AN: Welcome to my new story! This fic was inspired by the 2006 show Ugly Betty, but will only loosely follow the plot. Eventual E/B romance will follow, but be warned of playboyward! It is written in British English and set in the UK, so I have included a definitions section at the end. If I have missed anything you don't understand, feel free to ask me.

Thanks to caiteexxgraphics for the beautiful banner and cover! Thank you to PTB (betas shinrai and JulieToo) for their feedback and skills and to Loopy Lou and Lolo84 for pre-reading. Without further ado...

The Ugly, The Beautiful

Chapter One

BPOV

"Bella, are you sure about this?"

I met my best friend's eyes in the mirror, already knowing she referred to more than the shirts in my hands. From where Angela sat on my bed, I could see her fidget and frown, but with a look of concern so genuine it made me bite back my retort. Sighing, I put down the tops and went to sit beside her.

"Angie, how long have we known each other?"

"Eighteen years, ten months, one week and... two days, if my memory and calculations serve me right."

I rolled my eyes. "Trust the genius with the photographic memory to come up with that degree of accuracy. Anyway, how long have I been talking about working for a magazine?"

"Eighteen years, ten months, one week and two days."

We giggled. It was true, the very first morning at our prep school on the outskirts of Staines, I'd told her one day I was going to run a magazine. I used to sneak a look at the pictures in Mum's favourite glossies before I could read.

Angela Weber and I were sisters in all but blood. Growing up an only child meant it was nice to have someone with whom to share things. My mother called us her dark-haired beauties, and I knew she loved her like another daughter. However, Angie's hair was black whereas mine was brown, and her eyes were a darker shade of brown, too. We both wore glasses, hers a cat-eye shape and mine black-framed, rounded squares. That was where the similarities ended. She was tall and slim, whereas I carried a little extra weight on my hips ... and boobs … and arse. None of which would have been too bad had I not been short. Still, I knew I wasn't fat per se. I wasn't ashamed of who I was or how I looked… to be honest, I never really gave it much thought. I was far too busy plotting my takeover of the publishing world (a girl can dream, right?).

"I'm just worried about you, B," Angie said gently. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but this is a job interview at La Pièce. It's high fashion… and you and I couldn't give a toss about that. We're more Primark than Prada. You're a beautiful girl, but I don't want a load of judgemental, shallow, phony bitches who starve themselves making you feel bad because you don't fit the mould."

I sighed, flinging myself back on the bed. "I know you're looking out for me, but I've got thicker skin than you think. Besides, I'm not there for the content. This was the only opening they had, and I'm not about to waste the chance. Now which colour, green or blue?"

"Green."

I picked up the green top again. "Really?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Don't make me hurt you, Swan."

#

Early the next morning, I gave myself one last long look in the mirror. My long hair was a little flyaway, but that couldn't be helped. My brain made me a valuable asset, not my beauty or shortcomings in that area. I'd chosen a green top with a bow at the neck, a black skirt and a long cream cardigan. One disadvantage to having ample breasts was the inability to wear smart blouses, but I still looked professional.

"I can do this," I reiterated to myself, before making my way downstairs. The three-bed house I used to share with my mother was as quiet as ever. A lifeless, hollow shell. No smells from the kitchen, no laughter or chatter or music from the living room. Her digital radio didn't sit in there anymore.

I rushed to pick up my soft, leather satchel from the kitchen, taking my sandwich I'd made the previous evening from the fridge along with a bottle of water. I was too nervous to eat so early in the morning.

As I picked up my keys from the table in the hallway, I ran my fingertips lovingly over the framed photograph and turned to leave.

The sign was still outside the house. For Sale. Two words that broke my heart every time I saw them. But if I didn't sell, the consequences would be far worse.

I tried not to fixate on the negatives but instead to think of all the potential the day brought forth. It was my first bite at the cherry, so to speak, and I would give it my all. Only time would tell if I could meet my financial obligations while also achieving my dream, but I was determined to try.

I drove to the train station, even though I'd been trying to save on petrol* in recent months. I didn't know if I could land the job, but I was certain turning up reeking of sweat would lower my chances significantly.

