Next chapter all ready! Hope you like! A nice little tense one to contrast nicely with my fluff. Fluff-lovers rejoice-the next chapter is the long-awaited ballroom scene.

Disclaimer:- Walt Disney rules the world. I rule my little story


Tristan was fuming. He'd just spent the evening with his second choice of date for his father's party, Lydia Boullenger. She was beautiful, charming, intelligent and witty, but she wasn't Bella and so her attributes couldn't have meant less to Tristan right now. He had gone through the motions all evening; spoke to her, danced with her, bedded her and now she was lying content by his side unaware that her dream man was now swigging his father's best whisky and replaying their intercourse with another face in his head.

The evening had been very successful. Patrick was renowned for his parties and that night's had been no exception. Good food, good music and most importantly, good alcohol. Every worthy villager had attended. You didn't say no to a man like Patrick Blaine, and you didn't say no to his son either, not unless you welcomed social exclusion. Right now, Tristan wanted to exclude Bella-it was the least she deserved for humiliating him. The laughter of his father still resounded in his perfectly-shaped ears and he knew, he just knew, that everyone at the party had whispered behind his back when he had made his grand entrance with only the second-best on his arm. Tristan was used to getting what he wanted, and right now he wanted nothing more than to go to Bella's house and let her see exactly what she had turned down. He took another look at the sleeping girl by his side. She was astonishingly beautiful with huge melting chocolate eyes and a figure to die for. As she slept, she murmured irresistibly. Any other guy would have never left the bed, but Tristan was not any other guy. He took a final swig of whisky and threw back his designer blankets. Dressing quickly in the shirt that showed off his pecs and the jeans that made his butt look incredible, he stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him, not caring if the din he was making woke up the whole hungover house. Halfway down the stairs, he heard noises coming from the living room. The one thing that had priority over vengeance in his mind was curiosity and so Tristan crept as silently as he could in his size twelve boots to the door and peered through the slit of light with his baby-blue eyes.

There, on the highly-polished floor, surrounded by broken bottles and discarded canapés, were his father and Melissa, Lydia's younger sister. The noises he'd heard had been Melissa's pathetic shrieks as Patrick relieved her of her innocence in front of the fireplace on top of which sat Tristan's favourite photograph of his mother. He held back the feelings of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He didn't much care that his father was seducing a girl half his age (he was used to it by now) but the presence of his mother's angelic face in the same vision sickened him to the core. This was all Bella's fault. If she had said yes, Lydia would not have been his guest and she would not have brought Melissa along to be his father's whore. Now he had more reason to find her. He wiped his sleeve over his eyes rather than cry (Tristan never cried) and stomped out of the house.

As he made his way through the moonlit streets, he thought about everything that was going wrong in his life. His father was a drunken pervert, his sister and ally, Camilla, had seen sense and left ages ago and his mother only existed in the world of his memories and in the photograph that was now being desecrated by his father's lust. He tried to picture her face but every time he did, the image was blurred. It seemed to fade more and more with every year. He remembered she was beautiful; of course she was beautiful, and strong-minded, despite her daintiness. She was a wonderful hostess too. If he thought hard enough, he could recall endless dinners, dances and celebrations. His mother would be dressed to the nines, laughing and sipping champagne while his father disappeared into a cloud of black suits and cigar smoke. Their relationship had always been a tempestuous one. As his father spent more and more time away from the house, his mother would get more and more suspicious. Tristan remembered being taken along on a few of his father's trips with his sister. His mother had insisted they accompany him and so they had done, begrudgingly of course because they knew even less than their mother did. It wasn't so bad though. While his father discussed matters with his clients, Tristan would be told to 'go and play' with Camilla and whoever else was available.

That fateful night when his mother finally left played over and over in his mind as he strode towards the edge of town a decade later. What had his parents argued about that night? He respected his father too much to pry but feared him to much to forget about it.

Whatever it had been, Bella would now incur his anger. Her complete refusal to see what had to offer her (money, security, great sex) was the final straw for Tristan. Yes, he would make her see exactly what she was missing.

The cottage was silent as he approached which was to be expected, seeing as it was now 1am. They would no doubt be asleep. That was the great thing about calling on people in the middle of the night, they were almost always in. His boots crunched on the gravelled path that would up to the front door and somewhere above his head an owl hooted. It was strange, the effect night had on familiar surroundings. It made the cottage look empty, soulless, more a shell than a house. Yet in the many sunlit hours he had spent on Bella's doorstep, it had looked vibrant and welcoming. She had made it so. Now it was cast in shadow as she no longer shone within its walls. Was she there? There was only one way to find out.

