Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Twilight characters in this story. This story builds on two previous stories that, to understand all the easter eggs and hints in this story might be good for you to read (or even reread). The first story, a trilogy, starts with "Secrets of the Court" followed by "The Broken Throne" and "The Weight of a Crown" and forms the basis of this sequel. The other story is "Audeamus" which is also another building block for this story.
This fic was meant to be published this spring as I started writing it more than a year ago but...life happens. I hope you enjoy reading it and am, as always, open to feedback :) Please remember that English is not my first language, it's my third language, so I'm trying as best as possible.
Now, let's take another adventure in Angloa, this time during the present-day!
The Portrait and The Letter
Chapter 1
The branches bristled faintly outside the windows. Browns, greens, and pink hues intermingled in the backdrop of the budding spring. April was reaching its zenith and the warmth that came with it reminded of what was to follow.
She regarded the vast hall leading to the Throne Room of the palace of Safeira, the sapphire city. This was the palace of her ancestors, of the proud Fell dynasty. Few monarchs remained in Europe as progress and democracy had turned into the new form of government for many countries. The kings and queens who remained were isolated to what remained of their once powerful rule, acting more as ornamental heads of state without the actual power. They did not have any further or little to say in the governance of their countries—not like before.
Hazel eyes regarded the various portraits of her ancestors which proudly graced the walls. She had stalked these corridors since a girl, had run with her father and mother watching in the background. Despite the years, the palace Aldea would never grow old on her which towered high above her head. The Queen of Angloa turned around at the faint echo of footsteps, followed by the opening of the main doors.
"Ma'am, the car has been waiting for you for the past half hour," the grave and baritone voice of a man broke through her peace.
Leonore Fell turned around, her shoulders stiff, her hands clasped before her. White streaks ran through her neatly coifed gray hair. She pursed her lips and rose an eyebrow.
"I am certain she can wait a few more minutes," she said absentmindedly whilst turning around once more to stare at the paintings.
"Ma'am, while the drive to the east wing may be a short one, decorum calls for us to…"
The queen shook her head, her back still turned to him. "She will wait, as I have made her predecessors wait." A faint smirk touched the corner of her lips. "It is tradition, Athar."
Nigel Athar's shoulders sank in defeat. Bloody tradition, he sighed. But she was adamant, and how could he argue against his queen?
"Of course, ma'am," he bowed. Then, he straightened up again. "Five minutes."
Leonore did not acknowledge his words. She turned back and was enthralled by a painting in particular—that of her favorite ancestor.
William Fell.
There had been many Williams after him, but none who could compare. She watched him standing proud in his renaissance regalia, as handsome as his father Philip had been—maybe even more so. Leonore had shared his copper locks in her youth, the proud mouth and aquiline nose. But her eyes were nowhere near as expressive as his. Indeed, William Fell had been renowned for his emerald eyes. Every scribe or historian, since his passing to the present day, would indeed remark on them.
Leonore clasped her hands before her, wondering about him, about what his thoughts would be of Angloa today. He had started a golden age that would last decades. What would he think of the future?
She remembered the moment her father had passed, twenty-six years ago. She remembered how her older brother Edmund had succumbed to cancer. Leonore was never first in line for the throne. She had never wanted it. But her trade was the crown, and it was her duty. She had taken on the responsibility of continuing with her lineage. She had taken the burden.
And she had learned the secret of her ancestor, as her predecessors had before her.
It was tradition.
Upon the coronation of a new monarch, it was the task of the head of the marshals of the land, the Athars, to relay the secret that their family had guarded for nigh five hundred years. The secret of William and the secret of Cullen.
Leonore frowned, quickly turning away from him, from her ancestor. For almost three decades she had carried the burden of his secret, like so many before her. And she had done it alone, only Athar was in her fold. Alas, she could never share her scrupulous thoughts with him on the matter.
Tradition.
