He wasn't the kind of man to hate things, but the few that he did bore such animosity that they would have immediately combusted if they had known it. At the top of the list was how beautiful Isabel looked in her wedding dress.

Once upon a time—for, like it or not, there is a once-upon-a-time to every story—there was a chance that he could have been the lucky man standing beside her. But no, circumstance, or maybe fate, took that away from him. (It wasn't him and it wasn't her.)

They were the kind of friends who had practically slept in the same cradle growing up. In appearance, they were as different as chalk and cheese: he was the male English rose and she the dark beauty. But she herself was not dark. (Not yet.)

"Hey, Belle! We should play army!"

"Why, certainly! I'll be all the nursies taking care of the poor soldiers."

They were united by more than just their friendship, though. They shared the same loneliness. He often furiously wrote in his journal about how much he wished some times that his family was not so rich only to find her talking about it the next day. Even at school—for Isabel's parents gradually decided a public school would be less conspicuous for their daughter and his were always looking to save a few pounds—they were surrounded by children, but the two eight-year-olds decided to count one day how many times they had been invited to another child's house and came up with a grand total of one. And their parents? An excellent question.

It was no surprise, then, when he invited her to the end-of-school ball in 7th grade. Even through all the memories they gathered together, for some laughable reason, that one most permanently stuck in his mind. Her mother had instructed him and badgered him that evening about everything like the old harridan that she was, but the sight of his thirteen-year-old date dancing down the staircase somehow washed those worries entirely away. He began to picture the most clichéd scenes between the two of them as he sat beside her in the Chrysler on the way to the dance, but when it came to the end, the most he had done was kiss her hand. (After all, such a lady deserved nothing less than a gentleman.)

Never before had he imagined thinking any way other than logically. His dreams were haunted by Isabel, and the pictures of her he carried in his mind left him dreading actually having to see her and needing to make his manners belie the feelings underneath. At his fifteenth birthday party, he couldn't stand it any longer.

"Isabel?"

"Hmm?"

"I, um, have something to show you. Yes. That."

She noticed the tension coursing through him but only followed as he led her away from the crowd. As soon as they were far enough away, he stared at her for a second before violently pressing his lips against hers in a way that befitted a fiancé better than a first kiss. He only noticed after he let go of her that she had been kissing him back.

They both smiled. (He couldn't help but remember that smile.)

Fate would not allow it, though. He once wrote in an article that Fate thrived off of thwarting potential perfection. Isabel's parents sent her to boarding school to "further her education," and he so rarely heard from her that he assumed she had moved on. He dated a few girls on and off, inevitably breaking up with them, and he was getting tired of relationships by the time he got to Cambridge.

One can imagine his surprise upon seeing a certain young Hollingsworth there.

The relationship of their childhood was nothing compared to the whirlwind courtship that swept into their lives. She had once jokingly complained that Isabel Atchison was too long of a name, but he immediately reminded her of her own name before gathering her in his arms.

"Do tell me, dear, why did you fall in love with me?"

"Well, you're gorgeous—"

"Every man says that."

"You interrupted me and it's true. Continuing, you're gorgeous, you're kind, you're incredibly intelligent, and you're, well, lovely. And I want to protect you."

"Protect me?"

"Isabel, you're not as strong as you think. I know you better than anybody."

She had only smiled at him. Those smiles had come so frequently, hadn't they?

Of course Mr. and Mrs. Hollingsworth wouldn't tell her when they were coming to visit the campus. They walked over to what they assumed was her living quarters, almost not noticing the couple passionately kissing each other to their left. When they saw their daughter reduced to the level of a normal college student with a man who loved rather than fearfully respected her, their fury was unquenchable. Plus, he would learn later, though their families admired each other, he was not of the "kin" that her parents deemed acceptable.

The next time he heard from his love was three years later, on a wedding invitation to a certain Vikram Kabra.

He immediately took the chance to reconnect with her, trying to forget his heartbreak to prepare her for her wedding. Almost every night's conversation that they shared included her whispering, sobbing, into the phone line, "Eddie, I'm so scared."

Background checks told him that Vikram was wealthy and no more. They only met once before the wedding, at the accursed bachelor's party, and he remembered wondering why the groom-to-be still bore those flashes of anger in his eyes.

All escaped him, though, at the wedding, where her radiance outshone the sun just to be given to a lesser star that was so, so cold.

He plunged into his work, wishing her the best while trying to block her out, until one day, he decided to ask for a friendly lunch with her. The restaurant they met at was unbearably hot, and as he urged her to take off her jacket, she only shook her head and gaily prattled on about how wonderful being married was and how she grew to love her husband more every month. He could not help but notice her eyes, though, and finally forced her jacket off of her to find—

Scars.

"It was only once, don't worry. He was in a mood and he apologized and bought me the most beautiful new brooch."

He only ran his finger across her arm, tracing one long mark until she couldn't take it and rushed out the door.

"Isabel!"

He tried to contact her again, leaving messages stacking up in her mailbox and by strangers. Coming back from a business trip, he noticed that his apartment phone bore one new message.

"Edwin, Eddie, please, help me. I can't do it… I can't do it, I'm not strong, I need you."

It had been received nine days ago. He called the number urgently and only began to breathe again when the line was picked up."

"Good morning, Mr. Atchison."

The tone in her voice was cold, at best. He stared at the phone. "Isabel, darling, it's me. How are you? What can I do? Where is your scoundrel of a husband so I can—"

"Mr. Atchison, I need no assistance. I'm perfectly capable of handling my own issues. Which, by the way, are utterly nonexistent."

"But…You called me, nine days ago and I was on a business trip and I'm so sorry. If I had known I would have—"

"Mr. Atchison. Cool yourself. A different Mrs. Kabra called you nine days ago. I've changed, Edwin. So should you. I have that strength now. Aren't you glad?"

And he continued pleading with her until he realized that the line had been dead for minutes.

The plus side was that her husband seemed to have restrained himself from abusing his wife any longer. However, the change in her was even clearer, and even worse. By the time she and Vikram had borne a son three years later, he had begun to doubt that his darling Belle had existed.

For some reason, he was not shocked when, as he watched the television in his lonely apartment room years later, the newscaster announced the trial of a newly discovered murderer. What grieved him, though, was the look in her eyes and how one smile could go through a civil war.

The sinister look he watched would remain on her face, not flickering, not giving an inch. And she would stand confident and she would be found guilty and she would look at the camera pridefully, as if to say, "I still win."

He couldn't help remember, though, when she had smiled to say, "We can win together."

And when she had forgotten, in her old and lost innocence, that Fate always did step in, he had believed her.