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Thank you to Sunflower Fanfiction and Mari for their work.

Thank you to Yellowglue | LittleGreyAche for the inspiration.

Thank you for reading.

Stripped Desire – Chapter 9: Pollock

"Speak when you're angry, and you'll make the best speech you'll ever regret."

Lawrence J. Peters. ~

"Isabella," he says, after I've let him in. I don't say anything. He narrows his eyes. "You cut your hair."

I stare at him, thrown off balance by his presence—by his words.

He's wearing dark blue jeans, black boots, and a dark grey jacket zipped all the way up. His hair is a mess.

I run my hands over the skirt of my dress and look down at my shoes.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, meeting his eyes again.

He tugs his ear several times and looks around before stepping closer to me. The brown bag he has clutched to his chest with his right hand serves as a barrier between us.

But he is still close enough to touch. My fingers itch with the desire to do so.

"I came to apologize," he says. He looks down for a second before tugging his ear again.

Is he nervous?

"How did you find out where I live?" I ask, walking a few steps backwards.

He follows and places the bag on a small table that now seems out of place.

"Don't get angry with Alice." He holds his hands up. "I tried calling you. I texted you… although, I'm starting to think you never reply to those."

He smiles at me. The way he looks is so distracting.

How can he make my head spin with a smile?

How can his presence alter my thoughts in such a powerful way?

Everything he does is mesmerizing to me. The thought of giving in paralyzes me with fear. Guys like Edward Cullen aren't satisfied with just a half of something. They want it all. I'm not sure if I can give away that much.

I can't do this.

"Listen, Edward," I start, shaking my head. "It's been a rough week. I'm not in the mood for company."

I leave the sentence hanging in the air between us, willing him to go. A serious, determined look replaces the smile on his face.

"I'm sorry about this week. I was a jerk. You were being civil." He walks further into the living room, and looks to the left at my bookshelf. "I just don't want you bailing on me."

"I won't," I say before I realize it. He looks back to me. "It was just one session. And trust me, I would've preferred to be there today, instead of where I was."

After the words are out of my mouth, it hits me how true they are. I don't know what to make of it.

I sit on the couch, exhausted, and take off my shoes.

His face softens, nodding as he walks toward me.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, sitting down. "I'm a good listener, I promise." He lowers the zipper of his jacket, exposing a red and white t-shirt.

I sigh. "Thank you, but I'd rather not."

"Okay. We don't have to. We can talk about anything else. I brought you chocolate cake," he says, smiling.

The soft expression on his face is impossible to deny, so I nod at him, too tired to come up with an argument. It's clear he's making an effort to make up for his actions.

We sit in my living room in silence, me eating the chocolate cake, while he devours a sweet roll.

I try to look everywhere but him.

I check the time on the wall clock three times in the expanse of fifteen minutes. It's 9:45 pm.

Edward finishes eating, crumples his napkin and stuffs it in the pocket of his jeans.

"Were you with someone tonight?" he asks, playing with a loose thread of fabric on his jeans.

I study his profile until he looks at me.

"Not tonight, no."

"When?" he asks, narrowing his eyes, reading between the lines.

"None of your business," I say. The words feel heavy on my mouth. A part of me wants to tell him everything in the form of confession, as a sinner looking for absolution.

I have to bite my tongue to keep my words in check.

The energy flowing between us is weird, tense. I know he knows.

"I hope it was better," he says, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"Better than what?" I ask.

"Than spending time with me," he says, looking at me in the eyes.

"It wasn't," I whisper. My heart is racing. I've said too much tonight.

He runs a hand through his hair and moves closer. "Which night?"

I look at our almost-touching legs and answer.

"Neither.

He stares at me in silence for a moment before clearing his throat. I excuse myself to go to the bathroom and count to 50 before walking back out.

"So, where you've been?" he asks when I sit down with two cushions between us. He smiles when he sees my obvious attempt at creating distance.

I pick up the bakery container."What?"

"Which places have you been to? Which one's your favorite?"

"What kind of question is that?"

We stare at each other for a few seconds.