I managed to find a space in the car park and took myself wearily to the Pay-and-Display machine.

"Bloody rip-off," I muttered, inserting the ludicrous amount of coins into the slot. "Daylight fucking robbery." Mornings weren't my friend. Mornings and a money-haemorrhage were my enemy.

It was early in the morning, but the platform was busy already. When the train arrived, we all filed on, professionals with papers, businessmen and women dragging themselves into the workweek with reluctance as they tapped away on smart phones.

The Reading to London Waterloo line was a slow one. Even getting on at Staines, one of the stations closer to London, it still seemed to chug along at walking pace stopping at every station and allowing more sardines into the tin. I couldn't find a seat, so I leant against the wall by the door and pulled out my article research into Cullen Publications, specifically La Pièce.

The Return of the Prodigal Playboy

When Esme Cullen vacated her role as Editor-in-Chief of British high-fashion La Pièce magazine, it was assumed long-standing Creative Director, Victoria Prince—age unknown—would take the reins. Prince, known affectionately as 'The Red-Haired Rottweiler' in the industry for her ruthless attitude to cutting-edge style, was in for a nasty shock. Whilst she had been contributing to the establishment of a worldwide fashion institution, the man who ultimately would steal the top job from under her perfect nose was regularly found falling worse for wear from nightclubs, leaving with a different beauty on his arm every night in all four glamorous corners of the world. Who, you may ask? None other than Edward Cullen, heir to Cullen Publications.

The decision of publishing mogul Carlisle Cullen, 64, to pass over the efforts of Ms. Prince in favour of his lothario son sent shockwaves throughout the publishing and fashion worlds alike. Many questions have been raised as to whether the sexy, eligible bachelor, 32, knows anything about fashion. It's not thought his conquests' garments last long enough for him to study, but perhaps his bed-hopping ways have been thinly-veiled research all along?

As the only son of Carlisle and Esme Cullen, Edward stands one day to inherit a publishing empire. Carlisle's only other child has been the company he has built from the ground up, and to give control of the first magazine he ever established shows the degree of faith he has in his wayward son.

With just three months before the new Editor-in-Chief's first issue is due to hit the shelves, anticipation is building as to whether he can pull off what would be an extraordinary feat. Cometh the hour, cometh the man. The clock is ticking for Edward Cullen, and only time will tell if he can step up to the plate.

I read through several more articles, before I finally heard the slightly-robotic announcement over the train's tannoy*. "Ladies and gentleman, the station we are now approaching is London Waterloo, where this train terminates."

I looked up and saw we were indeed slowing. The buildings taller, the London Eye visible, inch by inch we pulled into the metropolis. It was like pulling teeth. Stashing my articles away in my satchel, I pulled my Oyster card* from the front pocket, ready to fight the mad crowds of a Monday morning.

#

I was relieved when I'd emerged from Piccadilly Circus tube station. I wasn't a naturally claustrophobic person, but shoving a large amount of people in a crowded carriage with no daylight always made me a little antsy. With no mobile signal, I felt cut off from the world, even though half of the world's population seemed to have descended with me into the fiery pits of hell, also known as the London Underground.

All my earlier efforts into sweat-avoidance were in vain, too. Rush-hour on the Tube made me perspire like no other. I really should have thought of that. Everyone around me always remained pristine and unflustered, while my face turned red and sweat poured off me. That morning I'd stood sandwiched between two businessmen, so close I felt like we should be on first name terms.

I was still flushed and sweaty by the time I arrived at my destination. Inside the grandiose Cullen building on Shaftesbury Avenue, I showed my i.d. at reception before being led over to wait at the bottom of an imposing marble staircase. Two other women were there, one on her iPhone, the other flipping through the latest issue of La Pièce. Seeing as though the only seat left was in the middle, I tried as smoothly as possible to slip in between the two women, each of model-like proportions. Seriously, did these people ever eat? Some people were naturally skinny, of course, but something told me tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum actively starved for said skinniness. Suffice to say, neither looked like a perspiring tomato.

Tomato … Tomato and Cheese … Pizza. Damn, I wish I'd eaten that sandwich now.

