June 2014
Twenty-Four/Twenty-Seven
The engagement announcement gutted Isabella, not because of what it said, but because of what it did not. Its effects were lethal but silent, like knives had been taken to her innards. On their last day in Seattle, Esme summoned them to her townhouse. They were expected to review engagement announcement and to take the accompanying photograph.
Esme shepherded them into a round table in her study.
Bella sat and Edward helped her take off her cardigan. She placed both her carbon fiber crutches within reach, leaning against the table . "People announce their engagements on Facebook these days," Bella said bashfully, squeakily. Her statement was enunciated as a question. "Do these many people care we're getting engaged?"
"This family has been in public life for generations, dear," Esme said, in a tone of threatening angry ebullience. Her eyes were sharp as if Isabella were being purposefully dim.
Bella tried one last avenue of defense. "Does it need to be a paper in national circulation?"
"The Times has not run engagement announcements in almost a decade," Esme said fussily, and her eyes grew sharp with displeasure. "What do you think?"
"Alec Voltaire and his fiancée also ran an engagement announcement, darling," Edward explained, in a tone meant to educate.
Esme and Edward looked so alike at that moment, with matching pointed chins and the same coloring. Their eyes were so similarly almond-shaped, their irises similar vibrant hues of green. They looked at her with matching expressions of befuddlement, like they could not understand her trepidation.
Isabella looked at her mother – who had painstakingly taught her to write and color on that very table. Esme, who would battle cancers for decades, looked gaunt and fragile. She wore a bronze-colored turban over wrapped around her head, and the lines etched on her palms – palms that had soothed Isabella's fevers – had darkened.
Isabella couldn't deny her this. "What does it say, mama?"
Esme cleared her throat and beamed, her eyes sparkling with proud contentment. "The engagement of Isabella Marie Swan to Edward Anthony Masen Cullen III has been announced by Ms. Esme Masen Swan. A June wedding is planned next year."
Isabella would have preferred a late September wedding – because that was when the trees began to change color. She kept quiet – thinking about how her mother had mustered energy for wedding planning, in the middle of chemotherapy. There was a portable pump secured to her upper arm.
Esme continued after a sip of peppermint tea. "Miss Swan, 24, graduated with honors from Norwich College and works as a Policy Analyst for the Children's Policy Lab. Mr. Cullen, 27, earned an M.D. from Harvard Medical School and a Bachelor's in Biochemistry from Harvard College. Dr. Cullen will start his general surgery internship at Baystate Medical Center in Springfield, MA.
"Mr. Cullen is the son of Dr. and Mrs. Carlisle Cullen IV of Wharton Bay, Maine. Mr. Edward Cullen is the grandson of Senator Edward A. Masen, Republican of New Hampshire and the late Congressman and businessman William Cullen IV of Maine."
As Esme read, Bella grew pale, nauseated, ashamed. She felt insignificant and small. She had two accomplishments - at institutions that she loved and that had shaped her – but that did not elicit awe. There was no mention of her parents whatsoever – like the two were root rot underneath a quaint crooked tree.
By omission, the engagement announcement disavowed Renée and Charlie Swan. By omission, the announcement made it plain – Isabella Swan was the bastard child of a disgraced politician and a former model who had struggled publicly with mental illness and addiction. Her two biological parents had never been married. Her father and her stepmother had become scandalously divorced.
Isabella shifted uncomfortably in her wheelchair. Complaints about mentioning her two parents hung limply between teeth and lips.
Edward, for his part, had only one correction to make. "Take out the internship site," he instructed, with cold and surefire certainty. Esme did as much with a fountain pen, striking Bayside Hospital from the record.
Bella glared at him with pointed dislike. "God, Edward," she sneered. Disgust began to seep through and settle in her stomach. Seldom, Edward made her feel like that.
Edward squirmed in an uncharacteristic show of discomfort.
"Now that is settled," Esme said brightly. "Bella, would you like to come upstairs to get ready for the photograph?"
"Oh, uh. Sure," Bella sputtered. Uncertainly, she stood. With her carbon-fiber crutches and orthotics aligning her gait, Bella waddled after her mother. Click, click, thump, drag. Click, click, thump drag.
Bella steeled her back at the foot of the stairs, and Edward followed suit with his hand hovering over her back.
"Ready?" Edward asked softly. Edward's lips twisted slightly and his expression was gently proud. Esme watched with trepidation on her face as Bella handed Edward her crutches. Sideways, she clung to the banister with both hands. Slowly, she heaved her left leg onto the first step, leaning heavily on the banister.
"Oh," Esme cried, clapping her hand to her mouth. "Sweetheart…"
"The real concern is the tremors," Edward explained quietly. "She's got this like a champ, though."