It had been kept a secret for half a millennium, she thought as she paced through the marble corridors of Aldea. A little scoff escaped her, enough to cause a raised eyebrow in Athar.
Leonore trailed down the recently washed steps and was met by a sleek black car that would take her to the east wing. Elections in Angloa had just ended and the ballots had been counted. The country had a new prime minister; the first woman in Angloan history. Leonore smirked to herself, eager to see what this PM was made of.
Abigail de la Cereda smoothed out her skirt as she paced around the elegant room. Georgian furnishings screamed of taste, and she did not doubt that most furniture in that exquisite room was at least two or three centuries old.
She had been waiting half an hour, knowing fully well that the queen had a predisposition for making people wait for her. It was expected. It might have irritated her predecessor—lord knew Mr. Barker had been a stiff conservative with strict rules for tradition and protocol. How drole he had been, Abigail muttered inwardly. Her agenda was quite different. She had managed to form a coalition in the Conventus and push for what the country needed—a reform and to truly enter into the 21st century.
Angloa was, on paper, a constitutional monarchy. Like other European countries, Angloa had its legislative branch, the Parliament which went by its official Latin name Conventus Nationalis. The country had its judicial branch with separate courts and its executive branch. While a president or prime minister might be the head of government and thus the executive branch, in Angloa, that role befell the monarch, as it had since the official establishment of the Conventus in 1699. It had never changed. The role of the prime minister was to make certain everything sailed smoothly. Thus, the monarch of Angloa held more power over the country than most monarchs left in the western world did. There had been battles and attempts at reformation previously, but the more conservative politicians wished to uphold the old ways. Abigail knew that more than half of the politicians seating the conservative parties were there mainly due to their aristocratic backgrounds, not because of their political abilities.
Suddenly, the door behind her slammed shut, and in walked the most powerful woman in Angloa. Caught off guard, Abigail dropped into an overdone curtesy, almost tripping on the rug with the heel of her stiletto.
The queen smirked. She was pure elegance, in Abigail's eyes, and had aged mighty well, like fine wine. Leonore Fell was well into her sixties, but she had the youthful air of a forty-year-old, although sometimes, the press speculated, she showed tendencies of a twenty-year-old.
"Sit down before you break a leg," Leonore said as she gestured to one of the chairs which had been brought for them. Abigail did as asked, quietly sinking into the ivory silk, delighted at the soft cushion. Leonore gracefully sat down opposite her, tucking one leg behind the other.
"Tea?" she asked.
"No thank you, Your Majesty," Abigail smiled.
Leonore frowned, moving away from the prepared set before them. Instead, she stood up and went to a table near the window, housing several stoppers filled with various alien liquids that Abigail guessed to be alcohol.
"Something stronger?" Leonore asked.
Abigail was once more caught off guard.
"It's not even noon, ma'am," she deadpanned.
Leonore had already poured herself a glass. "If I'm to get through this drole affair, I need at least a glass in me."
Silence followed and Abigail pressed her lips tightly together.
"In that case, pour me an extra-large one."
Leonore pointed at Abigail. "I like you more than your predecessor already," she smiled as she poured some brandy for the younger woman.
"I thought the monarch wasn't supposed to have an opinion on us PMs," Abigail blinked as Leonore handed her the glass.
Leonore sat down and blinked back. "Please, even I found Mr. Barker excessively drole."
Abigail took a few sips and straightened her pencil skirt. "Ma'am, I am here to officially form a government after my election."
"And I approve, of course." Leonore smirked. "I tell you it was time for a female Prime Minister."
"Yes ma'am," Abigail nodded. "I would like to discuss some of the direction I wish for the country, some work, reforms, and—"
"Reforms," Leonore nodded slowly.
Abigail tensed up. "Ma'am, I did not mean—"
"Reforms, Madam Prime Minister, are exactly what Angloa needs." Leonore settled further back in her chair. "Reforms that many may be opposed to but that are necessary nonetheless."
