Silver gleamed beneath the light, violins whispered in the background, and laughter rose like champagne bubbles from the wealthiest corners of the room.
Rose sat in silence.
Across from her, Ruth and Cal carried on an easy conversation with Hester Frump, the dignified woman draped in black who had joined their table moments ago. Hester's calm poise and quiet wit seemed to draw the room's attention without demanding it. There was something otherworldly about her, though no one could place why.
Ruth smiled politely. "This is my daughter, Rose DeWitt Bukater," she said, gesturing with delicate pride. "And this is her fiancé, Mr. Caledon Hockley. Cal's family has holdings in steel and rail in Pittsburgh."
Hester inclined her head gracefully. "Ah, yes… I believe I've heard of the Hockleys. Prosperous people."
Cal smiled faintly, settling back in his chair. "We do well enough," he said smoothly, his tone carrying that quiet assurance only money could grant. He turned to Rose with a smirk. "And soon, the DeWitt Bukater name will carry that same prosperity. Won't it, sweetpea?"
Rose didn't answer. She was lighting a cigarette, her movements slow and deliberate. The tiny flame flickered between her trembling fingers.
Ruth frowned sharply. "You know I don't like that, Rose."
Cal's voice came next, calm but edged. "She knows."
He plucked the cigarette from her lips and pressed it into the crystal ashtray, snuffing it out. "Bad habit," he said mildly to the waiter, as though explaining a child's misbehavior.
Then, with that same patronizing tone, he looked back up.
"We'll both have the lamb. Rare, with a little mint sauce."
The waiter nodded and retreated.
Cal turned to Rose, his expression softening into a false smile. "You like lamb, don't you, sweetheart?"
Hester's gaze shifted between them, the dominance in his tone, the quiet fury behind Rose's eyes. The older woman said nothing, but the corner of her mouth curl, just slightly.
As the evening stretched on, Cal spoke at length about business in Pittsburgh, investments in steel, the grandeur of the ship. His words dripped with pride and entitlement. Ruth listened, nodding, while Hester observed quietly, her expression unreadable.
Then came the remark that was subtle, but cutting.
Cal raised his glass, smirking. "I must say, she's quite the prize," he said, glancing toward Rose. "Refined taste, exquisite manners. You wouldn't believe how many envied me when the engagement was announced."
Something inside Rose snapped.
CLANK!!
The clink of silverware cut sharply through the hum of the room as she set her fork down a little too hard. The sound drew a few glances.
Ruth blinked. "My God, Rose, what's gotten into—"
"Excuse me." Her voice was tight, trembling with barely contained emotion. She stood abruptly, the chair scraping back across the carpet, and before anyone could react, she turned and walked away.
Hester's eyes followed her departure. A slow, knowing smile ghosted across her lips. "Ah," she murmured softly, almost to herself, "there it is."
_____
Rose POV
The corridors blurred around me as I walked, no— ran from the dining saloon. My pulse thundered in my ears, and the sting in my eyes made everything shimmer.
I didn't know where I was going. I just knew I had to move, to get away from them, from him, from all of it.
My chest ached with each breath, and still I pushed faster, the tears spilling freely now, streaking down my cheeks.
I could still hear his voice. Sweetpea. My prize. As if I were some object to display behind glass, something to be owned and polished, not a person. Not someone who could breathe.
A couple passed me on the stairs, their whispers trailing behind like ghosts. "Good heavens," one murmured. "How indecent…"
I didn't care.
My whole life flashed through my mind as I climbed to the upper deck: an endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches, the same narrow people, the same hollow laughter, the same mindless chatter. It was all so small, so suffocating.
It felt as if I had already lived it, every dull, predictable moment, and I was standing at the edge of a great precipice with no one to pull me back. No one who cared. No one who even noticed.
The night air struck my face as I burst onto the open deck. The sea stretched into infinity, black and merciless beneath the moonlight. The hum of the engines echoed through the steel beneath my feet, like a heartbeat that wasn't mine.
