**

I don't know how to feel about the sight in front of me.

Alejandro being carried away. That's what I see, sitting on the ground with Sebastian's arms still wrapped around me. I watch Isaac and Claude lift his body up and haul him out of the room. His eyes are closed, hair hanging back to reveal more of the gash on his nose—the gash I created. I just stare, my body in a state of shock with my limbs frozen stiff. They struggle to haul Alejandro's mass through the door, but they succeed, the sounds of their laborious breathing being heard as they travel down the hall. When they're gone, I look around the room at the mess—the ceiling plaster scattered on the floor, the broken lamp, overturned furniture. None of it seems real when the images burn into my brain.

Sebastian begins to remove his hold on me, slowly as if it's a danger to my wellbeing for him to break away.

"I'll be right back," he assures me. His voice is certain and adamant like a promise. He gets up, his hands gradually gliding out of mine before rushing out of the room. I sit silently, still processing. I can hear them talking in the hall; Sebastian's anger is clear through his speech.

"Call Salvador right now," he orders. "Tell him we're bringing Alejandro to him right now."

"Sebastian—"

"Now!" he shouts over Claude's protest. Claude says nothing else, abides by Sebastian's command and travels down the stairs. Isaac says nothing. Perhaps he knows Sebastian won't listen to reason anymore.

Maybe I should close my eyes—seeing the disordered state of the room can't be good for me. But at this point, I feel like my senses and emotions have turned numb; I keep my eyes open, staring blankly at the mess around me, and wonder how this all happened and where it all started.

I can't carry myself out of this state of shock no matter how hard I try to. My pride is telling me to get up, dust myself off, move on from what happened to me so we could focus on the countless other subjects we have to worry about. My pride tells me that I've been too weak and too expendable lately—that I'm usually smarter. Wiser. My pride tells me to get the hell up and gather myself together, but I can't. I can't anymore.

Get up, Leslie. Pull yourself together.

The image of the gun in Alejandro's possession—of his gloved hand over my mouth—freezes me onto the ground, where I lay against the back of the couch and wait in the silence of the aftermath; I can hear Claude's voice downstairs. Muffled. I hear many muffled voices, probably talking about me, most likely talking about Alejandro, all in secret. Intentionally keeping quiet so I can't hear; I must be too "fragile" to them now after what I saw.

You can do it, Leslie. Step up. One leg, then the other.

I follow my conscience's instructions and slowly get up from the floor. My ears funnel an annoying ringing that only worsens when I stand and let the blood circulate throughout my whole body again. My hands shake uncontrollably; my fingers have little splatters of blood—Alejandro's blood. Quickly, I head to the bathroom and wash my hands. I wash them with scalding hot water and with an excessively dripping amount of soap. I scrub my hands, watching the suds gather in the sink bowl, and I continue washing my hands until they're blotchy, swollen and red, similar to my face right now.

After turning the faucet off, I still feel unclean. I've taken the first step of getting up off the floor, but now I'm unsure of what to do next.

Breathe, Leslie. Walk back into the room and out into the hallway. You need to leave.

I inhale for five seconds, hold for five, exhale for five. Then I carry my steps out of the bathroom; my legs feel tied down by weights. My mind coaches myself to ignore the scene of Alejandro and I's struggle ahead of me as I walk out into the hall.

The hall seems darker now. Desolate. An eerie scene from a horror movie. Or maybe that's how my mind is perceiving this; maybe that's how it will perceive everything from now on.

Oh, stop all of your fucking whining. You need to get the fuck away from this room.

Right. My voice of reason is right. Where has she been for the last month? Hidden somewhere, probably. Buried underneath paranoia, fear and regret. I missed her; I need her now. I feel ashamed that I've lost her after being one to always keep my "voice" in the back of my head at all times. I listen to her and keep walking. The walls are wide, dimly lit for the time of night it is. Or maybe it's early morning? How long has it been?

Keep. Walking. Now.

I move my legs a little faster, motioning from a steady tread to a firm stride. I'm at the staircase now—the main staircase, not the secondary one I used close to my room; I passed that one during my absentminded walk through the hall. I see their feet at the door—there are many of these men standing around the door, the wide-open space exposing the darkness of the night. One of the SUV's parked in the driveway has its headlights on, engine running. Alejandro must be in there, still unconscious.