Abigail's eyebrows knitted together. "Ma'am, I am not certain if I understand you correctly."
"Madam, you're a politician, I would think you'd be used to the cryptic language by now."
Abigail smiled. "Aye, but I'd not expect such language from my queen."
Leonore nodded knowingly. "I have read your suggestions, your policies. Most of them are good, most of them will meet quite the resistance in the Conventus."
"Most of them need 75 percent of the votes and your backing ma'am, to go through."
"Then get the votes and I will back you, Madam Prime Minister," Leonore said. "I look forward to seeing you bring Angloa into the 21st century. Mr. Barker would have had us remain in the Middle Ages," she sighed.
"I am comforted then, ma'am, to know of your support. But I shall keep this knowledge to myself." Abigail, who had been quite nervous before meeting the queen, found herself rather relaxed now. "Did Your Majesty happen to catch the news this morning?" she asked.
"Yes," Leonore said, keeping the smile on her face. "What a great discovery for Angloa and what a show of goodwill from the French." Inwardly, however, she fought hard to control her poise.
"If I may be so bold, ma'am, to ask what you will do with the General's painting?"
"It belongs to the people… I aim to display it in Aldea so that those who visit may see it."
"The Ministry of Culture has a strong backing and gotten many letters from the people, polling shows it favorable to you if you were to allow the painting to be displayed in the National History Museum," Abigail said.
Leonore stood up, indicating the end of their conversation. "Many things remain to be discovered and all artifacts must of course be restored before such things are considered."
"Of course," Abigail said, standing as well. She headed for the door, not seen out by the queen, as was custom. But Abigail de la Cereda turned around before leaving. "Thank you, ma'am," she smiled warmly before leaving.
Leonore clutched her hands and sat down, looking at the tea set for a moment before fishing out her phone from her pocket. She pressed it against her ear, listening to the signal, waiting for the other end to pick up. "We need to talk."
"Paintings have, in their highest form, served as a vehicle for stories. Painting a narrative picture can be equaled to writing an opera. By understanding a painting, truly seeing the symbolisms they carry, we can unlock their true meaning."
The lecture hall was silent, hundreds of people were sitting in the 200-year-old room. It was a semi-circle of stacked seats facing the speaker's platform where, next to a raised podium, illuminated by spotlights, stood a woman with a microphone. She stood before a large screen, showing bold lettering that read 'Historic Paintings of the Middle Ages and Renaissance'. She appeared to be in her element, at ease with a hundred pairs of eyes looking at her, standing comfortably on the wooden podium, prolonging her stylistic pause.
"The paintings we are going to study during these lectures form part of a long tradition, prefigured in Antiquity and defined during the Renaissance. I ask that you save any questions you might have for the end of this lecture…" she trailed off, already seeing some raised hands. "But I guess some of you are overly eager," she blinked. It caused a chuckle to roll through the hall. She switched to the next slide showing the Renaissance painting of a striking man standing before a palace with the sea next to it. "Don't worry, there is a whole lecture talking about Philip and William Fell." She switched to the next slide showing a man dressed entirely in black, even his face was covered by a black mask. "And the General as well."
For the next hour, the woman proceeded to speak, showing slides of Medieval paintings, explaining their history, pausing to reflect on historical events only to continue on to the next painting. She engaged the students, had them think out loud, had them ponder on the scenes she displayed before them on the screen. When the lecture was over, and the lights came on, the entire hall burst out into loud clapping as a man her senior joined her on the podium.
"Thank you, Miss Dwyer!" he said, joining with a microphone. "That was excellent."
Isabella Dwyer smiled and gave a small nod. She turned her attention once more to the room. "I promised to answer your questions."
Suddenly a dozen hands flew into the air and Bella couldn't help as a little chuckle escaped her. She pointed at an eager young woman in one of the front rows. Her curly red hair had been gathered into a low ponytail and her librarian's glasses had slipped down her nose. Someone approached her with a microphone.
