For anyone reading, thank you so much for taking the time to do so. I grew up with the Twilight series and now, as an adult, still love to take the time to read them.

However, I feel as though we never had a proper introduction to the pasts of our favorite characters. While I will likely not have enough energy to write them all, I did want to take the time to write the backstory that has always been at the back of my mind - Esme's.

Enjoy the ride, it's going to be a lustful, heartbreaking, exciting journey.

Chapter One

Esme's POV - Age 16, Columbus, Ohio -

Slam

The door behind me rattled. It's hinges threatened to release their grip from the dark oak in which they clung to, groaning and creaking at the strength of my small frame falling against it. My mother's palms slammed against the wood in response with a hard thud. I imagined her fingers still outstretched, mere inches from my flesh before being suddenly divided by a harsh barrier. She hadn't had the chance to close them, to latch onto my dress and snatch me backwards into that disgustingly humid drawing room. We had spent all afternoon arguing - back and forth and back and forth. I had finally fled when I felt as though the world was spinning and my throat went dry.

I could almost feel the heat of her cheeks, the saltiness of her tears as she continued pounding on the door with desperation.

"Esme, marriage is a wonderful thing. It was gifted to us by God, it's a sacred union. I need you to understand how beneficial it will be to our family,"

I had to hold back a scoff at her wording. "Our family.". As if it were her that would have to go home to a strange man every night - feed and clothe him while being torn apart by greedy hands and a drooling mouth. The only purpose of entering his chambers to be with the intention to empty his pockets and fund my father's growing social rank.

The idea is ludicrous - marrying for wealth and social status. I am not interested in the heat of a stove and the burns of a dinner. Spare me from routine and heartbreak, from the fate of the women that came before me to do nothing but lick their wounds for a man's burning flame.

"Esme, I'm going to call for your father."

All the bravery I had possessed seemed to rush to my feet and pool on the floor in thin puddles. It was only a matter of time before his heavy footsteps would approach the same wooden door, but this time, the barrier would be much easier to break. The pain filling my soul was not that of fear of harm, but fear of disappointment.

The door shuttered again, feeling my feet slide across the floor as it started to give way. I desperately needed an escape from this conversation, this expectation.

My eyes flashed to a small, rather meek window above my bed. While it offered a suitable escape, I could not see the fall being as inviting. Below lay cobblestone paths worn with time, shattered and embracing the winding roots of the earth beneath it.

That would hurt.

Patiently waiting for my mother to succumb to the splinters and scrapes that the banging surely caused, I evaluated my options carefully. How was I to leave this?

The stairs began to creak and groan under her weight, her frustration being evident in the way that she carried herself, but she had turned her back away from my chamber. I rushed to the window, trying to move in a way that didn't set off an alarm to my intruder. The door was no longer guarded; the hinges were silent.

I reached around and untied the long skirt pulled at my waist. It was a rather stunning piece of cloth, though extremely uncomfortable and best suited for what I was about to accomplish. With one thick knot tied around my headboard, I threw the remaining cloth over the edge of the window. It wouldn't help much, as the skirt wasn't that long, and these kinds of things always worked better in books where blood was never spilled and bones were never broken.

I was certain that this endeavor would leave me with a velvety-colored bruise wherever I landed, but I prayed the cloth would be strong enough to take most of the damage. The goal was not to be painless, but to be free.

The idea is rather ridiculous, but the home that had housed my family since I was a young girl was built by my father and a few Amish men. Low ceilings and floors provided me with constant mischief, taking advantage of my father's undivided attention to the plantation and lack of concern for the homestead.

A swift jump caused the tugging of the cloth, followed by a tear loud enough to make my body recoil. My hands had slipped from the cloth faster than I had anticipated, and I contemplated whether I should read fewer romance novels as I watched the rapidly approaching ground.

Across the field, my father was staring directly at my small, twisted body covered in dirt. Subtly, enough to not alert the furious woman inches from his frame, he winked.

A stupid smile crossed my face at his encouragement, though I understood my time was limited before my mother would angrily turn on her heels, only to see her daughter running barefoot and dressed in a manner unsuitable for a lady. I hurriedly swept up the lighter under-skirt and sprinted behind the large farmhouse, determined to save my mother from any additional frustration. Mud splashed onto the back of ivory and purple calves, suddenly uprooted from its rightful place by scattered footprints.

-0-

I could see my mother below the large oak that I had chosen as my resting place, pacing in small circles as she rubbed her temples. She knew I was up here somewhere. I watched her honey locks fall out of her once neat braid, a sure sign of the constant stress that her daughter brought upon her. She was covered in dirt and wrinkles, a gentle reminder of how her life had been so much easier before she came here. For a moment, I felt intense sympathy for the pain that I was causing her.

My mother grew up in a town nestled between a calm, pristine sea and an equally matched village. Ships danced with the sea and departed to their chambers every night, leaving behind riches and meals that were unfathomable to those who lived a simpler life. Lights would ripple across the waves during their courtship rituals, creating a setting that rivaled any romantic novel.

But now, the homes that once lined the hilltops were empty of laughter, the silence of anticipation had taken its place. The men who drank and sang their prayers to women beneath moonlit shores are now resting beneath heavy graves. Bar fights that turned political, resulting in broken bottles, bloody hands, and sheets of thin cotton over closed eyelids. Increased recruitment has caused an uptick in ropes tied to second-story windows, finding more peace in a quick, cowardly death than one filled with suffering and heartbreak.

