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Priest licked his lips as his dark orbs peered down at her. "I'm really leaning on you taking a leap of faith with me, but if you can't then?—"

"Answer the question, P," she interjected his suave spill that would have instantly persuaded her to drop everything she had in New York to follow him to Italy.

In contemplation, he bit down on his lip lightly before exhaling a deep breath. "Nothing," he confirmed with a shrug.

"Exactly, Priest. This isn't me being closed-minded or even not wanting to be with you in Italy. This is about how suddenlyyou expect me to adapt. Without questions. Just a smile and a nod because I love you." Although her words seemed to have been chastising him, her tone was soft and understanding.

It was now that she was beginning to realize that they were on the same page with mostly everything except the pace of life. Priest liked jumping from one thing to another. That was what he was accustomed to. Britain, on the other hand, needed time and reassurance.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, realizing how overwhelming it may have been for him to propose such a huge decision like Italy as more than just a vacation to Britain.

Britain returned her head to his chest, her fingertips tracing the tattoos that inked his skin. "If you handled it like you claim you have, then you don't have to continue living like every day is your last," she said to him before shuttering her eyelids to attempt to get some sleep.

Priest offered her no response, maybe because he really didn't have one. Britain was absolutely right.

TRIBECA, NEW YORK

The weeks drifted away swiftly, quicker than Britain really expected. The following week, Priest was set to return to trial, and Britain, by choice, was oblivious to much of what was going on.

Britain was a reporter. She could have had all the information she wanted at her fingertips if she wanted to. However, her curiosity and urge to know had just faded. What was the point? Whatever happened was just meant to happen. Even if things didn't go as planned, Priest was going to find a way to untangle himself from whatever issue he found himself in.Instead of stressing herself about Priest's dealings, Britainhad spent her time focusing on what Priest considered truly important: herself.

The previous week,The New York Timesthought it would have been fitting to publish one of Britain's “Humans of New York” spreads that she had personally sent into Frankie before she was fired for being involved with Priest.At first, Britain couldn't help but smile at the sight of her name in the byline of the page inThe Times, but she soon came to realization. Frankie had not only fired her while she was delivering the best work to ever grace the pages ofThe Times, but she was now using her work without pay her for it.It didn't take rocket science to see that Frankie was trying to get her attention without killing her pride by picking up the phone and apologizing for not giving her a second chance.

As expected and like Britain knew Frankie wanted, Britain reached out first. Frankie would have never done that. Britain was mostly jeering at her for actually publishing her “Humans of New York” piece without any permission from her, but then Frankie cut to the chase.

"Look, I need your help," Frankie admitted.

Britain halted her pacing against the cold floors of Priest's bedroom. This drew Priest’s attention from his phone and caused his eyes to trail up to her. "For what, Frankie? Did you forget that you fired me?" Britain reminded her.

Priest’s brow furrowed. The conversation had shifted from Britain chewing Frankie out to her mellowing her tone.Britain met Priest's gaze. She responded to his questioning look with a simple shrug, letting him know that she too had no idea what the hell Frankie wanted.

"I know that, but really, Demings, you're the only one who can get this type of information."

Hearing Frankie's response told Britain everything she was trying to achieve. "This better not be about?—"

"But it is," she interrupted Britain. "He's the only one who hasn't spoken about it. Everyone has been questioned or spoken to reporters but him," Frankie spilled out hastily.

Britain’s eyes shifted back onto Priest who had returned his attention to his phone, letting Britain have her conversation with Frankie. Britain wasn’t stupid. She knew exactly what Frankie was trying to make her do. She wanted an inside tip from Priest about what happened to Leila on the steps of City Hall. He had given the media nothing they could actually manipulate.

With Hernandez handling the case, Priest had been ultimately ruled out of questioning or any speculation. It was almost as if he wasn't even there, but everyone knew he was.

"Goodbye, Frankie," Britain told her on the verge of ending the call.

"C'mon, Britain!" Frankie squealed in a desperate plea, hoping Britain wouldn't hang up. "You know I'm right, and if you could get him to just say something about Leila, you could have your job back?—"

"I don't want my job back, Frankie! Especially if you’re asking me to coerce information—" Britain snapped.

"Woah! No one said anything about coercing information, Demings. He trusts you," Frankie replied.

"Again," Britain breathed out. "Goodbye, Frankie, and expect to hear from my lawyer," she said before ending the call.

Britain tossed her phone on the bed before folding her arms across her chest in frustration. Priest too tossed his phone on the bed, indicating that she had his attention. He called her over to the loveseat where he was seated and pulled her down on his lap, hoping to ease her stirring emotions after the conversation she just had with Frankie. "I'm proud of you," he told her before placing a light kiss on her cheek.

Britain sighed as she felt her body ease. "Thank you," she mumbled.

"Y'know, I can have my lawyer look into that for you. No expense to you at all,” he offered.

Britain eyed him for a moment. She was thinking about taking him up on the offer, but she shook her head. "Thank you, but no worries. I'll just have my parents’ lawyer look into it," she assured.