Pamela's House, Los Angeles, California.

"Don't you think you overreacted a bit earlier with Colby," Pamela asks, brewing a pot of coffee at the kitchen. She pokes her head out to glance at Mercedes who is sitting at the balcony. "Are you even listening to me?"

Mercedes hums and blows air on her fresh polished nails, "You were saying something Pam?"

Pamela returns to the pot of coffee, taking it off the stove with a napkin. "I can't believe you're busy polishing your nails when you've just broken up with Colby. You aren't being fair to him. He is trying. The least you can do is appreciate his efforts."

"Efforts, mean nothing if they don't yield into anything fruitful. How long do I have to sit around here, hoping Colby can get his ass back together and achieve a little bit of success in his life?"

"He was at Ring of Honor," Pamela reminds her, pouring coffee into two cups. She adds a bit of sugar and milk to hers and place the other cup of coffee without any on the table before Mercedes.

"That led us to WWE's Performance Center which didn't amount to anything in the end," she gingerly takes a sip, cautious not to scrap her polished nails on the cup. "He would've gotten the contract if he hadn't been careless enough to injure John Cena. If I were Vince, I would've fired him too."

"Aren't you even the tiniest bit hurt and regretful of your decision? You can't keep breaking up with Colby over silly matters and expect him to always be the one to come back and apologize to you."

Mercedes doesn't look up at her best friend, only bobble her blue haired head up and down. "I'm certain Pam. I've had enough of everything that has to do with Colby. I've to think of myself, how to provide for my younger sister and my mother. I can't rely on Colby. He has enough on his hands with his own family so this is for the best." She holds up her hands to the darkening sky, showing Pamela her blueish, sliver nails. "Aren't they lovely, Pam?"

Pamela rolls her eyes, nodding at her friend. She silently drinks her coffee, pondering over something she wants to ask Mercedes but afraid they might just end up arguing. Screw it, she thinks. She knows how much Colby loves Mercedes and if there's anyone who can make her friend truly happy, then it's him. With all the pressure Mercedes has been getting from her mother lately, about her sister's tuition fees and their daily expenses, it's logical for her friend to run after a rich man and end things with Colby. "Is this about him? You're breaking up with Colby for Fergal, aren't you?"

Mercedes finally looks up fully at her friend, sheepishness all over her face as if she has just been caught stealing. "I don't want to talk about Colby or my love life anymore Pam."

"Has he contacted you recently," Pamela presses, rising up to her feet to follow Mercedes to the living room, their coffees forgotten on the table. "Riches isn't everything in life. You can't replace the love and happiness Colby can give you with the money Fergal has. He can't make you happy."

Mercedes huffs, "Breaking up with Colby has nothing to do with Fergal. You know I haven't been giving him attention and honestly speaking, I think he has given up. He just want us to be friends." She tugs her shirt over her head and swings it at Pamela playfully. "Chill Pam. Colby and I were bound to break up eventually. Our relationship hasn't been the best lately. This is the best decision I've made in a while."

"Whatever you say," Pamela murmurs, gaze drifting to the couch when Mercedes's phone beeps. Mercedes is already halfway to her room when she turns back with a questionable look. "'Hey, landed about ten minutes ago. Gonna pass by home to change. Pick you up at 8.' It's from Fergal," she peers up at her friend through her long eyelashes, "So much for someone losing interest in you. You break up with one to jump into the bed with another?"

Mercedes snatches the phone from Pamela's grasp. She sends a quick text to Fergal before addressing her friend. "I'm not going to sleep with him. We are just going out, nothing more. You should know me better than that Pam." She throws her hands up in exasperation, "Quit giving me that disapproving look. I have a life okay. I can't sit around here and cry over Colby. I need to move on with my life. The least you can do is be supportive."

Pamela shrugs in defeat, "Do whatever you want Mercedes."

* * *

Orlando, Florida.

Colby looks on as his friends argue and debate about love and his personal life. Mercedes, is a topic he rarely discusses with anyone other than Joe, his best friend back at Los Angeles. Especially now, he doesn't want to be reminded every second Mercedes has broken up with him and with the bottles of beer he's consuming, his senses are beginning to dull, his surroundings spinning around in weird circles. He slows down on the alcohol and listens to the country music playing until the mere atmosphere in the bar becomes too crowded and hot.

With a hand on Sheamus's shoulder-who is still busy countering every argument the others bring up-he rises to his feet, shrugging into his jacket quickly. His friends stop arguing to look up at him, "I need fresh air. The night is beautiful so a long drive will be refreshing. Mind if I take your bike, Big E?"

"It won't be a problem man." He retrieves the keys from his pocket and tosses them to Colby who barely manages to catch them. "Are you sure you can drive though? Beer and driving don't go well together."

Colby shakes the keys dramatically at Big E's face, "It's three set of keys, right? And the big one is the key to the bike?" Kofi mutters something about that only happening in the movies, while the others laugh. "I'm not drunk. I'm perfectly sober. Enjoy the rest of your night guys. Meet you back at the hotel."