"What are your thoughts on the newly discovered Angloan artifacts and paintings in Alsace?" she asked. Seven hands came down as they no doubt had the same question. "Do you have any information regarding the General's painting? Is it the original?"
Bella nodded and raised the microphone to answer. "For those of you unaware," she began, causing yet another stir of laughter as what they were talking about was obvious to most present. "Yesterday, the French government discovered an underground shelter in Alsace, near Strasbourg, containing various artifacts taken from Safeira during the Second World War by the Germans and seemingly forgotten after the defeat of Nazi Germany. Among these artifacts were some Angloan literary works and paintings, one of them being the believed original painting of General Edward Cullen, done by an anonymous painter and believed to be the only painting of the Great General when he was alive."
Some in the crowd appeared to not have known.
"It was announced early this morning." She turned to the student who had asked. "The painting arrives early next month and will be examined by conservators appointed by the Ministry of Culture, approved by the crown of course. I wouldn't be surprised if some of my colleagues are involved. However, it is still too early to say if it is an original or not."
More hands flew into the air. Bella signaled out an older man with a bald head. "And what about the initial scans the French have made of the painting? They say there may be a lot of overpainting."
"Again, at this point, it is mere speculation." Bella looked out over the sea of raised hands. "Is there anyone in this class who does not have a question regarding Cullen and the painting?"
Almost all the hands were lowered save a few. Thus, Bella spent the next ten minutes answering questions before terminating the class.
"But I suspect some of my colleagues will be involved?" Eric Yorkie mimicked as Bella started packing her belongings and making ready to leave the lecture hall.
"I really do think Jennie or Anne have a shot at being asked by the Ministry of Culture," she blinked.
"And what was that about 'they are only speculations'? You shouldn't be adding fuel to the fire when it comes to the conspiracy theories regarding Cullen, Izzy."
Bella rolled her eyes at the much-hated nickname. "Yeah, but those are the same people that believe in that undercover corps or whatever," she laughed.
Eric pointed at her. "Oh, the SCR is real, Izzy! They're just so good you've never seen them!"
She rolled her eyes again as she put her laptop into her oversized purse, shifting the weight on her feet from one to the other. She loved how she looked in heels but hated how uncomfortable they were.
"Whatever makes you sleep at night," she blinked, slinging the purse over her shoulder. "Mia is waiting for me, I promised we'd get dresses for the gala on Friday!"
"Darling, if I see another commercial asking me 'where were you during the pandemic' I swear I'll throw out my TV!" Mia exclaimed dramatically as they walked past the large screens on the opposite side of the road leading to High Street in Safeira.
Bella shrugged, finishing her apple, and casually tossing it into the iron bin that was secured against the tall 19th-century streetlamp. Their heels clicked against the stone as they ducked into a side street, getting away from the busy pedestrians and into a charming boutique displaying the latest fashions in dresses for the spring season.
"Well, where were you during the pandemic, Mia? I remember very well you were locked into your apartment, glued in front of the TV and refusing to work remotely," Bella sighed.
"A woman of my caliber needs social interaction, or she stops functioning," Mia commented, casually looking over the dresses. Both women had, of course, made sure to disinfect their hands with the provided disinfectant upon entering, as was custom ever since after the pandemic. Some people had gotten into the habit of wearing masks even if they were not really necessary anymore.
Mia picked out a dress as Bella looked at her phone and made a sound of disgust causing her friend to turn around. "I told you to stop stalking Mike on social media," she chastised.
Bella closed the app quickly—she swore Mia had a sixth sense when it came to her and men. How on earth could she have seen her casually looking at Mike's Instagram stories from a few feet away?
"Why don't you pick that one?" Bella said, quickly changing the subject.
"Because my figure doesn't go well with that designer," Mia said.
"What about that one?" Bella picked out a gown that she found cute, in a tasteful muted rose color that ended just below the knees with quarter-length sleeves and displaying just the right amount of the neckline. "It would look so nice with your ivory pearls!"
