone wants a piece of his allure, a sliver of his name. "A month ago I wore a sun dress from the GAP and someone posted me in it online. They sold out of the dress in two days so their corporate offices called Andrea to see if I'd be interested in doing a print campaign for them."

Hem throws her head back and laughs, "I want to know what Christian said about that." Sawyer snorts from the front and turns.

"I was there when Andrea connected the call. He told them to 'go fuck themselves' and then hung up on them."

"You are careful with your friends, Baby Girl? You will have a lot of them once your name changes."

"I know. It's a reality I'm getting used to." I shift in my seat to face her and offer her a bite of the chocolate bark I bought at a random shop just now. I'm going to leave Rome 10 pounds heavier if I keep this up. "Everything I do is analyzed. Everything. If I don't smile when I get out of the car to walk in someplace the headline reads about me being sad or depressed or stressed. Did you see the papers after our trip to Liberia?"

"With Prince Carl Philip?" Hem wiggles her brows up and down and grins.

"Yup. They all but had me cheating on Christian and marrying the Prince."

"Well," she says, a flick of the wrist towards the window, "if you were ever going to cheat, he'd be the one to do it with." We break into a fit of giggles and polish off the chocolate only to ask Sawyer to find a panetteria to stop in when we're finished at the next shop. Like I said, ten pounds.

At the last shop a young woman, no older than thirty greets us in the main room in a simple black skirt and tailored white shirt. She smiles sweetly and extends her hand, introducing herself as Dona Cidalia and then motions to an old woman bent over a sewing machine.

"My Nonna," she says, "and my teacher. Please, ladies can I offer you a water or a coffee while we go over what it is you're looking for?"

Ice waters in hand I sit back and listen while Hemwatee rattles off the list of my likes and don't likes and then leans in as Dona sketches, pointing to the bust line of her sketch.

"A bit higher." I laugh as does Dona and then lean forward to see what she's drawn.

"A veil?" She asks, brows raised, pencil poised over the white paper.

"No," Hem and I answer in unison. "But I would like my back exposed, he loves my back."

"But not too much!" Hem offers. "You may not be a virgin bride but you will play the part. Trust me, these men, they love that wholesome thing on their wedding day." She holds her hands up, "It is true. No matter what you have done before, you are considered pure on your wedding night. Men are like that, they just don't admit to it."

As we sit in this tiny shop with Dona Cidalia's grandmother quietly sewing on a machine older than she is, the shape of my dress takes form. What I want turns out to be not at all what I thought I'd want. It's not simple or plain or any of the things I thought I wanted. When the design is drawn I take the book and sit back, looking at the sketch in front of me, Hem peering over my shoulder.

"Take your time, Ms. Steele, imagine the day, the ceremony, the dancing, all of it. Is this what you want to be wearing? Is this a dress that you'll take out for your daughter one day for her to dress up in?" Emotion lodges itself in my throat, the page becoming blurry in front of me as I try to keep the tears from falling. A daughter. Hem rests her hand on my shoulder and kisses the top of my head.

"Yes, that's the dress, Baby Girl."

"I'd like to commission you to make this for me. My wedding is in two weeks." Dona's face falls but her grandmother stands and takes the book from my hand, rattling off a time frame in Sicilian before handing it back to Dona with a gentle pat of the hand. I watch as she walks towards me slowly and then smiles before lifting a chunk of my hair in her hand.

"Non bianco brillante. Un morbido bianco invece."

"Normally we offer you a book of fabric swatches to choose from..." Dona looks worried for the first time and stands to retrieve a binder full of scrap pieces. "I have a few different whites in here but there are so many I do not have with me today."

"No matter. I trust you and your nonna to choose the one that works best. No satin, no rayon, no lace against my skin, it makes me itchy."

"You trust me to choose?"

"Absolutely." She turns to tell her grandmother something but the old woman hushes her and begins speaking into the phone in rapid Sicilian to what I can only assume is a fabric distributor.

"I can have it to you in twelve days. But I should fly to you to ensure proper fit." Again her hands wring in front of her, anxiety painting her face. "I'd have to charge you for the trip but I can't, in good faith, send the dress over unattended and not make sure it fit correctly."

"Not a problem at all. We can do that." Hem picks up her water and lifts it to the sky. "Twelve days. Anything else you need Ms. Cidalia?" And I wait for the demand to have her name attached to the project, to be given exclusive rights to photograph me in the dress for her marketing, to ask if she can do an interview.

"Yes! One more thing. Measurements! Ana would you, can I call you Ana? Ana would you stand on the circle there in the middle of the room please so that my nonna can measure you? What kind of shoes are you planning on wearing?"

"I was hoping to go barefoot."

"What? No, she will be in heels, about two to three inches most likely." Hem clucks over to me and takes the lightweight cardigan from my shoulders. "Barefoot. Child you have lost your mind. You are marrying a billionaire on a yacht, you are not going barefoot." When I begin to argue she shushes me with one finger, "You can still be yourself for the wedding. You'll just be yourself in heels."

