AN: Happy Day After 4th of July! I hope everyone had a lovely holiday (or if you're not in the US, that you had a lovely weekend!)

Thanks to my kick ass beta, JosieSwan and also to izzzyy, who is quickly discovering how much hand-holding I really need.

And finally, for the long awaited Esme vs Renee smackdown. . .

Alice

The second day after Bella and Edward's abduction dawned cool and bright, morning dew beading on each individual blade of Esme Platt's perfect lawn. The green carpet stretched out as far as I could see as I stepped onto the wide veranda that wrapped around the back of the huge house.

It was still early, only 8 in the morning, but the intensely blue sky overhead promised that the day would be summerlike. I pulled the tiny white cardigan around my shoulders, the ruffles of the baby pink Milly dress I wore fluttering in the breeze. Self-consciously, I brushed the light, airy fabric, exulting in the feel and the luxury of ownership. I'd worn another designer dress the night before to dinner, but putting another on this morning had really cemented that no matter how much Esme Platt might scare the ever living shit out of me, she had impeccable taste in clothes and she was incredibly generous.

There were thousands of dollars worth of designer merchandise in my room, all for me to wear, and Esme firmly told me, to keep. I'd been up half the night trying on dress after dress, blouses, skirts, and jeans—accessorizing with the wonderful costume jewelry that Esme's personal shopper had sent. And the shoes. . .those had literally almost brought me to tears.

I glanced out at the jewel-like expanse of green grass that spread out before me, and then down at the nude Elie Tahari wedges that I'd chosen to go with this dress. I'd come outside because, having explored the interior of Esme's fabulous house, I'd wanted to do the same with the grounds, but I definitely wasn't going to sacrifice this incredible pair of shoes in the process. Taking a tentative step on the grass, I found the ground was solid and only the very tips of the grass were wet. I wouldn't ruin a pair of shoes by tromping all over the lawn, so I set off to see exactly what compromised Esme's Hyannis Port estate.

The house itself was a tiny blur in the distance by the time I had reached the edge of Esme's property. I'd passed a rose garden, a fountain surrounded by several antique wrought iron benches, and even more lawn. There were trees at the edge of the property, and I couldn't resist the urge to look between them, wondering what I'd see next door, if Esme's house was this incredible.

While her house was all modern Country French meets Long Island luxury, the estate next door was a faux Mediterranean that stuck out like a sore thumb. It was huge and imposing, yes, but I had to admit that I vastly preferred Esme's choice, which seemed to rise out of the landscape so elegantly. As if Esme Platt would ever do anything that wasn't elegant, I thought with a smile as I turned to move on, ready to see the dock and boathouse that Rose had described over dinner the night before, but before I could, I heard the sound of someone walking through the grass close by.

I turned back to the Mediterranean monstrosity and saw a man, tall and lean, wearing a stained white t-shirt and ripped khaki cargo shorts paired with ratty sneakers approaching. He was admittedly very good looking—his hair was the color of antique gold and worn long, until it touched the tips of his ears, and his features were well-shaped and chiseled. I stopped in my tracks, and watched him walk, completely unaware that he wasn't alone, next to the trees I was standing next to. I considered briefly saying hello, but with a second glance at his attire, decided that he must be the gardener.

I wasn't a snob, necessarily, and I hated that this experience had to come at the expense of the safety of Bella, who I loved dearly, but I wanted to make the most of this time I had, in the lap of luxury, and that definitely didn't include befriending gardeners. Now, if he'd owned the house, that might have been a different story. I might have informed him of a few ways he could tone down the outré décor of his house, and help it blend in better with its surroundings, but as it was, I decided that it would just be better to go.

"Hey there." Damn, I thought, as I heard his voice behind me, he'd spotted me first.

