The story deals with adult subject matter and occasional description of explicit sexual abuse. Not meant for underage readers. Read at your own peril. And oh, Twilight belongs to SM. This is just a fanfiction.

Beautiful Sorrow

End of Chapter 7:

With that seed of hope in mind, Bella went to her room to spend a sleepless night, waiting for the morning to come. She would go to Carlisle Cullen and plead their case. He was kind and he was just. He would listen; she had faith.

He saved us once; I know he will save us again.

And the next day, three years after she'd seen him at the hospital, Bella went to find Carlisle Cullen.

Chapter 8

Carlisle, present day

After a long and mostly sleepless night of keeping himself busy with paper work, Carlisle walked into the bathroom to splash water on his face. He straightened up to look at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. For the first time in a long time, he carefully took in the familiar features; the strong form and fine lines, nearly the same as he remembered from years ago, but not quite. Was that a touch of silver that was encroaching on his blond temple? Could he now be called distinguished?

The light that reflected off of the water droplets on his skin created a certain shimmer that made him look almost unearthly. He recognized the blue eyes that looked back at him, so much like his father's – heavenly azure and crystal clear. But if eyes were to be the window into one's soul, he wasn't occupying a room with a view. He leaned in closer and furrowed his brow in concentration, looking for signs that would give away what truly lay within. There were none. He still stood tall and proud, his flawless face still as handsome as it had been in his twenties. Even the few fine wrinkles around his eyes and the subtle hint of grey at his widow's peak seemed to only add to his impeccable allure.

He had his parents to thank for his immaculate good looks, and he would be lying if he said that it didn't give him an extra edge in life; whether in swaying opinions during a merger negotiation or to win over the heart of a woman he desired. Most of his life, he'd been thankful for his looks, and his riches. He knew he hadn't earned either, but he didn't take it for granted. He worked hard to expand the fortunes he'd inherited to four times its worth over his lifetime. And though he wasn't overly vain, he placed high value in personal hygiene and actively applied himself to stay in shape.

Gazing at himself now, he couldn't help but wonder whether it would have been better for all concerned if he was born to an average family of average means, and was gifted with average looks. Here he stood, with immeasurable wealth at his disposal and the fate of thousands resting on his whim, yet the only thing he could truly claim to have to his name was a gaping, raw wound that festered in his heart and spewed deadly, black venom day and night.

He turned his head from left to right, closely inspecting his features from every angle. Other than the blue of his eyes and the gold of his hair, he didn't inherit much from his father. In its twisted sense of humor, fate deemed fit to pass on nearly all of his father's traits to his illegitimate son instead. The irony wasn't lost on him.

His brother – no, he wasn't his brother, the bastard - was the splitting image of Kyle Cullen; from the lithe build, to the chiselled jaw; from the deceptively disarming smiles to the thick brow. He even lived with his head in the clouds just like their father did. Once upon a time, Carlisle looked upon these similarities with fondness and took them as a sign from fate. He used to believe that Edward was meant to be by his side and reign over the Cullen empire as his equal. He was wrong. He should have listened to reason. He should have heeded Eleazar's warning. He should have walked away.

Would've, should've, could've.

Bitterness rose like bile from his core and he had to grip the marble slab that held the sink to push it back down. No, he would not think of the bastard; he was dead to him. His heart clenched in pain and he had to blink away the tears. He refused to shed even a single drop for that treacherous snake. He had taken enough from him.

After a brief moment and a deep cleansing breath, he loosened his clasp over the marble countertop and looked back at his reflection. He trained his thoughts to something pure and calming, perhaps the only oasis of serenity he had left in his world; the memories of his mother. Elisheba Cullen nee Goldsmith was the most beautiful and loving person he'd ever known.

He knew that perhaps his recollection was clouded by age and the blind devotion that children typically held for their mothers. She passed away when he was ten. A particularly virulent form of breast cancer snatched her away from him and his father, with less than six months from the onset of the disease until they lowered her in to the ground. He missed her terribly when he was a little boy, and he missed her today as he reflected on the rubble and debris that his life had become.

He recalled the exquisite contours of her face, framed by lush brown hair, smiling down at him with a luminous smile in her coffee bean eyes. He'd been told how much he resembled his mother, though he couldn't see it himself. But on occasion, he'd be caught dead in his tracks while passing by a mirror somewhere and see the curl of her lips, or the high arch of her brow looking back at him.