In the middle of St. Peter's Square Christian waits for me with Jamodo, Samuel and the security staff. He's in khaki's and another white button up, delicious as ever. His face is apprehensive as he walks towards me until he sees my smile and then he lifts me up, kisses me square on the mouth and slides me down his body making sure to rub all the right spots.

"How did it go?"

"I have a dress." His smile grows wider. "Actually, I have a sketch but she'll start making the dress today. In fact, she was ordering the fabric when we left and had already called two seamstresses in to start on the"

"Baby girl! He can know nothing! It is bad luck!"

"Sorry, I forgot." Christian cocks his head to the side and continues to smile, his eyes filled with wonder.

"Is it white? And long? That's all I want to know."

"You may know nothing!" Hem yells and then takes Samuel by the elbow to steer him towards the entrance.

"I think you'll be happy with it. I hope you're happy with it." My hands twist and even though I know what he's going to say I have to make mention of the cost anyway. "It's so last minute and there's quite a bit of material and then of course we need to fly Dona and the dress to Seattle before the wedding and she's got to hire so many people…"

"Are you seriously concerned about the cost?" He tosses his head back and laughs, "One day, Anastasia, one day you will just spend money and not think twice about it. Until then, you're adorable as fuck. Come on, Apollonia is waiting inside for us."

Sunday at the Vatican is free so the line of people waiting to come in, I've been told, is over a mile long and over four hours of waiting. Our party walks past the Swiss Guards and into a private alcove where Apollonia waits with a priest. I startle when Christian addresses him as "Father" but recover quickly, greeting him in kind. He's old as dirt with hands as soft as satin and watery blue eyes that appear to be going blind. When he smiles those eyes crinkle, the skin grooved deep from years of laughter. I like him immediately.

Our tour begins where everybody else's does but while others walk around aimlessly, meandering through exhibits to read small plaques or listen to explanations on their phones, we have Apollonia and Father Antonio who speaks fluent English since he's a transplant from Orlando Florida of all places.

Over and over I watch as Sawyer, Ramon and even Prescott keep people looking for a free tour away. It's a little embarrassing to have so much attention placed on our little group but I quickly forget about it as we move further into the museum.

It's peaceful for a short time until without warning a flash goes off in my face, then anther, then another. All around us people are taking pictures of our group, a few of the more bold visitors loudly asking for autographs as they shove pieces of paper towards us. Father Antonio and I are a bit startled when three men who appear to be normal visitors grab the onlookers and haul them towards the door.

"How long have we had undercover CPO's with us?" Christian grins and shoves his hands in his pockets, offering me a sideways glance that speaks to his nervousness.

"Since we landed."

"Were they with me this morning?" One hand escapes the confines of his pocket to pull at his hair, the explanation of the Faberge Eggs of no interest to either of us.

"Two of them were. Are you upset?"

"No, but I don't understand why you wouldn't just tell me." Unless... "Are we in danger here? Is there a threat I'm unaware of?"

"No! No, everything is fine. I didn't want to worry you that's all. I knew you wanted to walk around while we were here and in order for that to be safe, I needed to ensure that we were properly covered."

"Oh, OK."

"That's it? OK?" He stops walking and crosses his arms in front of him, legs wide and ready for confrontation.

"That's it." With my heels on I only need to pull him down fractionally to reach his lips. "Thank you for keeping me safe." I smile when he doesn't respond, clearly having expected me to react differently.

"We can get additional security if you need," Father Antonio offers but Sawyer politely declines and then moves a few feet ahead of us to clear and secure the area. Christian offhandedly mentions that he tried to get the place to himself for the day to which the Father laughs, sighing with his hands spread, "Not even the President of the United States gets a closed tour of the Vatican."

My entire life I've heard of the Sistine Chapel, of Michelangelo's 'The Last Judgment', of the exquisite colors and frescos used throughout it but until you stand underneath something as amazing as the Chapel itself, you can't comprehend it. I am surrounded by genius. Under my feet are stones hundreds of years old but fit together as if they were done with modern tools. Around me are depictions of Biblical stories as seen through the eye of the painter and above me, in real life, is a painting I have seen a hundred times and only ever hoped to see in person.

"Pretty amazing, huh?" Christian wraps his arms around my waist and helps me to balance back on my heels to see it all. Next to me Hem and Samuel hold hands and do the same thing while Jamodo takes pictures as discreetly as he can.

"I'm really here. I'm really standing in the Sistine Chapel. I can't believe it." I feel him chuckle behind me, his lips grazing over my ear to my neck.

"Believe it, baby. You're here. I'm going to show you the world, Ana."

My stomach growls under his hand, his face snapping to mine, eyes pinched. "Did you eat lunch, Anastasia?" Anastasia, here we go.

"We didn't have time."

"Father Antonio, where can we eat?" The old man grimaces and lifts his shoulders.