"Hello," I said politely, facing him. His smile was bright and wide, and genuine, crinkling the corners of his amber tiger eyes. "It's a lovely morning." It was, after all, a gorgeous day, and if I had to pass a few minutes of conversation with such an undeniably attractive man, then it wasn't the end of the world. Besides, there wasn't anyone to admire my new clothes except for me and my mirror, and I was beginning to chafe at having all these incredible new things without a place to wear them.

"I'm Jasper," he said, extending a calloused hand. "I'm surprised to see you here. Esme rarely has guests."

I thought it was a little odd that he'd referred to Esme Platt so informally, but I was too caught up in the way the light hit his hair and reflected off the lean tan muscles his white shirt was barely hiding to really consider the implications.

I shook his hand, noticing that his almost dwarfed mine. "I'm Alice. I'm visiting with Rosalie Hale." Let him think, I thought to myself, that I was just another vain, self-absorbed society princess. I decided that it was like a role, an image I projected onto myself—a harmless little vacation from having to be struggling fashion-appropriator Alice Brandon, who was used to window-shopping and never buying.

"Ah. That explains it. Esme must be having a party then." His voice and his body language almost instantly shifting when I mentioned Rosalie. Clearly, he knew her type and what kind of women she would associate with, and, as per my intention, I'd been automatically grouped with her.

I shrugged nonchalantly, pretending to the man before me and even to myself that I didn't care if Jasper No-Last-Name suddenly thought I was a snobby rich bitch. "It's very small. Exclusive." So exclusive that the only way you get an invitation is if you know someone that Emmett kidnapped.

"Well, have fun." Jasper turned and walked away, and as I watched his retreating figure, I remembered all the times in the last forty eight hours that Rose had wistfully spoken of wanting to disappear, to suddenly become normal. I'd thought she was crazy—after all, who wouldn't want to be Rosalie Hale with her closets full of designer clothes, full-color spreads in US Weekly and People, and her ability to open every door and walk every red carpet?

When I'd slid into that first designer original, the silk cool and slithery against my skin, I'd wondered if there could ever be a downside to being Rose. And I thought that I had just found it, in the way that Jasper the Gardener had instantly decided that because of my money and my snobbery, I wasn't worth even a second glance backwards. from

I tilted my chin up and set back towards the house. Suddenly, I wasn't quite as eager as I'd been earlier to see the boat house or the dock. Glancing down at my watch, I noted that it was nearly time for the fireworks to begin. I decided I was ready for coffee and a pastry, but more importantly, I was ready to watch Esme Platt and Renee Swan face off over the breakfast table.

Esme was pouring me a cup of coffee, fragrant steam curling in seductive wisps as the brown liquid streamed into the white Limoges cup, when Carlisle walked into the informal breakfast nook that we'd eaten in the morning before. Instead of stopping when my cup was full, she kept pouring, her eyes glued to the man in front of her.

"Esme!" I exclaimed, as coffee slopped over the sides of the cup and dripped onto the white table. She jerked the pot upwards, her eyes growing wide with astonishment.

"Oh, Alice, I apologize. Let me just ask Bridget in here to clean this mess up," she apologized, setting the pot into its holder. Carlisle just stood there, an amused expression on his face, as Esme fluttered into the kitchen. Coffee disaster averted, I let myself take in the vastly different way that Edward's manager looked this morning. I'd assumed that Esme had ordered clothing for Carlisle as well as Rosalie and I, but I'd been far too absorbed in my new acquisitions to notice if he'd looked different at dinner.

A few hours of sleep and a bracing walk in the cool morning air had cleared my head enough—nevermind the run-in with Jasper the Gardener—that I realized there was something going on between the still very attractive Carlisle and the Ice Queen.

