Tom's funeral had been as grand and ornate as their wedding.

The attendees had been politicians, diplomats, CEOS, and everyone in between. They packed the pews of the largest church New Jersey had to offer to pay their respects to the late son and heir to one of the largest fortunes in America.

Isabella, who had been fond enough of Tom due largely to proximity, sat solemnly next to Jake during the service. In a show of comfort, she had offered her hand to him when they sat down, but he discarded it after a few minutes to sit with his arms crossed against his chest and his head down.

Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery sat on Jake's other side, each of them stoic and unreadable as they stared straight ahead. Isabella knew neither one of them was likely to shed a tear in front of any of their esteemed guests. They would conduct themselves like the royalty they had imposed upon themselves.

As the priest droned on about God's everlasting forgiveness, Isabella became acutely aware of the smell of brandy emanating from her husband.

In the days since they had learned about his death, she had seen and heard little from Jake. He had disappeared to their basement to lose himself in drink.

Isabella's lips pinched into a tight line as she thought about their only interaction since the phone call telling them of his brother's death.

She had gone down to check on him in the basement, having just gotten off the phone with Mrs. Montgomery's assistant who had details about the funeral service. The smell of smoke had greeted her. But rather than the sweet cigar smell, she found him with a $700 bottle of whiskey and a $5 pack of cigarettes.

"Jake, what are you-"

The question died on her lips when he turned a ferocious and bloodshot glare to her.

"What the fuck do you want?"

Isabella raised an eyebrow, an instinctual habit when confronted with that tone.

"Oh for the love- don't even fucking start with me Isabella," he growled, seeing the facial movement.

Isabella smoothed her features.

"Claire was just on the phone. The funeral is going to be on Tuesday at-"

Jake slammed his hand down against the leather armrest of the couch, a loud smacking noise echoing through the room.

"God damnit Isabella!" he roared, "I don't want to fucking hear it!"

Isabella took a steadying breath, reminding herself that he was grieving.

"Your mother wants-"

"Shut the hell up!" he yelled, pushing out of his seat and standing to his towering height. "Get it through that thick fucking skull of yours that I. Do not. Want. To. Hear it."

Isabella's eyes had drifted to the coffee table next to the leather couch while he was yelling.

"What the hell is that?" she demanded, reaching down for the powdery substance.

His hand yanked hers out of the air before she could touch it.

Before she knew what was happening, Jake twisted her wrist back sharply and shoved her away from the coffee table, hard. She stumbled a few feet back, landing against one of the metal bar stools with all of the force that he had pushed her with.

"Just get the fuck out of here, you condescending, pain in the ass, bitch!" he roared.

Isabella took one look at his disheveled hair, heaving chest, and wild eyes, and then swallowed. She straightened up, ignoring the sharp pain in her lower back and wrist. Without another word, she walked out of the room, leaving shards of her dignity with him in that desolate basement.

~O~

The two didn't say anything on the car ride home from Sleat after David Andrews left.

Isabella was silent.

And for once, he didn't attempt to engage her in conversation.

While Mr. Andrews had presented them with his pitch, she had said nothing, just stared at him with those intense eyes of hers.

Diageo wanted to partner with Sleat and provide the financial backing and support the distillery needed to grow its exports across the world in exchange for a percentage of the profits and majority ownership rights of the distillery.

Andrews hadn't gotten into the specifics of any of the numbers, admittedly focusing on the emotional rather than the practical. He talked about the potential growth of Scotch on the international stage and the influx of visitors that would bring not only to Scotland but to the Isle of Skye. It would fill beds in inns and tables at restaurants; establishments such as Isles Inn.

Edward had asked a few questions while Isabella continued to frown.

She only said one thing in that whole time.

"Thank you, Mr. Andrews, but Sleat is not for sale. I will walk you out."

Edward had looked at her in surprise, but she had ignored him as she tidied up the papers that the businessman had handed out with growth projections. She rose from her seat and went to the door of the office, holding it open and gracefully ignoring both of the surprised stares from the two men.

Isabella had not said a word since then and Edward's surprise had faded into deep annoyance, an irritation that was bordering anger the more they sat in silence.

It wasn't until they had gotten out of the car and entered the house that he could not contain himself.

"What was that all about, Bella?" he demanded, kicking off his boots as she slid out of her shoes.

"What?" she asked as she slowly straightened up.

"Ye ken what I'm talking about," he replied evenly.

Isabella left the mudroom with him only a few steps behind.

"They want to buy it, Edward. All of his words about a partnership was just a nice way of describing an acquisition."

Edward crossed his arms over his chest as they ended up in the kitchen.

"I ken that," he replied crossly.

Isabella started, looking at him in surprise.

"I might no be as smart as ye, Bella, but I'm no daft."

"I didn't say that you were," she replied defensively.

"Well then I would appreciate it if ye did no speak to me like I am," he said.

Isabella breathed out of her nose but nodded.

"They buy small, privately owned companies and turn them into nothing more than arms of their corporate machine. Companies like that kill all of the heart and soul from a small business and turn it into nothing more than numbers and margins. They did it with Smirnoff, Johnnie Walker, Baileys, Guinness-"

"Aye, and now those are some of the world's best-selling brands, aye I was listening too," he replied curtly.

"And with no control of how they run their business! Those companies have no say. Corners can be cut, people can be treated poorly…all of these decisions get pushed out from the corporate level and damn the consequences."

Edward shook his head. "That's no what Andrews said."

"Of course it's not!" she replied in exasperation. "That hardly helps drive a sale. But that's how that works."