"Bella, darling, if grandmama hadn't passed away last year, I would have taken her here to dress me. I don't need you to fill her shoes."
Bella arched an eyebrow. "I guess this is too conservative by your grandmama's standards, may her soul rest in peace." Bella grew subdued by recalling the sudden loss of a close family friend.
"Then if it would've been too conservative for her, it's definitely too conservative for me."
"We're going to a gala, Mia, not the club."
"Darling, I turn 32 in a few months, and while some may look at that as still being young, I'll dress the way I want to until it's deemed socially unacceptable—"
"Dressing like a 20-year-old at your age is already socially unacceptable," Bella smirked, quickly ducking as Mia hurled her scarf her way.
"Ladies." An irritated sales associate neared them. "May I help you?"
"Just browsing, thank you," Bella smiled. The woman remained close for a while before reluctantly taking a step back, resigned to keep an eye on them from the register.
"So," Mia said as she picked out a rather revealing piece, mostly comprised of lace, smirking as she looked it over. "Have they asked you yet?"
"Asked me what?"
"Oh you know, to join the team examining the artifacts they found in Alsace…, especially that artifact."
"Mia, I'm only a lector. There are way more qualified people than I—"
"Surprisingly not that many," Mia interrupted. "Oh shush, don't give me that face, darling. I looked it up. Like, only a handful of people can call themselves experts on the matter, and you're listed as one of them."
"Yes, but I'm not the most senior now, am I?"
"Sometimes seniority isn't that good. A fresher take might be needed."
Bella smiled sadly.
"I think I've found my dress," Mia said.
"Why don't you just go in your night slip instead?"
"That would be far too conservative!"
Every spring, at the end of April, a fashion gala was hosted in Safeira, celebrating new and old. Angloan designers would take center stage and show their newest creations. It was sponsored by the Ministry of Culture, and the Royal Court, together with some private donors, mostly from the fashion industry. It was a grand Angloan event, and many celebrities and politicians would attend, even some members of the royal family.
Mia, who worked for one of the larger Angloan fashion houses and whose family formed part of the prominent high-street fashion world, had an invitation and had given Bella no choice in the matter. Back in October of last year Bella had said yes, shortly after having ended things with Mike. She had been so heartbroken then, open for anything that seemed fun, and Mia had answered her call. But now, sitting in the taxi going to the Royal Opera House where the gala was hosted, Bella had second thoughts.
"So… what exactly should I do all night," she asked.
Mia was doing some final adjustments to her makeup. She wore a black silk dress, with cut-outs on the sides and just under her chest where black lace and black Swarovski crystals filled in the space. The back of her dress was open, revealing a large gap until the small of her back. She looked amazing in the dress. Had it been anyone else, Bella would have thought it tacky and out of taste. But paired with Mia's amazing confidence and poise it strangely worked.
"Mingle, find yourself someone better than Mike."
"I'm not here to find someone."
"Then get laid, get that pesky tension out of your system—"
"Mia…"
Mia slammed the compact shut and turned to Bella. "First of all, Mike was an ass, I know it doesn't matter how many times I tell you that. I am so proud you dumped him, but you need to realize why you did, you need to get over him."
"I am over him."
"Sure you are. Second of all, you look amazing! Have some fun tonight. Don't make it all about work. For once make it about yourself!"
Bella looked down on her own ensemble. She wore bright red, a color she usually never dressed in. She preferred muted earthy tones.
"I just have a feeling about tonight, you know?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know, a premonition." As if on cue, the taxi stopped.
"Alright ladies, end of the line," the driver said as he turned around.
"Um, excuse you sir, but it's still like three streets over."
"Yeah, lady, not happening. Look at that line!"
Mia and Bella stretched their necks. "Everybody and their mother's coming to this event," Mia mumbled. "We'll have to walk the last stretch!" she said as she paid the driver.
