Co-Written with MsLanaDawson.

Chapter one:

The Precipice.

There was a precipice, and she was atop it. Balancing briefly. Swaying. One way and then the other. Everything unravelled before her, slowly and yet so rapidly. The world about her was foggy. Her mind clouded. She moved as though going through a mass of heaviness. Taking a glance left, her mother moved fluidly, animatedly waving her arms about in a display of descriptions; no doubt it was about the wedding. Cal, seated to her right, was deeply engaged in a conversation with Sir Cosmo Duff Gordan. She was left to simply listen to the idle chatter, the kind she heard everyday which was nothing more than pleasantries, massaging people's ego and of course, they would dissect everyone around them as though they were masters of the universe, as though their opinion mattered the most.

"Of course Rose was beside herself with excitement," Ruth excluded the topic of conversation with others as though she was a child. "The proposal was in Paris." Yes, it was…

Her engagement ring was from Cartiers. The fabric for her wedding dress had been chosen and was on this very ship tucked away safely. The invites were sent on French paper, handwritten meticulously by the most beautiful calligraphist, and champagne had been imported from the finest wine cellars of France. The most input Rose had was the colour of the bridesmaids gowns.

Lavender. The colour of spring, how she had envisioned a world with only fields of lavender within it, perhaps it was the peace and serenity that it brought to her rather mundane life. Her mother thought the idea absurd and had immediately consulted Lucille as soon as they had boarded the ship. The Titanic. Deemed the Ship of Dreams. And she truly was, to everyone else but her. It was a slave ship and she was the slave in question. A slave to her family's wishes, awaiting her execution.

Lethargically, she glanced at her left hand atop the table and the beautiful, but gaudy diamond shone beneath the glittering chandelier lights. That twinkle should have mesmerised her. It didn't. She just didn't feel as fascinated with jewels as her materialistic mother. Visiting the great art museums had piqued her interests more.

It was not twelve months before that Ruth had been aflutter with arranging Rose's cotillion which had taken place the summer before. Wearing a white ball gown, littered with pearls and beautiful embroidery along with white satin gloves, Rose had been presented by her mother to all members of their peers at court and high society. Two hundred people had attended. The entire Waldorf Astoria had been littered with celebrations and dancing into the night and then, at the centre of it all was a girl who had dealt with her father's death just three months ago and then the absurdity of her debutante party. The attention that her mother had paid to the finest detail had been ridiculous, curating her daughter to be the perfect well-brought up girl that any man would deem worthy to be his wife. Her practised genteel smile, giving no reason to make others think otherwise.

Rose was seventeen just a month later, and then she had met the man beside her; Caledon Hockley. A man destined to become her husband. A match made in society heaven. A match to save her family's name from slipping through mud. A match to a man who she was never going to be in love with.

Below her, Rose had felt the rumbling of the ship's engines. The Titanic would take her onwards to New York City. The rumbling would be soothing to some, but to her it carried a weight, burdening her ever heavy shoulder even more to the point of crumble. Rose lit a cigarette, hoping it would calm her impending hysterics at this moment, it seemed to temporarily solve everything. The nicotine rushed through her veins, soothing her frayed nerves. It was like planning her own execution, but now there were hundreds involved, clapping their hands together, ready to witness the travesty. To call it off now would be too much for everyone; she could never do it, it was not just about her, but her family, too.

''You know that I do not care for that, Rose, neither should you.'' Ruth daintily leant forward and spoke quietly, but it was enough for the table to hear. She glanced around like a scolded child as the eyes of society were thrust upon her. The room was a cloud of smoke as others indulged whilst dining, but of course, she was forbidden to.

''She knows.'' Cal took the cigarette from her fingers and stubbed it out instantly, smiling politely at the other diners.''Do you like your wine, sweetpea?''

Summoning the sweetest of her practised smiles, Rose turned to her fiancé, and responded. ''Of course, darling.''

"It is the finest."

That was the easiest and most difficult course to take. Cal and her mother would be so easily dismissed with the feigned smile, the nodding of the head to ensure that she was partaking within the conversations but as Rose sat, ramrod straight, with her corset squeezing out what felt like the last inches of her breath, she was faced with the same narrow people, the mindless chatter. To her left, ladies gathered to discuss the current fashions, who wore what and why and then to her right, the gentlemen discussed business affairs and massaged each other's egos. What was it about males and their incessant need to have the approval of others? How were they viewed by the outsiders? It was laughable really. She wanted to laugh but instead, she felt as though she was tumbling, from a great height, or perhaps she had thrown herself from the precipice, finally, she was fed up of being on the edge. The thought appealed…

If one did jump; how long before she was noticed to be gone? If she stood this very second and screamed at the top of her lungs into the crowds, would any chin even bother to raise? People were so embroiled in their own chatter. Their own little world. Their own petulance needs to satisfy each other. A young girl who was sitting drowning in her own thoughts, her own misery was sat, looking beautifully ornate within her gilded cage and ready to be presented to the next person. The prize that has been won.

