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Alice The way he said her name made her breathless, her heart stopping for half a second and Ali's lips parted slightly in a soft ‘oh’. No one had ever managed to erase every single thought from her mind simply by saying her name. At that moment, she couldn't remember why she was angry nor why she had cursed his name earlier that evening. Instead, she was acutely aware of his arms pressing her body against his, the heat of his skin burning her even through the fabric of the dress on her lower back. Instinctively, she arched her back, pressing up against his torso, her breath catching as his thumb grazed her skin right by the edge of the ocean blue fabric and stopping herself from a moan. As she met his gaze, Ali felt her cheeks flush with heat, the intensity with which Charles looked at her as foreign as the way he spoke just seconds before. She struggled with a shaky breath…



That was a mistake all on its own. She had gotten used to Alaric's expensive, rich and overbearing scents that, while lovely on their own, were another reminder of her golden cage. Charles however smelled like a different sort of danger - the faint scent of a thunderstorm, a slight hint of primal power, a hint of musk and oak. The smell made her feel weak and disoriented - it was strong and inviting, intoxicating and powerful. While she always assumed that Charles Whittemore had good taste when dressing up, she never realized what his choice of cologne would do to her, baiting her with the smell of….freedom and opportunity. Exhaling, she brought her nose to the crook of his shoulder, the loosened dress shirt revealing the skin underneath stretched over lean muscles. Her free hand slid up his arm and around his neck, pulling herself even closer until her body was fully flushed against his, her breasts pushing against his solid chest, the silky materials of their garments unable to hide the heat of their bodies.



Perhaps it was the champagne talking or her childhood dreams or the pure physical need to do something that would allow her to breathe but Ali seemed to fit perfectly against his frame even as they both had one hand busy with a bottle of alcohol which Ali was now regretting. How many times had she wanted to run her fingers through his hair? Brush then against his lips? Feel his heartbeat under her palm and know what he was feeling? She could sense it now, strong and powerful like everything else about this man, pounding with a defined certainty loudly, seemingly intact with her own erratic one. Ali didn't know if he could hear it but he seemed to read her thoughts as his hand squeezed against her waist, his Adam apple moving as he swallowed hard, his gaze softening for a half second before…



Ali's heart felt like someone was squeezing hard, the iron grip of her golden cage echoing in his words, immediately making her pale with anger, at Charles or her own folly for believing that the rules abiding owner of Whittemore Estate was actually finally interested in her. Most days, if not all days, they seemed to live in a professional truce and it had been killing her ever since she visited John’s grave - hadn't their past meant anything to him? Fine, they didn't exactly grow up together but she had loved his father as her own for years and she had always cared for Charles and Derrick. Why did he constantly push her away and set up this barrier she could not breach? She had assumed they bonded over Barracuda but she stood correctly. He didn't care for her, not for Ali, only for the reputation of the barn and its name. And apparently, her drunk antics would obviously be a liability.



She was doomed to be surrounded by men who didn't care for her - what did the old gypsy in Paris tell her? Each ghost had their own lesson? Ali was now convinced she misunderstood. Each of the men from her past represented different sins - pride, gluttony and apparently now lust. At least she should be thankful there were only 3 of them as opposed to seven. Why did she think Charles would ever see her as more than the little barn rat kid who snuck off to drink champagne with Emil? She saw the look he had - a bare second of one when it reflected the past and it hurt worse than his disinterest. Just then, just as he caught her in his arms, she felt his emotion. Fine, it wasn’t necessarily as intense as her own but she felt him respond to her own desire. He had wanted her and now, seeing his stupid barriers come up was like a rusty knife being twisted into her gut.



Ali bit her lip, trying to count to five and steady herself. Her arm slid down to rest on Charles’ chest, steadying her mind as she tried not to cry. She was Alice Winter, she did not cry. All her tears had been spent over Emil when she lost her innocence and over John when she lost her childhood. She refused, simply refused to cry over another man again and Charles Whittemore was the last person she wanted to appear weak before, not when he could make her respond like a fool simply by speaking her name. And as much as she had tried to suppress her feelings, fuck it, she did like him. Where was the fault in that aside from exposing herself to hurt again like an idiot. No, she simply would not succumb to this hurt and anger and tears.



