Happy New Year!

Okay, so what the blazes is this? Have I not already posted a re-write of the famous 50 Shades interview scene? Have I not managed several (!) chapters already of a 50 Shades/Twilight re-imagining? Should I not be working on that, or any of the many other stories started here or still buzzing around my own hard drive or head, waiting for fine-tuning or proofreading or some serious plot development effort?

Well goodness, you would think so, wouldn't you?

But here's what got written this holiday season. And I CAN tell you why: because I read part of Grey (Did I finally spell that right?), the Christian (ha! read that as name, not religion)-version of 50 Shades, and I was horrified. At how passive and insecure he is. At how much he is not an emotional/psychological dominant but instead a traumatized sadist with control issues. And even though I knew this already from the little I was exposed to the first, and second, versions of the story, somehow reading it from Christian's perspective highlighted how absolutely irrelevant it all was to me—any version of me. Even a young, beautiful, sexy (snort, snort) version of me.

Which underscores a point that has seemed of increasing importance to make, to myself and anyone else like me who is willing to listen: the BDSM world is no more likely to hold relief from suffering for us inside it, and may be much, much more dangerous to search in, than the everyday world we know. Why? Because the sort of dominance and submission practiced by most people identifying that way seems to be of the "I choose this lifestyle" variety. Which is enormously not helpful or relevant to people for whom "choice" is a foreign concept requiring years and years of effort and suffering to even begin to almost-exercise.

If you know what I mean, then I'm talking to you. And I'm posting this for you, because it made me feel better. To fix that story one last time. (I am still meaning to carry 50 Shades Meets the Light through, though it's a very different flavor from this story and from the 50 Shades starting point.) To distract myself from the several hours and dollars wasted before I threw the offending book away. To "prove" to myself and to you that people like us can be attractive to a certain type of human being, in theory, even if the odds of such a human being ever crossing our paths are so small as to be functionally impossible.

That fact (the "functionally impossible" part) used to depress me, and I apologize if it depresses you. But I promise it's possible to get over it; I have. Most of the time. Aging helps, as does focusing on what you can do to help the people around you instead of on one's own loneliness and fear. Of course, that's so much easier said than done I've gone on for many a page about it, but I won't do that here.

Just please, don't give up on yourself because you're too intense and aware and vulnerable to be loved easily. The corollary is so important: you can love more easily than most anyone else can believe. Because they can't understand it, they won't value your gift—and that's the brutal catch. In order to share it with this love-starved world, you have to believe in YOUR OWN VALUE, and as relational thinkers and feelers, that starts out being an impossible task.

Keep trying, keep trying, keep trying…we need you! I need you; I need to be alone together.

Well, substitute, "would really like" for "need"; I'm learning how not to need any one thing in particular. Life's much easier to manage that way, and a whole lot less disappointing. "Air" is still on the list, of course, though the inhaler helps with that, and so is sleep…so I better scoot. Be well, fellow high-feeling vulnerable-relational people. xoxo, liza

Edward Cullen is deep in the human and intellectual mire of his usual work day. As an extremely successful international businessman specializing in buying up mismanaged and therefore failing high-tech start-ups and leveraging their intellectual capital for great financial gain, he is highly respected by those both inside and outside his privately-held (by him) company—and by anyone who knows him a little, highly feared.

Those who know him well usually lose some of the fear and accord him additional respect. Like his personal secretary Angela Weber, who just at this moment is sizing up via video monitor a person at the main-floor security desk in possession of a parking and security pass issued by Ms. Weber herself for a 10:30 appointment with Mr. Cullen.

It is 10:30 already, and Mr. Cullen does not tolerate lateness, so it is likely a moot point—but the unfortunate pass bearer had been stopped at security, and apparently—as Ms. Weber looks more closely at the video feed on her desk and zooms in on the person in question—made to cry as she does not in any way resemble the ID picture previously scanned into the system by the background check team of Cullen Enterprises' security department.

Aware of the need to resolve this issue quickly for efficiency's sake if not just that of the almost-distraught looking girl on camera, Ms. Weber asks one of the security guards to put the girl on speaker, confident she can sort it out. She has, after all, been the one to field several phone calls from the persistent Jessica Stanley after Ms. Stanley somehow wrangled Ms. Weber's extension from a soft-hearted—or perhaps more accurate, lonely and desperate for female attention-fool in the Community Relations section of the Marketing and PR department.

After thoroughly chastising the fool in question, Ms. Weber had brought the local MBA student's request for an interview with the notoriously private and reclusive Edward Cullen to the attention of his much-more-outgoing sister and Vice President of Marketing and Public Relations, Alice Cullen Hale. Together, the two of them—Ms. Weber and Ms. Hale, who held each other in high mutual regard—had cooked up a way to turn the interview, easily expanded into a cover story for the University's School of Business magazine, into some positive publicity for Edward Cullen himself and the charitable foundation he poured much of Cullen Enterprises' profits into—after extremely generous salaries for himself and the rest of his staff, of course.

It was for the sake of this foundation that the formidable duo of Alice and Angela eventually gained Edward Cullen's approval of the proposed interview, and it is with no small degree of frustration that Ms. Weber watches her hard work in negotiating the arrangements go up in the flames burning on the cheeks of this late, overwhelmed, and demonstrably incompetent excuse for an interviewer.

Therefore, her voice is more briskly clipped than usual as Ms. Weber says, "Hello, Ms. Stanley?" into the speakerphone she often uses for communicating within the company.

"Oh, um, hello—I'm, I'm sorry," there is a swallowing pause as the mystery woman gulps back a sob, "But I'm not Jessica."

Surprised by the development but also in clear agreement with security and the woman herself that this is definitely not the aggressively-confident Jessica Stanley she has spoken with several times on the phone, Ms. Weber replies, "Then may I ask who you are please, and what you're doing with Ms. Stanley's security passes?"