Rose was worth nothing and yet, everything. Her marriage would be worth everything. It would afford her mother the best which life would offer; her fine things wouldn't be sold at auction and the debts left by her father would be paid. Ruth DeWitt Bukater would be able to show her face at all the society calendar events throughout the year without shame and Rose would accompany her, draped on the arm of Caledon Hockley, her husband. It would be what society would bow to.

Cal was handsome but arrogance was a word invented for him, and his father. Both were cut from the same high-end cloth and would be treated as though royalty, therefore so would she. There would be no freedom. No room to breathe. Nothing for Rose to have for herself. No reading books. Not participating in the women's rights movement. No visiting the art galleries of her choosing. Nothing.

''Do visit me in New York, we shall discuss your wedding trousseau, Miss. Rose, and your honeymoon, too.'' Lucille's voice was piercing through the clinking of glasses and the band which was playing a lively tune in the far corner. ''Of course, I shall say no more of the honeymoon trousseau amongst the ears of your fine gentleman.'' Raising an eyebrow, in what Rose assumed to be a provocative jest, she could only smile and nod, as though entirely grateful to have naughty lingerie designed for the man who would be her husband. The thought sickened her; how could she have that man lying with her.

Suddenly, the acidicness from the wine felt as though it would cause her to cast up her accounts across the white linens of the tablecloth, though she had barely touched her dinner. What little tidbits she had heard of lying with a man seemed to be utterly useless and boring, it would be purely for the man's pleasure and she should act pleasant and pleased until the act is over with.

Knowing now what she knew about Cal, she would be expected to give him an heir of sons, to inherit his and his fathers millions. She wished to have a daughter instead, to raise in her own ways, but, Cal and mother would have none of that. They would simply be doomed to the same fate as her.

Yet another cause for her misery, another time that she would be a decorative piece just this time in her own marital bed. She had to get out somehow, but how? The precipice beckoned her once more.

''Imagine….'' Ruth eyed her daughter, speaking quietly, ''to have Lucille be the designer of your gowns would be...''

Mechanically responding for another few seconds, Rose's eyes felt heavy. Her body felt as though it needed to sag. The air was heavy. Her lungs are tight. It was a dream-like state, to watch through blurred vision the spectaculars of the room, the important people contained within it and then her, almost at the centre, with the need to run. To just...run. Run endlessly until there was nothing else left. The edge of the precipice was looming.

She was stifled and lethargic.

Was this the third or fourth course to be served? She had picked at it all. She had barely eaten at all the entire trip. Her mothers comments on her figure before leaving were less than flattering.

The serving cart rattled towards them once more. Food piled high and yet, she had barely managed the soup and first course, and the second, she couldn't even recall what that had been or how many glasses of wine had passed her lips. Rose's hand held a tiny fork from her crab salad. She poked the crab-fork into the skin of her arm, harder and harder until it drew blood but felt numb.

''I have a terrible headache,'' Rose suddenly announced, dropping the crab-fork to the floor, not caring if the blood on her arm was visible, not that anyone would notice anyway, and if they did they would not say anything. A curious glance, perhaps. "I am also exhausted from today's events.''

Sympathy lingered in Cal's eyes. ''Of course. I shall escort you back.''

''No, please, stay, how could I ask for you to miss the wonderful food."

Slowly, Rose placed her napkin upon her plate and stood, as did the rest of the table, as society dictated. Raising her chin, she addressed her peers as though they were equally kings and queens of the highest court.

''I am returning to my cabin, a terrible headache has come over me.'' She almost believed her own words. The sound of her own voice was convincing. ''I do wish you all a very good evening.''

Nodding in return to the bids of goodnight which she received, Rose found her hand within Cal's, who kissed her bare knuckles. ''Shall I check on you when I return?''

''Oh, no, I shall be very well.''

''Allow, Mr. Lovejoy to escort you back. I don't wish for you to get lost.''

Rose had almost forgotten about Spicer Lovejoy. The man was Cal's valet and man of affairs; he was tall, gaunt and deathly dull. Has the man ever smiled in his entire life? Offering an arm, silently to Rose, she allowed him to escort her from the dining room in absolute and utter silence. Sometimes, she felt like a child, being taken home after being caught in a place one had been forbidden to go. Sometimes, she was grateful for the silence. Tonight though, a tremble was building up inside. Rose was to be escorted to each and every place. Without an aid, she was frowned upon. Why must she be chaperoned to her cabin? Perhaps Cal knew just how much she felt like running and running...If he did, he certainly didn't let on that he knew. Perhaps that was part of his ignorance.

Outwardly, Rose remained at an impasse. Taciturn. Her arm through Mr. Lovejoy's and together, they elegantly navigated their way through the reception room, the elevator, and back down the corridor to her B-Deck suite. His gaze was so penetrative she almost felt as though he could read the contents of her mind, she felt as though she was some speck beneath a large microscope and he was studying her for any signs of breakage, any causes for concern.

