AN: Thanks for all your lovely reviews and feedback.
Thank you to those of you who wrote me about your own experiences with the Troubles in Ireland. I was so touched to hear your personal take on the story.
Playlist updated. Thanks go to TheEdwardEmmett who helped me with research and JosieSwan for being the best hand-holder a girl could hope for.
Rosalie
I knew something was wrong the second I slid the keycard through the reader and opened the heavy mahogany door to Emmett's room. I hadn't expected him to be back yet—there was a very specific reason I was here early, after all—but my eyes first took in the neatly made, empty bed, and then the even emptier dresser where Emmett's duffel had sat only this morning, and I felt an odd, painful quivering deep in my stomach.
He had . . .left.
The hard plastic of the card in my hand dug into my palm and I had to force my fingers to relax so I wouldn't cut myself deep enough to draw blood. Words pounded in my head, matching the panicked thumping of my heartbeat, until they seemed to mesh and collide together.
Emmett left . . .
Emmett left . . .
Emmett left . . .
I squeezed the card again, and wished the physical pain could block out the emotional trauma of the final word that my brain tauntingly added to the end of each phrase: Emmett left you.
. . . you.
. . . you.
. . .you.
Even though I was sure that somewhere, in some hidden, fucked up place, I had been expecting him to do just that, the reality of it hurt more than I wanted to acknowledge. I had trusted him; I had believed him when he'd promised that he would care about me. When he'd admitted that his feelings for me had existed while I'd been busy slipping down Edward's vortex of destruction, I'd been so fucking sure that nothing I could do would ever drive him away.
I didn't want to think that it had all been lies and ploys to get into my pants. After all, he hadn't even wanted that. Or maybe he had. Maybe I would never know.
He'd insisted he wanted to be different; an ironic twist because now he was exactly like all the others.
I'd been left before, more times than my pride or my heart cared to remember, but there was something particularly wrenching about this departure, I decided, as I stood there, staring numbly at the empty room. Maybe because he was the one man that I'd never expected it from. After all, he'd stuck by me while I'd done everything I could to debase myself with Edward, and I had thought that after that, nothing I did could ever dissuade him from caring about me.
I'd been wrong.
I knew I couldn't stand there any longer and stare at the evidence of Emmett's abandonment, and so I turned to go, not sure what I would do now that everything I'd hoped for was gone. Maybe, I thought bitterly, it was time to go crawling back to Edward after all. He'd told me I would, and it seemed only fitting now. My hand tightened around the door handle and then I saw its reflection in the mirror above the empty dresser—a white envelope lying innocuously on the polished wood.
It was unaddressed, but I knew as I stood in front of it, the promise of the door momentarily abandoned, that it was mine. Emmett had left me a note full of the reasons why he'd felt it was necessary to leave and not say goodbye. I almost left it unopened and unread because I wasn't sure I could bear a detailed list of all the ways I'd failed to keep him here with me.
In the end, however, that destructive, masochistic side of me that Gianna was so desperately trying to repair wouldn't let me ignore Emmett's last words.
With shaking hands, I ripped open the envelope and unfolded the single sheet. He'd written it with sloppy, hurried writing, as if he'd only had moments to do this before he was inevitably jerked away—or as if he hadn't intended on leaving me anything at all until the very last second and he'd taken pity on me.
It was very short, only a few lines. My eyes swim with unshed tears and I had to stop and blink them away before I could see out the individual letters. The words refocused and my breath caught in my throat as I read.
Rosalie—
By now, you know that I've left. Not because I want to leave you, but because I have no other choice. Powers that I have zero control over have exercised their rights and forced my hand. Remember that you promised and remember that I'll be back.
Emmett
I stared at the words for a long, long time. It could have been minutes; it could have been hours. In my head, I replayed the conversation we'd had only the night before, when Emmett had extracted the promise that I hadn't understood.
Note or no note, I didn't exactly understand any better, but at the very least, he hadn't left because of me. He hadn't wanted to leave at all. The pressure in my chest lifted a miniscule amount, and I felt better—better but increasingly worried.
What were the "powers" and what "rights" did they have over Emmett? For most girls, these questions would have been answered by long sleepless nights, endless questioning of their best friends, and ultimately never knowing the true why.
