Long chapter (6,000~ words if you're wondering) - strap in and get ready to hit every stop in miscommunication station. I debated splitting this but then I thought, yeah no fuck that. Bells is rubbing off on me - or am I rubbing off on Bells?

Originally this chapter and the following were swapped: this was Ch. 08. But the more I went back to proof-read, the more it made sense to put this here instead of after. If anything sounds off in this chapter and the next, please let me know so I can make sure any inconsistencies are fixed, but since this is technically a look back, there shouldn't be much, if any.

- edward pov. -

Started out on a one way train
Always knew where I was gonna go next
Didn't know until I saw your face
I was missin' out on every moment
You'll be one and baby I'll be two
Would you mind it if I said I'm into you?

A knock on my office door jerked me from my review of the quarterly earnings statement. I sighed, pushing the documents away and pressed my fingers to my temple, rubbing. Tension was radiating up my neck like the sun trying to beat into the 48th story window, its searching rays in vain against the blackout blinds pulled tight. If it was Cauis again, he was going to find himself departed of the company of his legs.

"Enter." My voice was hoarse, as though I'd been screaming at the top of my lungs. Might as well have been, the way Aro was hounding me about Carlisle Cullen's offer. We certainly had shouted at each other over it, more than once. I wasn't interested in love, though - I had just wanted my fucking life back. I had it. End of story. And it wasn't like being a vampire was all that horrible. It just wasn't what I would have chosen for myself given any other option.

I had been busting my ass off, working my way up the company ladder, and I was finally within reach of the CFO title I'd been clawing toward for so long. Looking back it sounded so fucking contrived, so dully human. The work was banal and didn't really interest me, totally devoid of passion. But I had wanted to make my mom and dad proud, put their thousands of dollars in student loan debt for my MBA to good use. To make enough to buy them a new house, replace their decrepit old car, send them on vacation to Cancun like they'd always dreamed about.

Mu life, my dreams, it all came crashing down when I cut through an alley to get to the bar, eager to meet Jane. She was the third girl I'd seen that week. I was extremely attractive according to the women I'd tried to date, but I'd spent so much time buried in schooling that talking to them was almost impossible. Stuttering over words, spilling water all over them - definitely not what you'd expect from a guy who could've been a GQ model. Which meant I was perpetually single, fumbling through sloppy kisses and awkward sex, just long enough to think I was making a connection before they disappeared, their needs sated. I was more or less used for my body. Now, to love a woman, I would literally break her.

One misstep. A long piece of black steel. One small burst of gunpowder.

I lay in the alley, staring into the sun, feeling like I was drowning while floating on a cloud made of rose thorns. When my boss, Marcus, appeared in front of my face I had the insane thought that he was going to fire me.

A comparatively arbitrary moment, years ago when I first started, flashed through my mind. Me, walking in on Aro, his arms wrapped around his secretary Gianna, his teeth in her neck. Vampire. Turning and walking away as fast as my feet would take me back to my microscopic office.

They had approached me after, intent on turning me - join or die. I swore on every God I could think of I'd never tell, didn't care, would pretend I had seen nothing. They let me go, and I never brought it up again. Looking back, probably not because I had convinced them in any sort of way. More probable was because I was easily disposable at that point.

This thought fresh in my mind, I seized Marcus by the collar, mustering every bit of strength I could. "Change me. Turn me into one of you. Just don't fucking let me die."

So he did. And I didn't. My headstone read Edward Anthony Masen, Our Son, Gone but not forgotten, 1982 - 2003. I was only 21.

And now my parents were dead, taken like the ocean takes the sand from the beach. At least Marcus let me tell them goodbye, writhing in agony trying to get the right words out over the phone. At least my death didn't suck them in, too. At least they both passed of old age. Reading their obituaries was bittersweet. Just enough, but never enough, too many at leasts to count.

Marcus, my creator, entered, jarring me from the memories, looking somewhat sheepish. He'd been silent about the prospect when Aro had called the meeting two weeks ago, a stark contrast to Caius's vehement pessimism.

"You can't possibly mean the socialite brat that's all over the newspapers every other week? Do you even know what that would do to our image, her out pretending to drink herself into a stupor every night like some boozed up slut? She would fucking ruin us."

I had bristled at the insinuation, repulsed by the way Caius objectified this woman I didn't even know. She may not have been exactly human, but Isabella Swan-Cullen was still a person. It made me want to consider the idea, if only for Caius's sexist screeching, shove his pompous chest-pounding back into his face. Aro had tried to demure, saying it was just a suggestion, Carlisle's connections with the medical community could be good for stocks. Marcus just stared at me.