"Are you going to answer or not?"

"Well, I went to boarding school in London," I say. He nods as if he already knew that. "I've visited most of Europe: Spain, France, Italy, and Germany. I spent a summer in Argentina once, Mexico…" I trail off not wanting to name every single country I've been to.

"So you really are rich," he says.

I frown and place the half-eaten chocolate cake on the edge of the living room table.

He chuckles. "Sorry, I just thought maybe you weren't as wealthy as you behaved, but you do come from money."

"Yes."

There's no point denying my family is rich. And it's not as if I can't forget it when money has played such an integral part in my life since the day I was born.

Money.

Knowledge.

Power.

Every friendship I ever had while growing up had a purpose.

"You need to be nice to Francis. Her parents are about to hire your dad to manage their investments in the city."

"Don't be rude to Jessica. She's the granddaughter of one of your dad's most important clients."

"Go to the movies with Richard. If his family takes their business elsewhere, it will ruin our reputation."

I shudder back into the present, hating the whispers of the past in my ear.

"Do you hate it?" he asks.

"Money has its pros and cons, like everything else," I say, frowning. No one has ever asked me that before.

He snorts. "You say that because you've always had it."

I roll my eyes at his response. It's such a cliché thing to say. "Oh please."

"You've always had food on your table, warm beds to sleep in," he says, then shakes his head. "Fuck, I bet you had Egyptian silk. You don't know what it's like not having money to buy food or a place to sleep. You have no idea."

This is what happens when people discuss money.

There's an ugliness to it, a sour edge to their tone. Edward's face is not soft and earnest like it was just moments ago. Now he looks angry.

At me.

For being rich.

My blood boils with rage.

"Behold the starving artist," I say, waving my hand his way. "What a trite line. Martyr Edward—better than everyone Edward. Why? Because you think you've had it worse than everyone else? Newsflash: you haven't." I stand up and gather the disposable plate that holds the rest of my chocolate cake.

I walk to the kitchen, feeling my head throb with each angry step I take.

I feel him close behind me.

"So help me God," he says, "if you go on a rant about your wallet being too small for your fifties and your diamond shoes being too tight …"

"This isn't about me!" I say, turning to face him.

It never is about me. Every person who has been a part of my life has managed to project their issues on me, including my family. I've always been just a mirror for people to look at their flaws and mistakes while they lash their insecurities at me.

No one has seen me for who I am.

I've spent most of my life proving to myself that I'm capable, worthy, good enough.

Tears well up in my eyes and my hand starts to shake from the rage. I put the container on the counter, and brace myself against it.

"You need to leave," I say, taking deep breaths. I will my voice not to crack. "Now."

"Isabella, I'm sorry."

I hold up my hand without facing him.

"I've been so out of line," he says. I can hear his deep exhale of breath. "I don't know—" he stops, and then speaks again. "This isn't me."

"Just go. Please," I say, and this time my voice does break.

Silence falls around me, and for a second I think I'm alone.

I let out a small sob as the tears finally begin to run down my cheeks.

And then his arms are around me, and I'm clutching his t-shirt while I cry.

His body radiates warmth and mine absorbs it all. I want to recoil from his touch, but I drown in it instead.

Without my heels, he towers over me, making me feel fragile. I try pushing him away several times. My heart's not in it, though. My movements are slow and weak, and it only makes him hold me tighter.

He tells me he's sorry over and over, whispering the words against my hair. The action feels too intimate, yet it manages to calm me down.

Even after I'm done crying, he holds me in his arms for a few more minutes.

"I need you to go," I say, pushing him away. He lets me go to meet my eyes.

He nods. "I understand."

I walk to the door and open it while he retrieves his jacket from the living room.

When he reaches me, he stares at my face.

"I know you're more than what meets the eye," he says. "That's why I asked you to pose for me, so everyone can see. I didn't mean what I said."

I nod at him but say nothing.

With a sigh, he walks out, and I close the door behind him.

Anyone caught the Friends reference? Let me know in the review.

Thank you for reading.

See you next week.

xo.