At the top of the landing, the tremors intensified in her left leg, making her ankle rattle. She could feel the strain: the muscle burned, and the bones creaked. Calmly, Edward's hands shot out to support her waist. She felt her heart hammering in her throat, and dampness beading in the back of her neck, but she made it to the top.
"I'm very proud of you," Edward said sweetly against her sticky, damp temple. His pride was so genuine, and she loved him.
At the top of the landing, Edward handed her both crutches. His hands were awkwardly in his pockets, cupping his iPhone for examination. He headed back down, boyishly taking the steps two at a time.
"Come along, darling," Esme said, opening the door to her bedroom.
Being inside her mother's room, after a three-year banishment, made her want to cry. It was so familiar to her – the throw pillows, the upholstered headboard, the shades of white and beige. The bedside table was lined with orange-hued pill bottles, and Bella felt her nose singeing with tears.
Esme invited her to the spacious closet - the size of Bella's bedroom - and Bella's eyes welled with tears. The top shoe racks had been remodeled into shelves. The shelves were lined with mannequin heads, displaying dozens of silk headscarves and turbans. They were as eerie as they were poignant.
Her attention was quickly diverted.
"Bella, sweetheart, what you're wearing looks cheap," Esme said, in a voice so mellow it sounded sweet. It mitigated the sting, to hear her mother's voice like that. "Your hair, my love. It's all over the place."
Her mother's fussing hurt Bella, in the way it had always hurt. A little sting to the heart that was easily muted.
Esme pointed to a vanity stool, and Bella sat. Gingerly, she pinched the heart-shaped earrings on Isabella's earlobe. "I've seen this before," she said. Bella wore pearl earrings with a discreet gold trim, which had once belonged to Elizabeth Masen. Edward gave her some of his mother's old trinkets every year.
"Edward is so sweet," Esme all but glowed.
Esme had selected a blouse with a sweetheart necklace and puffy sleeves. Tom Ford. "We've gotten pudgier," Esme said with a chuckle. Lightly, She pinched Bella's nose with a softly amused, loving smile. She chuckled and tsked as she pinched the wobbly bit of Bella's arm. "This would have fit you like a glove three years ago."
Her mother's words hurt – so much more than Isabella imagined it would. She felt it in her gut and her chest like a physical blow.
Obediently, feigning enthusiasm, Bella let her mother fashion her hair into a sharp chignon. Wincing, Bella let her mother comb through her hair with surprising force for one so gaunt.
The accompanying picture was taken on Esme's blue camelback couches.
"Try to sit up straight, my love," Esme tsked, as the photographer snapped picture after picture. "Posture shows."
Bella's stomach began to turn. She wondered if the picture alone would convey to the viewer that her body was unruly and that she trembled past the lens. Edward was standing next to her – tall, and well-built and gorgeous – and Bella felt as insect-like as she had in her early teens.
"It's a lovely picture," Esme declared at the end of the session. "You look like such a beauty." Bella's nerves waged battle with the sense of peace she felt: her mother was glowing with self-satisfaction.
"Hello?" Renée always answered the phone when she called, on the first ring, with such boundless enthusiasm – like it made her day.
"Hi," Bella said awkwardly. "This is, uh. This is Isabella Swan." This is a courtesy, she reminded herself.
"I know," Renée said, sounding bubbly, and Isabella could hear her smile. "It's always so good to hear your voice."
Isabella, who felt that way at Esme Masen's voice, did not know what to say. "I wanted to tell you that Edward and I got engaged."
Renée squealed like a thirteen-year-old. "Oh. Oh, honey. Oh," she said sweetly. "That's wonderful news. He loves you so much. He takes such good care of you."
Bella's voice was dreamy. "Yes, he does."
"Are you happy, baby?"
It still rankled Bella to hear terms of endearment from Renée Dwyer. "Yes," she said softly. "Yes, I am."
The engagement announcement was published in the Times in June, digitally and in print. Isabella lost weight dreading its publication. She had no proof, but she also had no doubt, that she had become the subject of conversation among people she did not even know. The knowledge made her feel naked out in the elements, and it made her skin crawl.
On the day the announcement was published, Isabella got an e-mail – not to her private address, but to her work one.
It came from a nondescript address – a barrage of letters and numbers. There was no subject. She clicked on it, and the color drained from her face. A single sentence of vitriol unfolded. You caught the catch, but you'll ruin his life, crippled insect. Numbly and robotically, she deleted the e-mail. Over the keyboard, her hands shook, and she felt a hole grow in her stomach.
Edward was enjoying the lazy days between school and his first internship of clinical practice. He drove her daily from and to the office.