Fortunately, I was my father's daughter and I had access to resources that most girls never did. Swallowing hard, I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed a number quickly, before I could change my mind. Emmett had made me promise that I wouldn't get involved—that I would absolutely stay out of whatever it was that hounded him—but I couldn't help but feel that keeping my promise would be a worse betrayal than breaking it. Emmett needed help, and I was well-connected and wealthy; there was nothing to stop me from doing whatever I could to at least find out why he had been forced from my side.
"John Tyler." The voice that answered the phone was clipped and professional—emotionless. I had heard my father praising the man for years for his amazing ability to uncover anything, and I was about to put all that to the test.
"This is Rosalie Hale. I need some information on a man named Emmett McCarty, lately from Boston, Massachusetts. Personal bodyguard and head of the security detail for Edward Cullen."
There was silence on the other end, as the man wrote down the necessary information. "And I need it fast," I added. Whatever Emmett was mixed up in, I instinctively knew it was dangerous and my heart ached for him. I wanted him safe and with me. We'd already wasted so much time coming together; I didn't want to lose him just as I'd found him.
"Anything in particular, Miss Hale?"
"Someone has . . .leverage on Mr. McCarty. I want to know what it is."
"Give me an hour." I heard a click and a dial tone, and I let the phone drop to the bed and I curled up next to it, my eyes never leaving the dark screen. I just hoped that John Tyler was half as good as my dad swore he was because I was putting all my faith and Emmett's safety and our future happiness in his hands.
Forty six minutes later, my phone rang loudly and I jumped, my eyes flying open. Throwing myself across the bed, I grabbed it and held it to my ear.
"This is Rosalie Hale."
"John Tyler here. I have some interesting information for you, Miss Hale. Would you like me to courier it to you or give you the high points over the phone?"
"Both," I demanded. I felt suddenly lightheaded and breathless, like I might faint. Gripping the phone tighter, I dug through my purse for a pen. Turning Emmett's note over, I waited for the PI to continue.
"Mr. McCarty was a doctoral candidate in history at Boston University in 2007 when he started making rather large bets with several notorious bookies."
"Bets? Gambling?" The Emmett I knew was rational and logical and was the least likely gambler I'd ever met. Clearly, there was a lot I needed to learn about him.
"Sports betting. Large amounts, as I said. But he managed to stay afloat and out of debt until 2008."
"What happened in 2008?" I asked, chewing the pen cap nervously.
"Mr. McCarty bet $25,000 that the Boston Red Sox would win the World Series."
I took a deep shaky breath. I remembered that series. Boston had gone down hard-to the Tampa Rays in the ALCS. They certainly hadn't made it to the World Series. And they definitely hadn't won. "And then?"
I practically heard Tyler's shrug over the phone line. "There were threats."
A wave of nausea had me gripping my stomach. I had heard things about gamblers who didn't pay their debts. But Emmett wasn't missing any fingers or toes and he didn't walk with a limp. I hadn't seen him naked yet, but I didn't think he was scarred. I hoped he wasn't scarred. "But they were only threats," I stated.
"Threats only, yes, as far as I saw. Then they 'sold' his debt to another group—a much shadier group than the bookies, I might add."
"Shadier?" My empty stomach roiled in protest. What could possibly be worse?
"I could only find out the name. My contacts clammed up when I even mentioned it; I can only imagine what they do, or who they're involved with."
"The name?" I shut my eyes tight and wished I was feeling something other than utter fucking panic at John Tyler's obvious hesitation to tell me what had befallen Emmett.
"The Red Hands of Ulster."
"They're a gang?"
"Not exactly. My sources—when they agreed to speak about them at all—said they were deep underground, mostly in Ireland, but had started moving to Canada recently."
"Ireland? So what, they're IRA?" I flippantly asked.
The silence on the other end of the line sent chills down my spine. I was beginning to understand Emmett's desperate request that I promise to stay out of whatever shit storm had consumed him and all his good intentions.
"Miss Hale," Tyler said, then hesitated. "I shouldn't say this—it's not my place to say it—but I know your father well, we've worked together for many years, and he wouldn't want you to get mixed up with these people. They're extremely dangerous."
For the first time since I'd opened the door to the empty room, I felt tears begin to well inside me and I hung onto the phone like a lifeline. "Tell me the rest."
He sighed. "If you insist. All evidence points to the fact that Mr. McCarty was told to get a job working for Mr. Cullen, and make sure that he trusted him. And from my own research, it's clear that Mr. Cullen isn't who he says he is either."
That particular fact, I thought despairingly, was the last thing I'd expected to hear. "Edward isn't?" I'd known, instinctually, that something had forced Emmett down to Edward's level, but the knowledge that Edward himself was a fraud was rather interesting.
