A big thank you to Sash-1984 for pointing out to me that there was some spelling errors. My spell check didn't pick them up the first time.

Okay, okay, maybe I should clarify. I own none of James Cameron's Titanic : I own nothing. Other than Virginia Matthews, unnamed son #1, Beatrice Lane, unnamed daughter # 1, Peter, random director guy, and Jean-Luc.

"Rose." The name slipped from his lips before he could stop it. He stared straight forward, watching the red head woman walk down the streets of Paris, over a year or so after the war, dressed in extravagant clothes. She looked stunning. Where had she been on the Carpathia? He hadn't seen her name on the survivors' list nor had any of his private detectives had never found her. What that gutter rat alive? What was she doing in Paris? Did she live here now?

It had been eight years since he had last seen Rose.

A man approached her and kissed her full on the mouth. Rose pushed him back hard and the two appeared to argue. Hope swelled in Caledon Hockley's chest.

"Standby and cut!" a voice yelled, and a man walked to the sidewalk that Rose and the man were on. "That was perfect, excellent! Rose, you were brilliant. Peter, I just wasn't feeling the emotion from you. You're in love with this woman. She means the world to you and you're trying to stop her from leaving you for another man who she has been having an affair with, not begging her to leave you. This is Paris, people! I want to see passion and romance. This is the City of Love! Standby on the set?" he yelled. "Standby to roll tape! Roll tape! Standby camera one on slate. Stand by to announce slate."

"Take four delta of 'A Love to Remember' and action!"

It clicked in Cal's head then that Rose was alive. This was her. She was an actress. She was making her own way in the world. She hadn't needed him or Ruth or any of their world. His Rose was gone.

Sighing, he sat down on a bench across the street, figuring he could watch her now. See he alive for the first time in eight years. Then he would wake up to an cold, empty bed, his second wife's lawyer trying to pull more money from him, despite that Caledon had full custody of they're daughter.

His first wife, Virginia Matthews, had divorced him and all but kidnapped his son. He had seen him four times since he was born four years ago. She claimed Caledon to be too cold and manipulative. She said he was still in love with Rose. She didn't understand him at all. She was wrong.

Cal rested his head in his hand for a moment. Maybe Virginia hadn't been so wrong. That's what always made him so angry with her. She was dense and calculating and cold. She didn't see any of his lies but the one, and she took his son away from him for it.

His second wife, Beatrice Lane, was a match set up by his father. She was the daughter of a wealthy oil baron. He had married her only because his father wanted him to, which was the same reason he had married the first. She was a lot of things; she was not very bright, her stood around unless you told her to do something, and she was an opium addict. Her only redeeming quality was she gave birth to his daughter, however she was an unfit mother, selfish, and he had found her dangling their daughter off the third floor balcony with a crazed grin with her only reasoning being the baby got more attention from members of society than she did. When he tried to get her professional help, she filed for a divorce. Fortunately, the judge and the prosecutors had been at the same party and seen what Beatrice had done. The judge granted him full custody immediately.

It was raining now on the back of his head, but he couldn't find himself to care. His face was still in his hand, elbows still on his knees. For the first time in who knows how long, he felt himself close to crying. For finding Rose, even if just from a distance, for his daughter who wouldn't be able to know her mother, for his son that he might not meet again, for all that had been lost the night the ship sunk, and he wasn't crying over the lose of the Le Cœur de la Mer. He was crying for the one thousand five hundred thirteen people who had died that night, and as he watched Rose, he knew that Jack Dawson had been a part of that.

He heard a woman gasp and stop. He didn't need to look up. He knew it was Rose. It had to be her. It had to be.

"Cal?" He heard her whisper, but he didn't dare look up, for fear he was dreaming. If he looked up, the dream would be over. "Cal?" she asked louder, "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to forget," he muttered. He heard the wet bench creak beside him as she sat down next to him.

"How's that working out for you?"

"Not too well," he admitted, pulling a handkerchief from his suit pocket, wiping his face and the evidence of the tears away. After all, he was Caledon Hockley, and he refused to be seen crying. Rose snorted, ignoring how Cal gapped openly at her. She knew he looked like he half believed he was still asleep and half believe he had somehow died or this was one of those stories where the ghost comes to teach you a lesson. She wanted to roll her eyes. "You look well," he said.

At that statement, she outright laughed. Cal didn't know how to take that. It was impolite to laugh at something someone said, unless you were supposed to. "I think we both know that's a lie," she told him, "I've been working thirty hours straight, with food breaks in between. The only thing that looks 'well' right now is the bed waiting for me upstairs."

He stared. She had been working nearly two days without breaks? How had she managed? "And before you get into it, Cal," she added, "I am so not in the mood to hear how delicate I am, or how you suddenly miss me and my mother is dying and any nonsense like that. You can't guilt-trip me."

Did she really think that lowly of him? "Fine, no guilt-trips," he said, "Here's the truth. I'm here because I needed to get away from psycho ex-wife one and two. I needed to get away from listening about how I'm such a disappointment with that stupid company and how I should be controlling the riots there and how this person owns something that will benefit Hockley Steel. 'Marry his daughter so we can get this.' 'Marry their daughter so we can get that.' I'm sick of it!" he shouted into the rain onto the deserted street of Paris.

It was quiet for a moment, but then Rose smiled at him, giving him a small, sarcastic clap. "Congratulations Cal, you have finally figured out something I learned at seventeen. Actually, I take that back, fifteen, when Mother's brilliant idea was that she'll marry me off to someone rich so that she can keep up her lifestyle."

Cal sighed, the rain not seeming to be letting up. "We should go inside." Rose nodded. The pair walked to the elevator.

"Good evening, Mr. Hockley," the elevator operator said to the steel tycoon. "Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Dawson."

"Bonsoir, Jean-Luc. Mon plancher, s'il vous plaît."

"Bien sûr, Mademoiselle Dawson. Il me fera plaisir d'."

"You speak French fluently?" Cal asked, stunned.

"I've been here for almost six months. I'd better by now. I'd never survive if I didn't," Rose huffed, clearly not loving the fact that her ex-fiancé who was supposed to think she was dead was standing in the same elevator as her.

As the elevator reached Rose's floor, the highest floor that the elevator went, she made a move to get out. "Profitez de votre soirée, Mademoiselle Dawson," Jean-Luc said to her. It was clear he was fond of the red-haired actress.

"Je vous remercie. Passez une bonne soirée aussi. Je vais vous voir belle et au début à onze demain." Rose stepped forward to move out of the car, "Si mon directeur vient me chercher avant cela, lui dis je vais frapper la tête de ses épaules s'il vient dans ma chambre. Assurez-vous lui rappeler qu'il me doit et jeter au nom de sa petite épouse est là aussi."

Jean-Luc laughed. "Je vous remercie. Je le ferai. Bonne nuit, Mademoiselle Dawson."

"Bonne nuit," she replied. It was then Cal made his decision and followed her.