“You are not your father,” she whispered, shaking her head and tears pooling at the corners of her eyes but she shook her head angrily, refusing to give in. “You’re not John so why do you care if I have a ride? You can’t even be bothered to look at me on any given day! I miss him too you know and I wish, I wish you would let me in so we can both move on! I’m not a kid anymore and I just wish you’d stop simply seeing me as one of the barn rats!”

Made by Time Lapse of Adoxgraphy.

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Ali felt the loss of his warmth instantly, the second he moved away from her to reach for the bottle. Almost instinctively, she got the urge to reach back for him, to pull him close, to keep him in her arms, her head on his chest and to never let go. It was scary, the way a simple moment had felt so perfect if only for a second. She didn't - couldn't - admit to herself that she felt right, complete, whole for the first time in a long while. Ali had felt safe, her past and future seemingly converging on the feeling of the man's presence, his breath, his unbending will. For a second, it did not matter what her parents wanted, it didn't matter that she was shackled to Alaric or that her past with Emil haunted her dreams - all that mattered was Charles and that he was with her, protecting her, holding her. As she fought her initial urge, she felt naked, exposed, bare.

Her eyes grew large when she was the pained expression that passed like a shadow over his eyes but her mind was too worked up to think about it deeply before she was alone, her hand still clutching the half-empty bottle of Veuve Clicquot. If she wasn't so lost in her unexpected feelings, she would have laughed. Perhaps this is exactly what the future held for the young Mrs. Montgomery - constantly drunk on expensive champagne, constantly flirting with young men only to end up forever unloved and alone. The epitome of the modern lady. She took a step back, her rump hitting the table. Without turning her gaze from the man, she placed the alcohol on the surface before crossing her arms across her chest. Modern lady her ass, she was not about to let this go.

Her eyebrow shot up in a mocking manner as she watched Charles lift the wine bottle to his lips, chugging down the liquid before he had to take a moment to breathe. ”Well, it certainly won't be you taking me home after that.” Her voice was cold, seething with anger. She didn't even need to raise it but it rang loud and clear. ”I have never in my life thought Charles Whittemore would resolve to drink alcohol to drown his emotions.”

Ever since Ali could remember, alcohol was never banned in her life - even John did not limit the kids at the barn, as long as they drank for fun. One of her most shameful memories was around this very notion - it was a few weeks after Emil left for Italy and the bullying at the barn had really gotten to her, more so than usual. She was having a rough week in the saddle, taking a few falls and even John, ever patient and understanding, lost his temper at her lack of focus. Ali had never heard him yell at anyone the way he yelled at her that day before telling her to get off the horse, finishing the lesson with him schooling her jumper. Of course, the other girls heard and saw everything - it spread like wildfire. Angry at the world, unable to cry, the girl ended up sneaking one of John's bottles of whiskey from the house and on the porch, drinking.

She was a third of the bottle in when John found her. She could see him putting two and two together, see his anger and disappointment in the lines on his forehead and the downward turn of his lips. Ali couldn't care anymore - she wanted the burning alcohol to simply make her forget, to drown the pain and anger, the hurt and the embarrassment. She was Alice Winter, the next Whittemore protegee and now the laughing stock of the barn - she made Emil Capitani leave, she was ruining her relationship with the man she called a father and she couldn't even ride her own horse over simple bounces. She was a failure. As her puffy tear-streaked face looked up at the older man, he only sighed before sitting beside her and pulling her close into a hug. Her arms had instinctively wrapped around him, shaking with sobs as she buried her face into his chest. John let her cry, stroking her back and her head, simply giving her the opportunity to be.

Eventually, Ali got herself together, still shaky and head spinning from alcohol. Curling up on the swing sofa so that her head was on his chest, she sniffled a ‘sorry’, too embarrassed to say much more. John hugged her with one arm, before simply asking if she felt any better. Ali shook her head, feeling worse. A sad smile spread over the older man. This is why I told you kids to never drink away your sorrows. Alcohol never helps anything, it only makes it worse - it is not a solution to your problems, at most it simply postpones them. Promise me you will never again drink to forget…

Ali had broken that promise quite a few times over the years - never when John was alive. After his death however, it seemed as though she had wanted to push away her problems as far as possible. Looking at Charles now, she couldn't stifle her bitter laughter - she really was John's youngest protege if Charles had been the first. Even their responses to pain was identical even though she was more than certain his father had given him the same lesson more times than one cared to remember. What a maniacal pair they made - one drinking as though his life depended on it, the other laughing hysterically with her hair in a bit of a mess and barefoot.

