At the highest tower of a modern version of a castle sat a princess with a heart of steel. Inured to solitude by the carefully crafted lies of her too ingenious mind, Isabella didn't mind the stillness of the room. Nursing a glass of champagne between her soft hands, her unseeing eyes were fixated on a falling star. Unlike the girl she had once been, the woman she currently was didn't feel the compulsion to wish for impossible things.
Whenever maudlin thoughts intruded, Isabella carefully brought to the forefront of her mind the motherly advice she used to despise: "If you reach for the stars, you will burn your hand." It had taken her a while, but eventually she had recognized the wisdom of her mother's words. But she didn't have the time to linger on that topic, for the New Year had arrived–time to swallow her champagne and go to sleep.
The next day, while the rest of the world healed their hangover over copious amounts of food, Isabella followed the rituals that had been dictating her life since the day she had reached maturity. Ten paces to the bathroom; five minutes spent sitting on the toilet–no matter what her needs were; two minutes washing her hands; four minutes washing her face and so on.
Since it was Tuesday she wore a blue ensemble of pants and jacket. As usual, her shirt was white and her shoes were black. She didn't see the point in altering her dress code just because it was a holyday–she was going to work, so it definitely was a business day for her. Besides, it was already the second day of the year on the other side of the world, meaning that a conference call with the Japanese branch wouldn't be frowned upon.
She almost smiled–having work to do always lifted her spirits.
Of course, that wasn't the case when it came down to her employees. They tried to hide their displeasure with their demanding boss, but as she walked through the office, Isabella could sense their concealed feelings. She was unaffected by their hostility, for she demanded obedience not love or admiration. The human need for acceptance was a malady she had overcome years ago–pinning for something that couldn't be accomplished by her own means was impractical. Being a pragmatic woman, she preferred to mould herself into becoming a formidable adversary instead of attempting to garner the affection of her peers. It was a long, sometimes painful process, but she succeeded by sheer determination.
And now she stood as a demigoddess looking down on her subjects.
Feared.
Untouchable.
Isolated.
Shacking those thoughts away, she managed to have a very productive morning, after which it was time for another ritual of hers–lunch. Thirty nine grains of rice, two lettuce leaves, four slices of carrot, two and a half inches of meat; everything else was discarded on a side plate. Isabella's meal was a studied effort in appeasing her hunger while preventing her body from receiving too many calories. The curious eyes of the onlookers didn't disturb her–she was used to their inquiring glances.
No salt, no condiments, nothing to over stimulate her taste buds. The perils of deriving too much enjoyment from food was well known to Isabella: her body had worn the proof of her weakness until the day she overcame her need for comfort.
Comfort was for the feebleminded, and Isabella was her own source of strength.
While walking back to the office, she caught a glimpse of him. The old man was one of the few people who dared talking to her. His toothless smile and eager hands made her uncomfortable, but his overblown gratitude was the thing that always sent her over the edge. It was so little, so unimportant... Why couldn't he recognize the insufficiency of her gesture? The hypocrisy of her offer?
Just a little bit of food, the part of her lunch she wasn't allowed to enjoy. As a repayment, he customarily shared bits and pieces of his life's history, the misfortune that had turned a soldier into a beggar. She didn't want to hear, she didn't want to know. But she did listen, because she felt that he needed not only her food, but also her company. Besides, the beggar was quite possibly her only friend. She always dedicated the grand total of fifteen minutes listening to his ramblings, then she would slip him some money, saying that he also needed to get some dinner. Both of them knew he wasn't going to spend it on food–the lure of a bottle of alcohol was too much temptation, and Jasper had the neither will nor the inclination to fight his impulses.
Isabella didn't mind–she was actually thankful for the fact that he could enjoy a reprieve from his harsh reality. She understood, for she wasn't a stranger to seeking oblivion, she definitely could empathize. And that terrified her, because deep down she knew that he was her connection to humanity.
