I know I'm supposed to be writing the next chapter for Held Captive, but i couldn't resist an opportunity at my first Rosalie/Emmett centered story. Here it is.

Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or Jack's Mannequin.

Chapter One:
Alone in a Crowded Room

"Have you ever been alone in a crowded room?"

-Dark Blue, by Jack's Mannequin

Everyone stared when she entered the room.

Her scarlet lace dress, hugging every curve just right, swished gently with each stiletto-clad step. Diamonds glittered on her creamy skin above the delicate sweetheart neckline and in a matching pair of earrings. Smoky violet eyes surveyed the room and her ruby red lips curled in a smile she didn't feel. Her golden hair was piled on top of her head in with almost careless elegance. Her husband's arm around her waist tightened in obvious ownership.

In the social climbing, money grasping society where everyone was vying for dominance, the Kings ruled as thoroughly as their name foretold. The elite of Rochester, New York threw themselves to their knees to even talk to the rich family of bankers, especially the young Royce II and his beautiful wife, Rosalie.

To those on the outside, the recently married couple was something to aspire to, a level of status and complete perfection to dream for at night. The Kings had more money than God and owned businesses all over the state. Saying that all the others in their social ranking were jesters would be an accurate statement with their desperate dancing for a look, a word, or a deal that could change their lives.

And yet, in the quiet, introspective thoughts of Rosalie King, she felt like the jester, painted with bright harlequin's makeup and going through a preconceived dance, scripted by etiquette, taught by her mother.

As Royce guided her through the room, introducing her to well-distinguished business partners and their docile wives, Rosalie would smile and laugh and say all the right things for the occasion. She had, after all, been taught by the biggest fake in the country. Rosalie had taken stage queues and starred in her parents' grand plans for scaling the social ladder since she had been old enough for people to appreciate her beauty.

Now, though, she had made the ultimate move. Rosalie Lillian Hale had married the richest bachelor on the east coast, and she and her parents were set for life, destined to live comfortable lives in the lap of luxury. It would be nothing but silk, diamonds, town cars, and mansions for them now. The Hales had been euphoric with this, but Rosalie was only left with a husband she barely knew and the growing certainty that she'd made the worst mistake that could possibly be made.

But she mustn't think of those things. Not now, not ever, and especially not when she is at such an exclusive function with her equals in status. No, doubts and regrets can only be let out in the dark of night, when Royce was asleep and the maids weren't there to hear her as she collapsed into sobs in the kitchen. Now, she has to appear on top of the world and utterly in love with the man whose arm she held. Rosalie would dutifully follow the steps and stare lovingly into his eyes, hold his hand, and kiss his cheek with counterfeit pride.

In a room the size of a stadium, filled with the crème de la crème of the upper crust, Rosalie was completely alone.

This epiphany was not new to her, yet it still chilled her heart. She didn't want to have to lie now, didn't want to have to pretend for one night out of her whole life. She wanted, for just a solitary hour or so, to be Rosalie Hale again.

Feeling the beautiful smile crack, she leaned toward Royce and softly whispered in his ear. "I'm not feeling the best, honey. Do you mind if I can have Ronald drive me home early?" She batted her eyelashes with a studied vulnerability and let her lips fall into a slight pout.

Royce, still chuckling his awful, greasy laugh from what the man next to him had said, barely turned to look at her as he said jovially, "Sure thing darling. Feel better." His hand crept lower, giving her a sharp pinch, and he pushed her away, like an object, like a thing. But Rosalie kept the smile in place and walked away with enough elegance to make any seasoned runway model green with envy.

In the cold, clear night, she let the smile fall off her face, let her shoulders slump from their rigid posture, and let the sadness flow into her expression, which, she had been taught, should be nothing but happy and content.

Ronald, the wizened old man who had been driving generations of Kings since he had a license, put out his cigarette and opened the door for her out of pure reflex. He saw the look on her face and kept his mouth shut, quickly walking around the side of the stately town car and getting in hurriedly. He started the engine, not liking the sound of its gasping intakes, and started toward the King's manor house.

They were half way there, on a deserted, bumpy road, when the engine gave out, sputtering and emitting a worrying steam.

"Damn," cursed Ronald, hitting the steering wheel with exasperation. "I'm sorry, Mrs. King. This car had been giving me trouble for the past month and I shouldn't have taken it for tonight of all nights." He looked sheepishly at her through the rear view mirror, expecting to hear a screeching rant of his incompetence like the ones her heard from Royce's mother. But Rosalie only sat there, a contemplative look on her face before she seemed to have made a decision.

"I'll be right back, Ronald." Rosalie, as calm and cool as ever, stepped out of the car and loped toward the front of the car before, with no hesitation whatsoever, she opened the hood. He sat in silence for a few moments before following suit to see what she was doing.