I waved him over now, happy to see him. If Cauis was hot and Aro cold, Marcus was the perfect temperature. We connected on a different level, and I often wondered if it was because he had changed me or if it was something deeper. "Marcus, what can I do for you?"

He took a chair slowly, as though his ancient body could somehow show his age, his gaze trained on the paperwork scattered across my massive desk. When he didn't immediately speak, I went back to the earnings statements. A man of exceptionally few words, when he wanted to talk, he would, and it would likely be exasperatingly profound as usual. His thoughts were muted, like he was trying to conceal them from me.

Trying not to give his evasiveness any credence, I worked in companionable silence for 13 more minutes before I caught it, so fast he either couldn't stop it or let it slip on purpose. I think you should do it. "What?" Was my vocal response. I was aghast, unable to really believe this is where he fell.

His eyes searched mine, probing, looking for something. It could be good for you. The way Didyme was for me. Shit. I looked away, pain and embarrassment washing over me. The love of his life, dead, before he could even change her. They'd been soul mates, as corny as it sounded. Her death literally ruined him. And he knew I knew all of this, had seen and felt every bit of his agony when he got the news and held the wake and the funeral and tried to push through every waking moment.

How the fuck could I tell him no when he put it like that? Bringing my eyes up to meet his, I stared long and hard, trying to understand why he was convinced enough to try to sway me. The longer I looked, the more I realized it didn't matter. He wanted me to be happy, something that was so far beyond his reach now it wasn't just in another galaxy but another universe all together.

I had tried to find a companion again once I'd settled into vampire life, but it was as I'd said: loving any mortal woman was a recipe for disaster. The only good my dating exploits seemed to get me was a sense of confidence and a reputation as a playboy since I obviously never kept any of them hanging around. Aro looked upon this favorably, since it meant I was being talked about, and attention meant money. It just made me feel sad.

Sighing, feeling tired for the first time in my immortal existence, I buried my face in my fists. "When do I leave?"

That conversation had been at the end of July. Barely 3 weeks later, I was stepping off a plane to the rising sun of New York City. JFK was marginally less insane than O'Hare, but far more confusing. By the time I had found my way to the baggage claim, rays of light were beginning to peek through the dissipating clouds. If I didn't get to my hotel room, now, I would be spending far too much time in the bowels of the decidedly smelly airport.

I was glad I had thought ahead to book a room at the TWA, located directly inside the airport. Finally shut securely in my room, blinds drawn, I pulled out my laptop to lose myself in work until it was time to meet the meddling Mr. Cullen.

I pounded through, zoned in while being zoned out, until it was 7:03pm. Half an hour to get showered, then dressed in a white button-down and charcoal grey slacks. Grabbing my singular bag, I called a town car to take me into the city proper. I was checked in at the Plaza hotel in record time; 8:19, still time to kill. I wasn't meeting the Cullen patriarch until 10:30, so I told the driver to take me to any old bar so I could at least people watch and try and prepare myself for this.

I had never seen a picture of her, the woman I was supposed to be wooing or falling in love with or- just, whatever my family and theirs had in mind. I didn't know if she was blonde, or short, or what kind of person she was. The articles I managed to pull up on a web search while I was on the plane never showed a picture - all they painted was a psychotic party girl with a mean streak, and I didn't know how I felt about that. I was worried that I would hate her, or she would hate me.

Eventually he slowed to a stop in front of a building called The Standard, which he said was a hotel but had a bar on the top two floors that were popular with the young and 'hip' crowd. I wasn't sure I screamed 'hipster', but I certainly looked young, and I needed time not alone in a dark room to digest the very real fact I was actually going through with this.

The line off the elevator was long, but I hadn't been on my phone for more than a minute when I was suddenly ushered to the front. The bouncer proclaimed my 'vibe' was exactly what they were looking for, so I could only assume it to mean objectively attractive. But I didn't have to wait, so who fucking cared. The bottom floor had a pool in the middle, with open walls looking out over the city, but it was chaotic - foam and half-naked bodies already well on their way to bad decisions. I took a set of stairs, and found myself on a roof laid with turf, lawn furniture and tables and a panoramic view.

There were only a small handful of people there, mostly milling around. The pulsing, violent conversations in my head was like listening to hundreds of people, screaming all at once, right in my ear. I tried to tune it out without success, overwhelming me. Why didn't I think of the mental noise.