"Nowhere in the Vatican, especially on a Sunday. But there is a nice little place to sit and eat just outside the city walls. If you'd like, one of your men can call ahead and have something waiting so that you don't waste time." He nods once, motions for Prescott who takes instructions and then leaves before he shoots me a disapproving look.

"You can't skip meals, Ana. You've got no fat on you as it is."

"One meal isn't going to hurt anything, calm down. We ate enough chocolate and pastries to compensate for any calories I may have missed out on." I'm trying to be light here but he's having no part of it.

"You need to stay healthy. If anything you need a bit more weight on you so that you're ready…" His voice trails off but I know exactly where he was going. I turn, in the middle of the Sistine Chapel and cup his face, my thumb trailing over his jaw in a vain attempt to quell the intensity of his gaze.

"When we're both ready to have a baby, I'll be as healthy as I can be. I promise. But until then, a missed meal is not a big deal but I can see that you're stressed about it and I am hungry so we'll take a quick break, grab something to eat and then we'll continue our tour because this," I put my arms out and turn slowly, "is amazing."

At the café, it's just the two of us since Hem and the guys have opted to attend a mass instead of eating, I broach a topic he opened up to me about yesterday carefully. The way I see it, a large part of Christian's self-hatred was brought on by what was done to him at the age of 15 and the lies he believed every day since then. He's worked through a lot of that animosity and I know once she's gone, the rest will fall away.

But there's an entirely separate issue at play when it comes to his birth mother. I think his issues with jealousy stem from his fear of abandonment and rejection and his fear of those issues stems from his mother. I also think, despite all of the progress he's made, that he still feels that there must have been something inherently wrong with him because his own flesh and blood didn't care enough to stick around for him. On some strange psychological bend a small part of him believes that his mother neglected him because she somehow 'knew' he was bad.

So when he said yesterday that he was able to think of Ella, as he refers to her now that he doesn't go right to 'the crack whore', without the normal rage inducing anger, I was pretty surprised. It's a conversation I've held off on having, the emotional toll from dealing with Elena enough for a lifetime. But she's almost gone and he's opening up about those first four years of his life so come hell or high water, I want to hear what he has to say.

Across from me he nurses a beer, his eyes fixed onto mine while I eat a simple but amazing meal of pasta, shrimp and garbanzo beans. He'll look so good with a platinum band on that finger...

"So," I start, his brows immediately raising when he hears the undercurrent to my tone, "you said something I find pretty amazing yesterday."

"What was that?"

"You alluded to the fact that you don't hate Ella anymore." At this he pauses, the light green bottle resting on his bottom lip and then he swigs it back, eyes still on me. "How did that evolve? Is it something you and Flynn have been focusing on?"

"I barely see John anymore," he scoffs, "but we have touched on it a bit over the last few months. He thinks, and I agree with him, that my issues with touch stem more from her abuse and neglect than the pimps…usage of me." I wince at the mention of the scars I don't even notice anymore.

"How so?" I know he wants a bite of my food but he won't take it because he's afraid I won't eat enough but I've got big plans for dinner tonight so I'm not worried. At first he hesitates to take the forkful I've prepared and now hold out to him but then he rolls his eyes and leans forward, sucking in the last few inches of capellini.

"Well, he thinks my touch issues stem from the lack of control of my surroundings coupled with the lack of control over my own body coupled with the neglect of aftercare when it came to my physical violations. His theory is that had Ella been able to hold me after, to comfort me the way a mother comforts a hurting child, that touch would never have been a real factor in my paranoia. Basically, it wasn't so much the burning but the fact that she didn't touch me afterwards when I needed her to that has pushed me towards this phobia."

He takes the fork now lying across the plate and spears a shrimp, casually chewing before finishing his statement. "I tend to agree with him because when I have the nightmares, excuse me, had the nightmares, yes, the pimp and what he did played a major role but it was the sadness and the isolation after the fact that put me in an emotional tailspin. I felt like I was four again and while in my dreams I could feel the pain of the cigarettes, it was the overwhelming sadness that made the dreams so intolerable."

"Wouldn't that conclusion, that your fear of being touched was exasperbated by your birth mother just make you more angry at her?"

"You would think so. And in a way, yes it did but the other week when I stopped by my parents' house for dinner Mia had a few friends over, all 21, all loud and obnoxious and stupid and I saw them, really saw them for the first time. They're kids. Dumb kids who are immature to the point of painful and they don't have a drug problem like she did. They're not completely alone in this world nor are they mothers. And yet, they're idiots. Kids, but idiots nonetheless."

"Of course, there are exceptions to the rule, you being one of them but it's like when my dad pointed out how young a 15 year old boy really is. I saw those girls for what they were. 21 and 22 year old kids. The fact that Ella even kept me alive is remarkable when you consider her circumstances."

When I say I'm floored, I mean, I'm about to fall off my chair onto the ground floored. He points the fork at me and grins. "You're shocked."

"I am. I'm proud of you but yes, I'm shocked as well." And again the tears well up and my nose stings as I try to fight it but he just stares at me, the gray of his eyes turning dark and cloudy.