"I, I, I'm Bella Swan and I'm so sorry, so sorry for the trouble, but Jessica sent me because she's sick and can't do the interview with Mr., Mr., Mr. Cullen."

This is also the gist of what is being reported to Ms. Weber by the front-desk security staff via interoffice chat, and dropping into her interoffice fax output is indeed a copy of a driver's license for one Isabella Swan, scanned in by Felix, the manager on scene for the situation and no doubt the one responsible for the girl's tears. Felix is frightening both in size and attitude; though Ms. Weber had not seen him make anyone actually cry before, she has seen people who came close.

She is just about to issue a polite but perfunctory dismissal to the reluctant-seeming interloper—Mr. Cullen sees no one who is not thoroughly screened by security first, and there certainly isn't time for that now, even if this Ms. Swan hadn't already been disqualified by her lateness—when a cool, calm male voice says quietly over her shoulder, "Have them send her up."

Ms. Weber contains her startle reflex before turning around to confirm that indeed her boss, Mr. Edward Cullen, has once more managed to exit his office behind hers and enter her work space without her being the wiser. He moves like a jungle cat, and once a week or so manages to catch her off-guard with his sudden presence.

Angela doesn't mind being caught off-guard as she is an intelligent and dedicated worker with unusually little to hide in any aspect of her being. Also, she suspects Mr. Cullen enjoys his ability to approach undetected more than a little bit, so she tolerates it with equanimity and without comment almost as if indulging a young boy at his games—it is just one more way in which the two are mutually well-suited for each other.

Mr. Cullen, in particular, would be near-adoring of Ms. Weber and her intelligent, capable efficiency—if he himself were capable of such strong emotion in a workplace relationship. Instead, he is simply appreciative, and makes sure to show as much in salary and action.

Ms. Weber's position, therefore, is one of the most secure in the company, and so she is also one of the most willing to contradict or confront Edward Cullen directly, as she does now. "You're aware of the time, sir?" she asks, unable to believe he would willingly put his schedule to shambles in such a manner.

She has only accorded twenty minutes for the interview after all, which had been more than generous, seeing as Edward Cullen is a man who makes millions a day—so his minutes are easily worth many thousands, some days many more.

But with a curt nod and a slight eyebrow raise, indicating his awareness of her concerns and his intent to proceed as he has chosen regardless, Edward Cullen responds simply, "Yes," as he places the copy of the newcomer's driver's license back in the fax output tray.

Then, as he moves sinuously and silently back the way he has just come, he follows up with, "Have them express her up and send her in," said over his shoulder as he leaves Ms. Weber's workspace and heads towards his own.

Ms. Weber is about to invite the silently waiting—with only a few sniffles—Ms. Swan to enjoy the rather shocking privilege of an express-elevator ride up to Mr. Cullen's office floor when said Mr. Cullen speaks again in his doorway. "Please let my 11:00 know I'll be delayed, and cancel lunch plans with my brother. Thank you, Angela," and he's gone, leaving Ms. Weber speechless just a few micro-moments longer. Edward Cullen does not rearrange his schedule for any single person's needs; only for work emergencies, to deal with all the daily crises that go along with acquiring and managing—including giving away a surprising amount of—an enormously large quantity of money, resources and power.

But his directions are clear, and Ms. Weber is expert at following them, so a few seconds later a thoroughly chastened and terrified Bella Swan is stumbling towards the express elevator indicated by the terrifying security manager for her use, the doors opening seeming as by magic but really by control from the security desk, then falling in as she catches a heel on the edge of the elevator cab.

A handsome blonde-haired man in a suit who has ridden up from the underground garage level leans forward and catches her, so she doesn't land on the floor as the doors close behind her but in a stranger's arms instead.

Blushing, she straightens and moves away from her rescuer with a mumbled but profuse apology and thanks.

The gallant rescuer demurs, declaring his rescue "No problem," and "My pleasure," as he smiles perplexedly at the top of her brown head—the unknown girl's thick, mahogany hair contained in a decidedly old-fashioned and juvenile-looking French braid—and wonders what on earth someone with as little polish or sophistication as she clearly has could be doing going to visit his brother-in-law.

For the blond man catching and riding up with Bella is none other than Jasper Hale, husband of Alice Cullen Hale, and good-natured CFO of Cullen Enterprises. His office, and his wife's PR/marketing suite, are the only others on the top floor besides Edward's own and Edward's support staff—and only the Cullen elite plus a few carefully-vetted and specially-selected visitors ride the express elevator. Even Angela Weber hasn't been accorded that privilege.

So Jasper curiously studies the blushing, fidgeting girl for the short time required to reach the top floor.

Then, as the doors open to reveal the inner sanctum of Ms. Weber's office on the other side of the main executive-suite lobby, past all the usual layers of reception and security any normal visitors meet, he waves his hand ahead of himself and says, "Ladies first," to the scared-rabbit-girl studying him back now that the doors are open.

"Thank you again for, for catching me," she whispers his direction before scurrying off the elevator and almost falling once more, though managing to steady herself against the elevator doorway just in time.

Taking a deep breath, the thoroughly humiliated but resolute Bella Swan marches forward to the beautifully-polished woman behind the beautifully-polished desk in front of her, knowing she herself is hopelessly out of place here, not to mention inappropriately-dressed (the latter not being entirely her fault, as Jessica had forced Bella into one of Jessica's own a-little-too-short party dresses, not realizing how conservative the Cullen dress code is), but determined to proceed with her errand out of loyalty to the friend who guilted her into it.

"Hello, I'm Bella Swan, Jessica Stanley's friend?" she says fearfully to the elegant woman now standing and coming around her desk.