I needed a distraction, something, to just shut them the fuck up. The bartender had just emptied her counter, so I moved over and began to chat with her about any droll thing she could think of - anything to focus on and cut out the noise.

She had just started trying to touch my arm, the desire in her head becoming sickening, when I felt a movement of newcomers behind me. It was odd - there were definitely four bodies, but only could make out three new minds. I turned, confused, when I was pinned by eyes the exact shade of bright amber as my own.

She licked her lips, clearly enticed, and I found my body moving without realizing I wanted to walk over to her. She was clearly immortal, same as me, and at least one of her friends, but I think I would've felt whatever was coursing through my body regardless. Like the universe had a very clear, distinct focal point, and it was her.

Her legs were long, made to be wrapped around my hips. Those lips, curling in the most delicious fucking smile. The mane of full, nearly-black hair framed her heart-shaped face. I wanted to know everything about her, Isabella Swan-Cullen be damned. I had never felt attraction so visceral, so fucking immediate, that it knocked the breath from my lungs like it did now. My mind twisted, trying to think of what to say.

I was only dimly aware of the two humans she was with, gasping in recognition. They knew who I was. Did she? The cacophony of noises in my head was so fucking loud and intrusive, I said the first thing that came to my head with their disgusting tripe bouncing around in my skull.

"So, can you tell me where I can find some classy ladies in this town?"

Shit. Shit, fuck, that's not what I meant. Why the fuck did that come out of my mouth. I felt haunted by the ghost of my playboy persona, determined to drag me down. It was like fucking karma.

I expected her eyes to narrow, get that glass of champagne thrown in my face, get slapped. Something. Her response was so unexpected.

"I didn't realize you were a slopsucker. Don't you know the trash always falls to the bottom? Whores below." Her smile was broad. Vindictive. Bold. She wouldn't be stepped on. It made my attraction for her burn harder.

Her friend, a girl with bright green eyes and caramel-colored hair, grabbed her arm and hissed in her ear. "Bells, that's Edward fucking Masen!"

Bells. She sang to me like a ringing symphony. The name was so fitting.

The way she was looking at me was so sexy, her eyes running up and down my body. I wished it were her hands. That smirking mouth on mine.

"Like what you see?" I sounded cocky but holy shit, I hoped she did. I knew what I was feeling was lust, but it was also more than that, so strong it was blinding.

"Oh yes, everything's coming into focus now. I guess that's why they call you handsome. You definitely look like you're down with some five on one." Her tone was derisive and taunting, a bucket of cold water over my head.

Her other friend, blonde with flat brown eyes, choked on her drink. "Oh my God Bells, fucking chill!"

They found her funny. I wanted to, too, but I could only feel mortified. It was like I'd been possessed, first insulting her, then asking if she was into me. What the fuck was wrong with my head.

And that's when I realized, her mind was the silent one. I couldn't hear a single damn thing. No flow of thought, no clued in emotions. Fucking nothing.

I felt the hot pricking of shame creeping up my neck, even though my perfect body wouldn't give me away with the scarlet blush as it once had. I felt so off balance that this realization had me lapsing back into old habits; I'd had to make the women I'd dated leave one way or another. She already thought I was a dick, that much was clear. Might as well finish digging the fucking grave.

"As I said, I'm interested in sophisticated ladies. Not bar crawling new money trash." It was so fucking stupid, but I was floundering like a fish out of water. Not something I had ever felt before. I knew I was stabbing in the dark, just trying to coax a reaction out of her at this point for the sake of seeing what it would be.

I was so mad, pissed beyond belief, I had acted so far out of my own character. I was used to having the upper hand with women lately; now it felt like I was a blundering mortal again. I felt a sense of anticipation, expectancy, wanting her to be different from the other women I'd dated before. Every one of them had been after popularity, money, status: whatever I could give, they wanted to take. Bells clearly didn't want or need any of that - she was woman enough without me. The need for confirmation of this very apparent fact was twisted, self-sabotaging.

She waved her hand, dismissing me as she pulled out her phone and peered into it. Ignoring me almost completely. "Scamper along now. If you fish hard enough I'm sure you can still catch one with reasonable levels of VD."

Her friends, Bells' friends, began to roll and clutch their sides in laughter. I understood the comment, the innuendo I was into easy, had low standards, but it couldn't touch me.

