CHAPTER 7

Oh, Carolina knows why for years they've said

That I was guilty as sin and sleep in a liar's bed

But the sleep comes fast and I meet no ghosts

It's between me, the sand, and the sea

~ Taylor Swift, Carolina

BPOV

"Do you want to tell me what the fuck is going on now?" I asked Alistair as soon as he finally graced me with his presence.

We had pulled up to the house an hour ago. He locked me in the car off to the side of the driveway for half an hour while he did a security check of the interior and perimeter. Once I was finally allowed inside he did another sweep outside which I had decided was his way of avoiding my questions.

I had been patient enough. He dragged me out of my home in the middle of the night and I didn't say a word. He put me in a car and drove for five hours before we ended up on a private plane. Then we had another few hours in the car after we landed before we ended up here.

I hadn't asked a single question. Hadn't hesitated a single step because I knew if Alistair of all people was in a panic, then there wasn't time for questions.

Now, in this strange house in God only knows where, I had reached my limit.

"Now, we wait."

Alistair had been my security for years, but my relationship with him never grew nearly as close as it had with Ben. Maybe it was because Ben had quite literally carried me out of the firing zone after I was shot, but he had been more of a friend to me than a lot of people in my life.

Alistair and I rarely talked about anything other than logistics. He was gruff and rough around the edges and I wasn't sure if I had ever seen the man smile once. But I never complained. He was good at his job and I appreciated it. I had evidently reached my breaking point tonight though.

"That's not a good enough fucking answer," I snapped, holding his glare until he gave in.

"Mr. Cullen called me last night. Told me it was a Code Black."

"What's Code Black?"

Alistair did a poor job of hiding his frustration with my questions. "Code Black means get you the hell out of Chicago."

"Why?"

"Asking questions isn't part of my job."

I bit back the angry remark on the edge of my tongue. "How long do we have to stay here?"

"We stay here until one of the two other people who know about this house show up."

"Who—"

"Mr. Cullen and Ben Cheney."

I had been through a lot with Edward. I had been shot and put in charge of his entire crime syndicate. I'd had more guns shoved in my face than I cared to remember and I had seen more than my fair share of laws shattered in front of me.

He had never shipped me off. Never not told me what was going on, not like this. If he and Ben and Alistair were the only ones who even knew about this place, something very wrong had happened between the last time I saw him and the time Alistair came bursting into the house last night.

"I need to talk to him."

Alistair was shaking his head before I finished my sentence. "There are no phones in the house. No internet. Cable television is as advanced as it gets around here."

I bit my tongue. Again. "How do we know they're—"

"No news is good news."

I fell onto the couch that was luckily behind me. I hadn't given the home a second glance as I walked in. Evidently it was where I was to stay for the foreseeable future while my husband and son faced some unknown threat large enough for him to ship me off.

"Where are we?" I asked quietly, completely expecting Alistair to refuse to tell even me where we were.

"South Carolina."

I had more questions. More frustrations to take out on Alistair even though he didn't deserve it. But an overwhelming wave of exhaustion made my body heavy. The thought of spending even a full day not knowing whether my husband and son were safe made my mind cloudy and a knot of pure, undiluted terror settle in my stomach.

Everything was falling apart. For weeks it felt like I was walking from one disaster to the next. I would take booing crowds and backstabbing friends every day for the rest of my life if it meant Edward and Aiden were okay, though. I would gladly let the public in on every horrible fucking thing I had ever done if it meant I didn't leave this house a widow. If Adeline and Ella didn't lose—

"Take this," Alistair said softly, seeming to materialize in front of me, a palm with two pills stretched out for me.

I didn't hesitate to dry swallow the pills. The last thing I remembered was Alistair dropping a blanket over my shoulders before my mind finally went silent.

–Love|Power–

I knew it was a nightmare. I had lived it, remembered every moment in excruciating detail, but the presence of two caskets this time gave it away. Knowing it wasn't real, for the moment, did nothing to ease the pain as I sat there and tried to savor the last few moments I would ever have in the presence of my husband and son.