"You know his mother . ." Tyler continued, and I interrupted him.
"Of course I know his mother. She doesn't interest me," I snapped, my patience totally fraying.
"Would it interest you to know that Mr. Cullen's absentee father is actually dead? Or that he was reputedly a ruling member of the Red Hands of Ulster?"
Horror bitchslapped me right in the face. The situation was beginning to make rather twisted sense, but that didn't mean I liked the circumstances anymore. Emmett, I decided, had gotten in way over his head. I only wished that he had trusted me enough to confide what was going on, instead of forcing me to promise I'd stay out of it.
"Thank you, Mr. Tyler," I said politely, distantly. His job was done here; there was no need to continue to play protector when that position was completely unnecessary. I was a Hale, and therefore completely (mostly) capable of taking care of myself.
"I'll courier over the information to the hotel in Boston," he said curtly, clearly upset that I had done everything but take his advice to leave the matter alone.
"Thank you." I clicked the end button on my phone and stared blankly ahead, not sure what to think. Emmett, blackmailed by the Red Hands of Ulster? Edward's father a member? I had a difficult time imagining Esme Platt ever involved with anyone associated with such a group, but then, she had been young too, at one time. Young and stupid, just like me.
My phone rang again, and I nearly rolled my eyes at Tyler's impertinence. I'd dismissed him—if he'd decided to call back to further lecture me on the danger of involving myself with this rogue group, I was going to see to it personally that my father had no more use for him.
"Rosalie," I barked into the receiver. "What do you want?"
"Rosalie, it's Carlisle. You need to come to the House of Blues. There's been . . ." Carlisle's voice trailed off and I could hear both panic and distress in his voice. Something had happened. Something that was both connected and disconnected from Emmett's sudden departure. I was beginning to get a very bad feeling indeed about these Red Hands of Ulster. Whoever the fuck they were.
"I'll be right there," I told him. "I was just at the hotel. . .freshening up." A lie, but it wasn't any of his business that I'd been here to see Emmett. Nobody knew we were involved; or that Edward and I were no longer together. And maybe it was better that way, considering what Emmett was mixed up in. I could operate with a lot more stealth if nobody suspected that I cared if a bodyguard of Edward Cullen's had mysteriously disappeared into the night.
"It's Edward," Carlisle said again, his voice cracking with worry. "He's gone."
I left instructions at the front desk for them to send Tyler's information to the House of Blues as soon as they received it as I had a sinking feeling that whatever Emmett-and to a lesser extent, Edward-was involved with, it had everything to do with the Red Hands of Ulster.
I found Carlisle in Edward's green room, pacing the floor, talking in hushed, frantic tones into his cell phone. I sat down on the couch to wait for him to tell me what had happened and where he thought Edward had gone. But I already suspected that I knew more than he did. Edward hadn't left; he'd been taken. By Emmett.
"Rosalie," Carlisle said after ending his call, "you got here fast."
I nodded. Once I'd realized the implications of what I knew and Carlisle's phone call, I knew we had no time to lose. "What happened?"
"I came back here, after the show ended, to talk to Edward. We had business to discuss, plans to make, etc. And," Carlisle said, his head falling into his hands, "I wanted to try to talk to him about cutting back." He didn't need to extrapolate on what exactly Edward needed to cut back on because we both knew-booze, women, beating up on random British men.
I knew that Carlisle felt as if he'd failed Edward. He'd been a star himself-not nearly as bright as Edward's-but a star nonetheless, though he'd given all that up a number of years ago to become a manager instead. He couldn't have been more than 45, and yet he was still undeniably hot, if you cared enough to look, which I really didn't. I saw Carlisle as Edward's father figure. A failed father figure, yes, but a father figure nonetheless, and it squicked me out to think of him as possible romantic material. But regardless, he'd managed to hold onto his looks long after everyone had expected them to fade. His blond hair was still thick and untouched with gray, his blue eyes were bright and ageless, and even though it was lined, his face didn't look old, merely lived in. Sometimes I thought about introducing him to my mother, but even as well-preserved as Carlisle was, he wasn't quite young enough for her tastes these days.
"He wasn't here though, and nobody had seen him-until I had the security guys at the venue check the camera footage outside the dressing room." Carlisle paused and looked at me, and I knew that he was aware of what had happened between Emmett and I and that he didn't want to be one the one to tell me the truth about the man I was involved with. He'd always shiied away from brutal honesty about Edward, and now he was doing it with Emmett, but I was strong enough (I hoped) to take it this time. I wouldn't be the one who needed the saving-I was going to be the white knight, not the damsel this time.