She was so precious. Not a mean bone in her body or a harsh word for a soul. She kept him wrapped in a bubble made up of the purest form of love. And he sometimes wondered if he had been trying to find his way back to that safe haven all his life. Trying, and failing miserably apparently.

Her memories almost succeeded in calming him down, until his wayward thoughts brought on a very unwanted musing to the forefront of his mind. The other brown-eyed, brunette in his life; his wife. Her dark hair and chocolate, doe eyes drew him in, making him trust the façade because they held the colors he trusted implicitly. She fooled him, and he let her.

Anger and hate erupted like a raging volcano in his mind and wrath like hot molten lava threatened to lash out and burn everything in its path. His fists clenched and his face crunched up in a sneer. His lips curled away to bare pearly white teeth. His body shook in an uncontrollable fury and he had to exercise immense will power not to break everything in sight. Fighting his intuitive urge to annihilate, he reined himself in. He had destroyed enough things in the past three years – things, and people. And while it worked temporarily to sate the monster inside of him, the need to obliterate always came back for more.

In the last six months he had been forced to step back and take a close look at his actions. He didn't like what he saw. He was surrounded by the wreckage of what his life used to be, and he wondered if he really could afford to break anything more.

Is there anything left of her that can still be broken?

He looked up at his reflection one last time and finally saw what he was searching for in the mirror; he could see the real him. His true self stared back at him with teeth bared and eyes filled with black rage.

This is me. This is who I have become. A monster.

He couldn't hold his own gaze for long and had to look away.

After several minutes, once he felt his breathing had come back to normal, he reached for a towel and dried his face off.

He came back to his office and sat down behind the massive desk. He had come back to the house the night before and had locked himself away in the wing that held his office-cum-study. This suite had been his personal space in the house for the past three years. His wife now occupied what used to be his room; what he'd once hoped would be theirs.

The house was big enough, and he was quite sure that most of the time his wife was not even aware of his presence. He liked to keep it that way. He tidied up the paperwork that was spread all over the desk and prepared what he would be taking with him to Seattle that day. It was still early; 8:00 a.m. in the morning. Turning to his computer screen, he pulled up the window that allowed him to check the video feed from every single security camera installed in the house, both within the walls and those around the property surrounding it.

He pondered the merit of checking what his wife was doing. Her daily whereabouts were rather predictable. He was fairly certain she was curled up in her bed, still deeply asleep. And he was right. If the past six months were anything to go by, she wouldn't wake up until Sylvia Cope came to collect her for breakfast around 9:30 or 10:00 a.m.

The cameras were mounted around the house nearly fifteen years ago after an untoward security breach, and had gone through periodic upgrades throughout the years. He hadn't had much use for them before and never thought he would. But then things changed. He'd changed. He found himself spending hours observing his wife's every movement within the house, getting a deeply depraved pleasure from knowing she couldn't hide anything from him, even when she thought he wasn't around. Not that he spent every available moment watching her, but enough to get a sufficiently good idea of her routine.

She used to be somewhat restless during the first half a year or so of their marriage. She would pace around the room a lot, like a caged animal. Then she'd huddle in a corner and cry. She used to spend an impressive amount of time crying. She had settled down considerably later on, doing little else other than sitting by the bay window with her knees hugged close to her chest.

Back then, she also used to do something that was a matter of great curiosity to him. In those early days, her constant pacing and crying would often be punctuated by her picking up the phone and staring at it with a pained, indecisive expression, before putting it down and resuming her looped marching, or weeping. He was very keen to figure out whom she was thinking about calling: 911? Her parents? Or was it his brother? He had considered disconnecting the land line, but the suspense of this particular tryst was too great for him to put an end to it. And after a fashion, perhaps he was just as eager to find out if she had the nerve to call for help. She never did.

He had known about her precious glass flower all along. He had seen her take it out of its hidden spot countless times and pine over the trinket. It wasn't hard to speculate its significance. He could have taken it away from her anytime he wanted, but the sick pleasure he got from hashing out how exactly to do that was far more rewarding: he could remove the souvenir from its hidden place and sit back and watch her lose her mind looking for it, or he could watch her face as he crushed it under his shoes. He couldn't decide which option would be more gratifying.

But things came to a head six months ago and he was forced to take a careful look within and at his actions of the last two and a half years. He no longer knew where he stood with regards to his wife, but he felt something needed to change.

A knock on the door brought him out of his musings. He quickly closed the video feed on his computer screen and called out, "Come in."

Mrs. Cope opened the door and approached his desk with a pleasant smile on her face.