"Bella?" Edward asked her gently. "What is it? You OK?"
She forced a brilliant smile, fighting for it to reach her eyes. Hesitantly, Edward seemed to believe her. "Everything is fine," she insisted.
Edward, in any case, seemed lost in his world, caught in a storm completely of his own making.
On the commute back, Bella's irritation only grew. Edward kept complaining about Springfield, and Baystate Medical Center. He had been steadily boxing up some possessions and putting together a U-Haul. One night, under the cover of darkness, Edward had bitterly admitted that Emmett would go to Johns Hopkins.
"You'll never guess who else is interning with me."
"Who?" Bella humored him. dryly, making no effort to hide her exasperation.
Edward seemed oblivious. "Benny. Fucking Benny Al Farouk," he told her incredulously, snorting. "That bodes well for me, obviously – It's going to make it seem like Springfield is better ranked."
Bella's anger made her grit her teeth. "Your Dad explained ranking is functionally meaningless," she growled. "You'll learn the same basics everywhere. And Ben is nice, Edward. He must have good reasons to go to Springfield."
Edward looked downright offended. "He's fucking insufferable," Edward sniffed. "He corrected me all the time in Clinical Practice, in front of the fucking professors. I said pancreatitis is activated by trypsinogen, but then I fucked up and said it was activated in the small intestine. Benny swooped in and said it was activated in the pancreas."
"Oh, the horror," Bella deadpanned.
When they got home, Edward repeated the question. "You alright?" he asked, concern lacing his voice. "You've been very quiet, Bee."
"Just a bit wiped," she admitted. "These tremors..." frustration tinged her voice.
Edward squeezed her hand. "I know, love. How about we do some stretching? Stretching will help, even if it's the last thing you feel like doing."
After a mug of steaming chamomile tea had chased away the day's chill, Edward helped Isabella transfer to a yoga mat laid out on the living room floor. The familiar routine unfolded, Edward's strong arms a steady anchor as he positioned himself around her. His touch, as always, was a perfect blend of gentle and firm as he began to work on her tight hamstrings.
"Particularly nasty knot in there?" he asked softly, his voice brushing against her ear and sending a shiver down her spine.
"Maybe just a teensy one," Isabella admitted with a grimace. The tremor in her legs picked up slightly, a testament to the discomfort. Edward persisted, his movements slow and deliberate. Years of studying anatomy and physiology informed his touch. As the tension eased, a sigh of relief escaped Isabella's lips.
"Thank you, Edward. You always know just how to fix everything."
Edward leaned in, his lips brushing against hers in a tender kiss. "That's what husbands are for," he grinned, and he looked so happy at the idea.
Her lips twisted, under his kiss, into a smile. "I love you so much. So, so much," she said.
Later, she crawled into bed after a hot shower. "I've been nervous," she confessed finally. She leaned her head on his chest. "About lots of stuff – about my mother, and the wedding, and…I – she sent me a guest list, and she wants you to fill it in with people that are important to the Cullen family, and…" She sighed.
"That'll be over soon. In the end, it's just us," Edward told her, in a whisper, nose-to-nose. "Just us. Somewhere only we know."
Edward liked to hum that song to her, and she liked to hear it on the piano in the parlor in Maine. It was the Winnie the Pooh song. I walked across an empty land. I knew the pathway like the back of my hand. I felt the earth beneath my feet. Sat by the river and it made me complete.
That'll be over soon.
Some weekends, they ran off to Maine. They put Pancake in a carrier and found that he liked getting lost in the big house's nooks and crannies. Pancake made them laugh, leaping off the bookcases and squeezing into long-neglected cabinets. They walked through the forest if the weather allowed it, and they slept in that ocean-of-a-bed that had become hers.
In that bed, Edward was kissing her all over. The growth of a month of stubble had given her beard burn, especially between both thighs. Edward kissed the back of her heel, the cords of her ankles, the back of her knees – like the skin was not discolored and full of scars. He ran his hands up and down the span of her back with nimble, long soft fingers.
Now, she was lying sideways, cheek against a pillow, hair sprawled across the mattress. They were spooned up. There was a pillow under her hips and supporting her knees, to cushion her joints. Isabella could feel him – sinewy muscle and flabbier stomach, soft and downy against the curve of her spine. Edward had gained weight in his last years of medical school – the outcome of countless meals of takeout, chronic sleep deprivation, and too many skipped workouts. Edward had become shier and sweeter her touch, which she found adorable. She loved him so much, like this – wearing his glasses, with a soft paunch between his hips. It felt better, she secretly thought, to lay against him now that he was all soft edges.