At 5 p.m., while her mind was occupied with numbers and figures, Isabella pushed her body to the limits of exhaustion by running on the treadmill. Her lungs ached with the need for air and her muscles burned with the strain of keeping the punishing rhythm she had set. Exercising had never been among Isabella's favorite activities; nevertheless, she did it every day. Ninety minutes on the treadmill to remind her body of the difficulties of shedding the evidences of an overblown appetite. She needed to remember, because some days when there was little work to distract her mind and no interesting books to be read, she craved the sweetness of melting ice cream on her parched tongue. But she refused to acknowledge her cravings, so she ran.
After a shower and three more hours of work, it was time to go home. There was no pleasure involved in returning to her lonesome tower, but she refused to recognize that. Instead Isabella focused on the act of driving. Stopping at the red light of a busy intersection, Isabella patiently watched the passersby. Far from being distracted with fanciful wonderings about their lives, she merely observed their comings and goings–no questions asked, no emotions involved. However, her pattern of behavior was disrupted by the unwelcomed sight of her one-time nemesis, Rosalie Hale. Despite the late hour, the street lights shining over the woman left no doubt about her identity. Rosalie was still beautiful, that much was true, but she wasn't the confident person Isabella had secretly envied–she seemed weary and dispirited, a person mauled by life.
For a second their eyes met and recognition flared. Instead of the spite Isabella expected to see, there was a shy wave and a sad smile. Puzzled, Isabella refrained from waving back, concealing her surprise with the air of aloofness she had perfected over the years. Isabella tried to pretend that she was unaffected by the strange occurrence. She didn't succeed. Troubled, she realized that she was in dire need of mindless distraction, so she turned the TV on. She tried to concentrate on the man babbling about a natural catastrophe assailing the other side of the world. The news didn't really interest Isabella, but she liked to be well informed–she was always in need of small talk material. It wasn't that she didn't care about human suffering; however she tried to avoid becoming emotionally entangled in situations beyond her control.
Usually, on the rare occasions when she indulged in watching TV, she skipped the commercial break, but something caught her eye: the advertisement for a movie she hadn't seen in ages. When she was young, it had captured her mind and filled her heart with dreams. She hated it, she missed it... Who cries watching "Strictly Ballroom"? The pitiful being she used to be. Angry, she turned it off and threw the control across the room. Breathing raggedly, she closed her eyes and forced her mind to stop spinning, since revisiting the past was beyond stupid–it was dangerous.
But the thing inside of her kept crawling its way to the surface. And that night she dreamed of a past she'd rather forget. In that long lost world, she was the product of an unthinking night of debauchery that forced two unwilling people into an unhappy union. Eventually, the marriage fell apart. Within a year, her father drank himself to death leaving Isabella at the mercy of the lecherous intents of the men her careless mother brought home. She was mercilessly taken back to the day, when the inevitable had happened–she was stripped of her innocence by a man thrice her age while her mother entertained two other men in the next room. Isabella didn't scream or fight him off, for she knew that resistance was futile–no one would come to her rescue. The violent encounter left her with a couple of broken ribs–the only gift she had received for her fourteenth birthday. That day was first time in her life she had truly felt like white trash, though kids at school had been calling her that for as long as she could remember.
She woke up with a strangled cry in her throat and sweat dripping down her body. The river of memory had penetrated the den of routine, and as a result her mind had drifted to places better left forgotten. Control was her only weapon against the chaos of her past. Calming herself, she got up from the bed and gathered the cleaning supplies. The spotless apartment was thoroughly cleaned and perfectly arranged: the place of every single piece of furniture was determined by the aid of a measuring tape–everything symmetrical, all in perfect order. For hours she cleaned, but she still felt dirty. Entering the bedroom, she went to the bed and started counting: ten paces to the bathroom; another three to the shower; scalding water; scrub her body nine times... The rawness of her skin was a small price to pay in order to feel clean again.