”Grow up Charles - if you hate me or want me gone or whatever it is, just say it! Don't hide behind that stupid mask of professionalism you wear and the alcohol!” Ali glared at him, her eyes darkening to a deep forest green. ”God, I wish you could just stop pretending everything is fine! Stop ignoring me or the past! And stop - you - grrrr!”

With her voice rising and rising, Ali simply couldn't form another sentence, her frustration making her growl instead. Biting her lip, she ended up hugging herself as she looked at him, her emotions clear on her face and no energy or desire to hide them. Whatever was going on between them - whatever chemistry or desire or tension - she couldn't do it anymore. She couldn't leave it like this, a proverbial elephant in the room, knowing now how it felt for him to touch her. Fuck it, she wanted more. She wanted everything - she wanted to know if the feeling she felt was just her imagination or not. Most importantly, she wanted to know what the hell was going on inside his head.

”You are something else, Whittemore, do you know that?” Ali took a step towards him, slowly as though fearing she would spook him. As though he was about to flee. ”Somehow, I missed the moment you slipped into my life and ever since, I can never escape you. I tried and every time I think I have gotten away, somehow I am pulled back. I’m tired of running, Charles, of fighting this. I'm done pretending that we are strangers with no past, no memories, nothing because,” she paused, ending up in front of him, her eyes slowly moving up to his eyes until she could see the bright blue. ”Because it's a lie, isn't it?”

Every movement slow and measured, Ali reached for the bottle in the man's hand, prying it from his fingers gently. There was barely any wine left but she slowly set it down on the floor, her eyes never leaving his as she slowly rose to her full height, heart racing in anticipation, exhilaration, fear. Silently, she begged him to agree, to hear what she was saying, to knock down the walls and barriers he build up every time with everyone. That moment of weakness, the single instant she saw his true emotions - that was what she wanted. That is what she was offering - truth for truth, honesty for honesty, vulnerability for vulnerability. There was so much pain inside this man that it made her own heart ache but what could she do except offer him to carry his burden?

She already was in some ways, even if he refused to see it. Ali felt the weight of John's legacy on her shoulders, saw it every time she ended up at shows near Breckenwood simply to look at young stock or enjoy the Grand Prix events to cheer on some old acquaintances. The whispers didn't start right away but she heard them before long - the girl who didn't show up to the funeral, the last protege of John Whittemore, the daughter he never had, the kid he hoped would go all the way. And then the whispers would morph - the one who ran away, the ungrateful daddy's girl, the push-pony rider, the one who didn't have the guts, the nameless. Most recently, she heard one that made her flush with rage - the Whittemore Wannabe.

Ali's lips let out a shaky breath as she searched Charles’ eyes, desperate to see something but…it made her heart ache, the oxygen burning her lungs, her head spinning. Why, just why couldn't he simply trust her? Why couldn’t he see that they needed each other to simply move forward? That regardless of the world around them, there was something between them that Ali could not explain or define, a sense of destiny or chemistry or connection? She felt the fool for laying her emotions on the table before him, for looking for something that clearly was not there and it hurt. She felt silly, naive for hoping…

The tear came unbidden, escaping her eye and falling down her cheek before she even realized. Looking down, she reached up to wipe it, forcing herself to keep from completely losing control of her emotions though it took all her willpower to battle the intensity and the champagne in her system. John was right - drinking to forget brought nothing but troubles and pain.

”I'm sorry, I shouldn't have,” Her voice was barely above a whisper as Ali stood before Charles, head bowed, her golden hair hiding her face from view. All her fire that burned so bright moments ago was all but non-existent. She felt empty, void of anything within herself. Was she really not able to learn from her past mistakes? And when would she learn that no one in this world saw her as anything than a pretty girl backed by her daddy's fat wallet? ”I….it….Maybe it will be better if I….if I….” Ali took a breathe, squeezing her eyes shut and forcing the words out in one last breathe. ”It will be better if I move to Sweetridge.”

Made by Time Lapse of Adoxgraphy.

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Ali’s eyes grew large as she involuntarily drew back from the man, his emotions seeping out in small gestures but she was so focused on him in that moment, each movement was as deafening as a roar. He was angry - no, not just angry, seething as his blue eyes met hers, full of something she had never seen before. Hurt and betrayal seemed to change his expression once again and, had Ali not been so taken aback by his words, she would have laughed. The cold and professional Charles Whittemore could actually show something more passionate and raw and real than the collected calmness that he exhibited in every aspect of his life. His words ripped through the air between them, ignoring the tension and the thick atmosphere that had settled, making her flinch. For a second, she wondered if she had finally pushed him too far.