"Be mindful of where you drive Colby. If you wander far, we won't be able to find you and the gas in the tank can't support you all the way," Big E calls out but it's distant, jumbled words in his head. He simply waves back to them.

Once he steps outside into the cool night, without the loud music at the bar banging in his ear, his head begins to clear of all his troubles and worries. He adjusts the helmet delicately on his head and twists the key in the ignition. He forces his mind to focus on enjoying the ride as the bike speeds away. He doesn't have the faintest idea of where he's going and frankly speaking, he doesn't care.

His mind barely registers the moment he leaves the highway and takes a road with lush trees on either sides. As the possibility of being lost dawns on him, he paces down, riding at minimum speed. He contemplates on turning around but then realizes he doesn't even know the way back. He's deep in an area without a phone and thunder rumbling loudly in a distance, announcing an impending rain. He was just about to steer the bike around and hope he can make it back to civilization when something bright flashes at the corner of his eye.

He looks back in time to see someone stumble from the trees and onto the road. At first, he's sure his mind and the beer is playing tricks on him but as he peers closely, he notice it isn't a ghost. It's a woman running. From the way she is running, with her arms flailing about her, it looks like he's more sane than she is, and definitely in some sort of peril. "Hey!!" He yells out loud, bringing the woman to a halt.

She jerks around, looking at him once before she turns on her heels, running again. His instincts instantly takes over, reason taking a backseat in his mind. He lunges after her.

For a woman of such delicate size, she's a fast runner or maybe just stubborn. She makes no attempt to slow down despite his pleas and shouts. For a fleeting moment, he contemplates on stopping and leaving her to her fate but his conscience will haunt him forever.

The blaring horn of a car, a flash of lightening as the rain breaks loose brings him to a momentary pause. His heart skips when the car comes into view; a huge truck loaded with timber logs. A cold dread washes over him despite the chill of the wind. The image of a person, a woman no less, run over by a truck of such size propels him to run faster than he has ever had in his life. "Stop!!"

She does stop this time but not because of him; but because of the truck jeering closer to her. He expected her to move away from the road but for some reason she remains there, body shivering and shaking. Colby can't think of anyone who will willingly embrace death but this woman looks to be an exception.

Once he reaches her, he uses every bit of strength he has left and wounds an arm around her middle, catching her by surprise. He hears the faintest of gasps, then a loud shriek before they tumble from the middle of the road down among the trees, clothes and bodies soaked with rain and dirt. Their bodies stops rolling only for her head to bang against a large rock, making Colby's gut twist.

He gasps and pants, tasting his own sweat mixed in with rain when he swallowed. He gently moves her head which is crooked to the side. She doesn't stir, making him wonder if she's dead. But then he notice the steady rise of her chest, heaving with breath and life. She is just unconscious, he sighs in relief.

His relief evaporates when he sees the deep gash on her head and the cut on her wrist, swollen and red with blood. She looks pale and sick, her lips a shade of purple from the cold of the rain. He manage to rise to his feet and strip a large piece of cloth from his shirt, rinse it as best as he can and wraps it around her wrist tightly, hoping against hope she'll stop bleeding. He picks her up in his arms and quickly rush back onto the road. The truck is already gone and he can't make out the bike being so far away.

The longer he lingers waiting for a miracle, the more blood she will lose so placing her back gently on the ground, he removes his leather jacket and wraps it around her before running back to get his bike. He was running ideas through his head, pondering over ways to get her to a hospital faster when a small van comes into view, halting him. By now, his lips are quivering, his fingers turning numb but he still steps boldly into the road and waves his hands over his head to get the driver's attention.

The van stops mercifully and he quickly runs to it, waiting for the driver to roll down the window. "Young man, what are you doing out here?" The driver, an elderly man inquires worriedly.

"Please I need help," he half croaks, half shouts, struggling to find his next words as his teeth chatter. "Please, help me."

* * *

Blue Moon Club, Los Angeles, California.

'Such a perfect gentleman,' Mercedes smiles as Fergal opens the car door for her, extending out a hand for her to take. "Thank you," she whispers shyly, clutching her black purse tight. She gazes up at the exquisite building before her, brimming with life and music. Glancing around at some of people outside, she's relieved she had chosen to wear the sleeveless, black dress instead of the red one Pamela had insisted on mainly because the black dress is just too short and skimpy for her liking. Sighing, Mercedes wonders when her friend will get out of her boring life.

When Fergal's arm comes around her waist, the heat of him pressing to her side, she jumps, taken aback by the sudden gesture of affection. His mouth meets her ear, whispering, "You look gorgeous tonight. Like always," his lips lightly traces its way from her earlobe to her neck seductively. "I love the dark hair. We don't look like a peculiar pair anymore."

Mercedes tilts her head to the side to look at him, smiling sweetly. "Are you admitting right here and now I look hideous with blue hair?"

He smirks, that damn smile of his that almost resembles Colby's. "I never said that. I appreciate style and a good sense of newness. You may have forgotten but I own a fashion company. We have models coming by each day with ridiculous but yet creative hairstyles. Blue is hardly a rare colour but on you it looks special for you are special."