"Welcome to Cullen Enterprises, Ms. Swan," the lady responds, sounding surprisingly friendly as she stretches out a hand towards Bella.

"Oh! Th-thank you!" Bella stutters shyly in reply, blushing brick red at the kindness of this stranger whom she's sure she's inconvenienced one way or another.

"My pleasure," Ms. Weber responds as they shake hands, and Ms. Weber gets physical confirmation of the girl's fear in the coldness of her hand and the tremor of her body. Feeling an unexpectedly maternal reaction to the surprise guest, Ms. Weber moves around Isabella Swan to her side and, with an arm lightly resting against the girl's lower back and around her waist, sweeps her forward towards Mr. Cullen's office.

"Right this way, Ms. Swan. Mr. Cullen is waiting for you in his office," and as she finishes that sentence, Angela is knocking perfunctorily on said office door, then opening it without waiting for a response.

"Isabella Swan," she announces in Edward Cullen's direction, where he is sitting behind his enormous mahogany desk, his head tipped and eyebrows raised in an evaluative expression fearfully familiar to many an underling in his company and others'.

His head tips and his brows rise farther as the seconds elapse and there is no movement from the doorway. Angela Weber leans down and whispers in the girl's ear, "You can go in now, Isabella," to which instruction Edward Cullen hears the responding squeak.

Then watches as the instruction is completely ignored, the trembling girl still standing frozen on the threshold, unable to take another step.

Laughing darkly to himself at the folly he has brought upon his day by—for reasons his conscious mind is not fully aware nor appreciative of—his own action, Edward stands and moves swiftly around his desk and across his office to the girl stopped at the door, putting on his most charming voice and smile and saying, "Ms. Swan, I'm Edward Cullen. Won't you come in?" and waving his hand into his office to indicate the general direction the silly girl should move in.

Said silly girl is even sillier than imagined, however, and in response to the gracious invitation issued by the most devastatingly handsome and overwhelmingly masculine personage she has ever imagined let alone been in the same room with, Isabella Swan squeaks again and turns to flee.

In doing so, however, she catches once more the high heel of the torturous shoes Jessica made her wear on the threshold and plunges towards the hardwood floor outside the office.

And once more, she is saved from a crashing impact by the fast reflexes and strong hands of a Cullen man, though this time it is of course Edward, not Jasper, and he's catching her from behind, one strong arm going around her waist and the other grabbing hold of her shoulder, using it to pull backwards and keep any part of her body from making contact with the floor besides her high-heel-clad feet.

She's upright again so quickly it feels like a movie, the superhero kind where impossible things happen, and she's lost track of her fear for a second as the exhilaration of the sudden movement back up fills her. She becomes aware of the arm at her waist and the large hand on her shoulder as they are removed—slowly—while Edward tests her ability to remain upright.

Bracing herself against the onslaught of embarrassment as she remembers both falling and why she fell, Bella has no attention or energy to fight Edward as he grabs hold of her waist at both sides and starts pushing her to turn, walking her like a revolving door around in a half-circle until she's facing back into the office and he's behind her.

"Alright, Ms. Swan, I'm going to let go of you now, and you're going to stay put while I move back into my office."

Edward gingerly removes his hands, ready to catch her at the start of any sudden movement, but none appears as the strange girl stands frozen there, trying to pretend she's a statue or a piece of furniture or something so as to escape the humiliation of the present moment.

With an eye-rolling glance at his spellbound assistant, Edward moves slowly back around Isabella and into his office. When he's standing in front of the girl again, though off to the side so that she can walk forward without bumping into him, he says dryly but with a hint of steel behind it, "Good. Now please come in, Ms. Swan, so I may have the pleasure of your company-before I carry you in myself."

Though the ending threat is issued only in Edward's head, it is echoed in the hard glint of his eyes and in his not-quite-angry but definitely-not-brooking-argument voice.

It is the voice that has the most impact on Bella, seeing as she is carefully avoiding looking at anyone around her. She shrinks into herself at his command, issued as a polite invitation but not meant or felt as such, but she obeys, slinking around the imposing figure in the doorway with her downcast eyes on his feet the whole time.

When she's stopped inside his office—just—Edward closes the door on Ms. Weber without further comment. Then, after a heavy—and heady—moment of sizing up the quaking figure in front of him, Edward strides back towards his desk, intending for the girl to follow him and take one of the seats across from his position of power.

The girl doesn't move, however, and after several steps he realizes she's not following and turns back to her with a sigh. Seeing her trembling form with her arms wrapped around her waist as if to keep herself together, Edward's aggressive stance lightens and he shakes his head before reaching a hand out to his visitor and saying, more sweetly this time, "Come on, honey; let's find you a seat before you fall over."

At the word "honey," the girl's head shoots up and she's now looking Edward in the eyes so that he can see, with unbelievable clarity, the fear and shame warring in her mind. It makes him angry, again for reasons he cannot, or more accurately, chooses at the moment not to identify, for this girl to be feeling either of those things let alone both and in such great measure, so he moves towards her with his hand beckoning hers and says, even more softly and gently than before, "Come on, now; I'm not going to hurt you."

At this sincere reassurance, the girl before him bursts into tears.

Concerned and perplexed, Edward approaches gingerly and crouches down before her as her instant sobs subside slightly. Carefully taking one of her hands in one of his own, Edward brings it down to rest on one of his knees as he peers up into her face, pulling his monogrammed handkerchief—he was raised in old-fashioned, old-family wealth though he wasn't born to it—out of his pocket and starting to use it, without asking, on the crying girl's face.

The arrival of soft material against her cheek and then, most embarrassingly, her nose, makes Bella calm and stop crying, her own eyes lifting up enough again to see Edward Cullen's intense green eyes staring at her with an interest and compassion that takes her breath away.