The first piece of evidence? The clothes she'd selected for him. I knew enough about women and fashion to know that we liked to re-envision the men in our lives. Esme had clearly done so with Carlisle, because he was now dressed in a beautiful, impeccably cut light gray suit, likely a testament to thousands of hours of expertise. I knew only a few artists—and they were definitely artists—who were able to cut a suit with that level of perfection. Even though it hadn't been tailored to his exact measurements, it still fit beautifully. He wore it with a simple white shirt, open at the collar, and he looked, despite his age, like a woman's wet dream come to life. He'd looked good enough in his ratty rock concert t-shirts and worn jeans, but this was an entirely different level of hot.

"Carlisle, can Bridget fetch you anything?" Esme returned, looking marginally less flustered—but still flustered enough that I had a pretty good idea of how completely her composure was blown to tiny bits. And I couldn't really blame her; Carlisle's appearance was something akin to a nuclear explosion.

I sipped my coffee and couldn't help but smirk as she used the maid to deflect her bizarre behavior.

"Just coffee is fine," Carlisle said casually, as if he had no idea how his appearance had dismantled Esme.

"I'll have toast. An English muffin, if you have it," Rose said as she strolled into the nook, looking beautifully disheveled. She clearly had just woken up, her blond hair falling in messy waves from her face. "Wow," she said as she glanced up at Carlisle, saying the one thing that we were all thinking but hadn't spoken out loud, "you look great. Good choices, Esme."

Esme flinched, as if she'd been electrocuted. "Thank you, Rosalie," she said in a frozen voice, clearly indicating that she didn't want to talk about Carlisle's appearance. "And of course there's English muffins."

"When's Renee expected?" I asked, breaking the awkward silence as Rose buttered her English muffin and Carlisle steadily regarded a flustered Esme over his coffee cup.

"Any minute now," Carlisle answered, sliding down one sleeve of that gorgeous gray fabric to glance at the watch at his wrist. I recognized it as a Cartier Tank. I wondered if that too had been a gift from Esme, or if he'd owned it before coming to this magical house of wonders.

"Excellent." Esme's voice was tight, as if she could contain anything she couldn't control. Personally, I thought she sounded wound so tight she might explode all over the breakfast table.

Bridget appeared again, and leaned down near Esme. Her eyes snapped up towards Carlisle, who hadn't once stopped his steady perusal of her expression. "Renee's here," she said to the table at large, but I could tell from the way her gaze stayed on Carlisle that the announcement had been primarily for his benefit. "I'll ask her to join us for breakfast. No doubt she didn't eat on the plane."

"Or at all," I said as sweetly as I could manage. I hadn't been lying when I said that Renee was one of my least favorite people in the entire universe, but that she did deserve to be here, to help retrieve her daughter. As far as I was concerned, that was pretty much all she deserved in regards to Bella. Renee acted as if Bella had a disease she couldn't bear not to cure, and considering how poised, confident and talented her daughter was, this seemed like a particularly heinous crime.

"She's a model, of course she doesn't eat," Rosalie remarked through a mouthful of English muffin.

"Ex-model," I clarified. "She's like fifty now. Parts of her are anyway."

"Girls," Esme said warningly as she got up from the table with Carlisle following after her, but I saw the corner of her lips turn up in the barest hint of a smirk before she turned to walk out the door.

"I've never met her; is she really all that bad?" Rosalie asked, starting on her second English muffin.

I glanced down at my fruit cup and black coffee. "She's positively awful. And how do you eat all that and look the way you do?"

"Good genes. Great metabolism. And swimming laps. Really, Alice, there's nothing you need to worry about. You're beautiful and so petite."

"Yeah, because I don't eat English muffins."

"Don't be ridiculous," Rosalie said, piling a steaming heap of scrambled eggs on my plate despite my protests. "The protein is good for you."

I surrendered, shoveling a forkful of golden fluffy egg into my mouth, and nearly choked as Renee sailed into the room—and sailed was definitely the right term.

She was wearing bright blue dress, which I recognized instantly as one that I'd lusted after on the Bergdorf's website, and I could tell from the way that Rose's eyes narrowed in on the kimono tie, that she agreed that it was about twenty years too young for the still-statuesque ex-model.