I didn't see anyone else. The deck was almost deserted.
My legs carried me, trembling and stubborn, to the very end of the stern. The flag whipped above me in the cold wind as I slammed against the railing, gasping for breath. I stared down at the churning wake, the white foam devoured by darkness.
My mind was blank.
Then, before I could think, I climbed.
The metal was slick under my palms. I hitched my skirts up awkwardly, the heavy fabric tangling around my legs. The hem of my gown caught in the railing, tearing slightly. I didn't care.
Turning, I placed my heels on the narrow gunwale, my back to the ship, facing out into the void.
The air was freezing, whipping my hair against my face. Sixty feet below, the giant propellers churned the Atlantic into a violent whirlpool of white water. My pulse thundered in my skull. The world felt small, quiet, perfectly still.
I leaned out just enough to feel it — that pull, that freedom.
Then a voice, low, dry, uninvited, came from the shadows.
"If you're going to kill yourself," it said, calm and steady, "don't do it while someone's watching."
The voice jolted me from my trance. I turned sharply, startled.
A man stood a few paces away, half-hidden in shadow, a cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. The smoke curled around his face in the moonlight, silver against the dark.
For a moment, I thought I'd seen him before — and then I remembered.
When we boarded the ship in Southampton, I'd noticed him near the gangway, wearing a white lab uniform, speaking quietly with one of the ship's officers. There had been something unusual about him even then — something restrained, as if he were holding back from the world.
Now, here he was.
"Stay back!" I warned, gripping the railing tighter. My voice trembled. "Don't come any closer!"
He raised both hands, calm and steady. "I'm not here to stop you," he said flatly. "If you really want to jump, go ahead."
I blinked, confused. "What—?"
"But do me one favor first," he continued, stepping closer with measured, deliberate calm. "Wait until I walk away. I've seen enough death for one lifetime, and I don't have the stomach to watch another."
The words hit harder than I expected.
I swallowed, my breath shaky. "You're… not going to try and save me?"
He tilted his head slightly, studying me. "Save you? You don't want to be saved. People like you never really do."
My lips parted, stung by the coldness of it. "People like me?"
He took another slow step forward, his voice quiet but cutting through the roar of the sea. "The ones who've had everything handed to them and still think the world is empty. You've never been sick, never been dying, never begged your body to hold on just one more day. And yet here you are, ready to throw it all away."
"I…" My throat tightened. The wind caught in my hair, tangling it around my face. "You don't know me."
"No," he said softly. "But I know that look."
His eyes darkened as he looked past me, not at the ocean, but at something far deeper. "It's the same one I see in the mirror every morning. The difference is, I'm fighting to stay alive."
Something in his voice, that flicker of exhaustion and bitterness pulled me from the edge. My knees wavered.
He took one more careful step, his voice quieter now. "You think this will free you? The water's not kind. It'll steal your breath, crush your ribs, and drag you down until you stop struggling. And when you finally do, you'll realize death isn't peace. It's silence."
The world seemed to blur. My heart pounded painfully, every word sinking deeper than the cold.
My fingers loosened on the railing. My body began to tremble — from fear, from shame, from realization.
Then his tone softened, barely above a whisper. "Don't waste the life I've been fighting my whole damn existence to keep."
My breath hitched. Slowly, I turned back toward the deck, gripping the rail to steady myself. My heels slipped against the wet metal, and I gasped —
Strong hands shot forward, catching my wrist just as my foot lost balance. I let out a small cry as he pulled me back with surprising strength, dragging me over the railing and into his arms.
We fell hard onto the deck, breathless. My hair fell over my face, and I could feel the heat of his chest rising and falling beneath me. For a moment, neither of us moved.
He exhaled slowly, looking down at me. "See? Told you. The fall's not as graceful as you'd think."
Despite everything, a nervous laugh escaped me half sob, half relief.
"You're crazy."