For a fee of five pounds, he dispatched Jack to locate a black market merchant.
Luca then settled onto the bench Jack had just vacated, gazing up at the stars.
The expression on Jack’s face had clearly labeled him a fool.
Five pounds would sustain the man for over a month in London, and now he needed only to make a connection to earn such a sum.
In Jack’s mind, Luca had undoubtedly been filed under ‘rich and easily parted from his money.’ But if that poor fool ever realized he’d traded away the greatest opportunity of his life for a mere five pounds, he’d regret it until his dying breath.
As for the argument that while he’d lost love, he’d gained his life?
Don’t be ridiculous.
Without Rose’s naive sweetness as a stepping stone, Jack would remain nothing but a penniless third-class messenger until the end of his days.
When the ship sank, he’d certainly go down with it, buried in the deep.
After all, third-class passengers had no rights worth mentioning.
About ten minutes later, as he was counting stars, urgent footsteps reached his ears.
Perfect.
The heroine makes her entrance.
Luca tracked the figure as she rushed past, a woman in a red low-cut evening gown racing to the stern, gripping the railing with trembling hands.
And tremble she did.
The girl wore nothing but that evening dress, likely with minimal undergarments, and the North Atlantic temperature hovered below ten degrees.
She had been attending dinner with first-class passengers in the banquet hall, but couldn’t endure it halfway through.
Day after day of tedious parties and dinners.
Day after day wearing the mask of a proper young lady, smiling at everyone.
This suffocating existence had driven her to the edge of collapse.
Rose DeWitt Bukater.
Sole legal heir of the Bukater family.
Her father had been an earl personally appointed by Her Majesty the Queen of Great Britain, who had also served as Deputy Speaker of the House.
When old Bukater still lived, theirs was a respected noble family.
But when tuberculosis claimed him, the Bukater fortunes crumbled instantly.
Neither Rose nor her mother possessed any practical knowledge of the world.
Both were the type who spent lavishly but never earned, particularly skilled at emptying coffers with remarkable speed.
The inheritance old Bukater left behind evaporated quickly.
Rose DeWitt Bukater, watching herself slide toward poverty, became the focus of her mother’s desperate scheming.
Though the Bukater name had faded with the old earl’s passing, in certain circles it remained a valuable asset.
Even a century later, newly wealthy families would eagerly purchase distinguished brides, let alone in this era.
The Bukaters bore an authentic queen-certified earldom.
Miss Rose Bukater possessed both beauty and, incidentally, primary claim to the family title.
For emerging industrialists, they certainly had money, but that didn’t diminish their desire to acquire noble lineage for their families.
After exhaustive searching, Mrs.
Bukater finally secured what she considered the perfect match for her daughter.
Caledon Hockley.
American steel magnate.
Owner of over a dozen steel mills across the United States.
A genuine millionaire.
And millionaires in this era represented true wealth, an entirely different species from the so-led millionaires of later generations.
Caledon Hockley perfectly embodied every standard a suitor should meet… young, wealthy, handsome, and sophisticated… exactly the type that would make any woman weak in the knees at first sight.
In everyone’s eyes, Rose and Caledon were a match made in heaven.
But in Rose’s personal reckoning, she felt like nothing more than a puppet, her mother pulling the strings to choose her entire future.
Compounding matters, as president of Hockley Steel, Caledon’s bearing naturally carried the unmistakable shadow of an overbearing industrialist.
Such intensity might drive little girls wild a hundred years from now, but for Rose, a woman of delicate sensibilities, it felt like utter disrespect.
In Rose’s impression, that man Caledon was insufferably arrogant, and his willingness to marry her stemmed solely from his desire for her noble title.
So when they quarreled over some trivial matter during dinner, Rose fled the first-class cabin under the pretense of visiting the ladies’ room.
Truth be told, she didn’t know why she’d run.
But sometimes, people simply lose their heads.
Now she gripped the stern railing, staring into the dark water, wondering where she should go.
After ten minutes of observing, Luca was certain this delicate flower had no real intention of jumping.
Even if she entertained the thought, as London’s premier aristocratic beauty, Rose would never genuinely consider suicide over such minor grievances.
In the original story, she nearly fell into the sea primarily because a chattering protagonist appeared beside her.
People contemplating suicide follow a certain pattern… alone, they might linger for ten minutes at most before retreating.
After all, not everyone possesses the courage to die.
But when onlookers gather nearby, especially if they start babbling nonsense, it creates a strange psychological pressure, almost encouraging the desperate person to jump.
Since Jack had been dispatched below deck to find the black market merchant, no one had appeared to engage Rose in foolish conversation.
This file-size sister had stood in the freezing wind for ten minutes, and whatever emotional surge had driven her here had gradually cooled.
“Oh sea, what are you saying?” “Is it an eternal question?” “Sky, what is your answer?” “Eternal silence.” Just as Rose wondered whether slinking back would be unbearably shameful, a voice behind her recited poetry.
As someone severely afflicted with literary romanticism, Rose was utterly defenseless against so-called artists.
This weakness explained how, in the original story, a shiftless vagrant painter deceived her within days until she couldn’t find her way north.
That said, despite all her naive qualities, Rose genuinely possessed one redeeming talent… she was an excellent appreciator of art.
Hearing this poem, she instantly forgot her purpose for running out here and turned to seek the source of those beautiful words.
“Excuse me…
did you compose that poem just now?” Rose straightened her slightly disheveled gown, stepped lightly behind Luca, and asked softly.
Hearing Rose’s voice, Luca mentally celebrated a small victory before slowly turning around.