Which mercifully keeps her from starting crying again, and makes her pliable to Edward Cullen's will when he stands up and, without another word, pulls the surprising, unbelievably-emotional girl towards the sitting area to the side of his desk. There's an enormous black leather couch there, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows where he sometimes stretches out and watches the movement of faraway boats on Puget Sound or the lights coming on in the buildings around—and mostly below-him.

It's to this couch he heads, girl tripping along behind in those ridiculous shoes she obviously has no experience wearing, and where he sits before pulling the girl down beside him with a particularly strong tug on her hand and a gentle sideways nudge against one of her feet. The slight bit of unbalancing he provides results in her wholesale falling down next to him, landing in the softness of the sofa with an inelegant noise against the leather and a surprised "Oh!".

Wisely keeping hold of her hand, he turns and smiles again, this time the smile reaching to his eyes as he thinks about how hard he's had to work to get this person in a place so many would literally kill to be, and says, "So, Isabella Swan, did you have some questions you wanted to ask me?"

Bella makes the mistake of looking up into the dazzlingly handsome man's face as he addresses her, and loses not just track of his question but the ability to speak.

They sit like this for some moments, Bella lost in the masculine beauty and power before her and Edward appreciating the innocent beauty and vulnerability before him.

Eventually, perhaps after Edward tips his head and smiles at her then tucks a stray lock of hair back behind her ear, Bella snaps out of it, or rather into it, and jumps where she sits, before starting to ramble.

"Oh! I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I've got questions here somewhere—" and she reaches towards the bag slung over her shoulder but doesn't get any farther because Edward grabs her wrist and restrains her as he interrupts her saying, "Not a word of apology, please, Isabella. And before we get to your questions for me, I've got some questions for you, sweetheart."

Just as before, at the term of endearment, so warmly uttered, Bella's head raises and he has her full attention and gaze upon him once more. This time, in addition to embarrassment and uncertainty and a very profound shyness, he sees a discerning intellect questioning what he is doing with her (as his is doing the same) and—in a breathtaking moment that he feels more than cognitively understands—a very faint hope paired with a longing so poignant it hurts him to see it.

It is perhaps in reaction to this longing that he asks, "Oh, little girl, who talked you into doing this today?"

Bella blushes and drops her eyes, feeling simultaneously embarrassed and elated to be called…that by…him. Wildly trying to think of an answer, she takes a stab and says, "Um, my friend Jessica, she, she did."

"What kind of a friend is she?" Edward responds, asking more himself than the girl.

But the girl answers, with a loyalty and open naivete that both warms and breaks his heart. "Oh, she's my best friend. She's the only one who, you know, puts up with me and stuff. I mean, the other girls, they mainly think I'm weird, you know? But Jess understands; she knows I try; she knows I don't mean to be so…different. So sometimes she asks me to do things, to help her out, and she lets me be her roommate and I'm in charge of groceries and cleaning and that works out really well because, well, you know, she's not really good at those things because her mom always did that for her, and she's really busy with all the groups she's in and stuff she organizes. And parties; she really likes to go to parties. I don't; they're scary. But she got sick, from one of those parties once, and sometimes it still comes back and she has to stay home for a few days, and that happened today, and she couldn't go to see you, and she said I was the only one she trusted not to steal—" as the last words come out of her mouth, Bella realizes she shouldn't be saying them, and clams up, as red as she's been and absolutely hating herself.

Edward guesses that, and gently intervenes, ducking his head down to catch her eyes and smile at her, projecting warmth the way he usually projects cold indifference or threatening intent. "The only one she trusts not to steal what, sweetheart?" he quietly asks, knowing the answer already but wanting to hear it confirmed both as a final condemnation of the manipulative Jessica and to take the burden of the information off of the little girl before him's small shoulders.

"Um, I don't know?" she lies to him, badly.

"I bet I do," he says back, bumping his nose against hers. "And it was never hers to be stolen, was it?"

Relieved that he's not angry with her, or seeming to be angry with Jessica, Bella shakes her head "No," knocking slightly into Edward's shoulder as she does so.

Edward can't help himself; at the guileless innocence of that small movement of her body against his, he leans in and lightly places a chaste kiss on the top of her bowed head.

Bella can't help herself; as this amazing person who scares and comforts her in equal measure leans in closer and touches her so intimately and with so much gentleness, her head leans in seeming of its own volition and rests itself—just barely-against an amazingly broad and solid shoulder, after which she lets out a sigh so deep and heartfelt, it's like her whole body had been weightlessly floating in the universe and now, having finally discovered gravity and a safe place to land, is settling down for the first time.

They stay like that for a string of peaceful moments before Edward quietly resumes his questioning, mostly to escape the elation that is growing inside him and that he's not sure he wants to accept. "But why would she ask you to do this instead of just cancelling? Didn't she know how…impossible it would be for you?"

Embarrassed at having her inadequacies today and in general pointed out, Bella blushes again while sitting up straight and saying sadly, "I don't think she felt like she had any choice. And she told me everything to do—it's not her fault I can't get anything right. She even told me not to be all awkward and shy, but I—"

Edward breaks in angrily at this. "I think I've heard enough about what that fool of a so-called friend of yours said; I want to hear what Isabella Swan thinks now. Why did you agree to help such a disagreeable person and come here, sweetheart, when you knew it was going to be so hard for you?"

Bella starts to cry at this, at this frighteningly-wonderful stranger's easy acknowledgement of indeed how hard this whole day has been for her, and doesn't answer right away.

But after a few tears and another gentle application of his handkerchief, she manages to say, "I wanted to help! I knew I wouldn't be very good at it, but Jess was so upset about not being able to get this interview after she's told everyone in her business management class and then all the important people at the business school with their magazine and everything that she would. It seemed like it wouldn't be too bad, all I had to do was read off the questions Jess gave me and record the answers, but then—but then—everything went wrong!" And she started to cry again.