When he had bid her goodnight, Rose had slammed the door behind causing the entire room to almost quake. Her outward appearance was starting to unravel apart at the seams. Trembles started in her stomach, her legs and her breathing was stalling. She was starting to fall from the precipice.

''Trudy.''

Through blurred eyes, she found the bedroom which she had chosen to occupy; the one which adjoined Cal's even though they were not yet married. The adjoining door would remain locked on Rose's side; that much she would ensure of, she could not imagine allowing his lips trailing across her skin, down her neck…

''Trudy.''

Calling out to her lady's maid was pointless. Trudy would be in bed by now, perhaps for hours. Stripping away the black satin gloves, Rose pulled at the buttons at the base of her neck at the back, but could barely reach any of them.

''Trudy!''

Rose called louder. Perhaps another maid was about to assist. All she required was freedom from her corset. The mirror upon the vanity provided some remedy to her loosening the buttons but her fingers trembled so she struggled. What use she was indeed, a woman who couldn't even undress herself.

Pulling at the lace of her shoulders, then her corset was futile. It would not cease to stop clinging to her, almost as though each time she clutched it away from her it would return to wrap around her tighter than before. Claiming her. Pulling harder, the black lace of the shoulder ripped, and came away, along with her necklace. In a heated flurry of screams, Rose stripped herself of whatever she could manage to without the aid of another. The pins of her hair dug into her scalp, twisted and tucked her fiery curls away like nails upon her head digging in and embedding themselves into her without drawing blood.

Left facing herself in the mirror, Rose was astonished. Her hair was dishevelled, hanging about her shoulders in unruly curls. Her once beautiful dress was torn, with only two ripped sleeves hanging from her shoulders, revealing her entire décolleté and she was stripped of all jewellery aside from a bracelet which clung to her wrist. What would her mother think of her now? What would her father have thought? Would Cal still want her the way that he did?

Her reflection revealed a woman haunted. A woman restricted. A woman who no longer was recognisable to herself, although she was barely past girlhood. A woman who was wanted so badly by a man who she detested.

Yesterday morning, he had vowed to be her first and only, forever, when they crawled beneath the sheets. She had not allowed it. In Paris, he had made promises of how they would make love on the maiden voyage of Titanic. How they would celebrate by the joining of bodies. Her stomach felt as though she was leaping before she actually was…

Suddenly, Rose was running. Out of the room. Across the B deck corridor, simultaneously hollow eyed and determined. She was crying, her cheeks streaked with tears. First class passengers were seldom prone to such emotional displays and an elderly, strolling couple simply watched her pass. She had no need for manners, nor excuses, and continued to run, perhaps she would find freedom out in the air. Out in the never ending ocean. Her legs propelled her onwards, without a stitch of thought in her brain and as she crossed the deserted fantail, her breath hitched in an occasional sob which was suppressed downwards, as she did every other emotion. It was suppressing these that had led her here, to this very crossroad in her life.

Rose slammed against the rail and there was no more ship. The only thing out ahead of her was black ocean. Gripping the base of the stern flagpole, her hands went white. It was mesmerising to watch out into blackness with only the trail of foam left by the propellers. A strange sense of calm overwhelmed her, trespassing inside her mind and then, she climbed over the railing. Moving methodically to turn her body and get her heels on the white painted gunwale, her back to the railing facing out toward darkness. Sixty feet below her the massive propellers were churning the Atlantic Ocean into white foam and a ghostly wake trailed off into the horizon...She would soon be joining it.

Then, her vision cleared, she saw the steep drop into the cold, dark water of the Atlantic below. Rose contemplated what it would be like to drop the eighty or so feet into the darkness. She wondered how fast death would come to swallow her up. Jumping into the water would ensure that she stripped herself of every ounce of wealth then perhaps to Cal, to her mother, she would be utterly worthless. Maybe then the suffocation would end.

Maybe.

Maybe her mother would learn to fend for herself, for their family. Maybe Cal would find pleasure atop another woman destined to feign enthusiasm for all eternity, for it could not be her. It would not be her. She would suffocate beneath him. Die for him. How could she become a slave for his passion, for his lust and thirst? The thought made her grip loosen slightly.

She leaned her arms out looking down, hypnotised at the vortex churning below her. Her dress and hair were lifted by the wind of the ship's movement. The only sound above the rush of water was the flutter and snap of the 12-foot-long Union Jack flag above her.

She was so close to the edge. She would not jump, she would simply let go…

Surely being engulfed by utter darkness would be better than this, and so, her hands slowly released their grip until momentarily, she was tumbling forward, the end nigh, and finally freedom for all eternity was in reach. Her fire had burnt out.

The precipice moved. Or maybe the edge did.

She was engulfed by warmth. By heavy breathing. By a calmness and so she turned her head, to see she was being held captive by a young man.

''Don't worry, miss,'' he soothed, ''it will be alright.''