Head down the staircase. Don't stand at the top like an idiot.

I make my descent down the staircase, my hand gliding lightly on the glossed wood of the railing. Midway, I can see them all—Claude, Isaac, Sebastian, and their "lackeys." I don't know these other men, dressed clad in dark suits or black casual clothing, only speaking when addressed or prompted to. I've willingly gone with these men whether it's in SUV's or on other expenditures. How could I have been so naïve to trust complete strangers? I look at Isaac; he's a stranger—a stranger that works for my mother whom I've never met. Thousands of miles away, not even knowing what I look like in person, and she wishes to protect me. I feel as if I've forgotten a time where I knew how to protect myself; everyone around me has been so adamant on doing it for me. Isaac told me I'm the "center" of it all—the reason for Garrett's animosity, for Alejandro's instability, for my mother's over-protectiveness. For Sebastian, I'm the reason for everything—his anger, his fervor, his passion, his happiness. But I don't know how to feel about such a responsibility I never knew I had until now?

Here's how you feel—you don't. You've been an emotional wreck for the last couple of months. What the hell is wrong with you? Get your shit together and remember who you are.

"Leslie." Someone calling my name interrupts my aggressive thoughts; I was standing on the middle step of the large staircase, staring into space like I've been rid of sense. Sebastian is at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at me with evident concern on his face. I meet him at the end, my hand still gripping the railing even though my feet are on the ground.

"Are you alright?" I ask him. The irony to ask him the question after what happened to me is blatant. But I need to occupy my mind; my sub-conscience is glaring at me, making me do so.

"I'm fine." Sebastian's eyebrows lower a bit. "Leslie, I—"

"Is he in the car?" My face is expectant of an answer; Sebastian decides not to finish his initial sentence.

"Yes," he answers. "I can't tell you where we're—"

"I know," I say to him. "Just do what you need to do."

I don't want to argue. Admittedly, I'm still in shock, but not as much as before. We both have a lot on our plate, and I know the bind that Sebastian is in; his testament in the kitchen hours before made me aware of that.

His hand touches my cheek. It feels right, his hand—warm, soft, comforting. I'm trying to hide my emotions from him; I've spilled them before when I wept like a baby, overwhelmed with anxiety and fear and a plethora of other emotions with negative connotations. But who am I kidding? Sebastian knows me better than anybody else.

"Isaac's going to stay with you until I get back," he says. "Will you stay in my room?"

He's asking, not telling.

"Yeah." I nod; he doesn't know how much I want to. "Yeah, I will."

"Alright." The responses are short. We can't say much right now; we don't know what to say. How did it get to this?

I look into his eyes—fuck, they're beautiful; shades of jade seem to swim in his irises forever. I appreciate his eyes so much more now; I thought I would lose him earlier.

Without asking any more questions, I let him go. There's a reluctance in his step when he leaves. I don't know if that's stemmed from him not wanting to leave me or not wanting to deal with Salvador. There's a large possibility that Salvador will kill Alejandro, leaving me with him lying on the floor with a bloody gash on his nose as the last memory I have of him.

Stop thinking about it. Go up to Sebastian's room.

I don't watch Sebastian and Claude walk out of the door. I only hear it close, followed by Isaac speaking to the other suited-men—the Venetian security detail. My walk up the stairs is slower, more gracious. I'm in no rush; I need to think still. Process.

Sebastian's room. I open the door, welcomed to the wide-open area, spotless dark wood flooring and mauve color scheme. I remember everything clearly from the last time Sebastian and I had sex in here—King-sized bed, the mounted television that lies above the furniture set. The balcony doors are closed with the curtain's drawn. I rush over and make sure that they're locked.

"I have men outside watching every possible point of entry into the house," a voice says behind me, startling me until I realize it's Isaac. His face is apologetic when I turn around.

"Forgive me," he tells me sincerely. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"No, it's...it's fine." I sigh out a large breath, rubbing my eyes out of stress and fatigue.

