December 31, 2024.

Rose chose to wear a French lace gown this evening. Without permission from her mother or Cal, her overly controlling fiancé, she had purchased it herself in London.

A woman like her, curvy and tall, should have had her picks of gowns for such events, but no, it would be at the expense or to the taste of someone else. It was usually unflattering to her figure, wasteful on fabric and left her feeling utterly exposed or dampened. Even when the dress cut had been beautiful, causing those about her to take a second glance, it had left her feeling like nothing more than a porcelain doll. Something that was purely for entertainment purposes and lacking anything in her brain like most of the so-called actresses or models who attended these events, who did nothing but sip champagne, snort cocaine and look like a clothes horse for the fashion designers' delight before making it to the next day's front pages.

This dress, however, was exquisite. It was a floor-length, dark red gown with an intricate black beading overlay. She wore black stilettos, unlike her usual taste in footwear, but she had fallen in love with them at first sight, although they had a high price tag. Her hair was worn in a bun, scraped back so much she felt as though her forehead was upon her scalp. She hated her face usually, feeling that she had puffy cheeks, and she hated how pale she was compared to the tanned beauties. Still, she forgot all her insecurities tonight and attended a New Year's party in London.

She had been to these sorts of dinners and dances before. It was an excuse for women to show off their finest clothes and jewellery to others. The people were so narrow-minded. All they seemed to care about was who dressed the finest, who owned the most land, who had married the wealthiest man, and even royalty, who had been rumoured to attend. The entire room stood, wearing this season's Stella McCartney or Prada, diamonds at their ears and throat and vicious rumours coming from their overfilled lips as they attempted to show expression on their fresh faces.

Rose's fiancé, Caledon Hockley, was one of the world's best-known lawyers; having recently gotten a particularly well-known sportsman off with murder, he was the hottest thing around. He had recently travelled around Europe with Rose as an engagement present, and now they were spending the New Year in London before they would marry in New York City on Valentine's Day. How romantic…

Cal was an athlete himself once before being taken to the courtroom. His broad shoulders and tall stance attracted her. He was clean cut, with barely a jet black hair out of place, barely an unmanicured finger and his tuxedo this evening completed his beautiful look. He could pass for Clark Kent in the next Superman movie, but more than anything, he was very well respected and from the most prominent New York family. Everything her mother had counted on her to find in a husband and much more.

Gentle music played by the band filled the air, and Rose craned her neck, looking around the room for anything to amuse her. Ruth, her mother, could be seen speaking with some notable faces on the other side of the room. For a woman of almost fifty, she was fresh-faced after a recent chemical peel, and without a grey hair in sight, that vibrant red still stole the attention of a few silver fox types there that evening. Her mother was naturally slender, something Rose had once desired to be, and with the constant scrutiny of her wide hips and large chest, Ruth had left Rose with very little confidence of her own, perhaps until she had seen this particular dress.

Rose stood beside Cal, her fiancé, as he strolled from clique to clique, making introductions and reeling off the latest news of the courtroom. She nodded a small hello to a familiar face, not remembering their name. She was an actress, tall and blonde, but Rose didn't remember past that. After a while, every face was as frozen as the next, each one exactly as they appeared on Facebook or Instagram.

Her fiancé's words were lost as she became entranced in her world. She turned around, glancing at the bar. Oh, how badly she wanted to order every drink on the menu and down them all individually, but she knew she would be allowed no more than a glass or two of wine. Perhaps alcohol would have boosted her confidence, maybe even made her feel a little more comfortable. Most people her age would be falling out of nightclubs or at the London Eye watching the fireworks, not attending some party her family made her go to just because it was the charming thing to do.

A large crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and Rose looked at it as it twinkled beautifully, almost taking her breath away. She clung to her clutch bag, which she held directly in front of her stomach, feeling the dinner sitting heavily across her middle. Maybe wearing clingy satin wasn't a good idea, but she had fallen in love with the dress. She had believed it would somehow give her confidence.

