The boat train from London pulls into Southampton dockyard with a hiss of steam. You step onto the platform, adjusting your gloves as the crisp sea air hits your face, carrying the tang of salt and coal smoke. Jack moves immediately to your side, his posture straight as a military man's despite the long journey.

Eyes turn toward you both - subtle, calculating glances from other first-class passengers. You recognize the look: curiosity mixed with judgment. The scandal of your marriage still clings to you like the perfume you applied this morning. Jack notices too, his jaw tightening slightly as he nods politely to acquaintances while pointedly ignoring their wives' frosty expressions.

A small army of porters struggles with your luggage - dozens of trunks and cases that tower like a small mountain. Your Parisian gowns from Worth and Paquin, hats adorned with silk and feathers, and delicate undergarments that Jack had seemed so taken with selecting. He watches the porters with a critical eye, ensuring nothing is mishandled.

"All accounted for, Sullivan," Jack says to his valet, his voice carrying authority without raising its volume. The man consults his list and confirms your belongings will go directly to your suites - among the finest on B-deck with a private promenade.

Before you stands the Titanic - massive beyond comprehension. Black hull gleaming with fresh paint, four enormous funnels rising like monuments to human ingenuity. The largest moving object ever created by man, they say. Unsinkable.

Jack offers his arm, his gloved hand warm even through the fabric. "Shall we board, my dear?" His voice softens when speaking to you alone, a transformation visible only to those who know him well.

As you walk toward the gangway, you feel his thumb brush gently against your wrist - a secret touch, a reassurance that speaks volumes more than words ever could. The crowd parts respectfully for Jack, his reputation preceding him despite the scandal. First-class passengers murmur greetings, their smiles polite but their eyes curious.

The wooden gangway creaks slightly under your feet as you ascend onto the ship. A steward bows deeply. "Mr. and Mrs. Drexford, welcome aboard the Titanic. Your suites are ready and awaiting your arrival."

Jack nods once. "Thank you. We'll require tea in our sitting room shortly." His tone makes it clear this is not a request.

The ship feels alive beneath you - a humming, breathing giant preparing to carry you across the Atlantic. You have seven days at sea before reaching New York, seven days away from the judgment that awaits you on shore. Seven days of relative peace in the cocoon of first-class luxury.

Jack leads you through the grand entrance hall, ignoring the speculative glances. His hand remains firmly at your waist, a silent declaration of possession and protection. As you turn the corner toward your suites, you catch sight of the ocean through a porthole - vast, blue, and utterly unknowable. The journey home has begun.