My mother could feel the war coming. She was painfully aware of the tension that had been building. I heard her dainty footsteps in the middle of the night, taking care to avoid any creaky floorboards that might give away her presence. With the expectation that everyone else was wrapped up in slumber's embrace, she spoke in hushed whispers in the darkness. Praying. Painfully aware that men in stone fortresses would soon use those she loved as fodder in a war of attrition. Anxiety wracked her soul with each major event that shook Europe, wondering if this would be the one to set a crimson wave across her pristine seas.

She came to America on a ship that could be described as nothing but sickly; her family wealthy enough to afford the luxuries of seafaring but not the privilege of safety. My father welcomed her at a small port in the South; their marriage arranged to provide her and her heirs with a peace that Europe was unable to offer. The distance between the countries in the far western hemisphere provided its own line of defense, mostly keeping wars off of its soil and men free to live.

My mother made a sacrifice for her family, leaving behind the man she loved and an upper-class lifestyle to provide those at home with a sense of security. If war were to break out, we would find our home filled with refugees from the Riviera.

Now, at 16, she expected her only daughter to make the same sacrifice. To wrap her arms around the sacrifice with warmth and understanding that the life of her family was more important than the life of her own. I often wondered if she reacted similarly to me, or if she had known her role and accepted it with far more grace than I was capable of.

I blinked, tears filling my eyes as I reminisced on everything my mother had done to allow me to be here, hidden away and defiantly disobeying her.

With a deep breath, I leaned back and stared at the rolling clouds, watching the wall of rain approach. The psalms of cicadas rang through the trees suffocating the edges of the farmland, providing a lazy, groggy warning to the upcoming weather. Sweet humidity was thick and intoxicating, indicating the increasing agitation of the cloud cover above.

Almost on queue, thunder rumbled as though the weight was becoming unbearable, the first few drops falling in synchrony as a solemn release.

The men in my father's fields started loading up wagons of produce, nestling them beneath a thick cover of leather to save them from rot.

None of the wagons suffered beneath the weight.

None of the baskets spilled over.

Almost empty.

Many of the crops had already suffered during a particularly wet season. The thought of the upcoming winter sent a shiver down my spine, for we all knew that death would settle upon our land if we continued on this course.

I could already feel him here, settling between the dying crops and the recent burial of our calves. He welcomed our plantation with open arms, thriving, always requesting more than he had already been offered. The death that my mother was trying to escape had seemingly followed her here, wrapped her in a blanket and whispered in her ear, Nobody escapes my embrace.

"Esme, come join, s'il te plaît," my mother's sharp voice jolted me out of my trance. I desperately tried to hide the sobs that were about to overcome my chest as I realized that these sacrifices were being made to protect the very people I could watch from my canopy-covered home.

Not a single ounce of my soul wanted to leave.

With a deep sigh, I stepped down onto a lower branch for a better view of my mother's figure. She flinched, but never turned. I could see my father on her other side, comforting her as they both viewed the eerily quiet scene that I had.

What I hadn't noticed prior, though, was how broken she looked. My father's hands could almost wrap around the entirety of her protruding bones. She was too thin, and nature's devastation of my father's hard work was not likely to cease before she would fall ill. Until this moment, I had not realized that she had taken less food than my brother and I, going without so that we might have more.

With a newfound understanding of my role in our family, my role in society, I took another step down. Except, this time, the bark was covered in moisture, as if it were anticipating the upcoming rain.

The air caught in my lungs as I felt gravity take it's hold, it's claws pulling me down gently. It's not how I an anticipated falling, but something about it was ethereal. Watching the world spin in slow motion before disaster strikes, the realization that the birds will continue singing and the world continue spinning before, during, and as my body hits the ground.

I lay in a daze, unable to process why I was lying on the muddy base of a tree that I had so easily navigated. By uncanny coincidence, fiery pain seemed to swirl through my head the very moment I looked upon myself. One leg was bent in a horrifying position, supporting the weight of my body as it collided with the soggy earth. The other held a long, deep scratch from the outreaching bark. Deep bruises circled the rest of my body, creating crimson and plum markings that seemed to get more vibrant with each passing second. My body resembled a broken doll, left discarded and unwanted.

A wave of nausea hit me as another round of pain coursed through my veins. With all my remaining strength, I flipped over to release my stomach contents. I was thankful for the rain, which masked my sickness, but it did not create a thick enough curtain to block my mother's view.

She stared at me, wide-eyed, clutching her expanding abdomen. Fear and panic were evident on her features, from crinkled eyes to a twisted frown. Guilt overwhelmed me as I realized the reason for her expression.

The fear was not for my mangled body, but my destroyed beauty.

A woman is not useful when she's broken, Esme. This is our burden to bear silently, behind closed doors in the deafening silence of night. Pray that a man still wants a woman—so outwardly defiant, so outwardly damaged—as you.

Her whispers were barely heard above the rain; they fell deaf on the ears of my father.

A sob erupted from my chest, no longer from the pain of my twisted body, but from the monumental disappointment that I seemed to continually cause to those around me.