"I know what happened," I said. "Emmett's gone, and he's taken Edward, hasn't he?"
"Taken, kidnapped, I'm not sure what you want to call it. But there's footage of Emmett carrying Edward out, and there's a girl with them-looks kind of like a groupie, but pretty. Innocent looking."
My stomach clenched. I had expected the former but not the latter. I told myself that her presence was a coincidence, there was zero evidence that she was involved in the Edward plot or that even worse, she was involved with Emmett.
"Wait a minute. How do you know about Edward?" I heard the unspoken question in his voice-had I been in on the plot to take Edward too?-and I shook my head.
"Emmett left me a note, in his hotel room, telling me he was leaving. I called my dad's PI, and he uncovered some information, which he's sending over." I hesitated, not wanting to ask because I afraid of the answer, but knowing I couldn't leave the question unsaid. "Do you think we should call the police?"
Carlisle sighed, and I knew he was struggling with the possible implications of getting the police involved as much as I was. He was close with Emmett and had respected and cared about him, and despite what he'd done, sending the cops after him didn't feel right. Maybe, I thought, we could do this privately. I had enough resources available to me to get Edward back without ever having to involve the authorities, but I hesitated to suggest it because I didn't want Carlisle to know just how much my loyalties lay with Emmett instead of Edward.
"No," he said finally. "We're not calling the police."
"Then what do we do?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
"We wait for your information," Carlisle said, leaning back onto the couch and running a hand through his already messy hair. "And we call Edward's mother. She warned me, once, a long time ago, that something like this could happen."
"Edward's mother?" I knew Esme Platt-had known her long before I'd ever met Edward-but when I'd finally met her son, I couldn't believe they were related. Again, I found it difficult to comprehend stuffy, Chanel-wearing Esme Platt involved with the Red Hands of Ulster, but from Carlisle's comment, it appeared she was undeniably aware of their existence and of their interest in Edward.
"She told me if anything unusual ever happened, that I was to call her directly-and absolutely, under any circumstances, never to call the police."
Well that explained why we hadn't done the obvious in the situation-and it wasn't becuase Carlisle had some lingering affection for Emmett. I had a feeling that my task of protecting the man I cared about had just gotten tougher, though I definitely thought I could go toe-to-toe with Esme Platt if the situation required it.
"I'm going to call her now," Carlisle said, getting to his feet. He didn't exactly sound thrilled about the prospect and I didn't blame him. Esme was powerful and icy; a single word in her perfect Brahmain accent could cut you down to size-and then some. When I'd been young and I'd seen her lunching with my mother, or circulating at one of my parents' parties, I'd learned to steer clear to avoid a whole litany of corrections on my appearance, on my conversation and on my manners. I could only imagine what Edward had gone through, growing up with such a mother. Really, her rigid ideas of class and behavior explained a lot of why Edward was the way he was.
I could also imagine how much Esme Platt would distrust and disapprove of Carlisle, and the dread in his eyes wasn't all that surprising. But before he could dial the number, we heard a sudden commotion at the door. Someone was yelling in an extremely high-pitched loud voice-shrieking was actually a better term-and I could hear low male voices arguing, but I couldn't make out the exact words.
Carlisle walked over to the door and opened it, only to come face to face with a small girl, tiny and willowy, with cropped black hair and undeniably chic clothes that she wore with effortless grace. She might have been small, but she was definitely loud. Her face was red as a cherry and she was demanding that she see someone in charge of Athair. Someone who knew Edward Cullen.
"I'm Carlisle Masen, the manager for Athair," Carlisle said smoothly. "What appears to be the problem?"
The girl eyed him up and down as if he were the lowest form of cellular life on the planet. "My friend is gone, and I think Edward took her."
As the girl spoke, I began to have a very bad feeling about this-an even worse feeling than before, which was really saying something.
"How do you know she was with Edward?" Carlisle asked, his expression tight and blank, giving nothing away about how we knew that there was no possible way Edward could have taken anything.
"She came backstage halfway through the show to wait for him. That big security guy gave her a backstage pass or something. She's a music blogger-she only wanted to interview him," she said when Carlisle raised a single eyebrow. We all knew better, of course. The girl might want to believe that Edward gave interviews in his green room, but he and I both knew that the only interviewing happening was whether a girl liked it doggy or reverse cowgirl.