Isaac enters the room, uninterested in the expensive architecture and décor. He prompts me to sit on the couch, and I do so. I sink into the cushions and keep my eyes hidden behind my palm.

"I want you to know that he won't be able to hurt you anymore," Isaac says. "I promise."

I nod. I don't want to speak.

"I understand if you don't want to talk about what happened—"

"He was looking for a file," I blurt out. The words start coming out of me like a waterfall, even though I didn't want to speak moments before. "He had me get it for him. I don't know what was in it; I'm sure you've already retrieved it off of him."

"It was information about his mother," Isaac tells me. And suddenly, the pieces align. Alejandro has talked about his mother before, but upon further thought, I realize that everything he has done has been about her; about trying to find her. I almost feel a tinge of sympathy for what he has become.

"So that's what this was about?" My hand is finally off of my eyes. I look at Isaac gravely. "He was trying to find his mother?"

Isaac nods. "Yes. And my theory is his obsession with you was because you seemed to have 'filled' the emotional hole that his mother left behind when he was taken from her. That's why he felt like he couldn't lose you."

"Well, where is she?"

Isaac shakes his head, "At this point, we don't know. We don't even know if she's dead or alive."

I can't believe I'm starting to feel sorry for Alejandro, despite everything he's done.

Isaac scoots closer, grabs my hand. I furrow my brows down at the contact.

"Leslie, I need you to reconsider your decision about Venetia," he tells me. His voice isn't as aggressive as it usually is. "Tonight was a good example of why it isn't safe for you here right now; you're a distraction to him."

Him. We both know who he's referring to. Isaac almost sounds like Garrett, calling me a "distraction" to Sebastian's well-being. I want to spit back, tell him that I can't leave everything behind like we had discussed, but surprisingly, my sub-conscience kicks in again—my voice of reason.

He's right, Leslie. We're prideful bitches, but at some point, we need to think about the big picture.

"There won't be any restrictions in Venetia like the unwilling restrictions placed on you here," he explains. "Your departure will be a secret. You'll be free to do whatever you please in Venetia while under the discreet protection of the Venetian royal guard. You'll still be able to work from Venetia as well. It will only be temporary—until Sebastian and I can get this situation under control. Figuring out how to deal with Garrett requires Sebastian's full attention. And he can't focus with you present."

"Is this you speaking or my mother?" I ask him. Saying the word 'mother' about a woman I've never met is a little unsettling to me.

"Both," he says honestly. "Her Majesty and I can't stress enough the importance of this, Leslie. I have yet to give her a report on what happened tonight; she'll force me to push the move, even more, when she hears it."

"Isaac, I just...I can't leave everything behind."

"I know. I understand. But you need to think of everything that's at stake for both you and Sebastian if you stay here."

I have nothing else to say. I just think. Hard. I think about his words, about my feelings, about everything that has happened, about the future. For the first time, I just don't know.

"I'll let you sleep on it," he says. "I'll start on bringing your things in here. We'll be posted outside your door the entire night, don't worry."

I nod as he gets up, removes his hand from mine, and leaves me alone. Immediately, I turn on the TV to provide me with some type of background noise so my thoughts don't consume me. But even with Keeping Up With The Kardashians on the television, I can only think about Venetia now—I'd definitely be safer there, and yes, it would give them time to figure out how to fix the mess that has grown out of control at this point. But moving to a new country and staying in a palace or a royally sanctioned safe house makes me anxious. Then there's being away from my family, my friends, my office, my apartment. Not to mention meeting my biological mother for the first time and the scandal that would erupt if the world found out that Queen Genina Malatova has a bastard child that just so happens to be Sebastian Harrison's publicist.

Sebastian. Being away from Sebastian. That's the hardest fucking part. Undoubtedly.

As the night carries on, Isaac starts bringing my bags and my belongings into Sebastian's room. I leave them in his closet; thankfully, the massiveness of his closet takes my plagued thoughts on a different route. I stare at the display case in the middle of the brightly-lit walk-in closet, marveling at the watches behind the glass, all worth a fortune. I manage a smile at this until I turn off the light and leave. I switch the television in the room to a local news channel that's playing episodes of Charlie Brown for Christmas. I need something mind-numbing. Innocent. Nostalgic. This helps.