Edward's fingers found her entrance and stroked her clit. Bella made that mewl in the back of her throat that turned into a rhythmic pant. "Does that feel good?" he smirked against the curve of her neck, growing breathier.
"You know it does," she murmured back, throaty and breathless. She closed her eyes, and her tremors grew in intensity. Edward pulled her tighter against his chest, hitching her leg up to enter her from behind. Edward entered her easily. Her wetness covered his erection, and it felt so good.
She moaned with every thrust – and the mewling sound she made grew in pitch until it rose to a crescendo. "Ugh. Ugh. Ugh."
Edward's hands found her breasts. He liked looking at them, almost more than he enjoyed touching them. Her breasts were still beautiful. Edward gently caught her nipples in her hands in the way she loved They were long past embarrassment. She knew what he liked – nails roughly scratching his back, mouth on his nipples, hand wrapped firmly around his cock at an even, fast-paced tempo. He knew what she liked.
Edward spilled into her and panted against her neck before pulling her closer, tighter against him. Once they were done, she lay her head against the soft paunch of his stomach, hair sprawled over his chest. He twinned their hands together. It was the most content she ever felt – sticky, sweaty, and wrapped up around Edward. Her Edward – who worked diligently on her exercises every night and who read to her when she was anxious.
At night, she baked them banana bread with nearly black plantains. Bella had a razor-thin slice. Edward noted that she had improved dramatically.
Edward wore his glasses at home and the hospital. He looked so cute. wearing an old t-shirt from the Redwood Forest National Park that it was tattered. Edward made them grilled cheeses at night. "Real sourdough, real aged cheddar with Muenster," Edward grinned. In private, Edward was a real cheese enthusiast. Smiling, Bella kissed his cheek tenderly.
Bella only ate half of hers, claiming she'd filled up on banana bread. The grilled cheese was delicious, and it was a sacrifice to forsake her half.
"Alec Voltaire called," Edward told her, reticent and careful – trying not to scare her. "He and his fiancée want to have brunch with us next weekend at the Brookline Country Club. With us and Callum and his girl."
Bella's stomach turned, and her anxiety spiked. "That's very kind," she said. She forced another brilliant smile. She summoned enthusiasm into her eyes. Christ, she felt like her mother. "Do you want to go, darling?" she asked.
Nearly four years earlier, Isabella had attended an uppity luncheon for legacy students after Edward's college graduation. It had been held at the Langham in Boston, and the Cullen family had reserved an entire table. They hadn't confessed their feelings to each other, and Bella had been burning with pained longing – tempered with anxiety.
Isabella had been the only wheelchair user in a room of two hundred people. Isabella had elicited more stares than the commencement speaker. As a full-time wheelchair user, Bella was used to being glaringly invisible. People stared when she moved or at first glance – drinking in details – and then forgot to look altogether.
Edward had been the picture of protectiveness and consideration, but Bella had still felt overwhelmed. "Bee, sweetheart, this is so-and-so." Langston "Call-Me-Trip" Prescott III. Callum Rutherford. Edmund Beckett. Magnolia LaRue. Savannah Blake Carrington. Jane Ashcroft Voltaire. "I did that nonsense, too, when I was at Phillips Exeter," Carlisle had explained kindly, conspiratorial and sympathetic. "Carlisle Hockley Cullen IV," he snorted mockingly. "It's just a tactic to feel less insecure."
She'd heard all sorts of things that afternoon, and they stung. They stung deeply. "What did he say they were? He and that wheelchair girl?"
"I didn't catch it. Neighbors, I think."
"He seems pretty fucking into her," one Callum had commented with wonderment.
"You're such a dumb dipshit."
Every cell in Bella's body recoiled at the idea of spending time with Edward's legacy brothers. Despite that, she plastered a rictus grin on her face. Things were different now. Wasn't that what married people did?
Edward looked at her for an eternity – searching her face like it held the answers to an exam. "It would be rude to decline," he said finally, and his eyes swirled with doubt. "We're invited to their wedding."
Edward still spoke to his fraternity brothers. Seldom, he spent time with them.
Isabella always declined when invited. Edward always came back to her – smelling of liquor and cigarette smoke. Edward clung to her a little tighter when he came home like that, disheveled from nightclubs and regattas, indulged her more lovingly. His smiles would be even softer. He volunteered with more enthusiasm at the shelter that rescued Pancake. "Tell me something good," he would whisper against her neck, those mornings after booming bass and cigarettes.
Edward was the only person in the world who completely indulged her like that – Edward knew she held a lifelong love for ecology that rivaled her love of fiction, who could hear her talk and talk and talk, who seemed to find her voice soothing. "I'm reading the Hidden Life of Trees," she would murmur back, feeling her smile grow naturally. "Trees send signals to other trees when they're under threat, with chemicals. And they sense the vibrations of animals coming near them."
