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Presley and Charles sat on the edge of his hotel bed in silence. The buzz of the air-conditioning unit filled the suite as the Ferrari driver sat with his head in his hands and the fashion designer twiddled with her thumbs.

The couple had not said a word since they stood in his room in the Ferrari garage. The car journey back to the hotel was void of any communication, and neither could look each other in the eye.

Eventually, the brunette turned to her husband and placed a hand on his shoulder. Charles immediately jerked his shoulder away, and her hand dropped back onto the bed.

"Charles, please," Presley begged as she looked to Charles, who had leapt up from the bed and began pacing around. "I'm sorry." she broke.

The Monegasque could only laugh at her attempts to soothe him, but he wasn't angry at her. It appeared as if he was, but really he was confused. Charles stopped on his spot and turned to look at his wife, shattered beyond belief.

Mascara tears fell down her blushed cheek, and her usually glossy lips were chapped. This was hurting her, but Charles didn't care.

"I just don't get it, Pres." Charles exasperatedly replied whilst shaking his head at his wife. "You say you're in love with me, but you're going home to Milo in your head?" He reiterated the words she had spoken in his garage room. "Make that make sense?!" He bit, fury lacing his words.

The vein in his neck was bulging, and he could already feel muscles tightening under his Ferrari red polo shirt. Charles frustratingly pushed his hair back and held his hand to his forehead whilst he awaited whatever Presley was going to comment.

Presley gulped, realising the chaos she had caused had finally come to light, and she felt awful. She hated that she had drawn Charles to this point, but she also knew that he would never admit to what was clearly going on.

She stood up and walked toward the driver, who pushed her away when she tried to calm him. "That's the whole point; it doesn't make sense." Presley sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. "And it's unfair of me to pretend that it does."

Charles looked at her, despise shining through his eyes. He rubbed his temples and chewed on his lip. He wished he had never asked Presley that stupid question of who she was going home to, but deep down, just for a second, Charles thought she would say him. It was dumb, really, and it left him even more confused than before.

He knew that Presley loved him, even Guenther had pulled him aside to tell him that his daughter was in love with him, but clearly, it wasn't enough; evidently, he wasn't enough.

"I never wanted to get married; I turned Jaspar down twice." Presley pointed out and sat down on the floor, her back rested against the end of the bed. "Being married was not part of my five-year plan, but then Vegas happened, and we got married." She sighed as she pulled her knees to her chest and rested her head. "And then I fell in love with you."

Presley thought back to that day in July, she could almost taste the tequila in her mouth, and the smell of the blended perfumes in the limo to the chapel was filling her nostrils. It was a whirlwind, and she was angry at Jaspar for not showing up.

Charles shook his head and balled his fists. "So why can't we be together? Why am I not enough for you?" He asked and looked down at the girl who had drawn her limbs together. She was small in the big room.

A laugh left her lips which infuriated the driver. He let out a loud groan, and he wildly launched his fists at the wall but stopped inches before it could collide. He was livid, but he was not stupid.

Presley bit her lip and slowly drew her eyes to Charles, who was just as exhausted and emotionally overwhelmed as she was. However, they both showed it in entirely different ways. The usually calm Charles was heated, whereas the confrontational Presley was cold.