"I think you should come in here and discuss this with me, in private," Carlisle said, taking her by the arm and pulling her into the room with us. He shut the door behind him, and the girl continued to glare at him. It was only then that she noticed my presence and her jaw dropped a little. I was used to the reaction; after all, I was a fairly well known celebrity, but that didn't mean I had to like it.
"This is . . ." Carlisle began to introduce us, but the girl interrupted and walked over and forcefully stuck out her hand.
"Rosalie Hale, I know. I'm Alice Brandon." I extended my own hand reluctantly and was surprised at how firm her grip was and how she met my eyes with zero embarassment or hesitation. She might have been momentarily surprised by me, but she certainly wasn't intimidated.
"So your friend," Carlisle asked casually, "what does she look like?"
"Long brown hair, brown eyes. Short denim skirt, purple tank top. I could sketch her, if you'd like," she offered.
"That's not necessary," Carlisle said, and he sighed heavily. I knew then Alice's friend had been the girl he'd seen in the security footage.
"Do you know what happened to her?" Alice was like a dog with a bone-she was not going to give up until we told her exactly what we knew.
"You should sit down," he said to her. "This is going to come as a bit of a shock, but I don't think your friend was necessarily. . .expected. . .and she interrupted something she wasn't supposed to."
"And what was that exactly?" Alice asked, sitting down primly on the edge of the couch, her intense gray eyes never leaving Carlisle's.
"There was an unanticipated . . .departure of Edward, facilitated by his bodyguard, Emmett McCarty."
"The big guy, with all the muscles," Alice clarified and he nodded.
I couldn't help but notice how Carlisle was desperately trying to use any other word than what had actually happened. No doubt as soon as the truth became obvious, we were going to have a real fight on our hands to keep Alice quiet and prevent her from calling in the authorities to get her friend back. We would somehow have to reassure her that she would be safe until we managed to retrieve the missing pair.
"Bella was involved with the 'unanticipated departure'?" Alice sounded surprised.
"Worse than that, unfortunately. She also appears to have experienced an 'unanticipated departure.'"
Alice's eyes grew wide and her skin, already a beautiful milky shade, turned even whiter. "You mean, she and Edward are. . ."
Carlisle nodded.
"Wow," she said. "I told her she was crazy, but only Bella could manage to get herself kidnapped with Edward Cullen."
"Who said they got kidnapped?" I squeaked, amazed that 1) Alice had managed to connect the dots when Carlisle was being so ridiculously obtuse and that 2) she was so damn calm about it.
Alice rolled her eyes. "Please, 'unanticipated departure'? You don't have to spare me, I'm used to Bella's antics. Though, admittedly, this definitely ranks pretty high on the crazy scale."
"Kidnapped is perhaps a bit strong of a word," Carlisle started to say, but Alice interrupted him again, giving him another 'cut the bullshit' glare.
"Again, I'm not stupid. That's exactly what happened. So what's the plan? I guess we're not calling the cops."
I exchanged wary looks with Carlisle. "Not exactly," I interjected. "It's a . . .unique situation."
Sighing, she got to her feet. "Listen, I appreciate that you're trying to make sure I don't freak out, or panic or call the cops, but a little information-or a lot of information-is in order here. Bella is my best friend, practically the only family I have, and I want to make sure she's safe. Personally, I don't care how you get her back, as long as you do. And I have a feeling that you, Rosalie," she said, gesturing towards me, "are going to get better results than any number of Boston uniforms."
"That's the plan," I conceeded. "And you don't even know the half of it. Edward's mother is Esme Platt."
That surprised Alice, and she sat right back down again, her face slack with astonishment. "Really? Esme Platt?" Alice looked like the kind of girl who would be familiar with a woman who regularly appeared in Vogue and W and I was right. She knew exactly who Esme Platt was, and apparently I wasn't alone in my surprise that the bad boy of punk was a blood relation to the biggest snob on the planet.
Carlisle glared at me. "That isn't information that most people are privy to," he hissed at me. "Nobody is supposed to know."
It was my turn to roll my eyes at Carlisle, who was rapidly beginning to act less like an ex-rockstar and way too much like my prissy grandmother. "Carlisle, her friend is kidnapped, I think that her finding out that Esme Platt is Edward's mother is hardly the end of the world."
"Then you can explain to Esme when her face shows up next to Edward's in US Weekly," Carlisle retorted. "Speaking of Esme, I still need to call and inform her that her son is currently missing."