"Alice," Renee gushed, floating over to where I sat the table. "Can you believe it? Our poor, misguided Bella, lured down the dark path by enemies posing as friends."

"Renee," I said flatly, choosing to ignore the gibberish spouting out of her puffy, collagen-filled lips. "Good to see you too." I was a terrible liar, and knew it, and didn't even care that the words came out my mouth were flat and meaningless. I wasn't glad to see her, just as she wasn't glad to see me either. Renee and I had an uneasy truce full of fake smiles, double meanings and insincere compliments, but I had a strong feeling that over the next few weeks, even the façade was going to come crumbling to the ground.

"Hello. I'm Rosalie Hale," Rose said, her gaze sliding up the dress for the second time, before settling on Renee's face. "You must be Renee Swan."

"So lovely to meet you," Renee trilled, her face lighting up with delight at meeting such a genuine celebrity. "When Carlisle called and said that Bella had been abducted, I had no idea she had fallen in with such famous people." I found it vaguely disgusting that Renee was nearly slobbering all over Rose in her eagerness to impress her. If there was one thing that Renee admired more than beauty, it was money. So, basically, Rosalie Hale was her version of the Holy Grail. If Renee could have designed a daughter the way that you did a stuffed animal at those inane shops in suburban malls, it would have looked, acted, and spoken just like Rosalie.

"Renee," Esme said, stepping into the room, an even more insincere smile plastered on her features, "what can I get you for breakfast? A fruit cup, like Alice's? Some coffee?"

"I'm perfectly fine. I ate on the plane, actually," Renee said with an equally saccharine smile as she gracefully dropped into the seat next to Rosalie. "I'm not hungry."

"Carlisle? Can Bridget get you anything?"

"I'm fine with coffee and toast," he said, sitting down at the only available seat, which was unfortunately wedged between Renee and Esme. "I've never been much of a breakfast person."

"Me either," Renee gushed, leaning over and placing a single hand on his arm. "I just find that I'm never hungry in the mornings."

"Or anytime," I mumbled underneath my breath, as I speared a pineapple wedge in my bowl of fruit.

"Is that the new Diane Von Furstenberg kimono dress?" Rosalie asked, deciding that it was probably better she change the subject before any of us decided to actually say what we were thinking.

"It is, in fact." Renee practically blossomed in front of us, clearly thrilled that Rosalie Hale was interested in discussing what she was wearing. I didn't even try to hide my rolling eyes, and to my astonishment, neither did Esme.

"Please, Renee. I thought you came here to discuss your daughter. Not Spring Fashion Week," Esme snapped.

Renee's eyes grew wide. "Have you heard from her?"

"She's kidnapped so that would be a. . .no," I deadpanned.

"We've called in a specialist, who is going to oversee the location and extraction of Edward and Bella from the group that is holding them," Carlisle cut in.

Renee shifted slightly in her seat, so that Carlisle had her full attention—or the handful of brain cells she had left. "And who would that be? The FBI? The CIA?"

"Marc Jacobs? Donatella Versace?" Rose added snidely.

I elbowed her under the table and I saw her bite down on her lip hard to keep from busting out laughing. "Girls," Esme said firmly, "this is serious business."

Rearranging her features into abject contrition, Rosalie nodded solemnly. "Of course it is. I understand completely. Who's this specialist?"

"His name is Marcus. He was in Black Ops with Army Special Forces. After retiring from the Armed Forces, he turned to the private sector," Carlisle continued, clearly unaware that Renee was nearly slobbering all over him. For an older man, he was still incredibly attractive, and the suit he was wearing definitely made the most of what he had. Renee wouldn't be Renee if she didn't notice and take action. Sometimes I didn't understand how my best friend in the entire world could have been birthed by such a superficial, social-climbing ho bag bitch.