My heart pounded in my chest, my body slicked with sweat as I shot out of a bed that wasn't mine. There was a dim light on beside me but the room was unfamiliar, the sky dark outside the windows. Before I could let my mind wander to too many dark places, Edward's handwriting caught my eye on the bedside table.

It was a simple white envelope with my name on it. I tore it open with shaking fingers, unfolding a handwritten note.

I rewrite this letter once a year. There's a stack of unopened envelopes in a safe in my office full of them, and I hope to add this one to it soon. But, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. I'm sure Alistair reluctantly answered some of your questions, but I'll try to fill in as many blanks as I can.

This house has been sitting here, unused and waiting since the night before I asked you to marry me. Because I know my job puts you in unthinkable danger and I cannot apologize to you enough that I've never been selfless enough to let you go because of it.

You've been by my side for decades and the thought of having to send you away makes me sick, but the option needs to be there. Because if the alternative is losing you, it's an alternative I will not allow.

I can't tell you how long you'll be there or why you ended up there in the first place, but I can make you two promises.

One, I love you. I've loved you for so long I don't even remember a time when I didn't. I wouldn't have sent you away if it wasn't necessary. You are my one and only weakness, Isabella, and if you are here it means someone stupid enough to test that theory has finally come along. Two, Aiden and I are safe. Being the boss has its perks, and one of those is that we are just as well protected as you are. I will make sure our son and his family are safe, and we will all be waiting for you when it's time for you to come back.

I'm sorry I can't tell you more. I'm sorry I can't call you and comfort that overactive mind of yours myself, but I have never broken a promise to you, Isabella, and I won't be starting now.

I love you. I'll see you soon.

Edward

I read the letter over and over. Until I could recite it from memory. Until the dark sky outside the windows started to lighten. Until I forced myself to believe every word, forced my mind to let go of ever entertaining the possibility that while I was here either one of the two most important people in my life could be gone.

Aiden and I are safe. I repeated Edward's words in my head over and over for the first few days here until I had no choice but to believe them.

–Love|Power–

Alistair and I fell into a routine after the first few days here. He was, evidently, an excellent cook and I was excellent at doing dishes. Food was delivered at the end of the driveway every few days, and it was the only outside communication either of us had. I spent most of my days sitting on the deck, wrapped in a cardigan and letting the lake breeze chase away the anxiety that always lingered on the edge of my mind. Edward's letter was always in my pocket, the paper already worn and creased from the number of times I read it.

I gently rubbed the thinning paper between my fingertips as I read it again, only stuffing it in my pocket when I heard Alistair come out to the deck.

"You're going to regret sitting out here," he said, taking his own seat beside me.

He was right. There was a dark, ominous wall of clouds that was getting closer by the minute. Thunder was rumbling in the air every few minutes, and the smell of rain was already filling my lungs.

I didn't like being locked up in the house though. And while I knew there were probably plenty of valid reasons Edward sent me away, the longer I stayed cooped up in this house the more I felt like a prisoner.

I had been a prisoner once, and I wasn't fond of the memories the feeling brought back.

At my shrug, Alistair leaned forward. He was a handsome enough man; his blond hair was tied in a knot on top of his head and his eyes were a shade of blue that was usually like looking into ice. They were abnormally soft as he looked over at me now. "Did you know I have a PhD in psychology?"

I frowned over at him. "No."

I had been to my fair share of therapists over the years. I was diagnosed with bipolar depression when I was eighteen. Ever since that first stint in rehab, I had only gone to therapy sporadically. Partly because I was busy and partly because there was always more and more of my life I couldn't tell a therapist.

I have severe anxiety about being forced inside because I spent a year in jail after planning and executing my biological father because he framed my husband who just happens to be the most notorious criminal in Chicago. What do you make of that?

I still talked to Maggie sometimes. She wrote me prescriptions for some anxiety meds and the mood stabilizers that I had been on since I was a teenager. But there was so much. So much about myself and my life and my choices that no one else could possibly understand.