Was that what she had been trying to achieve all along? To see how far she could push this man and what boundaries he would finally count as sacred? Was she that self-centered as to assume that every time she tried to elicit any emotion from him at all with her subtle antics, it was to get him to open up? To crack and show the real face of the man he had become? Was it all a mask to hide her true motive - to get him to show his true emotions to her, to become vulnerable and at her mercy? If so, she had played a dangerous game and lost. More importantly, if that was the game she played, she was a liar, a cheat and a fickle vengeful slut. For all her talk of virtue, trust, connection - what was she truly after when it came to Charles Whittemore?

Her head spun and she felt tears forming in the corner of her eyes. All at once, she was thirteen again, watching the young man she was infatuated with walking away with his girlfriend, barely acknowledging her as he passed, adding another scar to her naive heart. Each time she saw Charles, confident and mature, looking regal on his stallion, she couldn’t help that her heart skipped a beat, every time he paid her any attention, she got butterflies in her stomach. And every time he walked away, she felt that he was taking a part of her with him. When she started to develop feelings for Emil, proclaiming it was love, a part of her wondered if that was true for even then, every time she caught sight of the older Whittemore man, she couldn’t keep a slight blush from her cheeks. She never was able to quite understand the feeling, not fully but a part of her always wondered what she would do if Charles ever beckoned. Would she miss her opportunity?

When she left to Europe, she hadn’t kept tabs on any of the Whittemore riders except one. And as much as she claimed she followed solely Barracuda's career, was she truly honest with herself for every time the pair entered the ring, her eyes were drawn to the steel blue gaze of the rider. By then, she didn’t harbor any illusions - frankly, she was certain her feelings were over and done with for all of them, every single boy she grew up with. Except….Charles had never been a boy. He was always out of her league, older and leaps ahead in his career, his responsibilities, his life. For all that Ali remembered each moment with him vividly, those scenes few and far between, and perhaps she should have been grateful he remembered her at all.

Which unfortunately did nothing for her heart, the stupid organ currently at war between compassion and anger. She wanted to help him with the burden she knew he carried, fuck, she could feel the huge responsibility John left upon him even from here. His cold demeanor, his stoic professionalism - it was a mechanism to survive, a way to simply stay afloat. She knew the pressure - didn’t she have enough in her own life ever since she was able to smile and bat her eyelashes at the young age of two? She knew the expectations John had of his sons - hadn’t she spent countless evenings sitting with her coach, listening to his plans for the future of the barn and the pride with which he spoke of a time when Charles and Derrick would take over, allowing him to enjoy his retirement? Regardless of what the man before her might have thought, she understood him much better than he could guess.

And that sparked the anger - anger at his stubbornness, at her own feelings, at the stupid situation she now found herself in. Ali couldn’t deny that this idiot before her had always been dear to her and, if even a heartbreak worthy of Shakespeare, a scandal followed by an engagement and nearly a decade abroad could not erase this sense of connection, would most likely remain so for any foreseeable future. And no matter how selfish she was, she did want to see him smile and live and finding a fucking, bloody wife to raise kids with! If she had to grit her teeth and bear it once again that Charles Whittemore had zero interest in her, if that is what made him happy, she could handle it. She was Alice fucking Winter….with apparently too much alcohol to think clearly. Why had she brought up Sweetridge? How could she ever leave Whittemore that had been her second home, that was still her second home? She hadn’t been serious, just angry and hurt and lashing out and…

”Maybe that’s the problem, maybe it’s that you haven’t done anything at all,” her voice was surprisingly steady, the anger steeling her nerves and giving her strength even as her emotions battled within her, her mind conflicted over a simple question. What did she want? ”I’d never leave Whittemore but I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be like everyone else who just accept the cold, calculating lord of the barn and flee from his heavy gaze because that is not you. I remember the guy you were - as ridiculous as it is - and that guy knew how to smile. He knew how to laugh and love and, fuck it, he knew how to live. He was an actual human, not a robot who tries so hard to be perfect, he lost himself.”