Mercedes blushes but it feels forced somehow. It always feels so easy with Colby. With him, it creeps into her skin without warning, earning her a good week long teasing from him. But with Fergal, it seems wrong. Thankfully, he doesn't see through her or if he does, he doesn't show or say anything.

She takes his hand, letting him guide her into the club after he gives his chauffeur instructions to wait for them in the car. A middle-aged man, dressed in a fine suit meets them at the entrance of the club. He greets them warmly and beckons them to follow him up the staircase. "Where are we going?"

"The manager here is taking us to a private place I have booked just for us, away from the music and the people. I was thinking we need some peace and quiet to talk. Do you mind?"

She shakes her head quickly, "No, I have no problem."

He sighs as if in relief. "Good. Don't worry, it's not a suite." It is only a sweet, small area tucked at a corner with a fancy black couch and a glass table already set with a bottle of champagne in a bowl of ice and two glasses. "I reason we'll start the night with a bottle of champagne as celebration of you accepting to go out with me again after all these months. We can order whatever you want after."

It doesn't appear she has much of a choice in the matter taking in the finality in his tone. She isn't one to be bossed around but Fergal knows the place more than she does so she is content to take a seat and stroke the fine leather of the couch idly. From where she sits at the second floor, she's granted a lively view of the dancefloor below, thriving with people dancing. "We can dance afterwards, right?"

He pauses opening the cork of the champagne bottle to look up at her, blue eyes dancing with amusement. "Of course. Why not? After we toast, we can do whatever you want to do. Even dance."

She grins at the grimace on his face. "You don't really like dancing, do you?"

"Not really. I prefer digging up dirt looking for gold or reading books to dancing among sweaty people."

She claps excitedly as the cork pops out, the champagne tumbling out of the bottle in a frenzy. While Fergal curses at the drink spilled on his pants, Mercedes laughs and holds out a glass eagerly. He rolls his eyes at her. "Sounds boring. The reading part that is."

"Reading is good for the soul and for your mental stability. Knowledge is precious. It can either bring you failure or success." He says, filling her glass.

Mercedes watches the drink bubble in her glass, "True enough but I can't read even for twenty minutes without feeling itchy. I'm perfectly fine with digging up gold though."

"I am afraid that job isn't meant for a lady, Mercedes."

"Whoever said I am a lady?"

Fergal laughs low, raising his glass to hers, "Cheers to this night and all the other nights that might follow, my lady."

"Cheers." She toasts along, tipping her head back to swallow the champagne in one gulp. She catches Fergal's curious gaze as she stretches her glass forward, wordlessly asking him to fill it again. "What," she asks, touching her face and then her hair with a free hand. "Do I have something on my face?"

Fergal shakes his head, filling her glass once more before setting the bottle back into the bowl of ice. He leans back into the couch and watches her take a small sip this time. "I'm wondering what you meant when you said 'you weren't a lady'," his eyes roams over her. "You look every bit of a lady to me."

"I just want to reach heights most ladies will find impossible to achieve," she shrugs.

"What is the saying? 'What men can do, women can do better?' The world has progressed a lot Mercedes. People who still think otherwise are fools and fools aren't worth your time or patience."

"My mother is anything but gullible," Fergal's eyes slightly widen. "Don't worry I know you didn't mean to call my mother a fool. She once called me crazy for wanting to be the next president of America when I was twelve. Not only her but people very close to me have said the very same thing; I'm too ambitious."

"You're ambitious," he concedes. "Success comes at a very great price."

She manages her sugary smile, batting her eyelashes. "You are successful. . . ."

"I was born successful," he declares, a smug smile forming on his lips. Mercedes has never quite met anyone who is as proud of being born privileged as Fergal is. It was annoying on their first outing which she necessarily doesn't consider a date. But tonight, she can handle it. She isn't irritated or overwhelmed but intrigued. She wants to know about his business dealings, the empire his family built and how he has turned a small mining company tucked away in some forgotten town in Mexico into a billion dollar company.

"What is that supposed to mean? Are you saying I can't be successful because I wasn't born rich?" She wanted to sound a bit angry, even offended but in her ears, it sounded like a whine, a question begging to be answered, a shattered confidence waiting to be boosted. Colby had told her countless times to stop dreaming, to stop being ambitious, that none of her high dreams will ever amount to anything. And coming from a man she loves, it had cut her to the core. A man she once loved, she corrects herself.

"You can't just wake up one morning and say to yourself 'I want to be the next president'. Your mother was right to think you crazy. To even be a presidential candidate, you need power, allies and money. You need people to help you reach that pinnacle of success. In other words, you need me Mercedes." He snaps his fingers together and almost instantly, a young man is by their side, handing him a rich black box.

Her gasp is sharp and ragged as he opens the box, revealing a dazzling diamond necklace. Fergal smiles, pleased by her reaction and comes around the couch to place the necklace around her neck. The necklace is neither heavy or light; it's just perfect. 'I deserve this,' she thinks, fingering the necklace reverently, 'I deserve this and so much more.'

"Be my girlfriend," Fergal whispers in her ear, taking her hand from her lap and kissing the back of it softly. "Be mine Mercedes, and we will rule the world together."