There is a leap backward in time here that wasn't as apparent as I thought:

The first 'section' before the break is 'present', everything after is past.

We pick up in the present with Bells in her closet in chapter 08.

If you're not ready to go home
Can I get a "Hell no" (Hell no)
'Cause we gonna go all night
'Til we see the sunlight, alright

Standing in my bedroom of a closet trying to find a dress for tonight, I found my my mind wandering unwittingly back to Edward Masen. I was obliged to attend the Met at the behest of Alice and Esme, but I was sorely tempted to feign mortal injury if it meant getting out of seeing him. I had only met the man one time - twice, if you counted multiple times in the same twenty-four hour time span, which I did not. Once was plenty for me - and I had loathed him from the second he opened his absurdly handsome mouth.

I had been with Carlisle the longest, and I knew he hated to see me subjectively bitter and alone. No matter how many times I had insisted my romanticized fetish with True LoveTM was human memory and that I was fine, really, with being the lone single lady in the house of lovey-dovey. Carlisle didn't buy it for a second. His hope beyond hope that I would find my Mr. Darcy, the Hades to my Persephone, was irritatingly unshakeable. While he'd never actively tried to guide me in any direction, he always hinted, which made that August evening all the more surprising.

Remember the aloof, hard-partying bit? That was my perfect excuse to stay indoors all day, a misanthropic harpy, but the role I played was self-imposed for a reason. Not only did it give me fame and status, but also a bulletproof reason to let my more nasty tendencies loose, never go out during the sun, and certainly never date. If you didn't find your soulmate in two-hundred plus years, he was not out there. It kept Carlisle off my back, especially since I was out mingling with the commoners on a nightly basis.

I was out every night doing batshit crazy shenanigans, faking a hangover from sunup to sundown, and I was living for every fucking second. Pretending to get wasted at House of Yes, instigating bar fights at Electric Room, talking shit with Steve Aoki at LAVO, rubbing shoulders with the Hollywood elite at 1OAK; It was the lifestyle I never knew I needed.

Kylie, of the Berkshire Kensingtons, had insisted we go to Le Bain because she'd heard Harry and Meghan were going to be there. Technically British royalty in that her dad was a Baron, poor girl was convinced that with the right ass-kissing the family could get upgraded to Viscount status, then up and onward from there. I didn't have the heart to remind her for the one thousand, eight hundred and fifty second time that Harry and Megs were on the outs, and certainly in no position to influence the hierarchy.

I knew Le Bain was more of a vibe check, so I let my hair out of the braid I'd put it in for hunting and sprayed in my favorite Amika volume-texturizer - just the right amount of undone. Darting to Rosalie's room, I prayed she hadn't taken the black and white pinstripe Hermès bikini I'd got her for Christmas. I'd had to fish through her needlessly large lingerie drawer for far too long, but did finally emerge victorious. Paired with my black, asymmetrical high-low skirt that showed off my legs and a white racer back crop top, I knew we'd get bumped. Throw in my bridal-white Dior pumps and it was a given - I'd never been turned down yet, although looking like a Victoria's Secret model was definitely a bonus. Plus, I never needed makeup. Grace Kelly had nothing on me.

I called the town car, which was really a glorified mini-limo, and told James where I was going. Another vampire, in Carlisle's employ to pay off a debt that involved a botched tracking affair in Halifax, I had at least a few minutes to not pretend as we traversed to the Upper East Side for Blythe and Kylie.

When they slid into the back seat, it was immediately squealing and bottles popping. I chugged my mimosa obligingly, almost immune to how much I would have to unironically throw up later. I tried to tune them out once they started chatting shit about Edward Masen, turning to look out the window like this news was already passé.

Masen was a billionaire playboy, running Daddy's conglomerate in Chigaco. He was insanely attractive, but his more salacious conquests had earned him a fame of ill repute, not to mention his attitude was apparently for shit. I'd only ever heard of him from the same tabloids that frequently tried to drag my own name through the mud, so I could only assume the tales of his sexploits were greatly exaggerated.

Things were easier once we had stopped in Tribeca for Corin; her ability to soothe and lift my mood always worked, even despite my supernatural mental shield.

As we stepped onto the curb at The Standard, I was immediately assaulted with the blinding pop of flashbulbs. Kylie and Blythe tittered and waved, always thrilled to be in my own personal halo of celebrity. Corin rolled her eyes, and began tugging them along to the door.

I ignored the shouted questions of who I was wearing and if it was true I'd had a secret rendezvous with Robert Pattinson, just offering a banal smile. No matter what I said, it'd be turned to shit, so I stopped dignifying them with a response. Finally pushing past the last of the gossip rag bottom feeders, I blew a kiss behind me as we sashayed in to the lobby. We beelined for the elevator, riding alone after Kylie threw an imperious arm across the door to bar a gaggle of tipsy NYU sorority sisters from entering.

I strode past the thirty-minute queue once off the elevator, directly up to the bouncer. Jutting my hip slightly, I just gave him a frosty stare. And 3, 2, 1.. "Wow. Right this way." Cha-Ching. I waved up the rest of my entourage as I glided past, the collective of catty witches shooting death rays at my back.

Alice had the vision I'd want a table, so I was already motioning the girls out to the patio, where Alice had reserved a large swath of the chaise-like loungers against the glass railing, giving us a relatively large bubble of space. Le Bain reservations meant a spend expectation, so I immediately hailed down the server and commanded her to bring two bottles of Dom Pérignon - Magnum, not the cheap shit - and stretched myself out on the glorified pool furniture.

The heat from the day was still oppressive, making the rooftop somewhat empty as most of the party congregated around the pool one floor below. It had already devolved into a booze-soaked panty-fest, the noise carrying through the open walls up to us. Girls screeching in alcohol-fueled delight, men whooping and hollering. I turned to stare out over the barrier, waiting on our own spirits.

Kylie was laying on her stomach, SnapChatting some guy she met at Bergdorf Goodman's who swore he was related to RDJ, Blythe occasionally popping in over her shoulder making outrageous faces. Corin was on her phone too, practically writing a novel, which meant she was texting Demetri again. They blew so hot and cold I stopped trying to keep up.

A movement out of the corner on my eye, back toward the bar, made to twist back slightly to see a tall, lean guy posted up against the bar rail. He was at least 6'1", with enticing bronze hair that was just long enough to run your fingers through, begging you to grab hold and pull. And his eyes, ugh. Brilliant topaz, which meant only one thing. The chances of running into another sexy vampire in NYC wasn't exactly none, but it was still pretty damn slim.

I eyed him, running my gaze from his head to his toes, then back again, and slid my tongue along my top lip. I imagined he'd be fun to take for a spin, especially by the appreciative way he stared back. Apparently he liked what he saw, because once he had finished chatting up the bartender that was all tits no ass, he walked over.

I only raised an eyebrow, knowing men preferred a little mystery. Blythe and Kylie were practically hyperventilating next me, making no intelligible sound except for "Oh my God Oh My God Ohmigod OHMYGAWD." He smiled at them before looking at me. "So, can you tell me where I can find some classy ladies in this town?"

Oh. He wanted to be an asshole, then. I smiled back, pointing directly downward. "I didn't realize you were a slopsucker. Don't you know the trash always falls to the bottom? Whores below."

Blythe, then, grabbing my upper arm to hiss in my ear. "Bells, that's Edward fucking Masen!"

Oooooohh. For once, Page Six had it right - he was an absolute fucking tool.