Rage, at my out of character reactions. Humiliation, for not being better. Embarrassment, for how much I enjoyed her easy confidence.

But I was just so damn impressed because I had never met a woman like her before. Unwilling to roll over and show her belly at the smallest hint of masculine energy. Whip fucking smart. Clearly funny, and a good person, because she had two humans for friends, and I could feel nothing but genuine love and appreciation for their Bells.

I turned and left, but the second I hit the stairwell I flattened myself against the wall, my chest heaving. My mind was spinning, finally drowning out the dissonant roar, turning it to a muted din. This city was huge, so how the fuck could I find her again?

There was still about 30 minutes left before I had to be at the address listed, but I still had the driver take me there regardless. The sooner I could get this over with, the sooner I could find the brash Bells and apologize until my face fell off.

We stopped in front of easily the tallest building in the entire city, well over 1,500 feet directly up. Far more grand than anything in Chicago, that was for sure. Did they live in an apartment..? My question was answered quickly as I stepped into the lobby of the building, far too rich and upscale for even me. Everything screamed posh luxury, from the doorman wearing an Armani suit to the literal gold inlaid in the floor tiles. Even in a building like this, an apartment was as big as a house.

I gave my name and the Cullen's to the doorman, and wandered around while he called up to confirm my guest status. Quickly he was back, giving me little time to really mull over how much money was wasted on such needless extravagance. He inserted a key into the elevator, which had no buttons for floors, then bade me good evening before it took off.

The second the doors opened I was met with a dim but aggressively vast space, tastefully decorated with minimalist but homey touches. Priceless works of art congregated in what had to be the foyer, which flowed cleanly into an airy room with towering ceilings. The windows were high, at least 26 or 27 feet by my rough estimation, and showcased the city's skyline behind a sweeping overhead view of the entirety of Central Park.

Carlisle Cullen was there waiting for me. He smiled, polite but warm, then gestured to the myriad seating options. There wasn't much to say, and I could hear his every thought regardless, which I'm sure he knew. Isabella will like him, I'm sure of it. Very handsome, and everything I've heard from Marcus sounds like they're very similar.

Based on the images in his head, I wasn't sure how they got that connection. A vast wilderness, rent by screaming profanities somewhere in the distance, trees crashing; a girl at a table, head on her heads, shoulders hunched and face hidden by the shadows thrown from an open fire under the mantle in a dark, dour room; door upon door upon door, slamming so hard they exploded on impact. Every scene was warped by heartache and sadness.

Isabella may very well have been an uppity, partying bitch, but the picture show was enough to bet my considerable fortune she had good reason. Pain just did that to people, and I did not have that much trauma or rage. We were as alike as oil and water.

I sat on an ottoman, facing away from Carlisle, and tried to reign in the still-pulsing, overwhelming energy that had consumed me at the bar. Deep breath. I just need to look at her, tell her father that I wasn't interested, and then I could leave. Then literally comb every square centimeter of the city looking for Bells from the bar. The woman had invaded my every thought, every sense. It was intoxicating and alarming.

I heard the elevator again, making me sigh, trying to mentally prepare. The doors opened, and I heard Isabella step into the foyer, two things clunking against the wood floor softly in quick succession. Her image swam into Carlisle's mind, and when she straightened up and he took in her face I about flew through the window.

Oh, no.

Oh hell yes.

How the fuck did I miss that connection.

Isabella. Bells.

It was her.

She greeted her father, simply calling, "Carlisle," and I could see the alertness on her face in Carlisle's mind. He gestured to me, clearing intending to introduce us. Time was up, my moment to prepare spent completely fucking blindsided.

"Bella, I want to introduce you to someone. This is Edward Masen."

I was mortified. I was ecstatic. I was absolutely positive she would out my obscene, unforgivable behavior. She had called me at the bar, a spade's a spade - why would she not do so here.

But that wasn't me. I had to do something, say something, stall her just long enough to explain.

"Oh, hell no." She sounded appalled, as though he'd suggested she commit cannibalism or cut off her own arms.

Yeah, I was fucked.

"I just hate to see you lonely, Bella."

She was lonely? Why? Her friends didn't seem fake, their minds were certainly filled with genuine fondness and endearment toward her. She obviously didn't have a man in her life, since that was the whole reason I was here. The idea made me both giddy and forlorn.

"Yeah, listen, can we discuss this later? I'd like a shower, and maybe a shot of phenobarbital."

