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ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴄᴋs ʙᴜsᴛʟᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏғ ᴇxᴄɪᴛᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴠᴀʟᴇɴᴛɪɴᴇ ʀᴇsᴇɴᴛғᴜʟ.

The day was dreary and depressing, the sun being covered mainly by the looming clouds or the thickening smog that rose from the edge of the town. She couldn't remember the last time she had left Birmingham, but even here by the coast it felt as if she was only minutes from the city she called home. It seemed that everywhere in the country was one in the same, just hoards of houses trying to contain the masses of oppressed people. Even the dark, choppy water was grim, barely differentiating from the brooding sky beyond.

Valentine, Jean-Pierre Caroline were due to depart at noon. She had expected some large boat to carry them off to Paris, straight from a novel, letting them drift into the horizon with at least some sort of hope or pride. Having learned of her fiancé's apparent wealth, of which he took pleasure in parading around, she thought a big boat would be the bare minimum. But instead it was a small people carrier, packed with noisy families and cheap businessmen that, along with the harsh weather, would surely give her a headache.

Valentine blinked as her mother came forward, both hands resting tightly on her cheeks. Camille was a loving woman, but she still could feel the meaning behind her rough touch. Don't mess this up, for your father' sake, was all Valentine could gather from her hold, until she broke free, watching her mother's face soften, lips puckering and eyebrows dipping. There was no guilt on her part, though Valentine had never expected it nor wanted it.

"You will visit, yes?" Her mother said, head tilting encouragingly.

"Of course, mama."

Valentine smiled stiffly, patting her mother's hands until they removed themselves from her shoulders. No inkling of sympathy. She told herself she didn't need it, but she was annoyed all the same. She was doing this for them after all.

Being a transaction in one of her father's business agreement, she had also expected to be involved in a way she never had been before. Yet there her father and brother stood, shaking hands and talking away with Jean-Pierre, leaving her with her mother as they always did. A restaurant, some man they were gossiping about, perhaps a relation. But at that moment, she didn't have the gumption to even be concerned.

Over the past few weeks, a selfishness had settled within her- bigger than it ever was. Valentine felt she had a right to be self-centred considering her situation. When her mother would ask her questions of her wedding arrangements and decorations and such, Caroline close by her side, she would simply nod, turn her nose and refuse to give an answer. Her life was going down hill. Why should she care?

"I will see you at the wedding, ma douce fille."

Always with the wedding.

Camille squeezed her daughter in a brief and forced embrace before finally allowing her to turn to her father. That one last sentence from her mother seemed to set everything into perspective though. The next time she would see her family would be in four months and she would no longer be a Dubois. She would be Valentine Moreau.

They hushed as she approached but Valentine did little more than grit her teeth and nod in greeting. Her father and brother smiled, something that had become somewhat more common in recent days in comparison to when life had been simpler. It was a smug look, she seemed, watching as Gabriel flashed his teeth, lips licking excitedly across his creased lips. His nose twitched too, she had never realised.

"You are doing the right thing, Valentine. You will be happy in Paris," he attempted to reassure her, greasy hand running across the tips of her short hair.

Valentine wondered if the kind words were to settle his own lingering guilt or simply an act in front of his new family. She supposed be had no guilt. In his mind, he had no reason to. Why should he feel guilty for providing his daughter a suitable partner and for furthering his own business? Her eyebrows were still firmly furrowed and lips pulled into a constant solemn frown.

"I'm not sure it would matter if I was happy or not. As long as I was married to the man, that is," she said, glancing behind him toward Jean Pierre and Caroline, who stood whispering to each other with flitting eyes.

"Don't say such a thing!" Gabriel scolded, but she shook her head.

"I don't like this, papa. Something is wrong."

It was hard to pinpoint. One minute the man was smiling, teeth bared, looking more like a cow than a dog or a wolf, and the next he was frowning, voice low next to sister. Jean liked to stared at her too, eyes unusually wide and jarring, refusing to blink even when she returned the look with a straight face. The man always seemed stuck in thought, as if his gaze was sketching her bit by but in his brain, memorising it for later, sending spiders up and down her back.

Caroline was just as odd. She was single named, never referred to as Miss or Mrs. The woman was without an identity- Valentine didn't know a single thing about her. She couldn't remember the last time she had heard her speak.

"Don't be dramatic Valentine. You know this is important." Within seconds, his face dropped into a scowl, the volume of his voice lowering with it. "I will transfer the money to your account. The amount was hefty but it is worth it for my only daughter's wedding." He didn't seem one but pleased.

Valentine but her tongue but nodded nonetheless, watching as he slid off to her fiancé's side, her brother replacing him. Lucas smiled diffidently, pulling her in for hug. She couldn't remember the last time they had been so caring to one another. Usually they were at one another's necks, arguing about something pointless as all siblings do. Huffing, she let out a deep sigh- Valentine was sure there was a hint of sympathy flashing beneath his gaze, but it was as fleeting as their hug.

"I'll visit." She said, not feeling the need to speak French. There was a bluntness to her voice that made him frown.

"I'm sorry, Valentine." She was thankful for what she believed to be his genuineness. "I'll try and convince father, but I'm not promising anything."

"Thank you, Lucas." She nodded, letting him lead them to where they were waiting.

"Ready?" Jean asked as he grabbed their bags and motioned towards the crowded boat.

The three boarded the boat, walking up the jagged stairs and onto the board walk feet already wobbling as she walked. Her stomach was bubbling, though she knew it was from the homesickness that already found its way to her heart. The crowds were overwhelming too, sweat already reaching her nose despite the fact that they would be departing in ten minutes, leaving time for more people to board. They took a place at the back of the boat where they could still see Camille, Gabriel and Lucas clearly.

There was a concept of perfection that was engrained within her as a child. Her mother lived through it, breathed in the belief that her husband would give her children the perfect life. In their mind, Jean-Pierre could give her that: money, comfort, a large Parisian apartment and even a family. Every girl dreamed of it, Camille had said.

Maybe this was for the best. Life would be so easy. She would never have to worry about what her parents thought, or how people would react, or whether her children would grown up with both sides of their family.

But what was the point of perfection if it made her miserable?

Obnoxiously, the boat blew its horn and they pulled from the dock, cheers erupting from the children a few feet away. She would see her family in four months. At her wedding.

That was when she saw him: tucked away behind crowds of buzzing people, stood Michael Gray himself with the usual cigarette hanging lazily from him mouth. He stood normally, though not without the clench in his jaw and fists curled by his sides that gave everything away. Valentine waved to her family while looking directly at him. Michael could see her, he could tell that she could see him too and so he nodded his head, waving back to her.

Then he turned away. Valentine knee what he was saying. This was the last time she would receive a gesture of any sort from him. It was, perhaps, the last time she would ever see him. She coughed awkwardly, wiping at her watery eyes as she excused herself to the bathroom.

How was she going to get through this?

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