"A gunslinger for hire. Very smart," Renee cooed. I made internal gagging noises. "You have everything under such admirable. . .control. Now, can I ask, you were so ambiguous on the phone, who exactly has my daughter?" I knew the from the way that Esme's gaze narrowed at Renee that I wasn't alone in seeing the calculation in her eyes. While I still stood by my insistence that Renee be here because she was Bella's mother, I knew, as did everyone else, that her daughter's safety was secondary to Renee. She was really here because this was Esme Platt's house.

"That's none of your concern," Esme said brusquely. "Besides, you wouldn't know the group. Suffice it to say, they're dangerous. Very much so."

"Goodness, Esme, there's no need to be so stiff. We're friends. I remember so fondly that garden party you threw three years ago. We should hold another while I'm here, a joint gathering perhaps? Carlisle," she leaned even closer to him, apparently deciding that she needed to smother the poor man in her exposed cleavage, "surely you have some music friends that could use a day or two away from their rough lives in New York? And you too, Rosalie. It would be nice to have a little get together. . ."

Renee didn't get any further than that.

We sat for a second, all of us struck slightly dumb by the audacity of the woman in our midst. Even though Carlisle said nothing, I was sure that the whole table could feel him bristle at Renee's suggestion. Esme stood abruptly and turned to Renee, her face looking as if it had just been carved from marble. "Are you sure I can't get you anything, Renee? A bowl of air perhaps?"

It took Renee about half a moment longer than anyone else to realize that she'd just been insulted. Personally, I thought, while the comment was fairly amusing, Esme must be losing it because that was a hell of a lot less subtle than I was sure she was capable of.

"Excuse me?" Renee gaped. "I don't believe I heard you correctly."

"No, you heard me perfectly," Esme said, her voice so cold that it sounded like it had just come out of a deep freeze. "And while you are welcome here because of your daughter's unfortunate circumstances, I want to be clear: we are not friends or even passing acquaintances. There won't be convenient name-dropping in interviews, or exclusive gossip about Esme Platt's summer residence or her son and your daughter's 'relationship' with him. And there definitely will not be any invitations for you. This changes nothing."

"I thought we'd put that silly misunderstanding behind us," Renee said, her melting voice suddenly growing a hard edge.

"The misunderstanding?" Esme lifted an eyebrow, and I was astounded that despite her ice cold glare, Renee didn't burst into spontaneous flames. "Are you referring to your banishment from all good society for being a gold-digging whore?"

"I'm here, aren't I?" None of us missed the challenge in Renee's voice, and I settled back in my chair, admittedly enjoying watching these two formidable opponents try to destroy each other. Personally, while I'd seen my share of Renee manipulation, my money was definitely on Esme here. After all, the Ice Queen never lost.

"Yes, you are. Barely. It's only my good will that allows you to stay, Bella or no Bella, and my mood is rather. . .changeable right now. This is your first and last warning: the press hears even a word of this, and I'll make sure that you never see another invitation as long as you live. California. New York. Or anywhere else that matters."

"You can't do that," Renee spluttered. "Bella is my daughter. If I want to talk to anyone about her, I can and I will."

"And this is my house. Thus, my rules. If you don't like it, leave," Esme said coldly. If I hadn't seen her break down yesterday, I wouldn't have known she was capable of it. Today, her armor was thick and hard, as impenetrable as ice. She turned to Carlisle, her manner warming just barely. "We have some calls to make and some plans to formulate. Will you meet me in the office?"

"What about me?" Renee asked plaintively as Carlisle rose and Esme turned to leave the room.

Esme glanced over her shoulder. "Feel free to talk to Rosalie and Alice about Diane Von Furstenberg's Spring collection. Or perhaps the new Prada bags. Fashion should be a topic you're well qualified to discuss, unlike your daughter's rescue."

An uncomfortable silence descended over the table after Esme and Carlisle's departure. I picked at my fruit, Rosalie chewed her English muffin with careless abandon, and Renee stared out the window, absently tapping her manicured fingernails on the tabletop. But when I looked up from a strawberry, I found Bella's mother staring at me, intently.