"Good morning, Mr. Cullen. Hope I'm not catching you at a bad time," she said.

He received progress reports from Mrs. Cope once a week concerning his wife's wellbeing, but she rarely made a personal appearance for that.

"Morning, Mrs. Cope. I will be heading out soon, in fact. Is everything well with my wife? You can email me your report; I will look it over later tonight." He tried to look busy as he spoke, hoping the elderly woman would take the hint and leave him be.

But his hopes were for naught as she stubbornly kept standing.

He felt a renewed sense of irritation for having a health professional living in the house. He had to remind himself that she was not part of the housekeeping staff and thus not bound by the etiquette of only approaching him if summoned. But it was preferable to having his wife go off to a detox slash rehab facility; he would have very little control over what she'd do or say once she was outside his direct realm of influence. He didn't want to risk that. Neither could he appear to be lacking in initiative with regards to his wife's wellbeing. Not after she had such a public crisis.

"Actually, Mr. Cullen, I was hoping to have a word with you in person, if that's possible. It's not too pressing, so I could wait for another time, but I believe it's important that we don't put it off for too long…it's with regards to your wife."

"Very well, take a seat." He waved his hand as he settled into his chair, preparing himself for the conversation he was not interested in having one bit.

"I am afraid my presence isn't really helping Mrs. Cullen the way I hoped it would. I felt I needed to bring this to your attention, so you could be better informed in taking the next steps." She came straight to the point.

"What do you mean?" He furrowed his brow in irritation. "Your reports, up until this point, seem to indicate quite the opposite. As far as I see, she is regaining her weight at a rate that is closely following the progression line you projected at the beginning. What seems to be the problem?" He was exasperated and didn't do anything to hide his impatience.

Much to her credit, Mrs. Cope did not show any sign of being intimidated by his displeasure.

"I know what we discussed when I took up your wife's case and I agree, going only by the progress chart, it would appear that she is doing quite well. But I am afraid the tables and charts are only giving you a partial picture, a very incomplete picture." She hesitated for a moment before continuing.

"I don't know how to say this, Mr. Cullen, but your wife is not well, and from what I have observed in the last several months, she is not getting better. In fact, I am convinced that she is getting worse. And I think it poses a graver problem today compared to six months ago, because now the real issues are…less visible due to her 'apparent' good health." She finished her statement calmly.

"I am perfectly aware my wife isn't well." He spewed out the words with clear contempt. "That's why you were hired. And if she isn't getting any better under your care then maybe I should look for a replacement; someone who will be able to help her."

"You misunderstand me, Mr. Cullen. I am not saying I am incapable of helping her," she said, apparently unfazed by his harsh retort.

"But despite my best efforts, I have come to the conclusion that Mrs. Cullen – Bella – is suffering from inflictions that are far deeper than I had estimated at first. Her physical recovery is satisfactory, but emotionally-"

"Her emotional inflictions are not your concern, Mrs. Cope." He interrupted her forcefully. "I already have a better qualified professional to look after my wife's emotional troubles. You are here to fulfil one task only, and that is to make sure she eats properly and reaches a healthy weight range within a reasonable time frame. If you are unwilling to accept the parameters of your duties, please send your decision in writing to my HR office. You will be remunerated for your services, and I will find someone who is up to the task." He turned his attention to the document in hand in a dismissing gesture, expecting her to take the hint and leave, but she persisted.

"I do not wish to resign, Mr. Cullen. I just wanted to inform you of my observations, because I felt you would want me to share them with you. So, perhaps we could discuss and decide on a different strategy to approach the problem."

Carlisle shook his head impatiently.

"Tell me, Mrs. Cope, is Isabella refusing to eat what you prepare for her every day?" he asked.

"No she is not, but-"

"Is she throwing up after she eats?"

"No, but-"

"Is she gaining back the weight she's lost?"

"Yes, but-"

"Then what is the problem here?" He asked the question while slamming down his hands on the desk to make a point.

The resultant noise startled Mrs. Cope a little but she collected herself quickly enough.

"The problem, Mr. Cullen, is that she is doing it for the wrong reasons. I can only speculate about what her reasons might be, but it is not because of her personal conviction to get better. She is eating to follow orders and she is keeping it down to follow orders. That is not healing. I can't speak for Dr. Weber or what recommendations she may have made, but this is not a sustainable solution. It's almost as if she doesn't have the will to live. Bella – Mrs. Cullen – would invariably relapse once this constant monitoring stops. And you can't keep her on a 'suicide' watch for the rest of her life." She stopped to take a deep breath.