"Actually, he's kidnapped," Alice corrected sweetly, "though I don't think that using that word would probably be a good idea. Try 'unanticipated departure' instead-at least until she can swallow a valium."
Carlisle shook his head, and I thought I could see his mouth quirk into a tiny smile before he turned away and dialed Esme's number. I looked at Alice, who was proving to be far more entertaining than I'd anticipated. "She won't be surprised," I confessed. "At least not valium-surprised. She's the one who made the decision not to call the cops. Or at least she told Carlisle if anything ever happened, not to."
Alice digested that comment and then changed the subject. "So you're Edward's girlfriend, huh?" I could see her thoughts on her transparent face-she thought I was spineless and worthless and epically wasting my time on Edward Cullen, who she'd already decided could never commit. Even though I'd yet to tell anyone except Gianna that I'd broken it off with Edward, I shook my head.
"I dumped him," I told her. "Last night."
"And yet you're still here," she said, her expression unbelieving.
"Actually, this might be a surprise, but I'm not exactly here for Edward. I'm here for Emmett."
"He's the bodyguard, right?"
I nodded. "We're uh. . .newly involved." I was more than a little wary of divulging this fact, considering that it was highly possible-and also probable-that my lover had taken her best friend, but Alice, while still vibrating on an excessively high frequency, also appeared to be fairly laid back.
I was right, she took the news much better than I'd anticipated. "Well, between the two of us, you were too good for him anyway," Alice confided. "After all, someone who made People's 2009 Best Dressed Listdeserves better than Edward Cullen."
Carlisle returned then, and he looked stressed-even more so than before. I supposed that talking to Esme Platt could definitely add a few tension lines. "She's going to send a car to take us to her house in Hyannis Port. We're not to speak to anyone about Edward being missing-I'll tell the band and the crew that Edward's sick and going with us. I'm canceling the rest of the tour."
"And she'll know what to do?" Alice asked.
I turned to the dark haired girl next to me. "You've never met Esme Platt, so you don't quite understand yet. But you will. Be prepared to meet the strongest force of nature in the world. She's got money and power and is absolutely intractable. Of course," I added, with a honey sweet smile, "that doesn't mean that I'm not going to try to change her plans."
"Rosalie," Carlisle said warningly, but I waved away his concern.
"She's going to start a witch hunt for Emmett, and my job is to make sure that doesn't happen. The plan is to get Edward and Bella back while not condemning Emmett to a lifetime in jail."
"Good luck with that," Carlisle sighed.
I wasn't surprised to see that the "car" was instead a sleek black limousine. Carlisle didn't appear that surprised either, but then he'd been managing Edward's career almost from day one, and so he had to be rather familiar with the life that Esme Platt led. However unsurprised he was, though, I could tell from the moue of distaste he made as he opened the door for Alice and I that even if he was familiar, he still didn't approve.
"Not a fan of traveling in style?" I asked when Carlisle finally snapped his phone shut, about an hour outside of Boston. He'd been in manager-mode, canceling shows and making arrangements for the storage of equipment. I'd been rather pleased to hear that he'd even given instruction to pay all the suddenly-unemployed staff of Athair's tour rather large severance packages. I'd never had to worry about money, but I knew better than to think that the rest of the world lived the same way I did. Carlisle seemed to understand that particular fact, and I was beginning to suspect that unlike Edward's, his roots weren't exactly gilded.
Carlisle shrugged, and gestured to the luxurious appointments of the limo-soft leather upholstery, muted lighting, a tiny mini refrigerator with an assortment of gourmet drinks and snacks, even a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne. I'd grown up around this, but clearly he hadn't. "I'm not really the biggest fan of excess. I don't see how it's necessary or pertinent to happiness."
"Oh, it isn't," I reassured him. "I find that the only reason the luxury is necessary at all is to mask the distinct lack of happiness."
"A bandaid," Carlisle murmured, stroking absentmindedly at the leather seat. Clearly there'd been an angle in my confession that he hadn't ever considered. "Interesting."
As for Alice, it was clear that while her clothes were undeniably chic, she too came from a middle class background, and I was impressed at how casually she took the limo. But when we finally pulled up the brightly-lit gated private driveway to Esme's Hyannis Port compound, I could see the cracks in her composure beginning to show. Her hands gripped the edge of the seat hard, and she couldn't tear her gaze away from the flashes of landscaped gardens as we drove up to the main house.