"Please don't cry for me anymore, Ana. I'm doing good. I really am." When I stand he automatically pushes his chair back and opens his arms, my head immediately finding that place on his chest that is all mine. "Shh, I'm good, Ana, I'm good."

"You are. In so many ways you are good. I'm just…I just…sometimes I look at you and I think about all the shit that was done to you and all the shit that you did to yourself and I think about how amazing you are, how utterly amazing of a human being you turned out to be and it overwhelmes me. And maybe I shouldn't say this but I want to because you need to hear it."

My hands grasp his face and bring it to mine so that our noses are only inches apart. I'm close enough to count every eyelash, every fleck of gray and blue in his eyes but all I see is him. His being, his essence, that part of him that inhabits the shell of his body. His soul.

"If your mom were here, if Ella had somehow lived to see you now, despite her fucked up past, despite the damage she did to her body, she'd be damn proud of you." He looks down, uncomfortable with the words he hears but he needs to hear them. "You're right, she was a kid. Alone and addicted, abused herself and yet somehow she was able to keep you and I know, even though it doesn't seem like it, I know she did what she could for you."

"Do you think that's why she killed herself? So that I'd have a better life?" The question knocks the breath right out of my lungs. I don't think he expected to ask it but I can tell it's been rattling around in his head for quite some time. Either way he looks away and makes a move to stand but I tighten my grip around his neck and pull his face back to mine.

"I don't know. We'll never really know no matter how many times we ask that question but regardless of what her reasoning was, if she even killed herself, you were chosen by your parents because they saw you and fell in love with you right away. You didn't say a word, probably didn't even look at them and I'm sure you were dirty and scrawny and hungry," I stop to choke back a sob, "but they wanted you."

For a few moments we just sit there, alone on this terrace that he had cleared out on a busy Sunday so that we could eat in peace. Finally he takes a deep breath, runs his hands over his hair and looks straight at me.

"I want to dance with my mom at our wedding and I want her to be able to put her hand on the center of my back like she's supposed to and I don't want her to worry about it. I just want her to enjoy it because in her wildest dreams she never thought she'd dance with me let alone at my wedding."

"Then you'll do it." What else can I say? Nothing. There is nothing I can say to something so heartbreakingly beautiful.

"I'm going to try," his knuckles knock on the table, "Come on, let's get going." When he stands he takes me with him, groaning out a teasing protest before he puts me on my feet. "Damn, how much chocolate did you eat?"

At the end of our tour Father Antonio asks if we'd like to visit St. Peter's Basillica, my answer a firm yes. The church requires a few days to fully explore it but we fit in a pretty informative visit in less than an hour. I don't know how much I believe of the legends of the structure versus what is probably the truth but the historical and cultural significance of the building itself is nothing to sneeze at. Inside crowds move in hushed observance of sculptures and resting places dating back over a thousand years. There's a reverence here that even the most skeptical observe.

Christian takes it all in, his huge persona dwarfed by this great place. It's interesting to see him in this fashion, as a student and not a teacher, an observer and not the observed. So often I forget that he's not even thirty, that so much of the world has just opened to him and that despite his…bountiful history, interaction is, in fact, new to him. So when he stops at the foot of the Pieta and tilts his head back, I think nothing of it at first.

But when he doesn't move after a minute I look again and notice his shallow breaths, the way his hands are balled in his pockets, the firm line of his jaw. The Pieta. Mother and child. His foyer, the pictures there, all depicting the same thing. A mother, caring for her child. It slays me.

"I'd like a replica of this somewhere on the property. Maybe that sculpture guy you told me about can do that?" His eyes remain trained on the face of Mary but he relaxes against me, his arm bending so that I can slip my hand into the crook of his elbow. When I do he smiles contentedly before pulling me in for a hug. "I'm going to go light a candle. Come with me?"

At the closest chapel he patiently waits until the people in front of us clear out. We're not alone by any means but with the four CPO's blocking anyone from coming near us, we have a respectable amount of privacy. He picks up an unlit taper and looks it over carefully, turning it upside down and around before closing his eyes. His lips don't move but he must be praying because a few seconds later he breathes deeply, lights the wick and places the candle back in its holder where he stares at hit for a few seconds.

Then he takes out his phone and takes a picture of it as if that is the most normal thing in the world to do. When he turns to me he smiles, reaches his hand towards mine and kisses me on the temple.

"What did you pray for?" Without pausing, without so much as an intake of air he strolls out into the spacious open skies of St. Peter's Square and looks straight ahead.

"A baby."

CPOV

Her feet don't stop only because I don't stop but I can tell she's struggling to fill her lungs with air. I could have lied to her, I could have told her I wasn't sharing that particular piece of information but the fact of the matter is, she's going to be my wife. I want her to know everything. I didn't tell her for shock value or to spur a conversation but she asked and my answer was the truth.

