Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight and it's characters. I own Just…Bella, and that's pretty much it.

A/N: This is my first fan-fic. I'm just testing the waters with something that just popped in my head. I hope you enjoy anything I post. Feel free to leave any comments or reviews!

Chapter 1

This has to be the equivalent of Hell. No, seriously. If I get rejected from the pearly gates, I can assure you that my own personal Hell would include flashing lights, swarms of people, and everyone screaming at me. It sounds like a horror movie, but no, this isn't a scene of a murder mystery; it's what my life has been resorted to after 5 years of being in the spotlight.

There it is again.

"Marie! Marie! Look over here!" I don't understand why they feel the need to scream? I'm literally standing right next to them and they should know by now that yelling at me is not going to get my attention. Being in the center of a giant mob of photographers is terrifying. Not being able to see where I'm going, not being able to hear anything but shouting, not being able to feel anything but the strong hold of my bodyguard as he leads me through the massive throngs of people. There is no getting used to this.

Just breathe Bella. Just ignore them, you're almost past them, just a little bit more…

I just have to always stay focused; that's rule number one. Rule number two: never let them get to you. They're just trying to make a quick buck off of my misery; trying to provoke me into giving them a shot.

Thankfully I remembered to grab my wayfarers and my headphones on the way out, the onslaught of flashing lights always gives me migraines.

I know what everyone thinks, "poor little Marie Dwyer, she's a celebrity, she asked for this." But alas, no, I didn't. Sure, I enjoy some aspects of being an A-list actress in my early 20s: no lines, no waits, free stuff, but I never set out to be Marie super-celebrity. Before starring in Midnight Sun, I was Bella Swan, the typical high school student who lived with her mother. I had no aspirations to be an actress; I wanted to own my own bakery. It was my mother who saw potential in my ability to get whatever I wanted by batting my eyelashes and moved me out to L.A and Marie was born. The rest, as they say, is history.

Don't get me wrong; I like what I do. I don't want to appear ungrateful for the opportunities my career has provided me, I'm just sick of all the pretending and the lying. I'm tired of being Hollywood Marie because to me, I've always tried to be… just Bella.

Somewhere along the way I started to lose her.

Now, even as I'm just walking from the café down the street back to my apartment, I can't be "just Bella." I have to play a part. To the gossipmongers, a young actress couldn't possible leave her home for something as mundane as coffee, surely she would send her "people" for that. So instead they'll make up some rumor about how I'm on the way to "rendezvous with my secret lover". The rags will sell like all-you-can-eat hotcakes at the local IHop.

I don't even have "people". There is no entourage following me around every hour of the day. You know how boring their lives would be? I have an agent and a publicist that were provided to me by the studio while filming Midnight Sun. But after three films together they're more than employees, they've become family. They never hesitate to call me on my bullshit. It's refreshing; I have no desire to be surrounded by "Yes men". I have no need for a personal chef, I prefer Chipotle than a gourmet meal and a personal trainer would seriously cut into my television time.

When I finally get past the nagging paparazzi and into my home I kick back on my couch and attempt to calm my nerves. I can feel the tension leave my shoulders as I attempt to distract myself from the chaos that ensued from a quick coffee run. It's all for naught when seconds later, two strong hands are on my shoulders massaging away. I internally cringe, praying I'm mistaken about whose body is attached to the masculine hands that are steadily becoming more and more sensual as they continue their trek across my back. The baby-soft hands are attempting to ease my discomfort but are only aiding in providing more.

"I told you not to go." The deep tenor of the voice that goes along with the lingering hands is easily recognizable. Unfortunately I can't ignore him any longer and his patronizing tone isn't helping my irritation. I don't need to be lectured, especially not from him.

I quickly stand from the couch, moving away from his expert hands. "Well I told you that I needed to get out. That I needed the space. You were supposed to use it as a diversion Jake. You weren't supposed to be waiting here for me. Now how are you going to leave without being seen? Because I most definitely am not going back into that mess again." It is so like him to do the exact opposite of what I ask of him.

Jacob Black, my pretend boyfriend who thinks he's my real boyfriend because I get lonely and sometimes use him for his body, is one of the few who rivals my popularity in Hollywood. The studio thought it'd be great for our images if it appeared as if we were a couple in our "real life" as well as on the screen. At first I agreed because I was new to L.A. and thought maybe we'd actually hit it off. It didn't hurt that Jake is all golden and gorgeous; his chocolatey brown hair is constantly in a state of perfection; the tight white v-necks he is constantly wearing emphasize his muscles leaving very little to the imagination; and don't even get me started on those dark brown eyes that have more than one of their own fan sites.

Unfortunately his looks weren't enough to allow me to ignore the ignorant and vitriolic comments that regularly left his mouth. After one date I realized our arrangement wasn't going to work; he was too self-centered, too clean-cut, too... brainless. The day after our disaster of a first date I went to the head of the studio, Vic, and begged to get out of the arrangement, but no dice. No fake relationship meant no part in the rest of the Day-to-Night trilogy. So here I am 3 years later, still stuck as the studio's puppet and still trying to politely kick him out of my apartment.

Jake just smirks, he thinks this is me playing hard-to-get. He is too vain to believe that I actually don't want him, in my life or in my apartment. "But I didn't want to leave yet. I thought we could have a repeat performance of last night."

And now I'm back to kicking myself in the ass. Last night was a new low for me. I had gotten into a fight with my best friend, Rosalie, after telling her I could no longer be in her wedding because of "scheduling conflicts." It is just another way I've let down those closest to me. Needless to say the disagreement ended with me in a bar drinking away my sorrows and having no one answer the phone except Jake when I needed a ride home. One thing led to another and I now have another night I can add to the long list of mistakes I've made concerning my "relationship" with him.