God, that smart ass mouth. She had an unswerving sense of dark humor, all sharp barbs and cutting remarks. I wanted to know what lay underneath the façade. I wanted to kiss her, pry open her secrets. But I couldn't. She would surely attack me, that much I was certain of.

Smoothing my face into a mask of polite interest, I stood and turned, pulling her slim, delicate fingers into my hand and kissing it in the center. It was like kissing a frosty flame, all ice and setting my body on fire. "Isabella Swan-Cullen. I've heard a great many things about you."

I let my eyes do the work, my body turned just enough so Carlisle wouldn't be clued in. Please, give me a second chance. That's not me. Please, I'm begging you. Let me show you.

Immediately her mouth flew open, features screaming indignation, when abruptly she closed it with a calculating stare. Maybe begging wasn't the best idea..

And then from seemingly nowhere she curtsied, just formally enough, before saying, "The pleasure is mine. But please, excuse me, I really must freshen up." Without another word or glance she turned and stalked away - I heard a door slam from somewhere above us.

Carlisle turned to look at me, apology everywhere on his face. "Please, forgive my daughter. She's always been very.. headstrong." That was one word for it. "My wife, Esme, and I have plans to go hunting with our other children. I think you may fare better alone - I'm afraid she sees me as meddling unnecessarily. If you would like, I can show you to her rooms so you may talk privately."

All I could do was nod, speechless. Time alone with her. With Bells. Or Isabella? Bella? I wanted to know. No vulgar atrocities clouding my every thought, no friends or family cajoling her into a practiced reaction.

I followed him out of the room with the view, turning right down the hallway through the foyer. We came to a sweeping spiral staircase, encased on two sides by more windows. We only climbed one flight before he turned again on the landing to a door on the left. He entered without knocking; there was immediately a hallway to my right, and a spacious seating area directly in front of us. I could hear water running from down the hallway.

Carlisle vaguely swept a hand toward the seating area, which was confusing - wasn't he taking me to her room? It had sounded like he said rooms, plural, before but I figured it was a fancy way of just saying her bedroom. Now, he said, "This is the seating area. Bella occupies the master suites since she affords our living arrangements. Everything beyond this area is her private space, and I would kindly request you respect that."

His stare was surprisingly firm for a man who, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be the physical embodiment of sunlight, brilliant and blinding. I nodded again, then remember that a verbal acknowledgement was probably best. Not that I would ever dream of invading a stranger's privacy in the first place, but with Bella it seemed all the more imperative I vocalize that fact. "That won't be a problem. I appreciate you bringing me here. And please, don't apologize for Bella. I think this is quite jarring for the both of us."

I tried to smile, but then I was distracted by a muted pop of water from somewhere deep within the suite, so it didn't quite reach my eyes. I hear that Carlisle passes it off as nerves, then he merely rests a gentle hand on my shoulder before he disappears the way we came.

At first I stand, gazing out over the darkness below, the chaotic myriad of lights blinking and twinkling and flying around. Everything seems dramatically smaller from this far up in the sky, but I wonder if it's just the grandness of the space. The windows here are identical to the rest of the house, towering from the floor all the way up to the ceiling. Or maybe it's just me that feels small right now.

I begin to worry that standing, leering out the window like some fictitious villain, will make me seem imposing, so I move to sit, trying to look non-threatening. For 30 minutes I do this, until I'm moving at warp speed, flashing between a plethora of presentations all geared toward just making her not rip my head clean from my shoulders.

Eventually I sit again, trying to force myself into stillness, when I sense her at my back. I'm leaping up before I know it, and I know I look like a psychotic, over-eager stalker immediately from the positively murderous glower she rounds on me. It looks as if she's debating between actually committing homicide or running for the hills for a moment before she draws herself up, jutting her hip out slightly, and addresses me.

"Please tell me you're fucking joking right now."

She's absolutely livid, but it's the incredulity in her voice that stokes my own flame of anger. The idea that her mature petulance isn't act somehow makes me mad, but not at her; It's at myself. I know nothing about this woman. I want to know everything. And I could absolutely hate her. But I'm so physically drawn to her it's painful. She makes my body feel like it's being ripped in two.

"Isabella, please, don't be a drama queen." My words are drawled, dripping arrogance, trying to match her tit for tat. The need to know grips me like a vice: Who are you, Bella?

"You're literally in my fucking room - where is Carlisle?" She plowed on ahead, not waiting for my response. "Don't you think a skosh of drama is necessary? That aside, what the hell do you want? I think you made your views on my social standing rather apparent, so I know you're not here for a quickie."