Laughing softly to himself at how impossibly-sensitive the girl in front of him is, Edward uses the hand of hers he still has clasped to pull her towards his chest as his other arm reaches heavily around her curved back and holds her there. They both freeze like that, equally shocked at Edward's incursion into Bella's personal space, until something happens that changes both their lives forever.

Edward's older—and much bigger—brother Emmett barrels into the office unannounced and over Ms. Weber's objections, his baritone voice saying in mock anger, "What the hell are you thinking, bro, cancelling on me for lunch?"

To Emmett's surprise, not one head but two snap towards him from the sofa, with one being—a girl's. He notes this with shock, having long suspected his brother to be gay despite, or maybe because of, the surface-level relationships of convenience he's had with various beautiful women of the social elite, and lately, the lack of even those.

Emmett's not as shocked as the girl is though at the size and sheer volume of the intruder, and her unthinking, instinctive response is first a small shriek, and then throwing herself into the lap of the relatively safe, strong man next to her, her arms wrapping around his torso as her head hides itself against his chest and her behind lands with vehemence against his legs.

Shocked most of all is Edward, and very aware of the small, heaving form previously terrified of him and now voluntarily affixed to his body—even clinging on to it for dear life. Even more surprising is how much he likes it, his physiology chiming in with an instant response to her arrival in his lap that is as unmistakable as it is disturbing.

Trying not to lose control of the situation further, Edward curtly orders his brother out while he gingerly tightens his hold around the girl in his lap, uncomfortable with his body's reaction to her but not willing to allow her to read shame into any rejection of her gratifying presence wrapped against him.

A repentant Emmett says a hurried apology and a "See you later, bro; my bad!" as he quickly exits.

Only after the door is closed does Edward stop stroking the back of Bella's head and say, "He's gone now, sweetheart. He's harmless, I promise, but he's not going to scare you again anyway."

At these words, Bella realizes what she's done and reverses course, falling out of Edward's lap backwards into the sofa, with a breathy, stuttered apology that Edward is recognizing as typical of her.

And Edward lets her, though more than one part of him protests vociferously as the space between them increases again.

Trying to distract himself, and her, he ignores her apologies and says, business-like, "Shall we get started, then?"

And flustered Bella is just about to ask, "Started with what?" when the intercom at Edward's desk sounds and Ms. Weber's voice is heard, announcing, "Your 11:15 is here, Sir."

Bella's eyes widen as she realizes both what time it is and how much time she has wasted being undone by the man she was supposed to be interviewing, and she blushes violently as she stands and starts to back away from that man, saying, "I'm so sorry; I've made you late; I'm sure Jessica can come back—"

Edward cuts her off with a stern, "Enough! I told you no apologizing, and I meant it. Now sit down while I go deal with—"

But he is in turn cut off by Bella, who was still backing up as Edward was speaking and runs into the coffee table behind her. The unexpected impact robs her of her tenuous balance, and she falls in the direction she's moving—backwards.

Edward leaps up and grabs for her, but misses this time, and Bella lands against the coffee table with a hard "crack!" against the back of her head.

Edward, horrified, grabs her hands and pulls her upright, one arm wrapping possessively around her waist as he says, "Isabella! Are you alright?"

Bella, who cracked her head so hard it gave her a concussion, looks up at the overwhelming Edward Cullen and answers him by throwing up.

It happens so fast she doesn't have time to aim anywhere, so the vomit ends up all down the front of her, with a little spray catching Edward too.

They both freeze for a moment afterwards, Bella in horror, Edward in surprise.

Then time moves forward again as Edward speaks more loudly than usual, summoning his security team (always on stand-by) with the words "Assistance please," followed by the specific command: "Send the medic to my office. Now!"

Bella had begun to raise her sore head when she heard Mr. Cullen's angry (he's actually agitated)-sounding voice, steeling herself to face this final humiliation before exiting this office of horrors and trying to pretend the whole day never happened. Tears of shame and pain (her head is throbbing and she still feels in danger of vomiting some more) are running down her cheeks as she makes it half-way through raising her head and stops, focusing on the tie of the person still holding her tightly at the waist and around one wrist. "I am so sorry," she whispers, but she's interrupted by a bodiless voice from the speaker on Edward's desk saying, "The medic's on his way, Sir. Should we call an ambulance?"

"Stand by on that," Edward answers. "I'm not sure yet. Have Taylor get the limo ready to go."

Then speaking a little less loudly to his secretary, who has just entered his office after knocking once having been paged by the security team and alerted to a medical crisis in Mr. Cullen's office, he says, "Angela, call my father please and ask him where we should bring Miss Swan. She hit the back of her head hard on the coffee table and has already vomited once. I'll be having our medic assess her for appropriateness of transport, but I want to know where she'll get the best care. And ask him if he could meet me there, wherever it is."

"Yes, Mr. Cullen," says Ms. Weber before hurrying back out to do as ordered.

There's a brief pause then which Bella seizes, trying to shift away from Mr. Cullen's grasp as she repeats in quiet mortification, "I am so, so sorry, Mr. Cullen—"

But she's interrupted again by him, this time speaking directly to her. "If you apologize to me one more time, Miss Swan, I will have you over my knee right here, right now, and damn the consequences. You have done nothing wrong; you're hurt, for G"s sake, now would you please calm down and just let me take care of you?"

At this little speech, said Miss Swan loses all pretense of, well, anything, and starts to sob, saying in between huge hiccupping gasps for air, "But—I'm—covered—in—throw-up!" The last term coming out rather more loudly than the rest, and provoking in her listener a wry little chuckle.

"So I noticed, sweetheart," Edward says back, bending down towards her ear as he says this. "I'm going to pick you up now; try to keep you head and neck still, alright?"