"How do ye know?" he demanded, "How do ye know that that will happen with Sleat? How do ye know that the worst will happen?"

Isabella paused and took a deep breath.

"Because I've had experience with these things in the past."

This was hardly news to Edward. He had known she had some business experience even though she had always been vague about it. But he respected her right to privacy and never pushed her on it.

He wanted to push her on it now.

"Ye cannae say that that's the way it would go with Sleat," he argued instead.

"But I've seen it," she said in a softer tone.

"Well what if that is how it goes?" he exclaimed. "What if they take Sleat and make it one of the world's premier whiskies? What if it becomes the world's best-selling Scotch? Why on Earth is that no a good thing?"

"You can get there without them!"

Edward laughed and even to his own ears he recognized it was not a nice laugh.

"How?"

"We are figuring it out," she replied stubbornly.

Edward couldn't hold back any longer.

"Ye won't always be here, Bella!" he exclaimed. "Ye cannae possibly expect me to no at least consider a reasonable business proposal when ye are ready to leave this island as soon as ye possibly can!"

Isabella froze.

Neither one of them spoke, each just staring at one another.

"That's not true," she finally said quietly.

"Ye hate it here!" he insisted, holding onto his vigor.

Isabella shook her head, looking shellshocked.

But Edward was not deterred.

"And how else do ye expect me to ever be able to pay ye back?"

Isabella said nothing.

"Diageo can buy ye out and ye will have your money back and end this farce of a marriage and be free of any obligation to Sleat." His tone had softened into a plea by the end of the statement.

They were silent.

Edward's whole body was tense as he waited.

"I don't hate it here," she finally said.

Edward rubbed his face tiredly, not in the mood for semantics. "Well I would no say ye like it here then."

Isabella shook her head.

"You can't sell Sleat, Edward," she pleaded.

"Well I cannae keep ye here against yer will, Bella," he replied, emotionally. "Ye saved us when we needed to be saved from MacLeod and now I am trying to give ye a….a way out."

"I want to be here."

Now it was Edward who froze.

"Bella…" he struggled to articulate his thoughts and when he did, the words came out with the hurt he had kept hidden even to himself. "Ye dinnae speak to me. Ye rarely smile or laugh. Ye dinnae seem happy here."

Isabella shook her head and he saw her eyes sparkle with water threatening to emerge.

"My happiness…it's not you and it's not Skye. I don't know. Being here – with you – being with your family…being on this beautiful isle…I can't explain it…" she trailed off with her voice quivering.

Edward tried desperately to follow her erratic lines of thought, feeling the concern settle into the lines of his face.

She took a deep, albeit shaky, breath.

"I don't know how it happened…but I lost so much of myself over the years. And being here, being away from it all, I can see that when I never could. I-I don't know if I can go back to that."

It took everything in him to not ask what she meant by "that."

She continued, "It wasn't the life I ever wanted, and I don't even know if this is, but I also don't know that it isn't, and I don't know what to do but I don't think I want to leave…I don't know-" she cut herself off and gave a helpless shrug as tears left her eyes.

Edward crossed the space between them and wrapped her into his arms.

Her body remained tense and for a moment he worried he had done the wrong thing with her again. But then she took a shuddering breath and allowed her body to ease against his.

"It's alright, mo chroí," he soothed.

At that, Isabella shook her head against his chest before lifting her head and looking at him with red rimmed eyes.

"It's not," she said miserably. "I've taken from you more than you've given to me."

Edward frowned in confusion. He rubbed her back gently as he asked, "What?"

Isabella shook her head again. "You deserved a wedding with a woman who loved you, you deserved someone else to share your father's last gift to you with, you deserved a wedding night with the love of your life…you deserved someone who doesn't have so much – so much…shit that keeps her up at night and overwhelmed during the day."

Edward frowned as he continued to move his hand up and down.

"How did ye know about the whisky?" he asked instinctually rather than as a communication strategy for debunking what she was saying.

"Alice," she replied miserably, wiping at the side of her face.

Edward shook his head.

"That was my pleasure to share that with ye. Truly," he insisted softly. "Ye have no taken a thing from me, Bella. It's me that should apologize and I…I am sorry that I forced myself on you that night."

Isabella's eyes widened. "You? Is that what you think?"

He said nothing.

"Edward no," she said, shaking her head. "You absolutely did not. That was just another thing I took from you."

Edward released a heavy breath and she moved with the fall of his chest, tucked as she was against him. He considered what she said and shook his head to himself.

Two sides of guilt had colored a wedding night that for all intents and purposes had been kind to both of them.

Edward placed a hand on the back of her head and gently leaned down to place a kiss on her crown.

"Bella, circumstances or not, that was a special night…and I do cherish it," he admitted shyly.

The only sound of movement was the soft sound of his hand continuing to stroke up and down her back in a gesture he hoped was soothing.

"No one has called me Bella in years," she said quietly.

"No?" he asked, just as quiet.

"And all of you Scots do it as effortlessly and easily as if I have always been family."

Edward frowned.

"I never thought to ask, I'm sorry. Would ye prefer Isabella?"

She was quiet as she thought.

Edward watched her intently and grew alarmed as tears came back to her eyes and she tried to blink them away.

"No," she said in a small voice, "Bella was who I wanted to be. I got lost with Isabella. Bella is…is me, at least I think."

Not knowing what to say, Edward pulled her tighter against him.

"Ye can be Bella, mo chroí, ye can always be Bella."

"I hope you live a life you're proud of. If you find that you're not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again."

A guiding mantra to me personally and a central theme to this sweet story.

All the love.