The prolonged shower did wonders for her state of mind, or so Isabella told herself. Despite being late for work, she made it a point of keeping her Wednesday scheduled unaltered. Going to the cemetery was something she did out of some misplaced sense of duty. The grave she visited was inhabited by a person that meant little to her, besides a ticket out of her miserable former life. Fifty years stood between Isabella and the man she married as soon as she became of a legal age. She didn't miss her husband or the painful experience of having to feign enjoyment whenever his body penetrated hers. But he had provided her with financial security and a steady environment; hence her weekly visits to his resting place.
Marcus had never captured Isabella's heart, but he had her gratitude.
A while later, she confidently entered the building her company owned. However luck wasn't on her side. In the few seconds it took for the elevator's door to close Isabella found herself in the midst of a minor panic attack. Her mind kept chanting "50.5 seconds and I will be safe"... safe from the sight of the fat girl with the sad eyes. Isabella didn't want to fight against the obnoxious impulse to save the girl from the sorrows that drove her to eat her feelings instead of dealing with them. She didn't want to be reminded of a time when food was her only escape from the ugly reality of abuse and neglect. Isabella didn't need to revive the pain of being bullied because of her weight and her lack of pedigree. However, luck wasn't on her side–the fat girl came into the elevator, and Isabella was condemned to 36.9 seconds of hell.
Had she bothered to ponder the innumerous routine breaches she had been facing, Isabella would have realized that there were many signs alerting her that the dam holding back the past had been irreversibly cracked, but she chose to desperately cling to the illusion of being Mistress of her own fate. She worked hard, as per usual, believing that the disturbances meant nothing. However, life had always had a way of crushing Isabella's dearest hopes and now it wasn't any different, because before her sat Edward Masen. The slight tremor of her hands was the only external sign of her inner turmoil. Maybe for the first time she regretted being a bit of a tyrant and insisting on conducting the final job interviews for all the upper echelons of her company. Keeping a professional façade wasn't easy, especially when he kept throwing her glances she couldn't quite understand. She asked all the proper questions, he gave all the right answers. When the encounter came to a close with the traditional "we will let you know", Edward hesitated. He didn't know how to breach the subject, but he needed her to understand the real reason behind his visit...
"Bella, I need..."
"Mr. Masen this is a business interview and it is over."
Recognizing the finality of her words, Edward nodded and left.
As she watched the departing figure of her former lover, Isabella was reminded of a time when he used to be her own personal sunshine. Edward had been sweet and patient, gently coaxing her into granting him her favors. In his arms, she felt loved. And it was everything, until the day when it wasn't enough anymore. Isabella had grown weary of the clandestine meetings conducted outside of their colleague's view. She wanted to be the one he took to dances, the one he introduced as his girlfriend. When confronted with her demands, Edward chose to maintain his golden boy façade–he kept on dating the beautiful Rosalie Hale and spending his nights between Isabella's thighs. Unable to deny Edward the one thing she had to offer, Isabella had unwittingly set in motion the events that led to her own downfall.
Despite her best efforts, she felt raw and vulnerable–any other woman would have crumbled, cried, done something … reacted somehow. But not Isabella, she simply pushed through, her scheduled unaltered. She ate her simulacrum of a lunch and met with Jasper. She was surprised to see that Jasper had a new friend, Alice. Cute and defenseless, she seemed overjoyed by the prospect of sleeping in his grimy arms. He excitedly talked about how he saved her from being abused by some perverse little boys. In Alice's eyes Jasper was a hero and it brought a unique sparkle to his entire being, for he was an old fashioned man–the kind that needed to protect everyone around him. The obvious affection between the pair had Isabella aching with some unknown pain, so she made her excuses and fled from the scene. Had she been wiser, Isabella would have recognized the feeling as jealousy. Yes, the all powerful Isabella was jealous of a little cat named Alice.
A few weeks later, Isabella sat in her office, restless and in a foul mood, eyes unseeing as she pondered if it was already the time for a call to Garrett. She had been trying to condition her bodily needs to an acceptable interval, but she was loath to admit that she had failed. So much that she spent the afternoon trying to deny the feverish needs of her flesh. It could be easily settled–satisfaction was only a phone call away. Still, indecision made her hesitate for a long time, until destiny stepped in–all her meetings were cancelled. Released from the burden of bringing chaos to her own schedule, Isabella felt free to dial his number.
