TW: Mention of suicide.


Dame Fortuna

Chapter 6: Council


Bella was sure something happened sometime after her session with Victor that no one was telling her about.

The first sign was the fact that Tanya was suddenly less present at the club. When the blonde was around, she wouldn't exchange any more than a few pleasantries before practically bolting away. She very rarely even danced anymore.

Eventually, Bella couldn't help but ask Angel one night at the dressing room. "Is something going on with Tanya?"

Angel––the name was befitting to the girl's Bluewave persona, with her goldilocks red curls and large, expressive eyes––looked wary once she'd heard the question. Her hand slowed its movement in applying her eyeshadow. "Didn't she train you not to ask questions, love?"

Bella sighed, taking a seat on the stool next to her. "Right. I'm just worried."

The redhead pursed her lips, setting her brush down for a moment. "No one really knows. But I'm sure she fucked up big-time."

Bella furrowed her brows, meeting the girl's gaze in the mirror. "Why?"

"She was Edward's right-hand man," Angel said, turning to face her directly. "The only advisor who can make decisions on her own regarding Club Bluewave girls and their clients. Now Edward's managing everything himself moving forward, on top of his already back-breaking workload."

Hmm. "But…what could she have done?"

"God, Fortuna, stop with the questions," Angel whispered worriedly, turning back to the vanity mirror to resume putting on her makeup. "If you ask the wrong one to the wrong person, who knows where you'll end up."

Another suspicious sign was that she was never really allowed to be alone anymore. A week after the private dance, she'd been surprised to find a dark sedan waiting for her in front of her apartment right before her shift.

When she didn't move from the front steps for a whole minute, a young man with cropped hair and dressed in a formal suit stepped out of the vehicle. He had dark, neatly-cropped hair and friendly brown eyes. She also didn't fail to notice he was casually strapped with a pistol.

He smiled at her politely before wordlessly opening the backseat.

"Um…" Bella began.

"Management was concerned when you turned down the car offer during your training," the man said.

"I did. Because I commute. It's only a couple of miles away, and I don't have parking."

"Management was concerned," he repeated, breaking out a cheeky grin. "They decided an around-the-clock chauffeur was a good compromise."

She scoffed, but slowly went down the steps anyway. Instead of settling herself inside the backseat, however, she opened the passenger door for herself. The chauffeur's grin only widened after that.

He eventually introduced himself a few minutes into the drive. "I'm Jacob."

"Bel––Fortuna."

"Lovely name, Miss Belfortuna," he chuckled, turning on the stereo as he did.

Bella settled with listening to the soft humming of the music for a while, until she couldn't curb her curiosity any longer. "You look a little young to be a chauffeur."

"Pretty sure I'm not much younger than you, ma'am."

"A little too friendly, too," she said, but she was laughing. "How long have you been working for Bluewave?"

"A little more than a year," Jacob shrugged. "And I'm living the dream."

"Really?"

"Are you kidding me? I get to drive important folks––and now, lovely ladies like yourself––and listen in to the most interesting conversations." Jacob laughed again. "All I have to do is shut up and do as I'm told. And, of course, be on call at all times."

"I'm guessing you're still working on the shutting up part."

"What can I say? I'm talkative around pretty girls."

Bella chuckled at that not-so-subtle remark, deciding not to speak any further. She felt her smile disappear eventually, as her thoughts drifted, and she recalled the third sign that something was off. The sign that, to be honest, hurt the most.

She hadn't seen Edward Cullen at all after that kiss.

It wasn't as if she was expecting anything really. Definitely not a budding romantic relationship. That would make things too complicated, given their work set-up.

But even then, she'd made herself vulnerable that night. Finally willingly broke down the wall she'd built between her heart and the world. She couldn't help it, with the way he'd looked at her with so much concern after the dance. And it felt…good, to let someone in. Let him in.

I think you already know you're not just a girl to me.

She thought the kiss had been nothing like the innocent one they had the first time they met. It was…intoxicating. Passionate and sincere. She'd felt his unhindered desperation with the way he'd wrapped his hands tightly around her waist and delved deep into her mouth. Like he was letting her in, just the way she had.

But it must have all just been in her head.


Edward's thoughts were but a hum as he sat at the head of the shabby, long table, staring blankly at a spot on the surface in front of him. He was so…exhausted. His mind had drifted off on its own as his companions around the table continued to bicker amongst themselves.