"Are you going to call me crazy like everyone else?" I snapped.

Alistair didn't flinch. "Anyone who calls you crazy doesn't know half of the shit you've been through," he fired back, his voice calm but sharp. "You're not crazy. You've got a few decades of repressed trauma built up inside of you, but you're not crazy."

"The trial was a long time ago. I–"

"The trial isn't the only traumatic thing to happen to you, Bella," Alistair sighed.

It wasn't the thing to focus on, but I was fairly certain it was the first time he called me anything other than Mrs. Cullen.

"I know the bare minimum of your experiences and I know you were sexually harassed at seventeen by a man who was supposed to work for you and from that moment on you put as many women on your team as possible. I've seen footage of you as a teenager surrounded by a crowd of men with cameras pointed at you as you walked down the street to get a coffee. There are decades worth of vile comments about you plastered over the internet at any given moment."

I sighed. "Is this your pitch to try and become my therapist?"

Alistair coughed out a laugh. "No. I'm not a certified therapist and you've lied your way out of rehab a few too many times for me to believe you'd ever tell me—or anyone—the whole truth."

I pressed my lips together, ready to argue until I realized he was right. I had lied to every therapist I had ever talked to. I got myself out of rehab twice by putting on a convincing enough act. Zafrina Senna had been my therapist for five years and I told her I was peachy before nearly drowning myself in the bathtub.

"Maybe it's time people finally understood you, Bella. You. Because if they knew even half of the shit you had been through, no one would ever question your passion or talent."

My brows furrowed and I sat there until tiny raindrops started pelting the deck. There was too much for my mind to process, too much I didn't want to process. I frowned over at Alistair. "I thought you hated me."

"I've never hated you."

"Then why have you never said more than four words to me at a time?"

Alistair shrugged, standing and heading back towards the house. "Because I never needed to."

My heart clenched in my chest. Because I knew it wasn't simply a coincidence that the man Edward had assigned to never leave my side also happened to have a PhD in psychology. He was the only person in the world who knew everything. Who never looked at me like I was insane, who always seemed to understand me better than I did myself.

He knew I could end up here someday; scared and alone with only Alistair to keep me company. To keep me sane. And he took every precaution to make sure I was taken care of.

I stuffed my hand in the pocket of my sweater, running my fingers over his letter as I headed inside. The sky opened up, a white sheet of rain slamming down just as I closed the door behind me.

–Love|Power–

I couldn't sleep. Not with the rain still pouring down outside or the hundred different directions my mind wanted to wander in. Instead of staying in bed and hoping for a measly few minutes of sleep to come, I ended up in the basement.

The house was large enough for ten, every inch as lavish and pristine as every other home Edward and I owned. It seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, from the large lake behind us and the endless trees surrounding everywhere else. The basement was quiet, and very obviously made for me by my husband. There was a piano in the center of the room, along with a display of guitars and no shortage of cozy couches and blankets.

I sat down at the piano, my conversation with Alistair replaying in my mind. Maybe it's time people finally understood you, Bella.

I had tried. I made those visual albums so people would understand me. Would know me based on more than an Instagram photo or tweet. Somewhere along the way they became a shield. A way to only tell them enough to get people off my back. Because I had convinced myself people didn't want to know me. That people could never understand me. That painting a certain image of myself that hid the darkest parts was best.

But I had nothing left to lose at this point. So I started writing. I wrote songs about a woman who ended up in an abusive and toxic relationship akin to every moment I had spent in Hollywood. And I wrote songs about how no one understood how fucking hard it can be to get out of bed when it feels like the world is caving in on you. And I wrote songs about finding the one person in the world who ever understood me.

I wrote until the days and weeks started to blend together. Until one evening after dinner an alarm went off, a buzzer beeping four times before the sound of tires inching up the driveway crunched through the house.

A/N: …I know. I'm sorry. I'll hopefully get the next chapter up in 2 weeks!