Her fingers grazed over the tangle of clothes near the foot of the bed, but no satin was to be felt or found. How unfortunate. That slip was her favorite thing to sleep in, not to mention it was La Perla. Deciding to not push her luck, Clara quickly pulled on the gray pencil dress that sat folded on top in her carry-on and shoved everything else inside. It was tough to find everything in the dark, but she felt she'd gathered most of it. Whatever stayed behind, oh well...

She glanced back at the bed where he slept soundly. His features relaxed gave him this younger, boyish look that took Clara back to another time and place, one where it was just the two of them, no baggage, no pain, no betrayal. Even as he slept she could feel a magnetic pull towards him, and she wished things could have been different. She wished she weren't sneaking out like a thief in the night, and that she could, instead, curl up in bed against his body and let his heartbeat lull her to sleep. With one last look, she tip-toed through the door and slipped out, closing it quietly. If she hurried, she would make it to the early flight out.

Later that morning, walking through the JFK terminal, the events of the night before came crashing down on her. She was gasping for small breaths when she finally sat down in the car, and all of it threatened to shatter her to pieces. She recognized a breakdown when one was imminent. She was flooded by an overwhelming feeling of grief and felt incapable of stopping the tears that were coming.

"Good morning, miss. Manhattan?" the driver asked, oblivious to her inner storm.

She couldn't stomach the idea of going to Owen. She hated herself for running, and then running, and running some more, but she didn't know what else to do. She gave the driver the address of the one person who could help her make sense of the mess she'd gotten herself into.

In the privacy of the backseat, she let silent tears fall.