She left the office without offering an explanation to her startled secretary–one of the perks of being the CEO of her own company.
When she arrived at the luxurious suite they used for their encounters, the man was already in position: cuffed to the bed, gagged and blindfolded–a scene designed to protect her identity and her sanity. As much as she craved being fondled by a rough male hand, Isabella couldn't bear the thought of being at the mercy of a man in the throes of passion, even though she sometimes wondered if Garrett ever truly enjoyed their encounters. Dismissing the thought as unimportant, she undressed and neatly folded her garments. The proceedings were quite clinical: she would go to the bed and she would lower herself on his erection. Her movements would be precise and her inner walls would contract every 8 seconds. And the, exactly 5.7 minutes after starting she would reach orgasm. She would redress and open the handcuffs. He would wait exactly 30 seconds before removing the blindfold.
That's how the encounter would have gone, but believe it or not, fate had another trick to play on Isabella on that damned day. The man waiting for her wasn't Garrett. Instead, she found herself staring at a face she longed to forget. Despite the blindfold, she felt like his stare was upon her, laughing, judging, ridiculing. She was a teenager again, lonely, overweight, unloved. How had that happened? Shacking and unsettled, she quickly redressed, left the envelope on the nightstand, pausing briefly to free one of the man's hands. She fled quickly, leaving behind a very confused man. Shrugging, he collected his pay and never wondered about what had just happened. Emmett didn't mind indulging his clients' weird kinks–as long as they kept paying his fee.
Breathless and beyond control, Isabella aimlessly roamed the streets looking for her long lost … peace? Confused, broken and in desperate need of comfort, she sought the company of the one person she actually enjoyed. Jasper took one good look at her and saw through the walls she had built.
"You are too good to live like this, Isabella. You need love and warmth."
For the first time in many years Isabella felt the need to cry, for she was profoundly touched by the man's caring words – he was meddling, no way around that, but no one had ever bothered to meddle before... Except for him. Overwhelmed by the unfamiliar emotion, she was incapable of denying the early birthday gift Jasper was suddenly thrusting in her hands. Isabella watched in a daze while Jasper hugged her and said goodbye, for he was going home, back to his family. The meaning of that would hit Isabella a long time later, but for the moment she simply kept still, her mind reeling with the crumbling pieces of her life. Isabella felt panic creeping on her. One slight alteration and chaos had ensued–had it not been for her unscheduled meeting with "Garrett", Jasper wouldn't have left and she wouldn't be holding Alice. But then again, had it not been for Edward she wouldn't have been unsettled … and there was the fat girl … before that there was Rosalie … Of course, none of that was factual, but she believed it nonetheless. Brought back to reality by Alice's squirming, she met the feline's eyes with disdain. Putting the dirty cat on the floor, Isabella tried to leave–she really didn't need a cat bringing even more disorder into her life. But the thing followed her and her conscience prickled–Jasper had entrusted her with the safety of his beloved cat.
Sighing, Isabella reached into her purse for a packet of baby wipes. After cleaning her hand and every part of the purse she had touched, Isabella wrapped her jacket around Alice and took her to the vet and then home. The thing, as Isabella called Alice, had been properly cleaned and vaccinated, but she still couldn't abide its presence in her squeaky clean apartment. The furry ball thought itself above Isabella's rules and seemed to be impervious to her reprimands. Exasperated, she had tried to confine it to a specific room, but it always found a way out. Worst of all, the little nuisance had a vengeful streak: it wrecked havoc on Isabella's furniture whenever it escaped its prison. And now it was on her bed. Much to her dismay, Isabella realized that she didn't have the heart to dislodge the sleeping cat, especially after it opened just one eye and let out a pleading meow. Tomorrow she was going to worry about the sheets, but today Isabella just wanted to bend the rules a little...just enough to accommodate Alice.