"Why don't you try smiling, just once?" A voice startled her, and green eyes darted to meet Cal's. They were dark and untrusting, his face like thunder. "It's embarrassing, Rose." His eyes stared directly into hers. "You look like you're at a funeral."

Immediately, Rose felt tears prick her eyes. She turned her attention to the crowd of people Cal had been making small talk with and saw all pairs of eyes on her. They were all tall, former athletes like him. Most had already been seen on the arm of a supermodel over the Christmas period, and now, they watched her as though she was the most despicable thing they had laid eyes on. All curious men were gazing at Cal's plaything, as the press had described her as before.

"Forgive me," Rose attempted to break a slight smile, but with her heart almost coming out of her throat, all she could do was dig her French-manicured nails into her clutch bag to conceal her fright. She felt like death, she wished to add, but she refused to allow him to crawl beneath her skin.

"Why don't we see a smile on your little face?"

Rose turned away, feeling his breath tickling her cheek; it wasn't the soft caress she always believed he could be capable of. A startling reminder of the evening before came crawling back to her, and the stench of whisky on his breath and his half-clothed body had been enough to make Rose move away from him, but her attempts to escape were useless. When they had reached their hotel room, Cal had ordered Rose to undress for him, put on something sexy and climb into bed. When she hadn't done as she was told, he raised his hand to her and cut her lip. It wasn't the first time Cal had ever laid hands on her, and it wasn't the first time a man had hurt her. Why was he doing this—to publicly humiliate her? Rose could feel her heartbeat in her ears. It wasn't fear but a strange realisation of how she had been reduced to this: a woman shamed for being herself. For not acting the correct way. For trying to please a man with whom she was not even in love. Why did the guy have the upper hand when a woman did obey precisely what he said? Indeed, this behaviour should have ceased years ago…

If Hell could come and claim her now, ensuring her to fall into a deep, darkened hole, then she would remain there forever just to never feel this way for a second ever again. Her eyes refused to focus on anything, and everything became as dazed and hazy as the hanging chandelier.

"Hey, you look at me when I'm talking to you." Cal grabbed her face in his right hand, forcing her to look at him directly. He saw the fear now and seemed to thrive on it. This was what he wanted, not needed to see upon her delicate face. "Don't disrespect me."

Rose felt as though she was slowly being suffocated. She could feel his fingers leaving marks on her face and knew what would come later when the two of them were alone. The deep, dark hole she had just wished for was suddenly there in the eyes of the man she would marry in months. The whole room seemed to whirl around, and quickly, without even thinking, Rose turned from Cal, escaping his grip. That was it. How could she take much more? Rose glanced at the exit, and the gasps erupted. Her eyes fell upon her, whispers ensued, and even the pianist seemed to miss a key. They seemed so focused on her, yet everything society had ever taught her stopped her from sprinting out of the room and never returning.

When she reached the exit, Rose ran to the bathroom as fast as she could. She had hoped dinner would go well and that she would be able to retreat to her room by nine o'clock, forgetting about the New Year's Eve celebrations and being able to witness some of the fireworks from the beautiful view over the Thames at the Ritz.

The sound of her heels clacking on the bathroom floor was welcome. It reminded her that the quiet had come for a moment, and she was alone with her thoughts. Tears prickled her eyes after she saw her reflection in the large oak mirror. Here she was, faced with herself—a multitude of sins and a thousand demons arguing with each other.

Here was the truth: she despised her life, hated herself, and most of all, Caledon Hockley. His delicate, masculine beauty was not worth her misery. His money was worthless. His family name meant nothing to her. How he had wooed her with material goods, jewellery, and flowers had shown that there was nothing beneath that steely exterior, not even a little drop of emotion and even when he had uttered words of love, they felt to be said like an actor in a poorly written TV show. Slamming doors and breaking plates became the norm, and her mother's involvement in every aspect of her life had become pitiful. Rose DeWitt Bukater didn't feel like a woman but trapped in a child's life. Everything she had done in her adolescent life led to this moment to please her mother. She had forgone university to study, she had taken to restricting her calories to the point she had fainted to fit into the most elegant wedding gown handpicked by her mother, and now, she was at the latter end of her trip to Europe, which had been nothing but a string of business meetings, boring luncheons and at them all were the same mindless folk who had nothing better to do but chatter. Travelling should have been about their bonding experiences as a young, engaged couple, less about simply pleasing Cal.

