A/N: So, I'm curious. How do y'all feel about Frances DuBois? Personally, I hate him. A lot. If you what you read, drop a vote, only if you'd like.

Enjoy the chapter. (I'm sorry I didn't have time to post the full chapter. It will be available Tuesday!)

AS SOON AS THE final proceedings of the divorce had been made, as soon as our marriage was legally resolved, I would flee. Hopefully, to never be seen again by my family, Victoria, or any of the upper-class.

Especially Matthew.

For the first time in my life, my own affairs would be left to me personally. And I made no plan to waste it. I would estimate it would take no longer than a month for the plan of divorce to finally be put to rest. A little less than that, when the arrival of the ball came.

So why shouldn't I give high society their last glimpse of me before I made my dramatic departure? It seemed like a delightful idea. After all, I reasoned, I hardly ventured out of Whitfield's walls. It would be my last true appearance in the public eye, until after I no longer bore Matthew's name. And by then, well, I would be long gone.

As I looked over the idea in my head, the more appealing it became. I fancied that people wouldn't really appreciate my looks, who I exactly was, until I (Lady Rose Axel) was gone. I could wear one of the loveliest gowns I owned. The loveliest.

My wedding gown.

My heart gave a dull ache as I briefly reminisced about my friendship with Elizabeth. She was the only one who ever bothered to talk to me at events like this. My only companion. My true companion. I would look rather pathetic going to that ball, and not having a soul to talk to.

No, don't you dare.

Elizabeth was not my true companion. Certainly not ever. She wouldn't have been quick to not sympathize me, to only seek my friendship when she herself needed comfort.

Nay, Elizabeth had been no true companion of mine. Satisfied with this mental assertion, I took to pen a poem, when a knock resounded on the door.

I had very little interest of seeing anyone, so I let the knock wane into silence with no response. Then another knock, slightly more distasteful than the first, resounded. I, slightly annoyed at the continuance of the knock, ignored it again. Then it reverberated a third time, so sharp, loud, and rude that I realized I recognized it. Why, it was none other than the manner belonging to one of my beloved aunts.

Agnes.

I arose from my bed, and twisted the knob. Before I could utter a word, she had managed to push herself into my room. I haven't the faintest clue why I was surprised. Even with her skeletal figure, she had proved her strength in my younger years.

"Rose," she started primly, surveying my chambers.

"Agnes," I returned nastily, face folded in a snarl. She whipped her head back to look at me, so fast I thought her neck would snap. I wish it had.

"You shall not talk to me like that! It won't do," she yelled. I widened my eyes with mock fear.

"And what, pray, shall you do about it? What could you possible do to me, or take from me, that you haven't already?" I questioned. I leaned in closer, so much that that I could smell her peppermint breath. The answer is very simple; you can't," I nearly growled. Agnes drew her head back only a little, but sucked her breath through her teeth.

"Have you been fitted?" she asked. I raised my eyebrows.

"Fitted?" I inquired. She rolled her eyes.

"Yes, fitted, you dumb cow. For a dress. You have not changed in the least, you are still as big and dumb as cattle," Agnes remarked.

I couldn't quite help what happened next.

I grabbed Agnes by the hook of her elbow, and firmly tossed her from my quarters. While she was still in shock of processing that I had, 'dared to lay a hand on her', I took the excellent opportunity to shout "walking shriveled toast!" before slamming my door closed. And bolting it. Afterwards, I heard the incomprehensible shrieks of Agnes' complaint against me. I laughed a childish giggle, before erupting into a fit of laughter.

I think it was, very well, the single extraordinary thing that happened to me that day. The rest of the day passed as usual.

Except for taking half hour's to stroll in the garden, I rarely left my chambers. I dined there, morning and night, and penned all of my poems. But one particular evening I was feeling particularly cramped. For whatever reason, the hours I had spent lonesomely in my quarters had taken their toll. It being the day prior to the ball, I had spent hours looking upon my dress, examining it in the mirror. Even then, my boredom could not be quenched.

So, as dusk began to settle and the breezes turned stiff and cold, I decided to stroll in the garden. As I walked among my roses, which I particularly enjoyed to look at due to their white hue, I spotted a figure. Matthew. He too was wandering aimlessly through the stretch of growing flowers. I ignored him.

"Rose?" he asked softly, though it really wasn't a question.

"Should you be talking to me Mr. Whitfield? Or, is it just when we are being observed? I wouldn't want you on bad terms with your mistress," I remarked. I could hear Matthew's annoyance.

"She is merely a woman. She has no control over me," he stated. I laughed humorlessly.

"She is the woman you love. Victoria has every control of you," I contradicted.

"You make me sound as if I am a puppet. I am no such thing," he snapped. I looked from the Roses to face his heating eyes.

"A puppet? That is exactly what you are! Don't take your frustrations over your helplessness over me, I beg you. I can account for none of it. You, Matthew Whitfield, are most definitely the wealthiest man in the kingdom with no royal title. And you accepted an ultimatum from a courtesan, worse even, in front of an audience. The worst type. Your wife!" I exclaimed. At that point my voice had raised as well, and I looked half-crazed.

But how in the world could I really explain my utter frustration at him? The things I knew, the things I knew about that woman. I mean, for the love of God, she was trying to kill me! Well, was planning to kill me. Matthew blinked at me.

"You must be wondering, wondering why I have an accent," he blurted, completely out of the random. I looked over him quizzically.

"Do you honestly, truly think in your heart-of-hearts, I care a shred about anything that has to do with you? Besides our divorce?" I inquired coldly.

I cared quite a bit for him, all while hating him with a fierce passion. But he, of course, didn't need to know any of that.

"My parents were foreigners from another kingdom. Thousands of miles north from here, very far. We emigrated when I was fifteen, so I have very distinct memories from there. From that place. However, it was just as easy to adapt to this place and-"

"Do you have a point to this Mr. Whitfield? You're disturbing my peace. I didn't come to my garden to indulge in any conversation," I interjected. His jaw shifted slightly, but he continued to speak.

"What I am trying to say is that I learned to lose my accent. But it comes out, he cleared his throat, when I care."

I recalled waking up from my fainting spell to an unfamiliar voice but a familiar smell. Matthew's accent. However, the fact seemed particularly unremarkable.