And he scoops her up from the side, careful to keep her as upright as possible and trying his utmost not to jostle her in any way.

When he has her in his arms, he feels the same sense of elation, of wholeness, flood through him as he had experienced after Bella had first catapulted herself into his lap, and he laughs again—at the ridiculousness of the situation, and at his improbable reaction to this impossible little girl.

Bella can't understand why he's not furious with her, but is relieved he's not, and—despite herself and her self-loathing—automatically content at being in Mr. Cullen's arms. So she gingerly lowers her head again to his shoulder, and he gladly indulges her, even though he'd told her not to move her neck.

He has her in the bathroom of the private dressing area off his office before she's realized he's moved her, and sets her gently down on the marble counter next to the sink. Reaching for a washcloth to start cleaning her up, he bends his knees without turning his chest or shoulders so that her head still rests safely against him, held so carefully now by his other hand oh-so-lightly pressing down to keep her in place.

Edward is just slowly stretching back up, washcloth in hand, when he hears a knocking on the side of the open doorway and a polite, young male voice saying, "Mr. Cullen, sir? Did you need me?"

"Are you the medic?" Edward replies with a quick glance in the newcomer's direction.

"Yes, sir," is the response; "My name is Peter Davies. How can I help?" As he asks the question, he is approaching the pair at the sink, reaching into the messenger bag he has slung over his shoulders as he does so and pulling out a pair of blue exam gloves, then pulling them on.

"Well, Peter, my little friend Isabella here fell backwards into the coffee table, and hit her head quite hard," Edward explains, eyeing the medic in the mirror as he wrings out the cloth he has soaked with warm water and then drops his eyes to Bella's face and front, gently wiping the worst of the vomit off of her as the medic drops his bag to the side and comes up to stand at Edward's right, facing them both.

"She vomited?" Peter asks in a quiet voice directed only to Edward as he puts on a friendly smile and starts assessing Bella, beginning with the pupils of her eyes.

Edward answers in a similar quiet tone, "Almost immediately afterwards, with no warning, yes," then says more loudly to Bella, "Isabella, we're going to let Mr. Davies here take a look at where you hit your head. You stay still, and I'll move you just a little—" and as he says this he is holding her with one arm around her back and the opposite hand on one of her hips, pushing her gently to the left so that Peter can more easily reach the back of her head.

There is a little pause while Edward holds Bella still and Peter reaches up and carefully undoes Bella's braid, setting the hair tie on the counter before pulling the plait loose strand by strand.

Bella finds the silence unbearable, and begins to fill it with humiliated apology. "Oh, Mr. Cullen, I am so, so sorry—" she starts in, her voice heavy with tears and moisture gathering at her eyes again.

"Oh no," Edward interrupts immediately, bending his knees slightly to catch her gaze with his own. "What have I told you about apologizing, Isabella?" he reminds her, kindly but sternly, not even noticing (though she does) how thoroughly he has transitioned to using her first name.

He waits for an answer from her to his question, which, after several heartbeats of silence she realizes was not rhetorical, and finally she obliges him with a hesitant, blushing, "Um, you said…you said…you said not to do that?" Her questioning response is so tentative, so meek, so fearful, Edward finds himself laughing lightly again at her passivity, and leaning in to touch her face with the tip of his nose, lightly and quickly but most definitely, as he says, "Exactly right, Miss Swan; exactly right," her last name and honorific serving now as a sort of gentle mockery; a highlighting of precisely how un-grown-up she is.

Meanwhile, Peter has finished undoing Bella's braid and is cautiously but thoroughly probing the back of her head, quickly finding a sizable lump as Bella flinches and whimpers at his touch.

"Watch it!" is Edward's barking order to the medic, all trace of gentleness gone as flashing eyes meet Peter's in the mirror.

But Peter is unperturbed, having been an EMT long enough to be familiar with the different sorts of emotional reactions of those involved in accidents, and expecting anger at the necessary unpleasantries from someone as protective as Mr. Cullen seems to be of this girl.

"Sorry, Mr. Cullen," Peter adds placatingly as he finishes his assessment of the back of Bella's head with a search for blood and happily finding none, then moving around behind Edward to look at and address Bella with the question, "Was that very sore then, Miss Swan?"

Despite the awkwardness and pain and general misery of the situation, Bella's automatic manners kick in and she offers, "Not too bad, thank you for asking; I'm so sorry for your—"

But Edward, reaching one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes and bites back his frustration at this otherwise passive girl's surprisingly stubborn refusal to let him lead, interrupts her once more with, "Isabella. I think I'm going to have to gag you to stop your reflexive apologies, and I don't think Mr. Davies here would consider that helpful in completing his job, which is assessing your well-being for transport to the hospital."

At the word, "hospital," Isabella bodily flinches again, and her terrified eyes snap back to Edward's. "Please, please no hospital," she whispers with feeling, her hands coming together in a clasping, pleading manner as Edward processes the unexpected strength of her reaction to his plans for her care.

Lowering his brows in confusion and censure at her nonsensical-seeming objection, Edward responds immediately, "Absolutely you're going to the hospital, Isabella. You've sustained a head injury; we'll need to have you carefully evaluated. Right, Davies?" Edward confirms matter-of-factly with the medic, who easily agrees.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Cullen," Peter responds, nodding. "The vomiting alone warrants evaluation after a head injury." Then, reaching for the cell phone in his pocket, he asks, "Do you want me to call an ambulance?"

Pulling a crying Isabella gently back into his shoulder and absent-mindedly patting her on the back, Edward catches Peter's eyes in the mirror again and asks, "Do you think it's necessary? I have a feeling she'd prefer to go by car; I know I would."

Looking at the vomit-stained girl, the smell reduced after Edward's wipe-down but still very present in the room, Peter ventures, "Do you have someone willing to drive her?"