"You look different," she said to me, her eyes examining the simple white cashmere cardigan, the pink Milly dress, and the chic wedge sandals. "You look beautiful, in fact," she begrudged finally. "I wonder, have you ever considered modeling?"

Bella had joked for years that one day, Renee would actually look at me, instead of right through me, and realize that I was the kind of daughter she'd always wanted. Personally, I thought Renee's taste ran more towards tall blonds, like herself and Rosalie, but I was undoubtedly slender, with interesting features. Those two ingredients, I knew from my experience in fashion, would be enough for her to wonder—even if it was only a casual question.

I had definitely not expected today to be that day, though, and I didn't know what to say to her. Of course, with my love of fashion, I'd considered it, but nowhere seriously enough to know how to answer.

Rosalie, being Rosalie, had no such qualms. "Alice isn't interested in modeling," she said with a sunny, innocent, totally unaware smile. "She wants to design. Didn't you know about her clothes business?"

That got Renee's attention faster than if someone yelled "Free Botox!" on 5th Avenue in New York.

"No, I didn't, and you know how much I love fashion. Why didn't you or Bella tell me all about it?"

Because, I thought with increasing desperation, it wasn't exactly legal.

"Uh," I stalled. "Bella didn't?"

Rosalie, of course, stormed right in, obviously thinking that my reticence had nothing to do with the questionable legality of such a business, but instead with fear that once she discovered what we'd used her clothes for, Renee would order us beheaded or disemboweled or something equally horrific.

"I'm sure they wanted to tell you," Rose gushed, "but they were too afraid you'd be angry when you found out."

This got Renee's attention even quicker. She was now staring at me as if I were some sort of strange, mythical creature that she'd never dreamed existed. "Alice, my dear, please tell me what is going on."

Fatalistically, I decided there was no point in continuing the charade. Lying wasn't going to help me now. "Those clothes that you send Bella? We've been using them as patterns to copy from, and then selling the copies."

I honestly had no idea how Renee was going to react; Bella and I had never discussed the possibility of Renee finding out about the business, probably because that would require Renee to be interested in what we were actually doing versus what she wanted us to do. And, naturally, this had never happened before.

I was unfortunately finding out that there was a first time for everything.

Renee didn't respond right away. In fact, I was rather astonished to see the surprise written on her face—I'd thought that all Dr. Phil's procedures had totally eradicated her ability to convey emotion via her expression, but clearly I was wrong. "Goodness," she finally said weakly. "You and Bella were doing this? So the clothes I sent for her, they weren't being kept in a box somewhere?"

I shook my head.

"Truthfully, I'm glad," Renee finally admittedly. "I hated the thought of such beautiful things going to waste."

I had too. Yet another astonishing fact: Renee Swan and I actually had something in common besides a general lust for designer clothing.

"They didn't," I told her. "That was initially why I started copying them—they weren't my size and some of them couldn't be altered to fit, so I made my first copies. And then my friends saw them, and asked if they could have a copy too."

"Amazing," Renee murmured, and it looked as if she actually meant it. "All this time, while Bella could care less about what she wears, you do."

"The copies are amazing," Rosalie added. "I couldn't tell the difference until I was right up close."

"Buttons and hardware are hard to match sometimes, because designers usually custom order their own notions," I explained.

"Have you ever thought about designing your own line?" Rose asked, if it was all so easy and effortless. Which for her, if she'd ever had the inclination, it probably was. I realized then that what I envied in Rose was her ability to do whatever she wanted—the freedom and the independence of having enough income that you didn't have to scrape together rent money each month and make decisions between the new Alice + Olivia dress and eating. She could keep the red carpets and the People Best-Dressed Lists and the way men reacted to her name. I just wanted the ability to finally do what I'd been born to do.

