Disclaimer: S. Meyer owns all things Twilight. I just decided it was time to shake things up a bit in her characters' world. And I wanted a bitchy Bella, so here we go!
Oh, and all of the references used in this story in relation to the advertising and marketing company and accounts are only used here for entertainment purposes; no copyright infringement intended.
A gargantuan Thank You to Flyaway Dove, who's been kind enough to beta both of my stories! Gracias! Danke shoen and all that, girl! You rock my literary world!
*shameless plug* - Check out my other story and let me know what you think – Two Worlds Collide (by LauraLoo7)
Thanks also to angelicwish for providing me with feedback on how this story is flowing – I heart you! As always, Hellooo and hugs to Lita and my bestie Jennay who both keep me going and devour my chapters faster than I can churn them out!
The games continue. This time, we get to see it all go down from Edward's point-of-view. And don't worry – it's time for Isabella to get in touch with her inner grovel beast. Oh, and trust me – there IS such a thing.
Chapter Eleven: War and peace
Edward POV
The week leading up to the conference had been awful and as the plane lifted off I decided it might be the only time I'd have in the next seven days to really relax. Isabella settled in and fell asleep quickly. I could imagine how little she must have been sleeping these days; I hadn't gotten much sleep either. Quietly, so as to not disturb her, I pulled the book out of my carry-on and began to read.
Even as I flipped the pages, I was acutely aware of her body in the next seat – quiet, peaceful and human. She shivered and I asked a passing flight attendant for a blanket, which I draped over her.
"Did you sleep well," I asked her when she awoke. She said yes and then, noticing my book, commented on the author and the characters. We discussed it for a few minutes, after we determined it was a mutual favorite, and I was pleased at the relative ease with which we conversed. Gauging her openness, I decided to explore further.
"So, if you could be any type of animal, what kind would you be," I asked, focusing on her. She objected to choosing just one, so we settled on two and she told me either a horse or a bee. Isabella was intelligent – this was no secret – but she seemed to be aware of the game I was playing. You can learn a lot from people and their personalities by asking this seemingly benign question. Laughing quietly, I asked her to explain her choices. Very interesting.
"So…what about you," she asked. "If we're being fair, you're also allowed two."
I answered that I'd choose a stag or mountain lion, knowing she'd rise to the occasion and decipher my reply. After considering my choices for a moment, she smirked and started her analysis. I couldn't help but laugh; she knew how to play games. Trying to bait her, I asked if the characteristics were accurate, but she simply answered as if I was asking about the animals. And then she asked me about what I did for fun, and suddenly I had lost my playful advantage.
"I, um, like to run," I admitted. "And I enjoy playing the piano and composing music." She was impressed, she said, and asked me more about writing music. Secretly, I had been composing a song for about two months; it had changed many times along the way, but it was always fun to play and I never knew where the next note might lead. I explained that everything inspired me, and then shut my mouth. Have I said too much? The silence seemed to signify the end of the conversation, and Isabella settled back under her blanket and closed her eyes.
"I like that idea – putting life to music," she said quietly, already drifting off again. "That sounds really nice. I wonder what my song would sound like."
As I watched her, I wondered how a woman could be so different, almost like two distinct people. She was simultaneously a formidable beast and opponent, and then just a little girl with a laugh that made me melt and a quick wit and wry sense of humor. Once her breathing had evened and slowed, I could resist no longer. I had to touch her, and I gently caressed her skin of her cheek as she slept.
"Mmmm…," she sighed as my fingers glided over her cheek. I am in big trouble.
Maybe this weekend would be a turning point. At the very least I hoped it would allow me some time to get to know the real Isabella Swan. That is, if there was a different version that lived out of the suits and the prim hairdos, outside of the office and the briefcase and the bitchiness.
But Isabella was all business as soon as she had rested after our flight, and it disheartened me. How would I ever get to know her at all? This new plan of mine was, thus far, completely ineffective. In frustration, I cranked the speed on the treadmill in the hotel gym and decided to sweat out my disappointment. After my run, I ran back up the stairs two at a time, anxious to shower.
Feeling refreshed and having resigned myself to tackle work, I strode out of the bathroom in search of some clothes. And then I heard her. Isabella's muffled voice drifted through the thin wall and I moved closer, with my ear against the wallpapered surface. She was moaning and mumbling at first, but then I heard unmistakable words.