"And since I am sure you care about your wife's wellbeing, I thought you'd want to know the reality of the situation." She held his gaze without fear as she spoke the last words, waiting for his reaction.

Carlisle was tempted to quip back that he indeed could keep his wife on a constant watch for the rest of her life if he so pleased, but he refrained from voicing his thoughts. He was somewhat taken aback by Mrs. Cope's ominous prediction about Bella's inevitable relapse.

It's almost as if she doesn't have the will to live.

Wasn't that exactly what he wanted? To break her down so thoroughly that nothing could resurrect her back to life. It wasn't unknown to him that she was drinking; he saw her with the bottle enough times in the past. At the time it only gave him a sense of satisfaction. She was welcome to destroying her liver if she chose to.

Yet, when he was called to the hospital that day six months ago, something rattled inside of him. There were so many conflicting thoughts in his mind. Yes, he wanted to hurt her; yes, he wanted to see her suffer, but was he really prepared to see her die? Whom would he exact his pound of flesh from if she did? Also, how could he not notice that she had lost so much weight? He saw her standing in the nude for hours on countless nights. Why did it not register in his mind until then?

After some deliberation he concluded that he didn't want her dead. But that left an even bigger conundrum for him, because he could no longer be sure why he wanted her alive. Was it only because he would have someone to destroy at his own leisure? Or could it be that the vengeful inferno inside him had finally burned through its course, after consuming everything in its path, including itself? Could he actually be concerned for her? Did he really want her to get well?

He didn't know what he wanted anymore, and hearing his own uncertainties being reinforced by this woman sitting in front of him didn't help resolve his confusion.

"I appreciate your concern and...I will take your advice under consideration. Maybe we can revisit this matter another time. But I really need to be going now, so if you'll please..." He trailed off as he signalled to the door, clearly motioning for Mrs. Cope to leave the room, and this time she didn't linger on.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Cullen. I am glad we had this talk. I'd be happy to sit down with you to discuss this more, or to answer any questions you may have. I hope we will find the time someday soon." She stood up and left the room after giving him a polite smile.

He dropped his head in his hands once he was alone again. He knew Mrs. Cope would be back to push the envelope, and he knew he'd have to sort out his own head so he could be prepared for it.

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he made his way to his car. He could hear Mrs. Cope's voice coming from the sunroom on his way out, indicating that his wife was most likely awake and about. He paused, but didn't go into the room, deciding not to upset her with his presence this morning.

As his car sped by on the 101, he sat in the back and forced his mind to think about Isabella, his wife, without letting the simmering magma boil over in his heart. Looking back through the years, he reminisced over the chain of events that brought him to this point in life. It went back a long way, further even than when he'd first met Bella.

AN1: At the risk of sounding repetitive, I humbly request you to head over to the Avante Garde Awards site and vote for these awesome people.

BellaScotia for Secrets and Lies, Bronzehyperion for Bring on the Wonder, MrsEdwardCullenP for Price of a Broken Heart, I Need a Life Bad for Control, AELGP for Marital Psychosis, Nickeyd26 for A Voice in the Darkness, and pixie-belle88 as Best New Author.

And while you are at it, vote for me too – if you think I deserve it. I happen to make it through to Round 2 in the Best New Author category. Thank you all who voted for me! I am immensely grateful.

Here's the link: http : /www . avantgardeawards . com/

AN2: Beautiful Sorrow was featured in the Under the Radar section of Twilight Awards site. Check it out if you are interested:

http: / reviews . thetwilightawards . com/search/label/Under%20the%20Radar

AN3: Rec- Somewhere Only We Know by suzie55.

It was best to keep her at a distance. Best for her it seemed until tonight. How do you start over with the one you hurt the most? B x E AH Love, Angst, Lemons... the usual suspects. It's makes me want to cry most of the time, but boy, I must say, it's brilliantly written.

AN4: Thank you lulabelle98, for making all this readable. I couldn't do it without you. Please read her story The Long Walk Home. It's been nominated in a bunch of categories at the Eternity Awards. Please vote for her when polls open.

Thanks to kimbo06, lulabelle98, roon0, karebear8706, rsher1111 and Shattered1025 for WCs. You ladies rock! They are all esteemed authors. Check out their stories.

I am thankful to all those who read, review, alert and fav-d my story. Kindly review and let me know what you think. It kinda helps...