Bella Swan is just so... fucking... lucky. And she doesn't even know it. Where's the justice in this world?

We'll be back to the romance, right after a quick word from our sponsors: People Who Don't Like Bella.


I ran my fingers along a row of dresses, frowning at the texture of the fabric. It was too rough. I wanted something… silky. Draping. Exquisite. After all, how many times was I going to go to junior prom?

My lip curled. My mom still got misty-eyed about hers, although I suspected that had as much to do with her date (not my dad) as the event. She'd never told me who it was, but I'd stolen her yearbook and I had a pretty good guess. His name was underlined and bracketed with little hearts. Charles Swan.

Based on the gossip I'd picked up from the nurses at the hospital, it had been a pity invite. Chief Swan had never been much interested in anyone. Everyone had been shocked when he'd proposed to Renee out of the blue. Less shocked when she'd given birth just seven months later to a perfectly full-term baby. Isabella Marie Swan.

Another thing to lay at Bella's door. She got to be the daughter my mother always wanted. Smart, sweet, effortless. Not me.

I snorted, moving on to another rack. Catch me being so stupid. Nothing was going to trap me in that shitty little town. Being a candy striper had some perks, like having an excuse to be out of the house... birth control without my dad finding out about it... good gossip.

Not that I was interested in anyone in Forks. I kept my little group of sycophants (a good word, I thought, with a twist of my lip) on a tight leash. No, the only boy who was both pretty and smart enough for me was… taken.

I sneered. Bella scores again. Big-city girl moves to the sticks, inserts herself into the middle of the popular crowd, and snatches the only guy who might make it out of the county.

She could have done anything. The resentment bubbled up so easily. Why in hell would she want… this.

She was so fucking lucky. And she didn't even care. That was what rankled most. She gets everything handed to her on a silver platter and she hasn't even noticed. She had options.

Me? All I had was abusive parents, poverty, and a face that might be pretty enough to get me the hell out of here. Which was why I was in Seattle in the first place—to talk to a modeling agency. They'd reviewed my application and moved me through to the next round.

I checked my phone. I'd ditched the last half of classes to get to Seattle early, but it was already 5. Just a couple more hours to kill. I pushed the worry about what a 7pm interview implied to the back of my mind. Hopefully it won't come to that.

This dress is nice. It would make the most of my height. Y2K might be over, but skinny was always stylish. If I find something better, I can flip it for a few bucks.

I checked for a security tag, glanced around to see if anyone was watching, and then stuffed it into my bag.

My heart pounded the whole way out, but nobody gave me a second look. I had the exit down pat—nonchalant, checking the prices on things as I passed, heading through the registers with a tin of mints. I avoided looking at the candy section. I don't need any more calories. It would be suicidal to show up at a modeling interview looking bloated.

Streetlights were coming on as I walked back to my car. I'd left it far away in the warehouse district to avoid paying for parking. As soon as the adrenaline wore off, I realized how cold it was. I pulled my coat around myself and shivered.

I was almost there when something caught my attention. Two people stepped out of the shadows, blocking my path. One was a woman who was too short and too curvy to be pretty. Her nose turned up sharply at the end. It's nice to have a perfect nose, I thought, with a little flash of satisfaction. The other was a very handsome young man. I looked at him through my eyelashes.

"Excuse me," the woman said, her voice soft and sweet. I noticed that her hair was badly cut, like she'd gotten chewing gum in it and had to shave the side of her head. Horrible. "I'm Agent Vick and this is Agent Riley. Lauren, right?"

I held my bag a little closer. They wouldn't send agents after a shoplifter. Right? "Agent?"

She smiled. "Do you have a minute to talk?"

I glanced between them. "About what?"

"You're a classmate of Edward Cullen, aren't you?"

Relief hit me, followed by curiosity. "Y-yes," I replied cautiously. "What do you want to know about him?"

The man—Agent Riley, she had called him—grinned. It gave me an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. "Everything."