Ali crossed her arms, her heart pounding in her chest with such force, she was afraid it would break her ribcage. Regardless of how brave she pretended to be, at this moment she was blindly and utterly terrified. Even as her eyes dared Charles to respond, she couldn’t help trembling as she waited for the man before her to snap. She wasn’t afraid of him, that was not what was making her struggle to remain composed. She was afraid of him leaving. If he turned now, if he stormed out, that would be her own breaking point. She had tried to suppress her emotions for him for so long they had become a part of her she couldn’t let go and if he rejected her now, she didn’t know how she would handle it. Perhaps…Ali gulped, biting her lip….perhaps it was better if she let him go now. Wasn’t there truth in the most overdone proverb that “If you love them, let them go. If they are meant to be, they will come back” or something along those lines? Perhaps it was better if she set herself free?

”You want the truth? You asked if I baited you so I’m guessing you do,” Ali couldn’t meet his gaze, her own nails digging into her skin. She paused, taking a shaky breathe and gathering whatever courage she had. "Do you remember a Sunday evening in early June years ago when you gave a young, impressionable girl some words of wisdom? I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t - you were older and had issues much more complicated than Sunday luncheons with an image-driven mother. You see, the problem is that for that little girl, well, her world changed that day.”

Ali bit her lip, her gaze moving to take in his expression, trying to read it. What did it matter though? She was already too far gone and stopping now would be cowardly and silly. Perhaps some of Emil rubbed off on her for even with her more restrained nature, she had never been one to hide from trouble. Perhaps, that is exactly what got her into all the trouble over the years. Her knees felt like jelly, shaking though she forced herself to remain still, her chin lifting in defiance. She hadn’t felt so nervous even when she went to Emil that night, practically offering herself to him on a silver platter. Nor was she so scared when Alaric confronted them the next morning, the boys nearly trading blows before the brunette stomped off, giving Ali a look of such betrayal and disgust, she wanted to be swallowed by the earth. Why was this confession - this overdue and rather silly admission of her feelings causing her to feel as though the earth was tilting to the side?

”It wasn’t as drastic as one day but that is when I started seeing you for the first time. Not just as a rider I looked up to but as a young man who was passionate and determined, who took pride in his work and who was so gentle when he thought no one was watching. When I looked at you, I saw who I wanted to be and that drew me in. I thought it was a silly infatuation, a passing feeling - every girl was crushing on you and Derrick at that time,” Ali’s lips twitched in a half hearted smirk. ”Though I doubted you noticed - it was always about the sport for you. I thought I got over it, over these feelings. I was a kid when I started to like you but…”

For the first time during their conversation, Ali was glad for the alcohol racing through her bloodstream and slowing down her responses. Were she sober, she would never have considered admitting exactly what her past held in regards to the present owner of Whittemore Estate. Even now, her mind briefly wondered if it had been the right call but with a shake of her head, she pushed it away. Too late, she thought, as her eyes traced his familiar features. How pathetic that even in the past few months, years after she considered her childhood desires, she still couldn’t stay away. She tried, God knows she had, but something constantly pulled her gaze back and, more recently, the butterflies have started to return. Slowly, quietly, one at a time, hesitant but they were there. And that unnerved her more than her encounter with Emil or her doomed life with Alaric. Because for the first time in years, Ali herself felt alive.

”I can’t help it, I still have feelings for you now,” her lips curled into a smirk but it was nostalgic, filled with sadness. There is was, the ultimate point of no return. It was funny how that happened - how a few simple words could mark the line between past innocence and future turmoil. There was no going back to an oblivious reality where little Ali could hope that the man she had been attracted to for years would suddenly wake up and notice her on his own, as though by magic. Now, he knew, now he had the power to do what he would with the knowledge including erecting a wall she would never breach again. Her heart squeezed with the understanding that such a possibility - one of being permanently shut out - not only existed but was extremely likely. At the same time, it was liberating. Here lay Ali with all her secrets exposed, her soul bare with nothing held back. It was a now-or-never, take it or leave it moment and it was as intoxicating as the champagne had been. As overwhelming as Charles’ presence was and….

Since it was a now-or-never moment, how could she simply walk away? It was as if she was watching the scene happening to someone else, an observer or passenger as she slowly closed the distance between them, her hands still slightly shaky as she gently touched his cheek, his skin burning under her fingers and making her hesitate for just a second. Ali let out a shaky breathe, it mingling with Charles’ as she looked into his eyes before closing her own, slowly standing on her tippy toes and allowing her lips to close the distance between them, capturing his in a kiss that seemed to stop everything else in the world, leaving behind just two strangers with a bit of madness between them.