"Oh God, Edward, don't stop…"
Her whimper was thick with implications and yearning, and my dick twitched instinctively with each syllable. Suddenly incapable of any thought that didn't involve me breaking down her door and scooping her up in my arms, I stumbled back a few steps. Willing my body to calm the fuck down, I ran my fingers roughly through my hair.
It couldn't be. Was I hearing things? Was she dreaming…about me? I sat there for a few more moments, wanting to hear more, a ridiculous smile plastered on my face. Isabella was dreaming about me and she didn't want me to stop, whatever I was doing. Then I heard the shower turn on next door, and sat on the bed to catch the breath I seemed to suddenly be lacking. Part of me couldn't fathom why she'd be dreaming about me; the other part of me hoped against hope that it was a good sign. Maybe she liked me after all. Hell, maybe she had feelings…for me, somewhere down deep, under all that shitty angst.
The shower was off, and I knew Isabella must be getting ready, and I pulled on a pair of jeans making a valiant effort not to think of naked, wet Isabella. There was a knock on the door and I walked to open it, grabbing a towel to dry my hair on the way. Isabella stood in the doorway, looking adorable and sexy – how does she do that to me – in jeans and a sweater. She asked if I was ready, and I told her I'd be over once I finished dressing. I couldn't get that fucking shirt over my head fast enough.
We worked for a while at the table in her very nicely appointed suite, but then she moved to the floor. I took it as a sign of her comfort level when she lay on her stomach. It was so damn cute. As Isabella worked she chewed absentmindedly on her pen and bounced her legs, which were bent and crossed behind her. I nearly swept her off the floor and onto her bed. She looked so vulnerable like that – deceptively so. I needed to be careful and keep myself – and my dick – in check.
But I figured I should move to the floor, too, so I tried to clear the thoughts from my mind and focus on the work. The damn work. Then I had to go and grab those brochures from her, and I got too close to the fucking flame. When our fingers touched it was like inserting a damned metal fork in an electrical outlet, and she gasped just as I felt the shock. She had felt it too. Then I really looked at her – her beautiful heart-shaped face, those deep brown eyes, full lips open in surprise – and I swear I could hear her heart thudding against her chest. I wanted her so badly. I needed her. God, did she know?
Then she offered static as the reason for the zap and all I could was stare, as I realized there was no way in hell I could kiss her or even touch her again. What the hell was wrong with me? This woman infuriated me, yet I was mesmerized and captivated by her, almost against my will. This was a futile state of affairs.
We took a much needed break for dinner, at my suggestion. With any luck, I reasoned I might be able to continue our conversation from the plane. Something happened on the taxi ride over, however, and she was quiet and icy and it left me confused – again. Internally, I threw my hands up in despair; what would it take to crack this woman? She ran so hot and cold. What the fuck?
I made an honest attempt to ascertain if something was wrong, and it backfired in glorious fucking fashion. She answered me with the usual disdain, and told me it was work that had her preoccupied. Of course; I shouldn't even entertain the notion that she'd share her personal thoughts. Once again I mentally chastised myself for childish ideas. And then she spoke those words and left me stunned.
"Look, Edward," she said, casting her glance downward. "I'm…I'm sorry."
She rendered me speechless for a moment. Was it a trap, a cheap parlor trick designed to force me to show my hand? With her, I could never determine her motivation, so I decided to play it safe, and simply be honest. I apologized to her for not meeting her expectations as a manager and added, for good measure, that I understood her position.
"First of all, Edward, you have lived up to Esme's and my expectations," she said, managing a forced smile. "And as for what you said that night – like I said before – let's just forget it." And then she narrowed her eyes and added, "And what do you mean that you understand?" And I foolishly took the bait, like a lamb led to the slaughter. Shithead.
"Well, I understand that you're a successful businesswoman, and you have worked really hard to get to where you are," I offered. "I know that there's a double standard in the corporate world. If a man's aggressive it's a favorable trait. Not so for a woman. It's a burden that you have to shoulder, and I just want you to know that I respect that."
"So, is that all," she asked me, the sarcasm dripping thickly from her ruby lips as she took another drink of her wine. "That's your understanding of me?"