My teeth grind together, since I'm still beyond abhorred at my repugnant behavior from the bar. It's grating, because she cut to the quick of me rather easily - I would most certainly be losing myself in her body if given the chance, but there would be nothing quick about it. As aroused as she makes me, though, it's not difficult to remember there's a brain attached to that body, and I want to bury myself in that, too.

I have to remind her that she ogled me first, not that it makes any sort of justification for my behavior. "He and Esme stepped out with your... siblings. Don't be obtuse, Isabella, you were practically undressing me with your eyes. What else was I supposed to think."

I don't know why I'm calling her by her full name other than it makes me feel moderately in control of the violent current of emotions flooding my dead body. Anxiety. Lust. Anger. Apprehension.

Her beautiful topaz eyes roll themselves at me, and again this woman is striding away from me, unconcerned in the slightest with anything having to do with me. I realize suddenly why her reticence is so intoxicating - I want to chase her. Pin her down and force her submission. Subdue the wild animal within her. She's turning me into some kind of feral animal, driven on instinct alone.

"So do you insult every woman who looks at you with any modicum of desire? My handsome comment must not have been far off the mark. There's no way any self-respecting lady would sleep with a man that's inclined to such wanton castigation." Her speech is jolting and eloquent, and it dawns on me for the first time I actually have no idea how old she is. Her body says 20-something, but the way she talks, the prose, speaks to someone much, much, older.

Just like at the bar, I'm moving towards her, drawn to her as though we're magnetically charged and I'm being forcefully pulled toward her presence.

I realize too late I've entered her closet, and she's practically naked - only in sweatpants - when a towel flies at my head. I resist the urge to rip it off right away, trying to wait for the most agonizingly long moment of my life to give her privacy before I pull it off and toss it to the floor.

She's just yanking on a well-worn white shirt that dips off her shoulder, temporarily mystifying me. The item is apparently a personal favorite - it's moth-eaten and has clearly seen better days, while the rest of her closet is full of rich and luxurious items, most of them still with the tag on. This shirt means something to her, and although I don't know what, it's another piece to the puzzle. She obviously enjoys the finer things in life, but is nostalgic, willing to keep around a ratty shirt because it carries with it a memory.

Somehow I feel resentful, probably because she won't ever let me get close enough to ask about those things. When she speaks, her words pluck me from my aggrieved musings.

"So not only do you come into my rooms without permission, you follow me to my closet to watch me get dressed. Are you, like, some kind of pervy voyeur on a soapbox, or something?"

It's a fair question. I did just follow her into her closet, more or less looking like I wanted to watch her dress. I clench my hands, willing myself to not say anything else thoughtless or crass. I force myself to draw in a deep breath and exhale before I allow myself to speak, refusing to let the brain-to-mouth filter malfunction again. I know, beyond reasonable doubt, that I just want to get to know this woman. I'm dying to dissect what makes her tick and why since her mere presence has turned me into a completely dysfunctional moron.

"I can't tell if you really are just a spoiled brat, or you're actually an intelligent woman with her guard up." It was the truth - one of the only truly honest things I've said to her. If I ever had the chance to see her again, I would have to be better about what I let fly from my dumb ass mouth.

The gears in her head are clearly turning, but it's the first time in our entire encounter I'm actually aware of her mental muteness. The realization is difficult, because I absolutely fucking hate it, would trade any worldly possession to just hear her inner monologue. On the other hand, I'm insanely grateful I can't hear anything. I'm terrified of what I would find flowing in her uninhibited thoughts.

I must have been staring much harder than I realize, because I immediately catch the shift in her expression. How it smoothly slides from impatient and mulish to brief shock to something like nervousness. As fast as they flit across her face, they're gone, and back is the waspish smugness. "One of life's great mysteries. You can show yourself out."

I'm still standing there, staring at where she had retreated further down the hallway, for several long moments after she's gone. I'm just trying to digest the completely unexpected turn of events from this day down to the the last minute, the emotions that played out on the planes of her face and how they betrayed her. If nothing else was clear - and I was certain nothing else was - Isabella, Bella, Bells: She was most certainly not a spoiled brat.

That realization made me sanguine enough to turn and exit her rooms, alight the elevator, and return to my hotel while keeping my mind blank. The moment my room door closed, though, I began my machinations. I would pry that mask off her face if it was the last thing I did. Then, and only then, would we see if we were incompatible or not.