"Yes, Alice, you really should," Renee added. "If these copies are really as cunning and clever as Rosalie says they are."

I shrugged. "Making clothes is expensive. We had just begun to make a little extra to put away each month, but not enough for me to design my own clothes, which was the eventual goal."

"And then Bella demanded I stop contacting her," Renee finished.

"Yes." I didn't want to agree, but Bella's sudden ability to stand up to her mother had definitely put a crimp in my plans.

"I've got plenty of money," Rose said with an almost embarrassed undertone to her voice—as if having money was something to be ashamed of. "I could help you out."

I had seen this coming from a mile away, and though Rosalie's eyes were guileless, I had a feeling that she had manufactured this entire conversation as a way to suggest the concept of her funding me.

"No. Absolutely not." It killed me to say no, but I knew that I had to do this on my own; I didn't want to take any shortcuts or any handouts. I would do it without any help, someday—of course, who knew when it would ever happen, at the rate I was going.

"Oh, please let me," Rosalie begged. "I'd love to help, and my parents are always telling me I need to get more involved in business. To do something besides shop and go to parties."

And probably follow Edward around like a helpless groupie, I added in my head, before mentally chastising myself. Rose was becoming a friend. It was horrible of me to even think those things about her, even though they were undoubtedly true. Besides, she had insisted to me dozens of times that she and Edward were totally over, and that she was turning over a new leaf with Emmett.

It would be so easy to just say yes. To agree Rose's impassioned plea. I toyed with the idea briefly before shaking my head no again. "I'm sorry, I just can't. This is something I need to do with my own resources because I don't want anything or anyone influencing the creative process."

"Just promise me you'll consider it," Rose asked again. "That's all I ask, right now."

It had been hard enough to say no twice; to do it a third time would probably kill me, especially when all I could see was an endless future of me fetching coffee for a minor fashionista or selling ugly separates at The Gap. "Fine. I suppose I could consider it," I conceded. "But no promises."

"That's all I ask," Rosalie said buoyantly. "Just for you to consider it."

I'd honestly believed that I wouldn't have to hear about it again, that Rosalie had understood that my agreement had only been a nicer way for me to turn her down. But apparently, we weren't on that same page, because that afternoon, while laying out by the pool, our skin baking in the unnatural May heat, Rose brought it up again.

"You know why I offered, right?" she asked, not moving, her eyes shielded by a pair of Gucci aviators. "It's not because I'm rich and you're poor."

"Gee, thanks for the penetrating insight," I answered a trifle sarcastically.

"I'm serious," she said, rolling over and pushing her sunglasses up on her head. "It really isn't about that."

"Oh? What's it about then?" I asked, amused and still not taking her seriously. I picked up a glass of lemonade from the table next to my chaise lounge, the condensation making the glass slippery in my hand. Cautiously I sipped from the straw before setting it down, waiting for Rose to make up some bullshit story about how helping me would really help her.

Rose lay back down, her sunglasses sliding back over her eyes, before she answered. I wasn't the world's most observant person when it came to body language—clothes, on the other hand, were a totally different story—but I wondered if she had done that on purpose so she wouldn't have to look me in the eyes while she told me what she'd meant.

"You know about Edward and I, so I don't need to tell you that it was even more fucked up than anyone knew. I don't even think I can explain and have you understand how much I hated what I'd become. A drifter; a helpless, bitchy, angry girl who thought she was in love with a man who treated her like utter shit. And I really believed that was all I was worth." Her voice was bitter, as if the very words she spoke had an unbearably nasty taste.

"You're Rosalie Hale. Beautiful and rich and famous. Why would you think you deserved that kind of treatment from anyone?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. It was just. . .habit. I wanted him, for god knows what reason—he is incredibly charming, you know—and so at first, I just kind of turned a blind eye to the other women, to the booze, to the nasty comments he'd make. And once it started, it was just a slippery slope, a cycle that I couldn't end."