That night she slept deeply. If she dreamt she didn't remember and it suited her just fine. An unusual good mood gripped her as she left for work, but life had other plans. Yesterday's events had distracted Isabella to the point where she failed to realize that she had made an unfortunate business decision which led to a severe decline of Volturi Inc.'s stock price. The shareholder's faith in Isabella's leadership had been shaken, hence it became imperative that she met with the board of directors. The forbidding scowls of the men who had been her husband's trusted advisors meant nothing, but an afternoon of indulging their grumbling–her position within the company was indisputable.
However, Isabella didn't take into consideration the thirst for revenge of a scorned woman. Esme Volturi swept into the room proudly announcing that she now owned fifty one percent of Volturi Inc.–making her the biggest shareholder, therefore the new CEO, according to the company's statute. Isabella had been outmaneuvered by Marcus' first wife. Isabella turned around and left the conference room without making a single sound. The words bubbling inside her chest refused to come out, for they were the utterances of a pissed off trailer girl, the one she refused to let out. She exited the building and went home, all the while fighting the tears that threatened to spill. Her mind was frantic with countermeasures, plans, strategies–despite the guilt she had always felt towards Esme, Isabella wasn't willing to sacrifice her life in order appease the woman's bruised heart.
Sitting on the couch, Isabella pulled her laptop and started to work on her come back. However, Alice had other plans. She sat on the laptop's keyboard–the thing refused to be ignored. It was such a mundane thing and yet it held so much meaning, because there are moments when a human being transcends the limits of the tangible, touching divinity and partaking in the infinite wisdom of omniscient beings. But such moments of glorious lucidity come with a price: the responsibility for the choice that must be made. With eyes wide open, ignorance is no longer an excuse. Of course, there is always the possibility of ignoring the blessing of self-awareness, but the knowledge of the abandoned path will always plague the coward's mind with all-consuming regret. Looking at her stubborn little cat, Isabella received the gift of clarity. She no longer wondered–she knew.
She wasn't the shy teenager hiding in her bedroom. She wasn't the broken girl who had married an older man with a daddy fetish. She wasn't the woman who felt the need to control every aspect of her life. Feeling freed from the strain of having to constantly prove her valor, Isabella realized that she never had the chance to discover herself. All the stereotypes she had impersonated throughout her life had been a way of dealing with a reality that insisted on hurting her. Losing everything she thought she wanted was the biggest gift Isabella had ever received. The time for pretence had come to an end, now it was time to become a real person.
Maybe she was being a tad too fanciful, but she wasn't a fool. Isabella was well aware that the riveting transformations depicted in books and movies were merely a work of fiction–in real life changing was a long process achieved mainly through the difficult choice to embrace the past, instead of locking it away. The mere idea of tearing down the walls keeping the memories at bay had her shivering in dread. But she was tired of hiding, denying, suppressing...she need to feel human again. Would she find peace after confronting the demons of her childhood? The poor choices of her adolescence? The failure of her adulthood?
Plagued by doubts, Isabella was unable to make up her mind as to what her next step should be. She thought about seeking professional help, but discarded the idea–she wasn't ready to let another person into the ugliness of her past. Startled she found herself praying to heaven for guidance–had she rediscovered her long lost faith? Or she had never lost it at all? And then it came, not as a lightning bolt, but in the form of a little cat that happened to be having too much fun chasing the bubbles on the laptop's screensaver. Once, the written word had offered Isabella a reprieve from her harsh reality, she even had come to believe it would be her ticket out of despair. Maybe it still could be. Maybe she would use it as a means to purge her soul from the hurt of the past and as a way to discover herself.
So, she wrote.