"This is incredible," she whispered, more to herself than to Carlisle and I. "I've never seen anything like it before."
"Welcome to how the other .1% lives. No offense to you, Princess," Carlisle said, sending me an only slightly apologetic glance. I shrugged, understanding how easy it was to be jealous of the way that I'd grown up-having every single opportunity handed to me on a silver platter, with none of the worries or any of the normal doubt that plagued most families in America. But then, what Carlisle didn't know was that while outwardly we had it all, Esme and I paid for the excesses in secret, surprising ways.
The limo stopped and the door opened. I slid out first, only to come face to face with Esme Platt herself. I'd expected to meet her across a tea table complete with scones and antique silver and Limoges. I hadn't expected her to meet us herself-how unusually democratic of her.
Despite that I knew she'd recently turned 45, Esme Platt was still lovely, but then I expected she'd still have her looks for a number of years to come. She had the perfect aristocratic bone structure, complete with chiseled cheekbones and the perfect nose that she'd inherited from her equally blue-blooded mother-no plastic surgery required. Her skin was still youthful and her hair perfect, falling in golden chestnut waves from her smooth forehead. I felt Carlisle stiffen behind me. Apparently he too had not expected to see the Queen of the Manor quite so soon, and I saw Esme's green eyes go frosty and cold as she spotted Edward's manager.
Yeah, there was definitely some history there. And some bad blood too, if I wasn't mistaken.
"Rosalie," Esme said, turning back towards me, pasting a sweet, insincere smile on her face. She leaned in, giving me an air kiss on each cheek. "It's so lovely to see you. You look rested."
That was utter bullshit. I hadn't really slept in 48 hours, my hair was a wreck, and I didn't want to know the status of my makeup.
"And Carlisle," Esme said coldly, her smile disappearing. "Good of you to get here as quickly as possible. Now who is this? You didn't mention that someone else would be accompanying you." Those green eyes that missed nothing took in every single thread on Alice's small frame, and I could see from the vaguely judgemental expression that she'd guessed, as I had, that everything she was wearing was a knockoff of a designer original. Clever copies, yes, but still copies.
And if there was one thing that Esme Platt hated more than anything else, it was fakes.
"I'm Alice Brandon," she said, extending her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
I had to give Alice credit for courage under fire, because while she appeared genteel and polite, Esme was like a piranha. If she smelled even a hint of fear, she'd reduce you to a quivering heap of bloody self-doubt. Clearly, Carlisle was familiar with this, because he wrapped a casual arm around Alice's shoulders, and smiled down at Esme. Unlike Esme's saccharine smile, this one made zero pretense of being anything other than territorial.
"It appears that there was a third party privy to the incident that befell Edward. Alice is friends with the girl who was taken with Edward."
That was something Esme hadn't expected, and I had strong feeling that Carlisle had saved this particular salvo for this exact moment, if only to unbalance the woman in front of him.
"Let's go inside," Esme said, regrouping so quickly that I had to give her credit for her poise, even under fire. "We'll have some breakfast."
It wasn't until that moment that I'd noticed the sunrise in the east, and I felt a horrible nauseating gnawing in my stomach. Not hunger exactly, but fear. Fear that Emmett had taken Edward and Bella to places unknown and that they'd been gone for almost twelve hours at this point.
I reached out and clasped Alice's hand, needing reassurance more than food. She smiled up at me, and we walked behind Carlisle and Esme into the house.
"Tell me everything," Esme demanded, as we sat down in a small round table set in the nook next to the kitchen. It was clear this was the informal gathering area of the house, but even then, I couldn't help but be a little impressed. Considering all the summers I'd spent in the Hamptons and in Europe, the house should have been typical, but this was Esme Platt, and nothing she ever did was typical.
Everything was white, including the walls and the wainscotting and even the table. The only spots of color were the mismatched black chairs and the beautiful turquoise blue glass chandelier above our heads. I spooned some scrambled eggs onto my white china plate, and selected a pot of jam from the trio on the table.
Carlisle looked suddenly old and very tired, as he stirred his coffee. The cup looked delicate and out of place in his big hands, rough from all the years of playing the guitar. "There was security footage. They caught Emmett carrying out an unconscious Edward out of his dressing room, followed by a girl that I am fairly sure was Alice's friend Bella."
Esme set down her own cup with a decisive click of china against the lacquered wood of the table. "It was Emmett?"