Taking a deep breath, Rose felt the tightness of her dress and put her hand over her stomach. She felt as though she was slowly being suffocated, as though Cal's hands were back at her throat, and suddenly, she began to choke, as though her airways had closed and her lungs had stopped working. Throwing her clutch bag onto the side of the sink, she coughed loudly, her chokes echoing around the empty bathroom, but she could not relieve her body of the poison and instead, she could only dry heave without even bothering to claw her way into one of the stalls. Rose lifted her head from the sink and saw her pale face, tears rolling down her cheeks. Quickly, she wiped them away in an attempt to salvage her heavily made-up face before it became apparent that she had cried for the same damned man who had hurt her continuously.

She remembered a time when she was an outgoing girl who had enjoyed life to the fullest. Now, she was reduced to this...lonely and frightened. Now, she was a shadow of her former self. Shaking her head in an attempt to steady her breathing and shaking hands for a few seconds, her ears rang loudly, and she could hear her voice screaming at her to get out of the relationship and stand up to Cal. She didn't deserve this. No one did.

The ballroom outside was filled with the faces of Society, faces of the rich and famous and Rose DeWitt Bukater would never be one of them. Never.

Something overcame Rose then, giving her strength and the feeling of being assertive for just those seconds. It was a calm state of mind, where every negative feeling seemed to be expelled from her body with every quivering breath.

Opening her clutch, she found a brand new red lipstick, applying it quickly and perfectly before pressing her lips together and fastening her purse shut. Taking one last look at her reflection, she felt satisfied for the first time in a long time. Her makeup was not so ghastly. Her hair was not so drastic. Both of them, though, were not her in the slightest.

Just who was she?

Radiating some kind of strange energy about her. There was an element of euphoria. As she walked from the bathroom, the peculiar moment seemed to continue, and there was something about straightening her shoulders and listening simply to how her heels clacked on the marble floor. She looked around in the ballroom to find Cal or her mother. Sure enough, she found her fiancé chatting with a tall blonde girl, the new Gucci model to whom he had taken a shine in Paris weeks before.

The model wore a sheer transparent number, displaying every rib and hip bone as she played with Cal's tie, her wide, plumped mouth ever so close to his. She had a brutal confidence that convinced even those who walked past her. Rose was infuriated inwardly, but not for the reason she should be. Instead of the usual insignificant insecurities washing over her, without even thinking, she strutted towards them, neither of them noticing her presence.

''I do hope you are not too cold in that ensemble; I saw your nipples from across town.'' Rose aimed the comment at the model while watching Cal.

Immediately, the model pulled away from Cal as though acid had been splashed across her unlined face.

"Excuse me, are you the fiancee?"

"Yes." Rose held out her once trembling French manicured hand, displaying a flashy but fabulous Tiffany's diamond that Cal had slid onto her finger months before. "Yes, I was." Sliding the hideous thing from her finger, she tossed it towards Cal and could have sworn that he didn't even attempt to catch it. Rose witnessed the look in his eyes, but she didn't crumble like a little girl. She looked right back at him. Right damned at him.

"I'm so sorry," Cal apologised to the blonde, who looked at Rose like she had stepped in. ''She has been quite unwell.''

Rose's heart started again, but she did not glance at the model. Nor did she react to Cal's comment. In one smooth glide, he snaked his hand around her waist and hissed.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Cal gripped her hand and almost dragged her through the crowds of people who watched with prying eyes until they reached the exit.

''Get your hands off me.'' Rose tried to free herself from his grasp but couldn't as he dragged her outside into the cold December air. She shuddered, not from the cold but from what Cal could do, especially outside, without anyone else present. She struggled to stand as he almost pulled her to the ground with his force. "How dare you disrespect me like that?"