"Hi, I'm Bella," I said to the blonde on my right, unable to stand the silence. The only other sounds were the low murmuring of voices and clacking of heels. "Are you here for the job interview?"

"Hmhmm," she replied, not even looking up from her magazine.

"Are you nervous, too?"

"Some people have no reason to be nervous, sweetie." She flicked her eyes over and appraised me. "Others on the other hand…"

The olive-skinned girl on my left snickered under her breath. Wow, what bitches.

"Well, it's a good thing I've been told some nerves can be helpful then," I said with a smile. Shame I can't say the same thing about arrogance …

"Isabella Swan?"

I looked up at the sound of my name. Another perfectly-attired beauty held a clipboard in her manicured hands, raising an arched eyebrow at me. I gathered my things, my foot catching through the strap of my satchel. I avoided a fall but managed to spill the contents of my bag onto the floor, including my lucky, fluffy pen, a couple of tampons, and a heap of pocket change. 10p coins rolled everywhere, and I scurried around trying to pick them up.

"Sorry, so sorry!" I hastily shoved my belongings back inside, trying to ignore the impatient tapping of the designer heel on the marble. I blew my hair out my face, which was no doubt a little flushed at my mishap, and stood up as tall as I could (I may have been pushing 5'5 with my modest heels), pulling my shoulders back.

"Ready?" the heel-tapper asked, her tone laced with sarcasm.

"Yes, thank you."

"Follow me."

I trailed behind her clacking footsteps up the grand staircase, complete with gilded handrails. My heart was beginning to beat out of my chest now, and it had nothing to do with the never-ending stairs. Why we couldn't have taken the lift, I wasn't quite sure. Thank goodness I hadn't let Angie convince me to buy those five-inch heels.

She led me through massive double doors, through two more sets to an opulent room of oak and still more marble, and finally over to a man I recognised as none other than Carlisle Cullen sitting behind a magnificent conference table, a dark-haired man in the seat beside him. Carlisle was a handsome gentleman, his once-golden hair now a distinguished silver. He'd been rumoured to be quite a lothario himself in his youth, and you could see why.

Since when did he conduct the interviews? I think I'm going to be sick. Or collapse. Or both. Yep, here comes the heart attack.

"Sir, this is Miss Isabella Swan," heel-tapper said sweetly. Her default mode was bitchy, but she had settings for sycophancy, too, apparently.

"Thank you, Heidi. Welcome, Miss Swan." He stood to shake my hand, his face puzzled for a long moment before a small smile appeared on his face. "Please sit down. This is my head of recruitment, Alec Peters."

The younger man nodded at me, stony faced and curious. Is my back sweating?

"Let's get started since my son appears to be running late," Carlisle said, trying to hide his distaste for the tardiness of Cullen-the-Younger—and failing spectacularly. "Tell us about yourself."

So I did. Question after question, I fielded them to the best of my ability. Unfortunately, my lack of fashion knowledge was beginning to show me up entirely. I could hear Angela's concerned voice in my head, and I could feel myself sagging. It was after another fashion question that I finally decided to show my hand.

"Sir, may I be blunt?"

"Of course," Carlisle said, gesturing for me to continue.

"I'm aware my lack of a thorough fashion knowledge could make me immediately discountable as a candidate, but I have so much more to offer and bring to this role. I've always loved everything to do with magazines, the different stages, all the different components that make an issue fly off the shelves. I've studied them, worked out what makes them successful, worked out what different demographics want from their choice of publication.

"I know I'm not a stylist or a model, or a connoisseur of haute couture. But I am an intelligent, organised and diligent woman, and I want no more than a chance to get my foot in the door with a company for which I could only dream of working. I only hope you will give me a chance."

Well, I'd said it now. He and Mr. Peters exchanged a look I couldn't decipher, but at least I knew I had given myself a sales pitch and not gone down without a fight. Or I'd completely fucked things up. My money—or lack thereof—was on the latter.

#

EPOV

"Bye, Boss," the raven-haired beauty giggled, slipping out the doors of the lift. Fuck, I hated the giggling. But she'd given me great head on our way down—no pun intended—so I winked at her and watched her sexy, slender hips sway down the corridor.