As she penned the misfortunes of her childhood, Isabella grieved for the lonely girl who had no one to kiss her goodnight. From benign negligence to undeniable rejection, she told the story of her early descent into the hell of being an encumbrance to her parents. She allowed herself to feel the pain of knowing that her father didn't love her enough to stay alive, choosing to waste his life at the bottom of a bottle. Her heart ached with the question of why her mother hadn't bothered to protect her from the loathsome man who stole her innocence. An onslaught of emotions clouded her brain–she felt dirty, unworthy and silly. All that writing was a futile attempt at being worthy of love–who could love someone as tainted as Isabella? She was about to give up and accept her fate when her eyes fell upon Alice, the epitome of unconditional love.
And because Isabella was loved for the first time in her life, she found the strength to carry on.
A sad little smile graced Isabella's lips when she typed the tale of a betrayed girlfriend who got her revenge on "the other woman". Drunk in self-righteous anger, Rosalie had led an anti-Isabella campaign, driving her out of school and into a life of degradation. Isabella relived the day her mother kicked her out of the house, after catching another one of her boyfriends molesting the defenseless teen, saying that she couldn't stand the sight of her whore of a daughter. Hungry and scared, Isabella was actually thankful for the opportunity to work at the local strip club. There she lost her shame and her self-respect, but ironically she also found her ticket out of poverty. At that filthy place she made a friend, Angel. He taught her everything an accomplished professional sex worker ought to know and then some. She learned to be alluring, sensual, irresistible and thus entice Marcus Volturi into doing more than merely watching her number. Soon, she discovered that their mutual needs were complimentary: he fantasized about having someone completely dependent on him and she longed for the love of a father figure. Many nights he wallowed in guilty, for he was betraying his wife of twenty years. Isabella listened carefully, but didn't relent on her demands–she needed Marcus more than the other woman could possibly comprehend. Eventually, lust overcame his sense of duty, and he made Isabella his wife.
Just like Angel said it would happen.
As she wrote about the years she had spent as Marcus' trophy wife, Isabella acquired the wisdom that only time can afford. She now realized that he had seen her more as a pupil than a lover–from the beginning, he had recognized in her the same ambition and hunger for stability that had always driven him. So he taught her everything about business management and then some. But even then Isabella was genuinely surprised to find out that Marcus' will put her in charge of his company–not only was she the main beneficiary of his state, but also the keeper of his legacy. That's why she talked herself into believing that she truly enjoyed her position as CEO, but now that it had been snatched away, she felt like a burden had been lifted from her shoulders.
She was going to be the bigger person and allow Esme her revenge–she deserved it and Isabella didn't want to come back to a life that no longer suited her.
A few days later, the first lights of morning fell upon a slumbering woman who clutched a cat to her chest. Disregarding the rules of polite society, she had fallen asleep on the floor, right after typing the final point in what would one day become her memoirs. Despite the lightness in her heart, the exorcism of her demons had taken a toll on her body, lulling her into the least fitful rest she had experienced as an adult.
Cocooned by the motherly arms of hope, she dreamed of laughter and affection. The darkness that had always haunted her was still present, but less threatening, more bearable. She still felt the weight of her choices and the pull of self-recrimination, but even in her unconscious state Isabella didn't succumb to these unwelcomed emotions. Instead, she concentrated on the fact that she was loved, accepted, appreciated … Alice was there, offering Isabella her unwavering devotion. And it was everything she needed to keep the nightmares at bay.
Eventually, she woke up. Staring ahead, she searched her mind for what should come next. What did she do every day after waking up? As hard as she tried, Isabella couldn't remember the answer to that question. Panic constricted her throat and had her bolting up right, dislodging a very displeased Alice. Her skin was too hot, but at the same time she was shivering. Trembling, she tried to take a step, but her feet faltered.
She frantically scanned the room for a way out, a lifeline, a memory … Then she saw her notebook and remembered that her life had been forever altered, not by some event forced on her, but out of her own volition. Calming down, she acknowledged that fear and doubt would be her constant companions for a long time to come. But not knowing what would come next was also exciting, invigorating.
She smiled–the big unknown lie ahead … And Bella was determined to brave it with her head held high and her eyes open to possibilities.