The wood of the door threatened to splinter under the thunderous knocks of Tristan's clenched fist. As he knocked, he shouted:

"Bella?...Bella?" and as an afterthought "Morris?"

There was no immediate response but he felt sure he could hear faint mutterings and shuffling from the other side of the door. Slowly, very slowly, the noises grew louder but Tristan was not a patient man.

"Bella?...Morris?...open up! Open up this instant!"

Amid all his banging, there was the unmistakable sound of feet upon a scratchy doormat. Then came the sound of a key turning in a lock twinned with a door chain being carefully slid from its holder. The door opened cautiously to reveal a lined and pale brow above lifeless eyes. Morris looked terrible. His skin was ghastly- white, his eyes red-rimmed and his face clammy with sweat. His voice, when he finally spoke, rattled with wheezing.

"Tr…Tristan? Is that you? What do you want?"

"Where's Bella?"

Was it his imagination or did the old man's skin get even whiter?

"Bella? She…she's not here at the moment. Good day."

Morris tried to shut the door but he was too weak to stop Tristan from wedging his foot in the way.

"At 1 o'clock in the morning?"

Morris cast his eyes on Tristan's well-placed foot but did not make a sound.

"When will she be back?" forced Tristan between gritted teeth. He was not in the mood to make conversation with a sick pensioner. He struggled to keep his temper within him.

Morris' speech suddenly reduced to unintelligible splutters.

"I…I…duh…duh…I…"

It suddenly struck Tristan how ill Morris might be. Where on earth was Bella?

Without warning, the old mans eyes suddenly glazed over and he began to fell forward. He would have hit his head on the door frame if Tristan's cat-like reflexes hadn't made him reach out and catch Morris as he fell. Sheer panic flashed through Tristan's mind. Panic that temporarily drowned out common sense so he just stood there cradling Morris for a few minutes before adrenaline sobered him completely. He turned and ran towards the centre of the town with the unconscious inventor cuddled to his chest like an infant. He was surprised how little the man weighed despite his noticeable girth. He had never been fond of Morris but this was a fantastic opportunity to look heroic. In the market-place, and barely out of breath, he stood and bellowed until bleary-eyed people opened their windows. Luckily, one of those same people was the local GP and as soon as fresh air hit and he could focus on the bundle in Tristan's arms, he grabbed his dressing gown and practically tumbled down the stairs. Dr. Logan wasn't the best example of a health care professional. He was overweight with high cholesterol levels and frequent bowel problems, but he knew a gravely ill man when he saw one. As he dashed out of the front door, he yelled for his wife to call an ambulance and then went to assess his patient whom Tristan had now laid carefully on a bench in the centre of the square.

Various other villagers had been woken by the fuss and were now pouring out of their house led by that strange morbid curiosity that all humans possess. Tristan was delighted-it meant more people had the opportunity to witness his heroism. As was expected, they flocked to him with questions.

"What is it, Tristan?"

"What happened?"

"Who is that?"

"Is that that strange Morris fellow?"

"What's wrong?"

Normally Tristan would have enjoyed himself immensely in this situation but he suddenly found himself unable to answer their questions because a question of his own was echoing through his mind.

"Where was Bella?"

Her father was seriously ill and might have been for at least the last few days, so where on earth was she? He knew how ridiculously close the pair were. It made him wince to see them shopping the market together, arm in arm and laughing as if they hadn't a care in the world. Bella would always be running from shop to shop in the village buying steak for Morris' favourite casserole or fresh bread for his toast in the morning. She doted on the old man. And now, when he really needed her, she was nowhere to be seen. Something must be wrong. Surely a girl like Bella wouldn't swan off and leave her father on his own.

Among all the questions, a little idea started to flicker in Tristan's brain; an idea that, when fully recognised, would surely be the key to finally ensnaring Bella.

Sirens started to wail in the background but all Tristan could hear was the sound of wheels turning in his head. A slow smirk spread across his face.


Dum dum dum!

Seeing as most of the reviews were along the same vein i.e room-loving and fluff-loving, this is a collective response. Yes, I want a cinema room too. Can you imagine how unbelievably great that would be? Lol I think I'm using this story as an outlet for all my own fantasties! And fluff, fluff, wonderful fluff...resists the urge to burst into song So, Gastonians, what are youthinking about this chapter? And Pyro's and Cogette's (i'm gonna trademark the Cogette thing!) too P.S I've decided I am a Beastie Girl ( as opposed to a Beastie Boy lol)