I straightened my tie as I emerged from the lift, my Armani charcoal suit a little rumpled, but I was late as it was and had no time to change. My hair was always in chaos anyway since the ladies loved it like that. There was one woman, a smoking-hot American socialite, who once described the aforementioned hair as "bronze." At the time, I'd thought she was a little crazy, I mean, what the fuck? But perhaps I needed to start learning all the different shades that apparently counted as colours if I was going to succeed.

I really was trying to turn over a new leaf, at least professionally. Fucking my temp assistant probably didn't count as professional growth, but the first time I'd managed to take her out the office and back to my penthouse apartment in Chelsea before fucking her. See? Growth.

Contrary to popular belief, I wasn't just a partying player. I had a decent brain in my head, I just tended to use my other head a little more. Okay, a lot more.

Heidi was waiting outside the boardroom, the location of the interviews for my new assistant. I gave her a wink—not that I'd ever go there due to her position as my father's PA—and knocked on the door.

"Yes?"

I twisted the handle, glad to see just Dad and Alec in there. I wasn't late.

"Nice of you to join us, Edward," my father said dryly, his face stony. "Alec, can you give us a minute?"

"Of course," he replied quietly, pushing the plush leather chair back and making his way quickly out the room.

I wasn't sure what I'd done, but I hated my father's ability to still make me feel like a child. He let the silence drag on, walking to the window and holding his hands behind his back.

"I'm sure something very important kept you from the first interview," he said eventually.

"Wait, you've already started?"

"Well, I wasn't about to wait for you to finish whatever task had your attention. Nice lipstick, by the way."

Fuck! I didn't kiss at the office. Ever. But clearly I'd forgotten about Gina—no, Gianna—accosting me with her lips. Hastily, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

"This isn't a game, Edward. You need to start taking this seriously! I didn't give you this job so you could just fuck about!"

"Why did you give it to me anyway?!" I hissed. "We both know I'm not the best candidate for the job!

The media had been absolutely accurate at their speculation over the extent of my fashion know-how. I knew which materials felt best under my fingers, how silk looked as it pooled on the floor. I knew designer labels, of course, but it was obvious Victoria was more qualified for the job than I was. Not that I'd ever admit that to her. The bitch.

"I don't want to work forever, Edward. Sink or swim time; I had to get you in the water somehow." Translation: if I failed with his flagship magazine, there was no way he would trust me in the not-too-distant future to run Cullen Publications. "Now since I've already started the interviews, why don't you actually go and do some real work?"

#

The La Pièce office was situated on the twenty-third and twenty-fourth floors. Spacious and open with lots of glass, splashes of colour livened the predominantly white and ice-blue, giving it a modern, almost futuristic style. Overall, it was a sleek, cutting-edge workplace, but it was all lost on me as I seethed in my office all that morning.

"Oh, so he played the big boss card?" Emmett asked, struggling to get his sweet and sour pork balls into his mouth. No, seriously; the Chinese restaurant down the road was to die for. Unfortunately for my best mate, he was hopeless with chopsticks.

I laughed as he dropped another down his shirt, leaving an orange splatter on the white material.

"Yeah yeah, laugh it up, the only reason I can't use these bloody things is 'cause I've got such thick fingers!" His voice was full of mirth as he raised his eyebrows suggestively. "What's that say about you, EC?"

"It says I'm skillful and smooth with my long fingers," I snickered, bumping his outstretched fist with mine.

"Nothing like a bit of smutty humour to get your mind off things." Emmett finally succeeded in getting a bite of his lunch, a look of triumph on his face.

"Aaaand nothing like a reminder to bring my anger back to the fore," I huffed. "Seriously, who the fuck does he think he is dismissing me like that?"

"Your boss, your dad, owner of C—"

"It was a rhetorical fucking question!" I barked. "He treats me like a kid, which is ironic since he was never there when I was a kid."

"Well, do you want the job or not?"

I thought about it while chewing a bite of Kung-Pao chicken. "I want to prove him wrong."

"That's not what I asked."

I picked up my bottle of water and took a swig. "Fine, I do want the job because I want to prove I can. But doesn't that amount to the same as proving him wrong?"

Emmett shook his head. "Not in the least."