Outside Jamodo and Samuel make quick plans for dinner at the hotel. Ana wants to order room service and watch Italian television and I've got so many damn emails to return I don't argue with her. Hem wants to go to bed early since she and Ana will head back to the dress makers in the morning for god knows what but to be honest, as much as I'm enjoying the company and am thrilled that Ana is happy, I want her to myself for the night. I'm a selfish man to begin with but when it comes to Anastasia, I'm downright greedy.

Neither of us speaks in the car or in the elevator or in the bathroom where she slips off her skirt so she can wash her feet. A few times she opens her mouth and then shuts it, struggling with what to say which is better than her flat out refusing to even discuss it I guess.

"Christian, about a baby,"

"Now? You want to do this right now?" I interrupt with a laugh as I stand and pee, her feet wet from the quick rinse off she just gave them.

"Well, I don't want to just leave it like this. I want to make sure you know where my head is at because I'm afraid you still expect to have me pregnant as soon as we're married." Damn right I do. "But I don't forsee that happening." It will.

"Ana, tell me this, what is it that you need to happen so that you're ready for a child? Tell me and I'll make it happen." Her mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water again. Both of us change in comfortable but heavy silence. The conversational ball, so to speak, is in her court. I've stated my position, laid out my terms and am ready to negotiate.

Behind me her feet make no sound on their walk to the wine room where I chose a 2008 Château de Thauvenay before grabbing a cluster of grapes from the fresh fruit basket delivered daily.

When I stop and sit on the couch to uncork the bottle she plops, literally plops next to me and rests her head in her hands.

"Are you ill?"

"No, not ill. Just…concerned."

"I don't know why. You clearly need something to happen in order for the topic of children to be palatable for you so tell me what it is and I'll make it happen."

"Christian, we're talking about kids. Not a business deal. I don't know how to turn on the 'yes I want a baby button' or I would do it for you. What I do know, is that right now, I don't want to even talk about it happening in the next few years." Few years? Are we really back to that? She shifts, tucks her feet underneath her and reaches for the wine.

"Tell me this, why do you want a baby so badly?" To tell the truth or not. That is the question.

"For a variety of reasons, the least of which is that it's a very clear signal to anyone who wants in your panties that you're a taken and claimed woman." Her eyes bug out of her head. Maybe the truth wasn't a great way to start. I try to backtrack a bit. "Take Jacqueline for example. I didn't even know she had a boyfriend but now, every time I see her I think, even if it's subconsciously, there is a man in her life. I want that for you."

"A brand."

"Pardon?"

"A brand. You want me to have your baby so that I'm branded as yours. That is never ever going to be reason enough to create a human being."

"That's not the only reason, Anastasia, don't talk to me as if I'm an imbecile." She gasps and waves her hand up.

"You just told me that you wanted to create a life, a living human being so that other men would know I was taken. Which, if you think about it, is not really well thought out since women with kids have affairs all the time so clearly, the branding of motherhood doesn't stop a man from pursuit."

"This conversation is starting to piss me off."

"Well it needs to happen because I know you. You'll wait until we're married and then you'll harp on this over and over until I can't take anymore but I will never give in on this. I do want kids, I do! And I want them when I'm young and I want a few but I'm not going to consider having one until I feel ready for that responsibility."

"And if Kate gets pregnant?" Peer pressure. I'm willing to resort to it at this point.

"Good for her, I'll throw her the most amazing baby shower in history. Kate is Kate, I'm me and I know what I'm ready for and what I'm not. I'm not ready for that. I'm not ready for breastfeeding and diaper changes and middle of the night feedings and throw up and crying and the list goes on and on and on." She shifts again, this time to her knees as she works herself up. Belatedly I realize I'm dead on arrival when it comes to this topic.

"Are you saying that you're ready for all of that? Because a baby takes a hell of a lot of time. You get pissy when I have dinner out with my girlfriends once every three weeks. A baby means that those few hours we're home together? I'm tied down for most of it. Those spontaneous sex sessions you and I are so fond of? Gone. Babies don't care how horny you are or how hot you think I look. And that's another thing. It may sound vain and so be it but I'm not ready to contend with the changes I'd undergo while pregnant. I don't want to worry about stretch marks and varicose veins and and and hemorrhoids!"

"What the fuck are you talking about hemorrhoids?"

"Pregnancy! Some women get them!" I laugh, I can't help it. I full on laugh so hard I choke. Next to me she does her best to remain stoic but eventually she crumbles, the giggles turning into snorts before we both end with a breathless "Whoo."

"So you're concerned about your body?" If that's it, I can work with that no problem.

"Amongst other things." Damn. "My business is doing so well and it's doing well because I can put the time and effort into running it. I can't do that with a baby who needs me."

"We'll hire a nanny." She rolls her eyes, my hand tingling without any other provocation.

"Do you really think I'd hire a nanny? I want to have kids to have kids. Not farm them out. Is that how you want your kids to be raised? By delegation?" Shit I hate that she's winning this argument right now.

