Back to Bells~ set up for laterrr

I found how to cope with my anger
I'm swimming in money
Swimming in liquor, my liver is muddy
But it's all good, I'm still sippin' this bubbly
This shit is lovely, this shit ain't random, I didn't get lucky

My story, the history I had with men, made it difficult trying to reconcile the asshole Edward from the bar and the house with the glimpses of something else on his face.

Men that looked like him were exactly what they projected: cocky and arrogant and used to getting exactly what they wanted. No was never an acceptable answer. Consent? Not a concept they understood. They definitely did not look weirdly happy when set squarely in their proper place.

There was a very high chance he was wearing a mask same as I was, but I didn't go around insulting perfect strangers even when I was acting the snobbish socialite. You had to earn me being a bitch - that was undisputed fact.

Admiration, quiet incredulity, wonder. People just didn't look at me like that. Not even my human friends. What I did, the way I carried myself, was just understood, expected and accepted. No was my favorite word. Certainly not something to marvel at.

I had seen it first at Le Bain when I dismissed him, then again in my rooms for much the same. I couldn't get two and two to make four under the assumption he was impressed I didn't want him, because that was just fucking tragic.

Did he really expect me to fawn over being degraded? Was that the kind of women he were actually used to? Maybe he liked it, had a fetish for it, got off on feeling clean and superior. Something about that just didn't add up, although what I had no fucking clue.

The fact he was sorely mistaken, though. Well, that was something else. I was more than woman enough to acknowledge there was nothing about him physically that screamed hella basic. I'd have bedded him in record time if the attitude had matched the drapes, so to speak.

The sharp cut to his square jaw. His just-heavy-enough brows. The perfectly symmetrical set to those butterscotch eyes, the slender slope of his nose. Even his hair, an enticing shade of bronze that was just long enough on top and faded toward his collar. Sa-woon; He would be beyond fucking fine even without the immortal factor.

I hadn't seen him since, although I suspected it had as much to do with his city of origin as with the conversation I finally had with Carlisle.

In no uncertain terms, I told my father I would not attach myself to Edward for any reason. Periodt. When Carlisle pressed for more, originally I opened my mouth to tell him the blatant objectification that was my first meeting with Edward. The words just would not come when I remembered the raw bargaining on his face. So I told Carlisle that I wanted love to happen naturally and perversely kept the truth to myself.

Yeah, I guess I could still leverage the truth over Edward later. But I was as honest with myself as I was with everyone else at this point in my life: that wasn't why I kept my mouth shut during that conversation, and I fucking knew it.

Eight months I hadn't seen him. I'd been able to put him from my mind, concerning myself with other things. The bored repetition of my life, regularly scheduled programming interrupted by brief commercials of trite societal happenings.

Back-to-school gossiping about who fucked who over the summer. Corin and Demetri being On again, for now. Halloween, where we'd done a group outfit theme of Gossip Girl and naturally I was Queen Blair.

Thanksgiving dinner with Blythe's family where Bee and Anna fawned over Carlisle's generous donations and Esme's from-scratch low-fat authentic pain au chocolat and I forced myself to discreetly vomit up dinner before cocktail hour.

Christmas, where I gave extravagantly ordinary gifts like a worn record of his favorite album to Emmett and a painting of black dahlias I did myself to Alice.

New Year's Eve that I spent backstage of Ryan Seacrest's New Year's Rockin' Eve and hid out in my room for Valentine's Day pretending my phone was broken.

And now it was April 13th and the Met and Edward Masen were three weeks away. And I still didn't have a dress for Esme's charity dinner tonight.

I zipped to Alice's room, only to find yet another brand-new garment bag gracing the very prominent clothes rack across her far wall. Somehow a massive walk-in closet just wasn't big enough, but I loved that about her.

She popped out of said closet at my approach, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her usually-modern spiked hair was curled a la Marilyn Monroe, and combined with the deep ebony Louboutin's on her feet and the matching charcoal lace lingerie, she looked like she'd stepped out of a black and white noir.

"You're going to love it!" She proclaimed.

I rolled my eyes, taking the bag without opening it. Of course I would - when had I ever not?

"Always so sanguine. I can't believe you actually got me that brown paper bag I'd been thinking about."

The scowl on her face was to be expected but still no less funny. I backtracked before she tried to stab me with a Louboutin. "I'm kidding, holy shit! Geez, I'd never do you like that. No faith."

She stuck her tongue out at my retreating back, so I was reasonably sure she wouldn't impale me. Yet.

My phone buzzed as I was crossing the threshold to my bedroom proper: Alice. Hair down. Waterfall braid over left shoulder. Diamonds, not the opals. Strapless ivory lace lingerie.

This kind of helicopter micromanaging was old hat when it came to my other sister, and I knew better than to disobey. When the girl had a vision, real or imagined, I didn't argue. I just did as commanded.

Following my very precise instructions, I moved to the smaller bathroom where I started my braid just under my right temple and secured it with an invisible black elastic when it brushed my ribcage. I pulled a few pieces loose to frame my face, then waited for the angry text to contradict my bold divestment.

When none came, I fished out the minimalist silver thread earrings that sparkled with a solid, slim bar of diamonds in front. I reached for my favorite hand flower - 1mm Spanish silver chain that connected my middle finger to my wrist interspersed with diamonds so brilliant they looked like glitter - buzz. I swiped to see her instruction: Left hand. Do the backdrop necklace with the pearls.

I knew exactly which she was referring to; it had a silver chain (of course) and a simple two-layered front with a loop just under the hollow of my throat and a long silver bar that sat between my breasts. Down the back chain were three pearls, seated between two diamonds of slightly smaller size, evenly spaced and ending in a tiny, diamond-set snowflake midway between my shoulder blades and small of my back.

Once I had finished I waited for 30 more seconds without moving. When my phone didn't go off, I made to grab shoes. Something about a pair of Michael Kors silver heels that had a strap around my ankles and toes called to me, and again I was rewarded with my phone being silent.

Finally I unzipped the garment bag, letting the icy blue silk spill forth. It was a Caroline Herrera original, and completely custom. The left shoulder was bare, with a tasteful yet tight 3/4 sleeve on my right. The hem just skimmed the floor, interrupted by a slit that went up to my mid-thigh on the right side. The bodice flowed seamlessly into the skirt, with a plunging neckline and boning to keep it from slithering down my body. The back was completely open, a low scoop hovering just above my ass.

Combined with Alice's vision for my accessories, I looked the manifestation of a frosty queen, ice and grace personified. I smirked, swiping on a few strokes of mascara and a toned-down smoky eye. It was a good thing my vibe was wintry, because I looked fucking hot.