"––the point of overthrowing him, if he still gets to do what he––"

"––evidence that Victor did it––"

"––had an agreement! Carlisle is a loose cannon––"

Eventually, he had enough. He threw a fist down on the table, and immediately, all the squabbling ceased.

"One at a time," Edward said, his gaze still fixed on the table.

The man on his right––Atticus, aged fifty, represented Bluewave's main sponsor for manpower and security––decided to clear his throat to speak first. "Edward. You were the one who lobbied for the coup, with the promise to reestablish the code of civility. To keep stakeholders safe."

"I did." Edward looked up at him blankly. "But it's a code, not an insurance. It would be ridiculous to assume no lives are at stake with our line of work. And Bluewave had no direct hand in Victor's death."

"Oh, please," Wynona scoffed across from him."You know very well his death could've been avoided."

"Don't pretend you give a damn about the pervert," Edward said, narrowing his eyes at the woman. "Say it as it is. You're only this wound up because soon, you won't be the major coke mover anymore. Unfortunately for you, it's a free trade. I only invest and set up meetings."

"So you're saying we're letting him go scot-free?" Colton Banks––the youngest of the group––said nervously.

Edward chuckled once. "Why are you so spooked? You have the least stake in this. I'm sure your streetwalkers will be fine regardless."

"We're not only representing our businesses, Edward," Atticus said gravely. "We supported the coup. Supported you. Our partners and clients––hell, even our competitors took our side because we made them believe that if you took the helm of Bluewave, the messes your father made will not be repeated again. And yet here you are, defending and cleaning up for him just as you had before, and we're starting to think that perhaps Carlisle never fully handed off the business in the first place."

"We took you for your word," Wynona spat. "And we're supposed to believe he manipulated Bluewave to do his bidding without your knowledge? With only the help of your wayward advisor? A dancer?"

Edward shut his eyes, his jaw clenching. After a few moments however, and much to his companions' surprise, he broke out a strange, twisted smile. "Just go out and say exactly what it is you want to do."

Silence.

"Anyone?" he said, looking around the group frenziedly. "I want to hear someone with balls to suggest it. To put it on the record just which buffoon is brave enough to risk it all and call a hit on Carlisle Cullen."

Silence again, except there was a wave of uncomfortable shifting of the seats around the room.

Edward shook his head, laughing bitterly. "Of course. We all know the influence his name still has, legal and otherwise, in and out of the country. We all know what he's capable of when he doesn't get his way. Most of all, we all know what happened to those who've tried."

"You've come the closest."

Edward turned sharply towards Wynona, who'd spoken. She didn't meet his gaze.

He stood up from his seat, walking almost too slowly around the table until he stood behind the woman. She flinched when his hands suddenly grabbed her shoulders, gripping tightly.

"Then ask it of me," Edward said, his voice dangerously low. "Ask me to do exactly what he did back in Jacksonville. To kill off the problem. No, beg for me to kill my own father. Because if you do, I swear to fucking God I will destroy you and everything you love. And you know I don't need to shoot anybody myself to do that."

Wynona shut her eyes and said nothing.

He let her go eventually, sighing deeply as he did. "Thought so. Which is why I suggest a counterproposal."

All heads turned to him now, eyebrows raised.

Edward shut his eyes, bracing himself. "I'll do what I do best. Negotiate."


He couldn't help it anymore, eventually, even if he'd made up his mind weeks before to keep his distance for her sake. He had to see her tonight.

Edward's breaths came out erratically as he frantically drove his Maserati at full, possibly illegal speed through the barely visible road as if his life depended on the destination. Which it felt like it did. It was cruel and unfair. But right now, he didn't care how selfish it was anymore to pull her further into the miserable life where he had nothing to offer.

She was the only good thing he had left to hold on to.

"Where is she?" he demanded at the counter once he arrived at the club at half-past midnight.

"S-Sir," the bartender immediately greeted, clearly bewildered that the Bluewave head himself was addressing him. "Who are you looking for?"

"Bella S––Fortuna."

"Fortuna. Right, she just left a while ago. With that chauffeur."

For fuck's sake. Edward swiftly turned back around to leave the club, and settled back in his car.

He remembered Tanya had told him she wouldn't accept most of the standard gifts Bluewave had offered her, particularly the offer of a new apartment and a new car. After her rise in popularity at the club and the exposure he'd put her in since the Victor stint, he'd decided to humor her no longer and had Atticus install a chauffeur in place at the very least.