Edward's dismissive in his quick response; "Not an issue; a car and driver are standing by." Then asks what he really needs input on: "But is it safe for her, or do you think we'd better have the ambulance?"

Peter considers the question a moment, looking into the distance as he weighs what he knows about head injuries and about the head of Cullen Enterprises. His quick mind calculates the risk of private transport as minimal given the injured party is conscious, and tallies up the additional benefits of the car being ready to go immediately and the privacy afforded Mr. Cullen and his companion, whose role in Mr. Cullen's life he is not at all sure about.

Coming to an answer both professional and politic, he says, "I don't think it should be a problem to take a car, Mr. Cullen. She's conscious and responsive. If we're careful not to jostle her too much, and protect her neck and head, I think she'll be fine."

Edward nodded once, the medic's assessment aligning neatly with his own. "Good. Please join us, Mr. Davies," and without further ado, he scoops Isabella up off the countertop and starts towards the door.

He's only taken two steps when he hears a timid voice speaking. What that voice is saying is at first incomprehensible to him, but the second time Edward makes it out. "Daddy?"

He freezes. Never, ever, ever, in all his years and, more to the point, in all his experience with the BDSM social scene and his own contracted submissives, never has Edward Cullen been called "Daddy."

He's known other Dominants, of course, who have preferred that title, and he's secretly—and once or twice, not-so-secretly—scoffed at them for confusing their sexual predilections with such an emotionally-laden relationship…a pretend one at that, in his opinion. For never, ever before has it even begun to occur to Edward Cullen that there would be anyone on the planet, now or in the future, to whom he would want to act like a "Daddy," let alone hear them say that word to him with the expectation that he will answer back, and answer back with loving kindness.

And yet, here is this mixed-up little girl, this impossibly inconvenient interruption to his day, with her hand fisted in his shirt and the other holding on around his neck, speaking to him in that urgent, anxious way of hers and using a word so primal and so regressed, he cannot at first believe she is saying it.

On the second repetition, he believes, aided along by the rest of her request, "Daddy, please, I can't go with you like this; there's throw-up all over me. Can't I just go home, please?"

He stands, frozen, staring down at the bent brown head belonging to the pleading voice, and he is, for the first time since his own youthful introduction to the BDSM world and the rules governing it, speechless.

It is actually the medic who breaks the silence, Mr. Davies being concerned that the girl is hallucinating and that perhaps an ambulance should be paged right away after all. He says so. "Um, Mr. Cullen, sir, maybe we should call the ambulance now?"

Gruff in his surprise and chagrin—chagrin at his own intrigued and gratified response to the girl's most surprising word choice, a choice he suspects is not a choice at all but a subconscious commentary she'd be humiliated to be made aware of, and he's correct—Edward's response is brief. "No."

Mr. Davies is a good man, and he is concerned that his boss is unaware of the seriousness of a state of altered consciousness following a head injury, so he bravely presses his case, albeit dropping his voice as he does so to a near whisper. "Sir, if she's hallucinating, we can no longer presume—"

"She's not hallucinating," Edward spits quietly back. And to prove it, he says, a little more loudly and slowly, "Isabella, Mr. Davies is concerned you don't know where you are. Can you tell him where you are and whom you are with, please?"

And Mr. Davies leans in to hear a quiet, embarrassed voice say, "I'm sorry, Mr. Davies," at which Edward snorts but remains silent, allowing her to continue, "I'm in Mr. Cullen's office with you and…and…and Mr. Cullen," she finishes before turning her head further into said Mr. Cullen's shoulder.

Peter is perplexed, and looks up at the towering Mr. Cullen in question. His face asking the question he doesn't want to say out loud, Edward answers near voicelessly, "I suspect it was her subconscious speaking. I suggest we ignore it and move on."

The medic nods, and the procession starts towards the door again. But the voice pipes up again. "Daddy, I have to get down. Please, I'm getting throw-up on your suit!"

Rolling his eyes, Edward sighs and stops once more. "Mr. Davies, she seems insistent on this point, and really I can't blame her. If you'd be so good as to go get a clean shirt from my closet, [Edward tips his head in the correct direction as he speaks], I think we can take care of this quickly and be on our way."

To Bella he says, "Alright, sweetheart, you win; back we go," and as he speaks he is moving back to the counter by the sink and setting her on it again.

But he doesn't stop there; leaning in he reaches around Bella's back with both arms, one hand going to carefully gather her hair out of the way while the other finds the zipper of her dress and starts to pull it down.

"Daddy!" Bella says in a horrified whisper. "What are you doing?"

Smiling to himself at her continued use of that term, Edward says matter-of-factly, "I'm changing your outfit, just like you asked, baby girl. Arms up!" and he lifts her dress up first from underneath her rear as he lifts her slightly by the waist, then pulls it up and off over her head as Bella can't help but do what he asks and raises her hands in the air.

As soon as he's whisked the dress off of her, Bella's eyes go wide and she hunches over, her arms wrapped around her torso in an embarrassed attempt to cover herself.

She doesn't have long to cower, just a second or two, before Mr. Davies is back with a white shirt, pleated down the front, in his hand. "Here, Mr. Cullen," he says as he holds the shirt out by the shoulders to him.

Edward quickly eyes the shirt then laughs. "So we're going black-tie then. I'd better change too!" he adds as he takes the shirt from a blushing Peter, then nimbly undoes the top two buttons before pulling it on over Bella's head.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cullen, I didn't realize," Peter starts in, only to be cut off by Edward.

"Don't you start, Mr. Davies. You did the right thing, just as I asked. I'd forgotten the tuxes were hanging in front, but it wouldn't change my instructions. Besides, it looks good on her, don't you think?" and as he asks this, he smilingly steps to the side just a little to give Peter a better view of Bella with the shirt on like a dress.