"No," I answer slowly, the weight of each word played out in my head before I commit to anything. "I'm saying we would get someone to help you. Us, someone to help us."

"I don't want to have someone help raise our kids. A babysitter, a mothers helper once in a while, fine. But I want to be there on a day to day basis. I want to give to our kids what my mom didn't give to me and what Ella didn't give to you. Time. Attention. Dedication."

Her tiny hand plucks the wine glass from my hand and places it on the table before cupping my face, her thumb running lightly over my lips. "We have the luxury of deciding when to have a child. We just met, we just got engaged, we're just getting married. It's ok to wait a bit for the rest. Let's be married first, let's enjoy being husband and wife before we rush into mom and dad. I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

"I'm ready for all of that now. I lived my life on pause for so many years, I want to catch up. I want to jump in with both feet and live my life and I want to start that now." I stop because I'm getting worked up and I don't want to. That lump of frustration and emotion lodges tightly in my throat but I swallow past it and spit out everything that comes to mind when I think of being a dad. "I want something that's ours. Only ours. Somebody made out of this extraordinary love that we share that we can watch grow with our years together. I want someone who is mine, who shares my blood, who looks like me."

"Wow." Her lashes fan over her face in rapid succession, just as shocked as I am by that little outburst. "That was quite possibly the most beautiful thing you've ever said to me."

"I meant every word."

"You always do," she says softly, straddling me for no other reason that to be closer to me. "Look at me and listen to me very carefully. Hear what I say and digest it, let it soak in and feel it. We will have children, we will have little mini-us's that will turn our lives upside down and we will love it and cherish it and enjoy it. I will make you get me pickles and ice cream in the middle of the night and wattle around in pajamas all day because my belly's too big for jeans." At this my heart bangs against my sternum painfully, the longing to see her just as she described so intense it hurts.

"You will have a baby that will smile up at you and poop all over you and call you daddy. And one day you'll have another and we'll laugh and wonder how this became our life but that has to happen when we're both ready. Let me be your wife first. Let me cook you stupidly elaborate meals and greet you at the door in lingerie because it's Tuesday. Let me learn to love you the way a wife should love her husband. Just…give me time."

And because there is absolutely no argument I could make that would trump that monologue I nod twice and then kiss the ever loving shit out of her. I still say we'll be pregnant by New Year's but at least I understand a bit more where here reticence comes from. I made a mistake by pronouncing my desire to 'mark' her with my child, not a comment I will make again and one I will do my best to eradicate from her memory. But the fact of the matter is, that is part of why I want a child with her.

"Pooped on?" She laughs, and swings her legs over me to hand me my wine.

"Karen said Sophie and Max have both done it to her and her husband. And I've seen kids throw up on their parents when I babysat in high school. But enough about that grossness, let's order dinner. It's already seven and I'm starved. What are you in the mood for?"

"That steak again. And potatoes and some sort of white fish. Get the cherry gelato again too and a panna cotta."

She orders in perfect Italian and then turns on the TV, shoving her feet under my legs to get comfortable. I've got my laptop, my phone and my iPad all open to various pages and work from each of them, furiously typing away when the doorbell rings.

I think nothing of it, assuming it's room service and rise to answer it since Ana is in pajamas. No way is some horny little fucker getting an eyeful of her in anything related to bed. But when I open the door I see Sawyer as expected but no waiters, no trollies, nothing. Just Sawyer with his hands behind his back and a grim expression on his face.

"A moment, Sir."

He steps inside and nods at Ana who immediately senses the gravity of whatever it is he's here for and reaches for her robe. When she's standing next to me I motion for him to begin, demanding to know what it is that's going on now.

"They found Elena Lincoln about two hours ago, Sir. When they searched her home they couldn't find her but with our information they searched the…basement. She was there, tied to a piece of furniture resembling a cross. Her clothes were still on but a gag had been placed in her mouth and she had been there for at least two days. She's been rushed to Northwest Hospital but outside of severe dehydration and shock, she appears unharmed." Heat rushes from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. Next to me Ana grips my hand and remains silent.

"She was tied to a cross?" The words are heavy in my mouth, so heavy they fall at my feet when I speak them. I want to sit down but can't find the energy to walk to a chair. She couldn't have done that to herself.

"Yes, that's what it was described to me as. Besides her imprisonment the basement had been torn apart. There was remnants of what appears to be leather tools along with broken pieces of plastic and smashed mirrors. She's still out of it, the EMT's said that one more day and she could have died. In any case, she hasn't been able to answer any questions as to who did this and why they ransacked the place."

My head snaps up. "They don't know who did it?"

"No, Sir. The obvious suspect would be Pamela Wincher but according to the flight plans, she would have had to have left Seattle at three on Wednesday and Ms. Lincoln didn't leave Esclava until closer to five."

"That's not all, Sir. Earlier this evening a warrant was granted to the Washington State Police to drill into a safety deposit box under the name of Magdalene Corsica at the Wells Fargo in Walla Walla. They're scheduled to drill on Monday morning as the vault is locked for the weekend and is on a time delay."