Bella opened the door and took in the fresh evening air. She had always loved spring, loved the premonition hanging in the air. The wind seemed to pick up on her mood, for it gently caressed her as if encouraging her, a friendly push in the right direction. Bella smiled and took a deep breath.
They walked, their feet hurting after the first street, both wondering if the pain was worth it by the second and almost ready to call it quits by the third. But when they arrived at the Opera, they thought their suffering was worth it.
The façade was strongly influenced by classical and Viennese art with a rich and decorative design in white marble that had a faint yellowish tint to it, almost golden. The building had a dome at the top and the front was lined symmetrically with roman pillars where the bases and tops depicted muses from Greek mythology. The entrance's canopy had been gilded in gold leaf which caught the flashes of the photographers as they neared. Four lampposts in marble with lantern carriers were also fitted with gold leaf as well as the entrance roof brackets and moldings. The letters in the text 'The Royal Opera' above the main entrance doors were gilded in 24-carat gold leaf.
A red carpet led to the main entrance and Bella was taken in by the splendor, the pain in her feet was almost gone and she thought their small trek from the taxi was worth it.
"Have you ever been inside?" Mia asked.
"No," Bella said with glittering eyes.
"Mike never took you?"
"Mike never took me anywhere," Bella mumbled slowly.
Smiling knowingly, Mia pushed her way through the reporters and photographers, showing their ID:s and being let into the building. They entered the marble foyer where various paintings from different time periods hung as well as some newer art. A grand marble staircase led to another floor, a red carpet showing them the way.
"There is a ballroom that has been prepared for tonight, but I thought you should get a look at the theater where they host the performances. I think it's just right up your alley," Mia smiled. She urged Bella forward.
"Are you sure we're allowed… oh never mind," she said as she was being pushed through some doors. Her breath caught in her throat as she stood in the now empty theater, the chatter briefly heard through the heavy doors. The interior was decorated in blue, white, and gold, the colors of the Angloan flag. She caught the royal lodge, placed so that everyone in the theater could see it. The scene was wider than she would have expected. The room was decorated with paintings by Antonius Pesci, a famous Angloan painter from the 18th century native of Wessport. Bella looked up and saw a fresco depicting Apollo surrounded by the nine muses, posing amongst the clouds. Above the scene was the love god Eros in the company of the three goddesses of fate. Bella didn't know why, but it appeared as if Eros and the goddesses were staring down at her critically.
"Bet you've never had the chance to see that fresco in person, have you."
"Mia… this is… thanks," Bella breathed.
"Listen, the party is to your left when you leave, you go down two sets of stairs and then take a right, you can't miss it. I'll be there with Deb and Angie, okay?"
"Mhm," Bella said, her neck still stretched as she stared at the ceiling. She heard the door close behind Mia but never saw her leave.
Bella started nearing the stage and stepped up on it, getting a better look at the ceiling, her heart expanding in her chest and the smile growing on her face.
Suddenly she thought she'd heard something from the upper boxes, and she was certain she'd caught a shadow.
Shit, she thought. "Heyyy!" she blurted out nervously, her voice fleeting out and enhanced by the acoustics in the room. "Listen! I know I'm not supposed to be here." She lifted the hem of her dress, bunching it up around her knees so that she could more easily climb down the stairs. "I'll just leave, don't mind me! Lovely room though!"
Shut up! she told herself inwardly.
There was no answer, no shouts for her to move her behind out of the room. She was met only by silence. Bella paused at the door, taking a final look at the room, wondering if she would ever get the chance to see it again empty.
She didn't think so.
The chatter outside, the mingling, champagne, and glittering world that Mia usually frequented came like a slap to her face and Bella wasn't ready, not after what she had just left behind.
