Special thanks to Fyrebyrd for inspiring me to write a little farther outside the canon each time.

Yeah, breakfast at Tiffany's and bottles of bubbles
Girls with tattoos who like getting in trouble
Lashes and diamonds, ATM machines
Buy myself all of my favourite things, yeah
Been through some bad shit, I should be a sad bitch
Who would have thought it'd turn me to a savage?
Rather be tied up with calls and not strings
Write my own checks like I write what I sing, yeah

As an unseasonably sweltering April morning dawned over New York City, condensation gathered on my windows in surprising voracity. They turned the glass nearly opaque, muting the already-buzzing hive activity below, bodies swarming like ants even at 5:30 in the morning.

I ran my finger up the glass, through the dense moisture, drawing a big heart that was as wide as the span of my arms and yet still only took up less than an eighth of the 27 foot high windowpane. I inhaled deeply, then blew my frosty breath into the middle of my heart. I wrote my name - Bella, in perfect calligraphy script, of course - then stepped back with a satisfied smile, putting my fists on my hips.

Behind me, my phone was dinging like a bomb about to explode. Depending on your perspective, detonation was imminent. Apparently.

The group chat I had with Rosalie, Corin, Kylie, and Blythe was moving so fast even my flawless immortal brain had trouble keeping up. I groaned, putting the group on mute. Whatever Page Six had to say this day could wait.

I threw my body back onto my bed and opened my Insta, scrolling through my feed at lightning speed. Picture upon picture of the ideal life any girl would literally kill for: vacations in the Maldives, dinners at the most exclusive restaurants in Paris, and champagne-soaked mile high debauchery abound. Same shit, different day. My one-way glass ticket to uninhibited sunshine.

Philton and Morty had been in Dubai and apparently had stolen a speedboat, evidenced in the stack that ended in their mug shots. Who posts that like it's a good thing? Tongue between my smirking teeth, I tapped out a comment, knowing Paris and Tinsley hated the nicknames. Which was the only reason I ever used them. Not a soul that knew me would be surprised at me stirring the pot, fueling the petty rivalry against me that had finally united them.

The fact that they thought they could even begin to compete with me was beyond parody. I was 5'6", but my body was like a Bugatti Mistral with a face to match: sleek, gorgeous, toned, fast. Luscious, thick brown-bordering-on-ebony hair. And the eyes. Mmm. Gold, and exotic. The boys loved 'em. My competition were Honda Accords - so fucking average, a dime a dozen, with lanky blonde hair and total butter faces. At least I earned my snotty smugness.

Blythe sent a text loudly, courtesy of Apple, meaning I couldn't miss her extravagant panic as it sat at the top of my screen: MET NEWS, pick up your phone crabby bitch! ! ! !

Ugh. The Met. I swiped to my calendar first to confirm the dates - only April 13th, which meant the fussy well-to-do ass kissing bonanza was still four weeks away. But, Blythe Wintour was Anna's granddaughter, daughter of Bee Schaffer. When she elected to officially change her last name, it was clear anything related to her grandmother was a Big Deal.

With a sigh that was entirely too world-weary for 5:49am, I reluctantly opened the group chat to see what the scoop was. I scrolled up, past Corin's hilarious GIF of Jeremy Renner looking fine as hell and Kylie's heart face emojis. Clearly whoever it was objectively attractive, at least. Then I found it, the Post article whose attached image had me literally sprinting to Rose's room.

Vampire speed and all, it still took me about two seconds. Seconds that were way, way too long. She looked at me through her vanity mirror, so I knew our expressions were identical masks of disgust.

"She did not invite Edward fucking Masen to the Met. Please tell me I'm living in some kind of psychotic alternate reality where the sky is magenta." My voice was clipped in anger.

Shaking her gorgeous head of blonde hair, Rosalie pursed her lips. "Sorry, love. Sad to say it's not Narnia. More like The Lion, The Dick, and The Wardrobe."

I narrowed my eyes, wondering. "Do you think Carlisle..?" She twisted to look at me, again she shook her head, not even letting me complete the thought.

"I think you were pretty firm: Edward was a non-starter. Carlisle wouldn't do that to you. You know the only reason he did it in the first place was you've been alone for like, what, three hundred years?"

I couldn't help the smile that cracked through my seething rage, even though I tried to fight it. "Two-hundred and seventy six, shithead. I'm practically your grandma."

Even when she barked out a laugh, Rosalie's voice sounded like music. Made me want to laugh too. "Sorry, Paul Revere, I'll try to respect my elders." Yeah right. Her blunt honesty was why we got on so well. And the Paul Revere comment was funny.

I flicked my wrist up, checking my smart watch. "Whatever. We've got fourteen hours to kill. Catskills?"

Her grimace wasn't promising. I really, really wanted the drive. "Actually, can we do Goshen? Emmett's taking me to Montauk later." Oh well. Can't win 'em all.

"Yeah, sure. Works for me. Just let me change." I was still in the Elie Saab midi dress I'd worn last night. Giving her a soft smile, I went to find something vaguely oversized with a hood for my city escape.

I was born September 19th, 1747 to Renée and Charles Swan. My birth was an uneventful affair in the colony of Boston, in a building that was no more than a fishing shack. We didn't have much more than pennies and scraps, but my parents did love me. At least, while they were alive.

Remembering life back then, before even Independence, was difficult. Renée died when I was four, trying to give birth to a younger brother, who also did not survive the affair. I knew she had beautiful brown hair that was soft as the rich ladies' silk undergarments we washed and smelled of sunshine.

Charles worked the docks, died six years later when he was conscripted to the British army to fight in New York as the siege of Fort William Henry reached its 5th day - he was killed and scalped when the Indians attacked the British column he was on as it was leaving the fort. He was a gruff man of little words, but his hugs always felt like being wrapped in my favorite tattered blankie.

So then I was a street urchin at the tender age of ten. I scraped by by washing laundry for the well-to-do at the time, cleaning soldiers outhouses. Anything for a nibble of moldy bread or rotten cheese. When I was old enough to sell my body for more generous morsels, I did.

An orphaned harlot, when a good day was not getting spat on or kicked in the ribs or jaw, I lived like that until the day I died. March 5th, 1770. My lung was pierced by a stray bullet when the British opened fire into a mob of Bostonians. The man to whom I was giving oral ministrations fled the alley, and I crawled away to die among the rats.

Carlisle found me drowning in my own blood, drawn by the smell. He offered me a choice: death, or immortality. The rest is, as they say, history.