I can hear Isaac speaking to someone in Venetian on the other side of the door, but I decide to tune it out and take a shower.

That's right. Stop thinking about Venetia or Alejandro or Garrett. Just take a shower.

It takes me a minute to figure out how to turn on the shower (the touchpad is a new form of technology I can't possibly comprehend) but eventually, water begins falling from the panels in the ceiling. I undress, step in, let the water drench me and imagine that I'm in the middle of a field during a storm without a care in the world. I do a good job of channeling my thoughts as I shower, but shamefully, I can't help but imagine Sebastian in here with me—naked, wet, slick with soap while curtained by the steam. I begin blushing and decide these thoughts don't help me at all if he isn't here.

At least you're keeping your mind preoccupied. Keep going.

The water continues to shower me from above as I drift again—we're in Paris, Sebastian and me. Or Rome. Maybe even Dubai or Lagos, somewhere far and exotic. No one knows who we are; we're invisible. We sit at a café or in a restaurant, just us with no guards or spies or paparazzi on our backs. He makes me laugh, I make him laugh. We then roam the streets of whatever exotic location we've chosen and sight-see. He buys me an authentic bracelet from a Gypsy on the streets of Paris, or I buy him a hideous hat from a shopkeeper in Lagos and make him wear it. We then go to our quaint room in the small hotel we're staying at, have the most incredible sex, and stay up all night talking about nonsense. I tell him I love him, scared that the words are coming out of my mouth but blissfully content that for once, I actually mean them. I love you, too, he says. We sit in darkness, normal and happy in this faraway place. We have not a care in the world.

It's only a thought, though. A pipe dream—unattainable. Impossible.

After finally figuring out how to turn off the shower, I step out, wrap a towel around my body and hold it tight as I leave the bathroom. I let my hair drip wet; Sebastian's towels are way too big for my body, let alone my head. In the doorway of the bathroom, I see a figure standing by the bed. I freeze, sucking in a sharp breath. Immediately this figure is distinguishable—Sebastian. He sees me the moment I leave the bathroom. Looking up, he calmly turns the other direction.

"Sorry," he says. "I didn't know you were in the shower. I just came in."

"That's okay." I breathe on a steady tempo to get my heart to calm down. Slowly, I walk into the room, caring not that all I have on is a towel. The air is cold; I grit my teeth.

"Here, I'll step out while you get dressed."

"No," I insist. "It's your room. I'll get dressed in the bathroom."

We're clearly trying to avoid addressing the elephant in the room—what happened to Alejandro? Sebastian seems quite unfazed; if Alejandro was killed, I would assume Sebastian's reaction would be harder to hide. But instead his face looks very...normal. Concerned, too. For me. He looks at me as if I'm going to collapse or have a breakdown. Is he waiting for this to happen?

I know I shouldn't ask, but I do anyway. "What happened?"

My nails dig into the soft fabric of the towel as Sebastian thinks of an answer. His hands bury into his pockets—I see a rectangular shape outlined in his right pocket. Once he sees me eyeing it, he removes his hands quickly, thus removing the indented shape.

"We brought him to Salvador," he tells me. "Salvador will take care of him."

"'Take care of him,'" I mutter to myself. Sebastian shakes his head.

"He isn't going to kill him. He's sending him away; he won't be able to hurt you again, Leslie."

"Isaac told me the same thing," I say with a dispirited laugh.

"Because it's true," Sebastian replies seriously. Although he even looks unsure of what he's telling me. I know more happened after he left, he just doesn't want to tell me. And for once, I don't want to know. At least not now. Maybe later, but now, I don't want to hear it.

I step closer towards him, gradually tilting my neck to meet his eyes. "You don't have to worry about me so much," I assure him, managing a small smile that doesn't convince him. But I'm trying to convince myself even more—convince myself that I'm not a distraction to him. That I'm not the reason his life is shit, too. That I don't need to go to Venetia for his sake.

"You already know that I can't," He says lowly, staring down at me with this vulnerability in his gaze; he looks tired. Conflicted. Suddenly, his eyes light up, almost like a flicker of