He is so fucking gorgeous.

“Stop taking pictures of me. Let's get out of here,” he finally snapped. She skipped after him.

They walked around for a while, just taking in the sights. Went down to Napoleon’s tomb, and Tate took some more pictures. She could tell he didn't really give a shit about anything they were looking at and was just indulging her. It almost would have been sweet, if he hadn't glared the whole time.

They were heading down the street, ready to call the car to take them back to the hotel, when Jameson stopped. Tate made it almost a block before realizing he wasn't next to her, and she looked back to see what was he was doing. He was standing in front of a window, looking inside it. Then he moved and went into the building.

Huh?

Tate went back and followed him inside. It was a jewelry store. She swallowed thickly, glancing around. A man behind a counter said something to her in French, looking her up and down. He didn't smile. She rolled her eyes at him and continued forward. Jameson was nowhere to be seen, which was odd, because it wasn't a very big store. The man continued to chatter at her in French, then a door in the back of the store opened.

“Mademoiselle! S'il vous plaît,” a woman came out, gesturing towards the door. Tate glanced around.

“Me?” she asked, pointing at herself.

“Get in here,” Jameson's voice carried out onto the floor.

Tate got in there.

He was standing in front of a large wooden desk, looking down at something. The woman came in, as well, and walked to the far side of the desk. Tate stayed near the door, wondering what was going on – was she really being sold into sex slavery? Jameson spoke in a halting sort of French, pausing to search for the right words. The woman nodded, then adjusted something on the desk.

“This one,” Jameson said, pointing down. Then he looked over his shoulder at Tate. “Come over here.”

She went and stood right next to him, taking in the sight before her. Several pearl necklaces were carefully laid out on the glossy, wooden desk top. Her breath caught in her throat. The woman was picking one up, and almost started to come around the desk, but Jameson held out his hand. Said something in French. The woman handed the necklace over to him.

“What is going on?” Tate demanded.

“I told you that you needed real pearls,” he said, turning her away from him and clasping the strand of pearls around her neck.

“Yeah, and I also remember you telling me they cost like $50,000,” she reminded him.

“I said some cost that much,” he corrected her, turning her back to face him so he could look at her. He shook his head and reached around her neck, took the necklace off. The woman held up another strand for him.

“So these ones don't cost $50,000,” Tate clarified. Jameson nodded, holding the other strand up against her collar bone.

“No. These ones are around €50,000,” he told her. She choked a little.

“Euros!? That's like $70,000!”

“Give or take,” he said, then nodded at the woman while laying the pearls on the desk.

“What are you doing?” Tate asked, watching as the woman took out a box and a bag.

“Having them wrapped up,” Jameson replied.

“Why?”

“Because I just bought them,” he answered as he pulled his wallet out of his pocket. She slapped it out of his hand, shocking him. He stared at her like he really wanted to slap her back.

“You can't do that!” Tate snapped.

“And why not?” Jameson asked.

“Because! Why would you do that? Spend that much money on me!? On pearls!?” Tate demanded.

“I told you, you need real ones,” he repeated himself.

“I don't 'need' real pearls, Jameson.”

“No. But you deserve them.”

I could never handle this man. Not in a million lifetimes.

She ran away. It was what she did best, after all. Tate burst out of the store, and kept on running. She felt like her heart was going to explode. She made it a couple blocks before Jameson caught up to her. If she hadn't been so upset, she would've been amazed that he had bothered to run after her. Ran, period. She would've paid to have seen it.

“Stop,” Jameson said, grabbing her from behind and pulling her to a stop.

“No! You stop! You can't buy me!” Tate shrieked at him. People streamed around them, staring. Jameson dragged her into an alley.

“I wasn't trying to buy you, Tatum. I was buying you a present,” he growled in her ear, letting her go. She spun around to face him.

“So buy me a fucking card! I am not your whore!” she shouted.

“I never said you were. I have never treated you like one, not since Boston,” he pointed out, staring down at her, his eyes alive with anger. She didn't care. Time was up. She was finally, completely, unraveled.

“You do treat me like one! Like some stupid whore you can just yank around whenever you want! Push and pull, beck and call! Why would you buy me a present like that!? You don't care! You don't care!” Tate yelled at him. Jameson stood close to her, bringing his face down near to hers.

“I wanted to buy it to show you I remembered. To show you I do care,” he hissed.

Liar.

She shrieked and smacked him across the face. Jameson let her hit him in the chest a couple more times, but when she slapped him again, he grabbed her by the wrists. Twisted her around and pulled her back into his chest. She struggled against his hold, so he pinned her wrists to her chest. Leaned forward, causing her to bend in half.