A safety deposit box. Of course. Of course she wouldn't have the most vile of her perversions where anyone could get to them. Ana stiffens next to me, her sharp intake of breath sucking the air out of my lungs. She deserves so much better than this crap that keeps getting flung our way.

"We need a guy there." He nods once.

"Detective Cantino has a friend on the force who is trying to get in on this as a courtesy to us."

For a minute, maybe two we all just stand there dumbly, nobody quite knowing what our next step should be. I knew she wouldn't ever hurt herself no matter how bad things got but I had never anticipated someone else hurting her. For all of the venom I harbor towards Elena Lincoln, I still find no joy in her downfall. If anything, I find it sad. Despite the way in which our lives intertwined, she was still a very large part of my existence for many years.

"So, what happens now? She's in the hospital, what now?" Ana steps forward, robe held tightly around her tiny frame and looks up at Sawyer with wide eyes. He doesn't smile at her but there is a note of affection that enrages me. It's not sexual, it's not even physical, it's the connection they have that I'll never get. Get over it, Grey.

"She'll be given a day or two, maybe three to recover and then she'll be arrested. There's a guard posted at her door but we'll be sending a man over as well to secure the exit." He looks at me then, "Your mother's influence will be necessary to get one of our guys admitted to the floor. Welch is waiting on your approval before approaching her directly."

"Do it."

"So she's going to jail?" Ana pipes up hopefully, blinking with surprise when the doorbell rings again. Sawyer holds up one hand and walks to the door, searches the men and the trolley and then waves them inside. Robe or not I move in front of Ana so that they can't see her, ignoring her huff of indignation against my back.

"In the living room is fine," I offer when they stand and wait for orders. It takes them less than a minute to set up but it feels like an hour. They sense the urgency and rush out as quickly as possible with curt nods in our general direction. Ana shoots me a look close to an eye roll when they're gone and then launches back into her interrogation.

"So she'll go right to jail from the hospital?"

"If things go as they're supposed to which is what we all expect. I will keep you updated as information rolls in but that's all we have so far."

"Thank you, Sawyer. We're in for the night, no more deliveries or guests. I don't care the time of day or night, I want real time updates as they happen."

"Yes, Sir." On his way out he stops and turns, "One more thing, Sir. Taylor and Gail were married today." He looks at his watch, "About three hours ago to be precise." And so life goes on. "We've not linked him in to the latest developments, Welch felt it best to wait and see what you wanted to do."

"Brief him when he returns or if he checks in. If he knows what's happened, he'll cut his vacation short so keep it minimal." Sawyer nods again and leaves, the clicking of the door the only sound for a good minute while Ana and I attempt to gather our thoughts.

"I need to call my father." Ana looks at me without blinking and follows me to the couch but leaves me alone when I grab my phone and then close the office door behind me.

"Christian, how are you son, how's Ireland?"

"Italy, dad. We're in Italy."

"Right, Italy. Were you able to close the deal? Governor Inslee was eager to hear the details when I ran into him at the courthouse on Friday."

"We didn't finalize anything yet, next time. I'm sorry to throw this on you but did you know that Elena Lincoln had been found in her home tied up?" His voice softens and slows.

"Yes, son, I know that she was assaulted in some way. I don't know the details but I was told that she was being admitted to the hospital for severe dehydration and I only know that much because I just hung up with your mother who is hysterical."

"How did mom know?"

"She's working and was alerted to the fact that there was a patient coming in who would be held for arrest. It's hospital protocol to alert the doctors on the surrounding floors."

"So you know nothing about her being tied up?"

"No." Short, simple, honest. I know my father and he's not lying. But he doesn't ask any more questions either which is strange. The silence stretches between us broken only when he sighs and groans. "I hate her, son. I can't stand her. I've never been a fan of hers but I was just indifferent before. Now, I loathe her with my entire being. Father to son, I wish she had been found dead and I wish I'd been the one to do it but I wasn't." His voice cracks, the clink of ice in a glass of scotch being raised to his mouth breaking the silence. "What she did to you, to our family...hate seems mild to what I really feel."

His brutal emotional honesty, so rare with him just crushes me. I may be almost 30 but in this moment I feel like a little kid trying to make his parents happy again. "I'm doing well, Dad."

"I know you are, son and it's a testament to your character. But your mom and your siblings and I are just starting to figure out how to navigate this hell that she subjected our family to. So if as a unit we hate the woman that's the way it's going to be for a while. Like your mom says, karma's a bitch and she's gunning for Elena. I hope she gets her ass nailed to the wall and then handed to her through her throat. Was there something else, son?"

Was there? In my life I've never heard my father speak so venomously before. It's oddly comforting.

"Yes, there was. I wanted to know the legal ramifications of all of this. What can we expect as far as jail and trial and parole and all that shit? Assuming you've been made aware of the charges she'll be facing."