"You disrespected me, too!" Rose was fuelled, full of the same fire. ''You put a ring on my finger, and I am expected to turn a blind eye to the fact that every model between home and here has been with you!''

"You're nothing but a common girl who should be locked away from the eyes of Society. Even your family name should be shamed."

Rose tried to utter a few words, but nothing could fall from her mouth.

"Who do you think you are? Who on earth do you think you're talking to?" Cal continued raging, and she barely heard anything else before her eyes began to ring stupidly loudly, like a warning.

Before Rose knew it, Cal's fist connected with her cheek, throwing her onto the cold, cobbled street. There was no pain, nothing, just numbness. It was, perhaps, the hardest he had ever hit her.

Rose's eyes travelled briefly to the waiter who had just exited the venue's back door and was about to put a large black bin liner into the industrial bin. Rose shook her head, trying to gain her focus. What was wrong with her? She felt nothing; all she could concentrate on was the waiter. She concentrated on how his arm raised to open the bin and how he dropped it, and then she was sure the lid slammed down. She somehow failed to hear anything but the continued loud ringing inside her brain, rattling her ears.

Cal ranted in front of her face as if in slow motion, waving his arms around violently, but it was almost as though she had muted his voice. The waiter's head turned towards them; Rose assumed he had heard Cal's rants. He appeared to be young, maybe her age. His hair was long and sandy-blond, she guessed from the light shining in the street light, but the one thing she saw was how blue his eyes were when they connected with hers. That was when the ringing ceased, and the volume button to her life was turned back to full.

"Hey!"

Everything went back to normal. The waiter suddenly approached them and grabbed Cal's arm just as he was about to hit Rose again. He punched his stomach, causing Cal to fall back against the wall, but it didn't stop him from fighting back. The two were grappling for a moment; Cal's hair had come loose, and the waiter's collar hung limp, but both were equally ready to fight in the streets of London at New Year.

The waiter punched Cal's face once more before he fell to the ground, groaning in pain. Rose felt her heart beat quickly, but her tired eyes cleared momentarily as she gained clarity. The waiter wore a white shirt and black pants—his uniform, she assumed, but over the top, he had just adorned a leather jacket and stood next to a motorcycle she thought belonged to him. Everything seemed to have happened so–strangely.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice firm. This made Rose feel safe as she looked further into his eyes, which were still blue. He held his hand towards her, but she did not take it and scrambled to her feet alone.

"Yeah," she managed, her teeth chattering.

The turn of events utterly floored her. She looked down at Cal, laid out on London street. The waiter removed his apron from around his waist and threw it on Cal like he was at the bottom of the scrap heap. He climbed onto his motorbike and was about to wear his helmet when Rose realised she was watching him intently.

"You need to get away from a guy like that," the waiter warned. I've seen too many in my lifetime." He was American, and his accent seemed to occur to her. Everything that had bent out of shape seemed to have come back together.

"Wait!" Rose called, holding up her hand.

She looked down at Cal's body lying in the street and made an on-the-spot decision to go with the waiter, whoever he was. After feeling such hatred for the man who had brought nothing but fear into her life, there was now an opportunity to escape, but…what was she thinking about getting onto a motorcycle in a foreign country with a strange man? He could be a criminal. He could be worse than Cal.

Cal began to stir, breaking Rose's thoughts, and he wailed, grasping his head, and as she stepped forward, she felt her head dizzy. Ignoring the blearing pain, she quickly kicked him in the crotch, causing him to cry out in agony as he writhed. Now, her pain seemed to cease a little.

"Now, I'm okay."

The waiter handed her a spare helmet, and she fastened it underneath her chin. Their eyes met, and he cocked his head to one side, indicating to her to climb on. She struggled with her dress but managed it, not caring what happened to it or anything she was wearing. When he revved the engine, she felt excitement, like she was a bad guy in a movie.

Soon, they were off, and London Bridge beckoned at midnight.