It might have seemed to others that you had it all. You were beautiful, very rich with a wealthy fiancé, and currently on a luxury transatlantic cruise. But you felt trapped, you didn't love your fiancé, and you were sick of your lifestyle. You thought that was just how life had to be, but here, on the Titanic, you met him.

You had slipped away from the first-class party hours ago. You stood looking over the side into the distance, ignoring how cold it was.

"You lost, princess?" You heard the voice behind you.

You turned—and there he was. Damiano, or as you'd heard someone call him earlier, 'that scrappy Italian artist from third class.' He stood there, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn trousers, that reckless smile already making something inside you shift.

You rolled your eyes, stepping closer anyway. "Maybe I'm just tired of pretending to enjoy conversations about stocks and horses."

You ended up sitting on the floor of the deck together, passing his cigarette back and forth, laughing about everything and nothing. The ocean roared in the background, endless, but somehow you didn't feel small. Not with him.

At one point, he looked over, serious for a second. His knee brushed against yours, casual but not accidental.

"You know," he said, his voice softer now, "if you keep hanging around me, you're gonna ruin that perfect little life they built for you."