It took a moment for me to register the shift in her demeanor. To anyone else it would have been nonexistent, the change from slightly uncomfortable and bitchy, to angry and bitchy. But I had plenty of experience with her moods by now, and I knew I needed to start backpedaling, even though I had committed no crime. A bit annoyed that I must further explain things, I said that I was sharing my observations and that my original inquiry had been of possible suffering on her part.
"Well, it seems that you know exactly what's bothering me, Edward," she spat back. "Apparently because I'm a successful businesswoman, I'm an emotional train wreck. Isn't that what you're getting at?"
I gaped at her in disbelief, although by now this ridiculous behavior shouldn't have shocked me. Then I got pissed off. Screw this woman and her self-righteous ways.
"No, that's not what I meant, and you know it, damn it! Why do you have to be like this," I exclaimed. "God, I was just trying to…forget it. Just forget it."
Quickly I located an escape route and made my decision. Tomorrow I might regret this – just maybe. At this moment, I was a man on fire, incapable of backing down once provoked. And Isabella Swan had provoked me for the very last time. Leaving my dinner unfinished, I stood up and reached for my coat. Once I knew I was able to look upon her face without yelling, I addressed the woman who had been my sole source of frustration and stress for the last two months.
"Look, I'm sorry for whatever distress I might have caused you these past two months, but it's done now," I said. "I've tried to make this work, for my career and for Esme, but I've hit a wall. Please excuse me."
I walked as if wearing blinders; nothing but the door was visible to me, so I didn't notice the flurry of movement behind me. Just as I reached the exit, a smaller hand jutted out of the blackness and blocked my escape.
"Where do you think you're going? Don't you dare make this about me," Isabella seethed, unleashing her full fury. "I've seen your type so many times before; hotshot exec who thinks he's the best thing since sliced bread. People like you come and go in our profession. Don't think that just because you're good at your job that you're irreplaceable."
Those words sealed our respective fates; in my mind, she would hopefully always regret being the cause for my decision. My fate was to forever be haunted by the brown eyes and hardened façade, and to never discover what lay beneath. And I would have to be okay with that. It was as if the two magnets had been flipped, suddenly polarizing us. I couldn't get away fast enough.
"Ms. Swan, consider this my resignation," I declared. Her face betrayed nothing. "I will stay here in Chicago until the end of the conference, and do what you and Esme require of me, but nothing more. I will contact Esme first thing in the morning to alert her of this change so that she can begin the process of selecting my replacement."
The cold evening air hit my face and the breath rushed out of me at once. The snow swirled around me as if it was angry, and the tickling sensation as the flakes hit my face calmed me somewhat. I didn't bother taking a taxi back to the hotel; the walk would do me good. Isabella didn't follow me and for once I had to give her credit. Nothing could be gained from any further conversation at this point.
Fuck her for belittling me for the last time. Fuck me for taking this infernal job. And fuck my life for ever meeting Isabella Swan.
Once I reached the doors of the hotel, I stood outside for a moment, staring up into the night sky and the lights of the skyscrapers around me. Feeling a bit more collected, I went through the entrance and straight up to my room, not bothering to take the stairs this time. My room was quiet – too much so – although I tried for a few minutes to relax with my book. After reading the same sentence for the seventh time, however, I surrendered and began pacing.
Should I feel guilty? Why? She caused this mess. I've been putting up with her shit for two months. And when I call Esme tomorrow, Isabella will have her to answer to as well. Esme will eventually forgive her, but it probably won't happen overnight. Some day she needs to be held responsible for her attitude. I don't care what darkness lingers in her past. This kind of behavior is unacceptable.
Where would I go now? There were plenty of other firms that would be glad to have me, I told myself. Surely Esme would try to win me over and convince me to stay. But this time I wouldn't let her. I couldn't. A drink was certainly in order after that ordeal, so I trudged down to the upscale hotel bar and settled into a glass of Laphroaig.
Halfway through my drink, I was feeling better. The fine whiskey burned on its way down my throat and warmed my insides. I hailed the bartender for another, and as he filled the glass, he looked up at me with a smile on his face.
"Bad night?" he asked. I smiled back, nodded, and pushed a twenty toward him. Thankfully he didn't press me further and went to attend to another customer. Checking my watch, I realized that an hour has passed since I left the restaurant. Silently I wondered what Isabella might be doing, and then shook my head to dislodge the thought. I don't give a shit what she's doing. Hopefully she's still sitting in that restaurant, drowning her sorrows in her fucking wine. Like I am in here.