"But you did end it," I said softly. "You told me you broke it off with him." If I hadn't been worried about Bella before this, I would definitely be worried now. How on earth would she manage being cooped up and kept a prisoner with such a jerk? Bella was fiercely strong-willed, I reassured myself, she would manage and make the best of it. At least that was what I hoped she'd do.

Rosalie said nothing for a long while, the luxurious silence stretching out between us. I could hear the faintest hint of the ocean, but otherwise, Esme lived far enough away from anyone that the only sound you could hear were her staff and any other residents of the house. I remembered Jasper the Gardener and pushed his lean golden figure from my mind. He'd dismissed me, and there wasn't any reason to think about him or wish that I hadn't let him believe that I was a Society Princess like Rosalie. Though, I reconsidered, it made me irrationally upset that he would believe the worst of her, especially when I'd discovered what a sweet, kind, generous soul she had underneath the beauty and the charm.

"But I didn't do it for me. I left Edward for Emmett, because he loved me so much and he wanted me to. I wanted to be with someone who was kind to me. So I told Edward we were finished, and I believed it. I do believe it. But the fact remains," she sighed, "that I didn't do it for myself. My therapist, Gianna has been telling me that I need to do something for me, something to give me a purpose."

"So you're going to adopt mine?" I asked.

"I'd give you complete creative control," she persisted, "but I really think that I'd be good at the business side. The marketing, publicity, that sort of thing."

To Rosalie's credit, I could see it just the way she described it. Me, designing the collection, Rose promoting it with her worldwide Rolodex of celebrity friends and media contacts. But still, the vision had a pink tinge of unreality to it, as if I was viewing the entire thing through a rose-colored dream. And life, I had learned long ago, was more reality than fantasy.

"You said before that you'd consider it, but we both know you didn't mean that," Rose continued. "All I want is your serious promise that you will. Because I think we could be a very, very good team."

I was beginning to wonder, I realized as I stared out across the serene blue water of the pool, the sun leaving little ripples of heat on the terracotta tiles, if Rose wasn't right. It wasn't a terrible idea, and I decided that it would be stupid of me not to do as she asked.

"Okay," I told her. "I'll consider it."

"Really?"

I turned to look at her. "No, Rose. I'm going to turn you and your millions of dollars down, and stay in obscurity, likely selling ugly clothes at American Eagle, for the rest of my life."

Rose laughed. "You know, I knew when you showed up in an almost flawless copy of a Nanette Lapore tunic dress that we'd get along great. I wasn't wrong."

"Almost flawless? You lie. You counted it thread by thread, trying to figure out if it was authentic or not."

She laughed again, the sound drifting across the pool. "Fine. You win. It took me hours to decide if it was a copy."

"I thought so," I said smugly. "And because you admitted to not being sure, I was right about you. I'll do more than consider it. You're on."

Rose sat up so fast, her sunglasses clattered to the terracotta patio. "Really?" she exclaimed. "That was all the time you needed to consider it?"

"I'm not saying 100% yes right now, because I don't feel right devoting all my time to a pet project when my best friend is missing, but I'm serious when I say I'm very, very interested in seeing if this could work."

"You're on, Brandon," Rose said with a huge smile that just lit up her face, the same way it did when she spoke of Emmett. "I can't wait to make you famous."

"I can't wait until you do either," I said, leaning back on the chaise lounge, feeling as if something in my life was finally going right. I settled my sunglasses back on, deciding the pink tones they washed the landscape in were surprisingly appropriate to my mood. After all, my fantasy was about to become a reality.

AN: I sort of feel like I should start apologizing for all the sideplots and the complexity that this story has developed. I honestly had no idea that it was going to become so large, plot-wise. I really, really was going to leave Jasper out of it, but he demanded that he be included. And yes, you (and Alice) will be seeing more of him.

Is he who Alice thinks he is? Or is he someone else? Let's hear some theories :)