You standing at the sink, sleeves pushed up, warm water running as she rinses off dishes one by one. She’s humming under her breath, a little out of breath because the baby has been sitting high in her ribs all day. Her lower back aches, but she brushes it off — she’s stubborn like that.
The apartment was quiet in that soft, early-morning way — sunlight barely peeking through the blinds, the air still cool, everything slow and peaceful.
Brooklyn’s sunset painted the rooftops gold as Viola and Bucky climbed up to their spot. She leaned into him, laughing softly at whatever half-joke he told, and Bucky kept touching the pocket where the velvet ring box sat like it was burning him.
You didn’t just fall into this job—you planned it. Being Sebastian’s personal assistant wasn’t glamorous, but it suited you: color-coded calendars, neatly typed itineraries, reminders whispered just off-camera. You managed his travel, his meetings, his interviews. You made sure every detail was in place so he could do his work without thinking about the mess behind it. And somehow, in doing that, you became indispensable—someone he didn’t just rely on, someone he noticed.
The heavy doors of the hall groaned as the guards dragged her inside. Chains cut into her wrists, her arms bruised and bloodied, yet she lifted her head with stubborn defiance. Mud and blood streaked her dented armor, hair matted, but her eyes burned with a fire no beating could extinguish.
The apartment was quiet enough that Viola could hear her own heartbeat. She stood in the soft glow of the living room lamp, hands protectively resting over her stomach. Bucky entered, fatigue evident in the slump of his shoulders. He noticed her tension immediately.