"Jake, there will be no 'repeat performance.' It was a drunken mistake and I took advantage of you because I was lonely. We're not really together. Nothing has changed."

He reaches for me, hoping that his touch will get me to reconsider. I expertly maneuver around his fingertips. When he realizes I'm trying to get away from him he turns on the pout. It involves his suckable bottom lip and turning up the smolder on the bottomless pools that are his eyes. "You always say that."

"That's because I mean it. Have you noticed that I'm always drunk when I sleep with you? There's a correlation there."

Unfortunately for me when I drink I lose my inhibitions. I become a little "loosey goosey." I like sex, and Jake is always there and always willing. Thankfully only four more months until the premiere of the last film and I'll be done with this entire fake relationship.

Completely over the situation, I return to my spot on the couch. He doesn't miss the opportunity to put his hands back on me, rubbing my shoulders a littler harder while whispering in my ear. His breath feels hot and sticky against my neck, sending shivers down my spine, but not the good kind. "Marie. You know you want me. We're so good together, that's why they picked us."

I get up and away from the couch, away from his hands that last night made me feel wanted, but today makes me feel gross. "They picked us because we're good actors and easy to sell. We sell tickets because we're both pretty not because they actually think we 'mesh' well together."

"So you think I'm pretty?" Of course that would be the only thing he picks up from this entire conversation.

"Oh Lord. Please just leave my apartment. I'll think about it." No, I honestly wouldn't, but he didn't need to know that, just anything to get him to leave.

It's not hard to see the way his entire face lights up. He looks like a kid on Christmas, I almost feel bad. "Really? Okay, I'll go. You'll see Marie, you'll fall in love with me, just like everyone else." And there it is, the vanity. And there goes my sympathy.

He goes to look out the window to make sure there are only a few photographers and not an entire swarm of them. The studio wants him to be seen outside of my apartment, they just don't want him killed by the fighting photogs trying to take a picture of his walk-of-shame. Truthfully, I could care less if he gets harassed a bit; he should have left when I told him to the first time.

When he sees the coast is semi-clear, he walks over to the door but not before trying to stick his tongue down my throat then shoots me a wink that promises many disgusting things. I try my best not to vomit inside my mouth. It is one thing to kiss for the camera, its acting. But in the privacy of my own home it only stands to make me sick and remind me of all the mistakes I've made regarding him. Breathe Bella. Only four more months and you're free.

When the door closes behind him I feel as if I can finally relax. The peace and quite does wonders for my state of mind. I decide to call Rosalie and apologize. When she doesn't answer I leave a voicemail begging for her to understand. I can't believe I have to miss my best friend's wedding. I'm the maid of honor but when I agreed I had no idea that her wedding was the same weekend I have to be onset for my next role. After attempting to call her three more times and still no answer I call my mother.

She picks up after the fourth ring. "Hello Marie. Are you ready for your meeting?" Of course there is no "hello daughter, how are you?" It is always straight to business with her. I can't remember the last time she allowed me to call her "mom" in public.

In Hollywood it's all about the image and how you sell yourself. Renee Dwyer is trying to sell herself as ten years younger than her 45 in hopes that she'll snag herself a younger man. She was my manager up until the studio took over, now she just mooches off my career and money, hence her concern about my meeting. God-forbid the money stops flowing in.

"Mom, the meeting isn't until 2 o'clock. It's only 9:30. I'll be ready."

"You better be. This part is extremely important." I'm sure it is mom, but important to whom? "You need to stay on top of your career. You don't want to disappear out of the spotlight now do you?"

Actually, I kind of did, obviously not entirely, only for a little while. But she didn't need to know this. Just like she didn't need to know the meeting I had today was for the lead in a small Indie flick instead of the major studio production I might have led her to believe it was.

I guess now would be the time to tell her. "Well, actually mother, I thought I'd take some time off…" Silence. With my mother I'd prefer yelling. Yelling I can handle. Silence is deadly.

"Hello? ...It's just I can't miss Rosalie's wedding."Still only silence. "Mom?"

A long sigh is all I hear. It clear she is disappointed in me. "Don't even think about it Marie. You're going for that part. It's guaranteed fame and money. Do you want to be poor again? Do you want me to end up on the streets?" She was the queen of giving guilt-trips and hyperbolizing.

We were hardly poor or living on the streets. Before I became an actress we lived in a modest sized home paid for by her second husband, Phil and she was a teacher at the local elementary school. We were hardly destitute.

The nagging and guilt she doesn't hesitate to saddle me with are the only reasons I haven't given up the whole Jake ordeal or taken a break in almost 3 years.

My mom wasn't always so money hungry. It wasn't until after my first role that she stopped being a mother and become more concerned with fame. She cared more about money and celebrity instead of her daughter's well-being. I know she can be hard to take but that doesn't mean I can just abandon her either.

"No mother. I don't want you to be poor. I'll get ready for the meeting now. Talk to you later." I quickly hang up the phone before she can begin another lecture.

Sometimes I really do miss the mom who made me pancakes every morning in grade school or took me to the park every Sunday. My mom was all I had. Sometimes I think my dad would have understood how I'm feeling but I haven't seen or talked to him in years. My mother would never approve of it. To her, he was a loser, someone not worthy of our time. As a little girl he was my hero.

Still hung-over from the night before and now thoroughly frustrated with the people in my life, I decide to get a few more hours of sleep before I truly have to face the day. It's just a few hours of reprieve from the never-ending gig that has become my life.

I really should win an Oscar for this shit.