Still, it hadn't crossed his mind to take note of where she actually lived. It must be nearby, though, since she walked to and from the club. While he wandered through the dark streets, he pulled out his phone and decided to just call her.

As always, the world wasn't on his side. Her phone was turned off.

He'd almost given up after ten minutes of driving until he caught a glimpse of her familiar, chocolate locks at the end of a narrow street. He immediately turned down his headlights and slowed down several meters away from the low-rise apartment, narrowing his eyes at sight before him.

She was still at the front steps. And she was laughing.

A young man dressed in a suit––the chauffeur, he assumed––was across from her at the bottom of the stairs. He was speaking to her, his countenance friendly and even flirtatious. It was clear he was the cause for her to look so…happy. So light.

His hand clenched around the wheel more tightly as he watched the man brazenly step up the steps to meet her, reaching out to take her hand in his––

Edward instinctively moved to open the door as his chest bubbled with irrational fury, but froze when he caught sight of the sweet, peaceful smile on her lips as the chauffeur kissed her knuckles.

The universe was reminding him again. That in the end, he had nothing to offer her. It had already been kind enough to reunite her with him again, to keep her this close, at least. To keep the sweet memory alive, somehow, and keep him going. But he couldn't be greedy. He couldn't take her all to himself and pull her soul further into his own dark, twisted one, or he would ruin her forever.

He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he did.

He kept his jaw painfully clenched as he closed his door again and pulled himself out of the street and back into the main road. He barely blinked as he drove aimlessly this time, with no particular destination in mind.

It was only when he ended up in the state highway that he finally allowed a single tear to fall.


Carlisle stood at his wide balcony, a half-lit cigarette tucked between his fingers, looking pensively at the view of the private lap pool below him.

The sun was already rising in the horizon. But he just couldn't doze off, even when he'd forced himself to be busy earlier that night. He turned momentarily to his right to glance at the two bare figures––one blonde, one brunette––who were still peacefully snoring in his white sheets.

He sighed, looking back towards the view and taking a long drag. Deep down, he knew why he couldn't sleep, and why he was afraid to even close his eyes for too long.

Because ever since that last conversation with Victor, she'd been haunting him again.

I loved her, Victor. The only one, from the beginning until the end.

God, it had been a mistake to think about her and especially talk about her. There was no point––the idiot was going to die by his hand anyway. He had no reason to defend himself. Why did he have to open that door again?

He closed his eyes, in the hopes of waving off the memory. That was a mistake.

Because he could see her now. How he'd come upon her in the kitchen, when he came home at two in the morning from that business meeting at the Oregon branch twelve years ago. How he'd immediately rolled up his sleeves and knelt down next to her unmoving body. How he'd automatically tried to revive her––by wrapping her bleeding wrists tightly with towels, by giving her CPR––even though he knew that he was just too late. It was clear from her wide, unblinking eyes.

He didn't cry back then, which he'd expected. In fact, he didn't recall really feeling anything at all. Perhaps it was because to him, Esme had already been dead years before that day.

And Victor was right, in a sense. It was his fault. He'd slowly drained the life and love out of her through the years by keeping her at his side. Carlisle Cullen had always been cold and self-centered, after all. It's what had made him as successful and widely feared as he was today.

Go easy on the boy.

Carlisle flashed open immediately, and he found it suddenly so, very hard to breathe. That––He couldn't believe his brain still kept that last lucid conversation he had with her. He couldn't believe he could still remember her voice.

"Fuck," he swore, clutching his chest tightly as he scrambled back into his bedroom. He continued until he stepped into the bathroom, where he rummaged through the medicine cabinet. He eventually found the pills he was looking for––he hadn't taken these in a while––and immediately swallowed a handful.

He sat there on the sink for what could've been minutes or an hour, until his heartbeat eventually reached a steady pace. As soon as it did, his phone buzzed in the pocket of his shorts.

Carlisle sucked in a deep breath. No one dared to text him at this hour unless it was important. Sure enough, when he pulled his phone out and read the message from an unknown ID, his lips quirked up into a bitter smile.

Westfield gun range. Jacksonville. 8PM Saturday

"Déjà vu," he couldn't help but murmur to himself. After all, he'd received the exact same invitation a couple years ago. He supposed his son inherited his flair for theatrics.