I raised an eyebrow. "Explain."

He sighed, putting down his food. "I'm going to give you some brutal insight here, Edward. You're an unemotional, immoral, pampered rich-boy who's never had responsibility and has never heard the word 'no'—"

"I hope you're going somewhere with this or I'm going to shove one of those chopsticks half a mile up your—"

"—aassss I was saying," Emmett said, glaring, "you are all of those things, but really they mask the fact that deep down you're that kid who was raised by the household staff instead of his parents. While a part of you wants to piss your dad off, mostly you want his approval and to prove to yourself that there is more to you than just womanising and drinking."

My mouth fell open as I thought his words over, trying to come up with arguments.

"Really," he continued, "you're just looking to prove your worth. I'll send you my bill; laters!"

I was still dumbstruck by the time he was out the door.

#

If I thought the morning had been bad, then the afternoon was downright miserable and ultimately headache-inducing. I kept hearing Emmett's words reverberate through my mind.

"Unemotional… pampered rich-boy … never had responsibility … raised by the household staff ..."

"Fuck!" I exclaimed, slamming my hands down on the desk and squeezing my eyes shut. I could always count on Emmett to be straight with me. He was a no-nonsense kind of guy who didn't believe in pussy-footing around the issue. The problem was, I didn't want to hear what he'd had to say.

A knock sounded on my open office door, and I opened my eyes to find Gianna smiling seductively at me.

"I was about to take off for the night, sir … is there anything I can do for you before I go?" Her arched eyebrow left me in no question as to what she was referring. She certainly wasn't volunteering to get me a fresh coffee, that was certain.

I smirked at her; it would be the perfect stress relief … until later tonight. "Close the door."

Closing said door wouldn't shield us from prying eyes thanks to the windows in my interior office wall. Luckily, everyone had gone home.

Gianna didn't need me to tell her what to do. She stalked over to me on her stilettos and hastily ducked under my desk. Now if anyone was to look into my office, no one would be any the wiser.

I was already sporting a semi, hardening even more when she unzipped me. It wasn't long before my cock was engulfed by her hot mouth, sucking like a champion. She was good.

"Fuck," I groaned, my fist clenching. "Yeah … ungh … that's it, just like that …"

I couldn't help but close my eyes, feeling the tension and stress of the day be replaced by pleasure.

My heart almost jumped out of my throat, however, when I heard the door open. And when I opened my eyes, I knew I was in trouble. Anything but this, I thought.

"Edward, about earlier …" my father said.

"Actually, Dad, could you maybe … hmph … let me … um …finish up what I'm doing? Just need to … uh … check something." Shit shit shit!

"I can wait." He raised an eyebrow as he came to a stop before the desk. "You can tell her to come out, by the way."

I exhaled, knowing exactly what was coming. And it wasn't me.

Gianna slipped out from under the desk, pencil in her hand. Nice try, sweetheart. She scurried from the room, leaving me to surreptitiously tuck myself back in.

"It's a good job she's a temp; saves me the hassle of firing her," he said, eyes hard and lips set in a thin line. "I was coming here to apologise, Edward, but once again you've cocked things up. Quite literally, I suppose." A wry grin crossed his face.

"I was stressed, I—"

"Not an excuse, Edward. I won't have you ruining my life's work, so start behaving responsibly for once." I could see his mind beginning to whir.

"How were the interviews?" I asked.

His eyes lit up. "Oh yes, the interviews." A chuckle escaped him. "I think I've found you your new assistant."

"Yeah? What's she like?"

His lips twisted into a calculating smile. "She's perfect. Absolutely perfect." The last words were whispered, almost for his ears only.

AN2: Yes, he's a bit of a dick! But, oh well. Plenty of room for growth, wouldn't you say?

Definitions:

*petrol - I'm sure you can guess but this is what we Brits call gas.

*tannoy - loudspeaker

*Oyster card - this is the main way of paying for travel in London. A bit like a pay-as-you-go phone, you top up your card and then just swipe it at the turnstiles instead of buying a ticket. Very useful and much quicker!

Anyway, please review! Although I've written more, this is very much testing the waters. So if you like it, let me know! :)

xx