What she was doing, in the least complicated and non-mechanical of terms, was fixing the car. Her manicured fingers, now stained with grease, played with this and that in the metal maze that even Ronald couldn't make sense of with complete certainty. Several curls had escaped the stylish arrangement they were set in and chaotically framed her face. A smile, the most content and free one Ronald had ever seen gracing the young bride, played on her lips. He had seen her dressed for many social occasions, but here, her hands thrust in an engine and her mind lost in a happy daze of mechanics, Rosalie King was more beautiful than any other time he had seen her.

Her brow wrinkled in thought, then after a few minor tweaks and pulls, she turned to him, excited and happy, and announced, "There! That should do it." She stayed rooted in her spot as Ronald cautiously got in the car and turned the key. Much to his bewildered surprise, it started, purring to life like it was new.

Leaning out the window, Ronald asked, "How did you ever learn to do that, Mrs. King?"

The name, already holding more resentment than Rosalie could bear, broke her out of her content stupor. "It doesn't matter, Ronald," she said quickly, wringing her oiled hands in frustration. "Just," she stopped, groping for words. "Could you just do me a favor and not tell anyone about this? Especially Royce." The look on her beautiful face tore at his heart. It was like she was desperately fighting to hold onto the one thing that was actually hers, which no one else could touch. Maybe she was.

"Of course, Mrs. King," he assured, trying not to notice how she recoiled slightly at the name again. He was going to leave it at that, but something about her, standing in a party dress on a cold, dark, road, utterly hopeless, pulled him back. "You know," he hazarded. "This life may seem overwhelming now, but it will get better eventually. I'm sorry I can't say anything more comforting than that, but it's all I can promise."

She wiped a tear from her eye, trying desperately to hide it. He gave the girl her moment, and then attempted to smile genially. "Come now; let's go home, shall we?" She nodded sadly and climbed into the back.

They drove on, and soon the mansion loomed into sight, as cold and dark as the prison Rosalie imagined it to be.

000

"Hello, this is Dr. Snow calling for Rosalie King. I just wanted to tell you that you can come in tomorrow morning for your test results if it suits your schedule. Goodbye."

Rosalie's finger wavered over the delete button of the answering machine before finally taking the plunge and pressing it. To her, the mechanical voice, informing her that there were no more messages, sounded mocking, the silence that followed pitying. The empty house held its breath with Rosalie, wondering in unison, trying to decode the man's tone of voice, hoping along side her that it wasn't as apprehensive as she had thought.

Like a ghost, she climbed the large marble steps to her and Royce's bedroom, taking off the dress slowly, hanging it with care, placing all the jewelry in their special cases, and changing to a nightgown. She sat at her vanity, picking the various pins out of her hair with thoughtless precision, feeling nothing but the looming fate that lay enshrouded in clouds of uncertainty.

Rosalie looked up and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Even when she had removed all makeup and every trace of the rich life she led from her face, she was still gorgeous. Though, this fact didn't bring the smug satisfaction it used to when she was younger. These days, she looked upon her beauty with the bitterness of blame. To her, the face, hair, figure, and violet eyes only led down paths that her parents had forced her down.

"Mirror, mirror on the wall," she chanted with building anger, "who's the fairest of them all?" She held her own gaze for a minute, half expecting her reflection to respond, but soon dropped her eyes. Rosalie pushed the chair back on weary legs and turned her back to what she was. In a voice of those broken-hearted and trapped, she muttered, "I am."

She turned off the lights and curled herself up in the large bed, ignoring the numb sensation that was building within her.

Soon, Royce was home. Rosalie woke from her light slumber to the sound of his thoroughly drunk voice echoing in the entry hall. Then, the slamming snap of his dress shoes on the wood floor alerted her of his stumbling progress to their room. He opened the door with a slam, humming an unrecognizable song loudly.

He didn't seem to notice that his wife was sleeping as he started, in a loud, slurring voice, to shout praises to her. "You should have seen their faces, Rosalie! How the men looked at you, in that dress, gave me such a feeling of power, because, baby, I have you and nobody else does!" Royce, tux and all, fell onto the bed and he tried to position himself beside her. Rosalie feigned sleep.

"Helen of Troy wouldn't compare to you, darling," he whispered in what was supposed to be his seducing voice. He put a hand on Rosalie's hip and shook gently. "Rosalie, baby? Wake up!" She stubbornly kept her eyes closed though and threw in a little bit of movement to make it look more believable. Not that he was sober enough to notice.

Royce gave up and collapsed back into an alcohol induced slumber, snoring loudly. Occasionally he would mutter something unintelligible, often he would roll over to reposition himself, but never did he notice how this wife's side of the bed shook with her not quite restrained sobbing.

Her world, whatever she had ever had of it, was falling around her. The beautiful glitz and glamour she had once found so enthralling were now nothing more than a petty distraction from the pointless lives that those in the high society led.

Rosalie just wished she had found that out before she became chained to it all.

Emmett joins us in the next chapter. Thank you for reading.