She went to the ballroom and chatted with Mia for a while until Mia eventually left to speak with someone from work. That someone from work was certainly ripped, hot too, Bella thought. Probably a model, she thought as she took a long sip from her champagne. She had scarcely been at the event for two hours, her feet and back killing her, her stomach rumbling, and her cheeks already flushed after the five flutes of champagne that she'd consumed. She didn't know what to expect, some brilliant executive to sweep her off her feet? That was how Mia had sold it. Bella grimaced when she realized Mia was right, she really needed to get over Mike. She needed to get laid, was more like it.
She nibbled on a strawberry. Mia was awfully frisky with her gentleman companion, suddenly catching Bella's attention—oh Mia seemed to have scored for the night. Bella gave her best friend the ok sign and a proud thumbs up, Mia really was something. She saw her leave with her catch for the night, leaving Bella alone.
Well, she thought, now that Mia was gone, there wasn't really anything keeping her here. She wasn't exactly sad to leave, being a wallflower wasn't exactly her idea of fun. Usually, she was outgoing, but tonight she was too tired for that.
She placed the now-empty glass of champagne on the table and started heading out.
Bella didn't know where she had gone wrong, but apparently, one turn had landed her in what appeared to be an underground garage. With a frown and a sigh, she bent over to undo the straps of her red heels, her feet almost numb. She stalked down the dark garage swinging her heels in her hands. Had she been a bit more sober, she would have somberly turned around instead of stupidly walking into the dark and foreboding garage. It was halfway through the vast underground space that she realized she was definitely in the wrong place. Bella turned around, the vast garage almost empty, and eerily quiet.
She turned a corner and took a sudden step back for before her, having just rushed out a small side door, was a towering man in what appeared to be black tactical military clothing. The two holstered guns, however, were the first thing catching her full attention. He wore some type of balaclava with dark-lensed glasses that were secured by a strap around his head.
Bella dropped her shoes and purse as her hands shot up to the ceiling. The stranger froze upon seeing her.
"I carry nothing of value!" she blurted out. Oh, she definitely would never have said that had she been sober. No, then she would have run in the opposite direction and never looked back.
The stranger's head tilted to the side in obvious confusion. Then his head tilted down to look at himself and then up at her.
"Like… I don't want to presume or anything, but the way you are dressed totally makes you look suspicious. And hey, to each their own, if this is how you want to dress, all the power to you mate! But if you're here to rob me or something, let me just say that I only have a tampon and my keys, and some lipstick in my purse. My phone is at least three years old and in bad condition," she said nervously followed by an even more nervous laugh. "Listen, you can stop me at any time because I tend to talk too much when I'm nervous and I'd rather not right now. Like, I don't know what to do right now… tell me what to—wait!" she blurted out as the stranger suddenly closed in on her. He gathered her things on the floor and pushed her into a corner.
"Mhmhmh!" she squealed through his hand.
"Shh!" he said as he pressed her further back.
Bella closed her eyes and in what she thought were her final moments on earth, she grew angry. This was how she died? In a dingy parking low under the Opera House? She shrugged inwardly, at least it was sort of poetic.
But her death never came.
Instead, he stood silent, watching something at the other end of the dark garage. Bella followed his gaze until both of them saw a group of men entering the garage through a door and quickly walking to a blue Sedan.
He swiftly removed his hand from her mouth.
"Stay here, don't leave until I'm gone, and don't let them see you!" he ordered. He had some sort of modulator on his voice because it sounded inhumanly low.
She nodded. "Does this mean that I'm free to go and live another day?"
But he was already gone, disappeared without a trace. Bella watched the group of men in fascination entering the car, even more fascinated when a black Volvo S90 followed them. She waited for what felt like an eternity until finally deciding on leaving.
She scratched her head.
"Nice fellow."
A/N: Thank you for reading this first chapter! This has been sitting a long time collecting dust...but I felt that now was a good time to publish the first chapter. There isn't really a schedule save me trying to post every other week until I finish the remaining chapters. Hope you are ready for another ride of mystery, intrigue, romance and drama! ;)
Cheers
Isabelle