I chuckled aloud at the realization, but no one turned to look at the crazy guy at the bar, laughing into his whiskey. Once I'd finished my second drink, its effects were widespread: my aching muscles – once tensed for battle – had loosened, my heart rate had slowed to a steady tempo and my insides felt like they were turning to a pleasant mush. I should send Laphroaig a thank you letter.
Dear Laphroiag Makers:
I'd like to sincerely thank you for creating a brand of single malt whiskey that not only tastes like the ancient peat bogs of Scotland from whence it comes, but is quite effective in erasing unpleasant memories. Even the most unsavory mental images – horrible people, awkward social situations, unrequited feelings of lust and affection – can be swiftly and completely obliterated with one or two glasses of your liquid gold.
I was much too preoccupied penning the thank you letter in my head to see the woman who walked into the bar. And if I had noticed her, I probably would have turned tail and run screaming through the large plate glass window that showed a picturesque view of the street. If I had glimpsed her out of the corner of my eye, I would have observed her take a seat at the end of the bar, four stools away, and order a martini. But I didn't.
Later, when I felt a light touch on my shoulder, I probably should've paid for my drink and gotten the hell out of that place before anything else happened. But I didn't. And when Isabella Swan opened her fucking perfect lips and spoke to me, I should've ordered her to shut up and save her breath for some other asshole fool. But I didn't.
"Edward, I'm sorry…that I've been so rude," she said. I convinced myself that the whiskey was giving me auditory hallucinations. "I just think it's the best way. It's the only way."
I couldn't even muster a response, and didn't look up at her. Instead I focused on my drinking. There was nothing left in me, and certainly nothing left to discuss. What would be the point in rubbing salt in my own wound? Nothing I could say would have any positive effect on her, and it would most likely only serve as ammunition for her to further emasculate me. And I could not handle any more of that fucking shit.
Undeterred by my silence, Isabella took the stool next to mine, and I took her momentary distraction to hazard a glance. She had changed; the jeans were tighter, sexier and she had replaced her sweater with a dark top that clung to her petite frame and pushed her already perky breasts further skyward. Her hair was wavy and it pooled on her shoulders and cascaded down her back. And she wore those expensive-looking black heels. Was she trying to finish me off with this damn outfit?
"What are you drinking," she asked, with obvious discomfort. Good. Let her fucking sweat. When I ignored her, she told the bartender that she wanted another drink for me and another martini for her. The vodka seemed to give her courage.
"Edward, please…you can't quit," she almost pleaded. I thrilled at the new tone in her voice as I stared at my glass. "I…Esme and I need you. The firm needs you and your clients need you. Please."
This had to stop. If she actually thought that simple false shame and guilt would be sufficient to lure me back into her clutches, she was sorely mistaken.
"Ms. Swan, I won't let you do this," I said, finally looking at her, trying to focus on hating her. "No amount of entreating on your part will change my mind. We've been barely tolerating each other for the two months I've been working at Swan & Platte, and it must end here. You cannot treat people this way, Ms. Swan. If nothing else, I want to impress upon you the error and shortsightedness of your ways. People in general, and more specifically your employees, are not chess pieces to be played, or coffee cups to be discarded after you've drained them of their contents. I sincerely hope that someday you learn this, before you lose another employee. Then again, maybe I'm the only one you've despised in this way."
Quite possibly, she was drunk from the wine at dinner and the martini. Maybe she was feeling desperate. There was a chance it was another trick. Or perhaps something I had said finally made an impression on her. Those things I was unsure of. But when Isabella Swan looked at me again, her doe eyes brimming with tears, I felt the familiar magnetic pull, as if the two pieces had been flipped over again, and I cursed myself as she spoke.
"Edward, I'm so sorry, so very sorry," she whispered, her lower lip quivering. "I don't know what else to say. I've been a tyrant. It's horrible, inexcusable and I feel wretched about it." Then she sniffled as a solitary tear spilled over and ran down her cheek, and I had to grasp my glass even harder to restrain myself from catching it. "Have you ever dug yourself such a deep hole that you can't climb out, or even see the sky? I can't see the sky Edward. It's gone."