Bella is blushing beet red, her eyes cast down, her head an incoherent jumble after the experience of having Edward Cullen first undress then dress her. The care he took to get the shirt—his shirt!—on oh-so-gently over her injured head, then pulling on the arms one at a time and adjusting the cuffs by rolling them up a couple times, then straightening the shirt at the shoulders and pulling it down to her hips, and finally re-fastening one of the buttons just above her breasts—well, it blew her mind and robbed her of all conscious thought so that the next thing she knew, she was exiting Mr. Cullen's office in his arms, dressed in his shirt, and wrapped in the blanket Mr. Davies had snagged from the sitting area and shyly offered to Mr. Cullen to cover up the girl.

Edward was glad Mr. Davies had thought of it, and is angry with himself that he hadn't. Promising himself and (silently) her not to miss another opportunity to attend to her comfort and safety, not to mention modesty, Edward tucks the blanket carefully around Isabella in his arms then resumes his progress to the office door with long, impatient strides, Peter moving quickly to bring up the rear.

In this hurried fashion they make it to the elevator, which Angela has had the foresight to have standing by. Turning around to face his secretary after entering, Edward says, "Call me when you've tracked down my father. I'll have Taylor head to UW unless I hear otherwise from you."

"Will do, Mr. Cullen," Angela just has time to say before the doors close on the odd little party and they drop down to the parking garage where Taylor is waiting for them with the company limo.

Opening the door for Mr. Cullen to enter with an unknown girl in his arms, Taylor asks, "Where to, Mr. Cullen?" and gets the same instructions Edward had just given Angela, only adding "We'll go to the Emergency Department if we have to, though I'm hoping to get through to my father in time to avoid that rigmarole. Lower the privacy window and put the call from Ms. Weber on speaker when it comes in, and you can hear the marching orders same as me."

"Very good, Mr. Cullen," Taylor agrees as he closes the door on the three of them and goes around to the driver's door.

Thirty rather tense seconds later, a call comes in from Carlisle Cullen. "Edward! What's happened?"

"You're on speaker, Dad. I have a lovely young woman named Isabella Swan in the car with me. She hit her head hard when she fall backwards onto my coffee table, and in addition to a nice-sized goose egg on the back of her head she's vomited once already since the fall. Who do you think we should see?"

"Does she have insurance?"

"I have no idea, but she has me, so that's irrelevant."

"Good; I didn't want to presume."

"You raised me; I should think you could presume that much."

"Yes, you're right of course, and I'm glad of it. Well, basic neurology should fit the bill, and you can't do better than the UW Neuro Department, though I'm not sure who's on call right now. Give me a minute and I'll find out, let them know you're on your way in and see if we can circumvent the ER."

"That would be great, Dad. How far out are we, Taylor?"

"About seven minutes, Sir."

"Did you hear that?"

"Yes, got it, son. Seven minutes, give or take. Come around to the Day Surgery entrance and I'll meet you there, hopefully with a room assignment."

"Thanks, Dad."

"No problem, Edward. See you soon."

As Edward disconnects the call, he feels Isabella stirring against him for the first time in the car ride. "Um, Mr. Cullen, I'm so sorry for the trouble—"

"Isabella. At this rate you're up to a horse-whipping immediately after your head has healed. Could you tell me what's bothering you without apologizing please, sweetheart?"

"Oh, um, I'm sorry…" she interrupts herself as she hears the offending words come out of her again, and freezes, staring at Mr. Cullen in horror. But he just laughs softly and shakes his head at her, his mood lifting the longer the girl sits in his lap.

"I have an idea, Isabella," he says with a smile and a tender look to her flaming face and downcast eyes. "Why don't you close your eyes and tell me what's wrong?"

Bella starts to nod, then winces at the pain the movement causes her and reaches a hand up to the back of her head.

Edward intercepts her hand with his own wrapping around her wrist, gently pulling it away from her head and to the front, placing a gentle kiss against her knuckles as he does so. "Leave it be, sweetheart," he says softly. "I know it's sore; we'll have it fixed soon, alright?"

Bella starts to nod again, stops for the same reason, and starts to cry. "Oh, baby girl," Edward sighs, "Come here," and he pulls her back into him, gingerly but with assurance, and Bella folds against him, crying.

"I'm so sorry, Daddy!" she sobs as the side of her head presses against his chest once more.

"I wish you wouldn't be," he says calmly back, stroking down the side of her cheek as he does so, his other hand pressing her body against his own.

This makes her pause in her crying; it seems too good to be true. "You do?" she checks out, disbelieving; cautious.

"Very much so. I wish you would be happy just to let me take care of you."

"Why?" She's absolutely incredulous, and beginning to suspect she's dreaming. Or dead.

This is harder to answer than it should be for Edward, or so he's thinking to himself as he tries to think of a response. Finally, he says with more hesitation than he's uttered anything in years, maybe a decade, "Because I like you, and I want to know you're safe."

Edward makes a face after he's said that, feeling it was both too much and too little, but Bella smiles.

"You—you like me?" she asks breathlessly, not reading a thing into it other than the almost-inconceivable idea that her mere existence doesn't offend this powerful person whose life she's inarguably complicated and inconvenienced that day.

Edward breathes out a little laugh, shaking his head at her absolute guilelessness; her complete lack of feminine wiles and the resultant enormity of her attraction for him.

"Yes, sweetheart, I like you. Very much," and he can't resist leaning in to place another chaste kiss, this time on her cheek, and this time lingering just a little to smell her peculiar odor of soap and tears, with an underlay of bargain drugstore conditioner and, well, vomit.

"Oh," she squeaks back, smiling in spite of herself and curling up a little more tightly against him, then closing her eyes shut with a relieved sigh. He isn't mad at her, and for the moment, that's the only thing that matters.