He nodded, and I felt the dread, momentarily driven into submission by actual nourishment, begin to re-emerge. I took a small bite of jam-smeared toast and waited until the right moment to bring up to Edward's mother that her son was a piece of worthless trash and that I'd finally dumped him, only to hook up with the man that had ended up kidnapping him.
Screw the Kennedys-the real drama in Hyannis Port was happening at this table.
"I have to say, I'm astonished. I thought Emmett was trustworthy," she said, and there was a definite unspoken addition of "unlike you" after. Obviously the relationship between Edward's mother and his manager had its own history. Of course, as much as I couldn't see Esme in a relationship with a man involved with the IRA, it was even harder to imagine her befriending an aging, washed up, ex-rockstar.
"He is," I interrupted. Esme looked up, surprised, as if she'd forgotten I was still here. And that was probably true enough, I thought. I knew Esme had always seen me as the perfect accessory to Edward-cultured, rich, and ultimately not enough of a presence to be remembered.
"Rosalie, darling, I'm not sure how you would know. I can't imagine that you've had much contact with the man."
Oh, she had no idea, I thought darkly as I met her inquisitive gaze. "Actually," I corrected her lightly, "I know him well. He was a great comfort, especially during Edward's more. . .creative. . .periods."
Alice bit back a chuckle, and I could even see a small smile threatening to emerge on Carlisle's face. "I don't know what you mean," Esme said smoothly.
"Let's cut through the bullshit," I said with equal grace, the words I used at a cruel juxtoposition to my tone of voice. "Edward was a jerk to me. He cheated on me constantly, he was never nice, and he certainly had no real lasting affection for me. I know you liked that we were dating because I was the kind of woman you could see him with... unlike the parade of groupies. Emmett, despite the unfavorable connotations of this incident, is a true gentleman." I met Esme's eyes guilelessly and smiled sweetly.
She paused, her spoon in her coffee cup hesitating for the briefest of seconds, and I knew that she knew what I'd just said was the truth. Surely Carlisle had told her of his worries. She was his mother after all. But when Esme spoke again, her tone of voice was again even, and I couldn't read through the blank mask on her face.
"I've been anticipating this development for some time. I have adequate protection here, in Hyannis Port, and in my houses in Boston and New York. But Edward, on tour, and associating with all sorts of people," she said, her voice betraying only a fraction of her disgust for her son's lifestyle, "he was always in graver danger than I. And it was always Edward they wanted."
"The Red Hands of Ulster?" I asked.
"Yes," Esme said quietly. "They are who have him now. That's why we can't call the police. They would be completely ineffectual against such a group. I have connections. We'll get Edward back."
"And Bella?" Alice asked, her tone of voice almost an exact match for Esme's. I smiled at her, and couldn't help but be a little impressed. She learned fast.
"Who is Bella?" Esme asked, a tiny frown appearing between her perfectly groomed eyebrows.
Even for Esme, she was being obtuse. Maybe, I told myself, you should give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she's worried about her son. Though it was definitely a little late to show any interest in him now.
"She was taken with Edward. She'd gone backstage to interview him for her blog about Boston music. Carlisle said she was with them in the security footage." Alice turned to Carlisle, her manner sweet and unassuming, but I caught the calculation in her gray eyes. "Her mother is going to be especially worried about her. Perhaps we should ask her to join us here. If that would be alright with Ms. Platt, of course."
"Please, call me Esme," Esme said. "And who, pray tell, is Bella's mother?"
Alice smiled so sweetly, but with such anticipation that I tensed. "Didn't I mention Bella's last name? Her mother is Renee Swan."
AN: I mentioned in the last chapter that I was donating an outtake of Sins of the Father to Fics for Nashville. Donate a minimum of $5 to this great cause, and you'll receive not only the outtake, but a copy of every fic that is being donated by a list of amazing authors.
I couldn't say last chapter who's POV the outtake was in because you hadn't met her yet, but now that you've met my ballbuster Ice Queen Esme, I'm happy to announce that the outtake is about her, and her past-specifically about her past with Edward's father and Carlisle. It will eventually get posted here, but not until mid-summer. I'm putting a link to the Fics for Nashville on my profile.
One last note, this story is stretching me as a writer more than I ever dreamt that it would. To prevent burnout and frustration, I'm writing a piece of fluff on the side-called Mistletoe Confessions. Yes, it's a Gossip Girl story, but if you've ever seen it, I think you'll enjoy this bit of hilarity. Check it out if you'd like.