And then she did something that even I wasn't expecting, and it broke my heart. Isabella Swan started to cry. She let her head fall into her hands, there at the bar, and began to weep openly. I felt pity and remorse for her. She needed to stop crying. Nervously, I extended my hand and lightly placed it on her back, and when I made contact with her, she shivered, but did not object. Slowly I began rubbing in small, hesitant circles, until her sobbing subsided and her breathing slowed. Isabella raised her head so her gaze was level with mine, and I saw an unfamiliar person behind her brown eyes. It scared the piss out of me.
"I've made such a mess of things, haven't I?" she asked, and I offered her a half-smile as I took a sip of my drink. "Do you know that I've been walking through the city since dinner, trying to formulate some ingenious strategy for winning you back, and I've come up with nothing? I just knew that I couldn't let you call Esme tomorrow without giving this my best effort. Can I ask you something?"
I shrugged.
"Just for the remainder of tonight, can you and I agree to view each other as complete equals? As a guy and a girl – two people – who need to make the best of what they've been dealt?"
And although I had no intention of allowing her to dissuade me from resigning, part of me was curious to hear what she had to say. I'd grant her the rest of the evening, and she could say whatever she wished, whatever helped her sleep at night. And in the morning, I would call Esme. When I did not respond to her request, Isabella implored once more.
"I know I've done nothing to deserve your trust, Edward, but please give me this one thing," she beseeched me. "If by morning you still feel the same, I will accept your resignation and call Esme myself. And I will be the one to recommend you to my competitors when we return to Seattle. This is my fault and I'm prepared to accept responsibility for my actions."
"For the rest of the night, then, I'm just Edward and you're…?" I let my question trail off, not knowing how to proceed.
"Bella. Just Bella."
Bella. Not Ms. Swan; not Isabella. Bella. Beautiful.
"Bella," I repeated, this time aloud, and extended my hand for her to shake, as if we were sealing a business deal or agreeing to a truce. Fat fucking chance.
Bella grasped my hand, and when our fingers and palms connected, the electricity rippled through both of us, and we stared at each other in recognition of the familiar sensation. She withdrew her hand first from within my grasp, and started our new conversation in a rather unorthodox fashion:
"I'm damaged, Edward – a fucking mess."
No fucking shit.
Over a few more drinks, she told me about her struggles in college and after, when she and Esme began their venture. She sipped her drink and then took gulps of a refreshed one as she described the men in her life, punctuating the more heinous relationships by roughly biting olives off the plastic toothpick in her drink. Bella even told me about her mother and father, their messy divorce and its long-lasting aftermath, and the money that someone could've procured had she attended legitimate therapy sessions (she said she thanked Alice, Rose and Esme for her "free therapy"). It was as if the floodgates had been opened. For so long I had yearned to know her, and now I was getting my wish in spades.
"Look, I know this in no way excuses my behavior over the last two months, but this is what I am," she offered. "These people and things have all shaped me, for better or worse, into the person I am now. I'm sure other people have it far worse, but this is my reality. I can't make excuses for any of it; I am who I am. But I…I wanted you to know that I wasn't always like this."
She stopped for a moment and took another swig from her martini, and then reached into her small black purse and retrieved an elastic band. With one sure movement of her hands she swept her long chocolate tresses up into a ponytail, and I watched with fascination. Then she turned her sad eyes back to me.
"Edward, I'm tired of fighting with you," she admitted, licking her lips. "It's exhausting, frankly. I mean, I might be a strict, no-bullshit boss, but this thing between us" – she gestured back and forth with her hand – "goes way beyond the norm for me." Talk about understatement of the century. She finished her martini and opened her mouth to say something, but I stopped her.
"Wait. I need to say something," I stated. "What are we supposed to do? I, uh, appreciate you being honest with me, but how does this change anything? We're not working right now. Are you going to tell me that tomorrow will be any different from any other day? And what happens on Monday? What happens when we get back to Seattle?"
Bella appeared to take this all in, and after getting the bartender's attention for another round, she started drawing circles in the ring of condensation left by her glass on the wooden surface. Just because I had agreed to her request didn't mean I was going to let the past two months slide without a second thought.
"Well, you agreed to give me the evening, so let's just see what happens, okay? No competition, no dirty pool, just me and you," she proposed.
Call me an idiot, but again, I couldn't say no.
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