"Can't tell you that until there is a trial. Figure in a few months or so depending on how good her attorney is. I don't know the exact charges against her since it's at the Federal level and therefore airtight but I do know that with multiple agencies looking at her, there is no way she'll escape prison. When I heard the FTC and the IRS were investigating her, I knew it was only a matter of time." More clinking, more silence as he sips. "And, with the friends I have in place, you can bet your billions she'll stay in an eight by eight cell for as long as possible. When she gets out, your children will be having grandchildren."

"She'll be dead by then, pops." I snicker, enjoying this side of him that I've never seen before.

"Even better." I've accomplished nothing with this call, haven't learned anything new or made any progress on figuring out what happened but somehow, I feel a hundred pounds lighter and a million times better.

"Thanks, dad."

"My best to Anastasia!" He signs off cheerily, as if Elena Lincoln hadn't just been found half dead in her home. I pour myself a glass of bourbon and twirl the crystal slowly, watching the streaks of dark brown slide along the edge before placing the tumbler on the desk. I don't need the drink to take the edge off, I need my girl.

My two calls to Elliot go straight to voice mail only for him to call me back before I can reach the door.

"Yo. 'Sup?"

"Elena's been arrested. Or will be."

"Oh yea? They found the rotted cunt?"

"In her dungeon, tied to a piece of furniture."

"No shit. Tied up?"

"And gagged."

"Well I'll be. Doesn't surprise me, a woman like that makes a lot of enemies. Maybe it was one of her sessions gone wrong."

"She was fully clothed and the place was ransacked according to the police."

"Like I said, rotted cunt. Nobody wants that piece of filth anymore." After a beat he clears his throat. "Sorry, Christian. You ok?"

"I'm not sure to be honest. The whole thing is so surreal I'm not sure what to make of it."

"I meant in general." A stretch of heavy silence lingers between us but I have no idea what to fill it with. "I read that...I've been doing some research...there's this syndrome. It's called Stockholm Syndrome. I know you weren't a hostage or anything but the theory can be applied to sexual abuse victims."

"You did research?"

"Yea, it's been...a challenge to deal with this so I did what I could. Mom thinks I should see a shrink but I think Mia's got the best way of dealing with it." I wait, unsure of what her way is since we haven't really talked about it. "The organization she got involved with? The one that deals with sexually abused boys?" His voice cracks but he covers it with a cough while my heart squeezes in my chest. "They gave her a shit ton of information and web sites for her to read. She passed them on to me and so far I feel like they've helped. But anyway, back to this syndrome."

"Elliot, I've gone over this with Flynn."

"Good for you. So you agree that the conflicted feelings you have about her arrest and ultimate downfall are normal and not something that you need to analyze to death and take responsibility for? You agree that you don't need to beat yourself up over any of this right? You agree that this is all on her? That you were the victim in every sense of the word and that you are just now able to see that and therefore can't hold yourself responsible for anything that she did over the last few years?"

I gag on my own spit, my throat constricted so that it's almost hard to breathe. He waits while I cough and cough, reaching for the bourbon but still unable to swallow it. Do I know him as well as he knows me? Would I be able to speak to him on such an intimate and knowing level if the roles had been reversed? Have I been as good a brother to him as he has always been to me even when I pushed him away?

"I just want to make sure we're clear here, Christian. Whatever it is that got her to this point, whatever she did that prompted someone to tie her up in her basement, whatever she did that launched investigations and inquiries, whatever she did to extend her abuse to others, that is not on you. Not one bit of it. You're the mother fucking hero here, brother. I just want to make sure you agree to that."

The silence goes on forever, the sound of it deafening. Inside my gut churns painfully, his words assaulting me with an honesty that I haven't accepted for myself. Not fully at least.

"I'm getting there, El."

"Well hurry up because you're missing out on freedom and that shit should have been yours since the day mom and dad brought your scrawny ass home." He pauses, takes a deep breath and sighs. "You're my baby brother, Christian. Always have been. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you and that includes shoving your face in front of the truth."

"Ana's there with you now?"

"Yes," I answer weakly.

"You're still coming home Wednesday?"

"Yes."

"I'll see you then. If you hear anything, let me know about it. I know you're surrounded by people that take care of you but they don't love you the way I do. So if you need me, you call me you little shit. And bring me home some good loot."

Translation: "Non bianco brillante. Un morbido bianco invece." = "Not bright white, a soft white instead."

Authors note: I will NOT be revealing who took care of EL, I'll let you all come to your own conclusions but ding-dong the pedo's dead. Well, literarily speaking at least.

I said I'd give a heads up so here it is. I've still got a few chapters left, (I'm not giving a set number since things change as I edit) but then I'm wrapping up S&S. The wedding is the 'end' and then I'll do some one-off chapters of their married life as they come to me but the general story will be completed soon. In the meantime, you can read my other story, "Hot and Bothered" which is just a one shot of CG on a business trip. NO relation to this story and of course, no cheating! As if he would ever...