Edward would smile at her, so tenderly he looked pained. It was a smile that was just hers – soft, curious, enthusiastic, completely free, and deeply in love.
"We're meeting at The Country Club in Brookline," Edward explained grumpily, and his lips were in a tight line. "Playing a bit of golf."
She blanched and sputtered. Crippled insect. "Do they – playing – do they know I can't –"
Edward looked up from his phone and strolled forward. He knelt in front of her and stilled her hands. He looked ice-cold and deathly serious. "Everybody knows you'll need certain accommodations, and you aren't playing golf. Alec's wife Meghan plays, but Renata does not."
Despite Edward's reassurance, Isabella still lost sleep, for dozens of reasons. Oddly, the most pressing was her outfit. Isabella had no clue what to wear.
Isabella was used to her body, and she was used to its rhythms. Those rhythms dictated whether she used her wheelchair or her crutches – how tight her muscles were, how tired she was, and how long she expected to walk. She knew how to navigate these variables with maturity and poise.
The question at the forefront of her mind was – What would make her look less crippled? Because she had never fallen off her wheelchair, she opted for that. The idea of tripping in front of these people was so mortifying that the idea alone made her want to vanish into thin air. In the end, after much deliberation, she decided her wheelchair was the safest choice. She would be able to wear nice shoes, and she could not possibly trip.
Isabella had a handful of items Esme had bought at Burberry – her store of choice for Isabella – which had been gathering dust in the back of her closet. The items were, just like Esme had tittered, too tight on her fame.
Out of pocket, Isabella paid for an appointment with a nutritionist. The nutritionist told her that her weight was perfectly within range, but Isabella fretted anyway. "I'd just like to lose a bit around the middle."
With her anxiety spiking, Isabella went to Banana Republic. She liked to think she had a good innate sense of style – Rosalie complimented her on that all the time. But the clothes blurred together, and she felt a shot of terror. In a burst of panic, she called Rosalie, sitting in her wheelchair by a clothing rack. Her fears spilled out of her into the mouthpiece, in almost incomprehensible garble.
"First of all," Rosalie barked, in her no-nonsense tone. "You need to calm down. You're marrying a fucking Kennedy – sorry, Cullen – and this comes with the fucking package. You need to ball up and you need to show those bitches."
Bella whimpered.
"Second of all," Rosalie continued. "What the hell are you doing at Banana Republic? The WAGs are going to ask you about brand, and they're going to try to eat you alive. You need to look impeccable."
Glad she was at Copley Place, Bella put three clothing items from Burberry on her credit card. She scheduled an appointment to get her hair done – not knowing that she would be making many such trips in the next couple of months.
When Sunday dawned, Isabella did look impeccable. She wore a Burberry dress that was belted at the waist, with check knit ballerina flats. Her hair was ramrod straight. She had spent hours fighting her tremors to put mascara on her eyelashes, suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for her perfect complexion. Edward wore contact lenses under his sunglasses and a polo shirt.
"You look so fucking sexy," Edward whispered into her ear while he helped her into the car. He kissed the space where her ear met her jaw, and it made her feel butterflies.
The other two couples were waiting already at a white tablecloth-clad table.
Ramps lead from the entrance to the country club to its restaurant. At the restaurant, however, the tables at the club were too cramped together. Her wheelchair hardly fit. Bella managed to push through by hanging on to the backs of chairs and tables – a trick she had learned at occupational therapy.
In her wake, she left a cacophony of screeches and yelps – wood shifting, people hemming, and pity-filled sputtering. By the time she and Edward reached the table – Edward's hands were gentle and protective on her shoulders – she was scarlet with embarrassment.
Alec and Callum stood: Alec's eyes, a silvery blue, were swirling with curiosity, and with that mix of awed pity that was so familiar to Isabella. Callum looked flabbergasted, as did the young women at their sides.
Alec shook Edward's hand. "Congratulations, E," he said roughly, slapping Edward with great manliness on the back. Edward kissed the two women in greeting, and Alec Voltaire took Bella's hand. He shook it so politely Isabella half-expected him to bring it to his lips. "Alec Voltaire," he said kindly.
Isabella had been trying to pretend there was no relation between Alec Voltaire and Edward's first and second-to-last serious girlfriend. Those efforts were vanquished by their family resemblance.
Edward sat: Isabella locked her chair, and Meghan and Renata looked at her with matching expressions of confusion. "Hi," she repeated, smiling stupidly. At a loss for what else to say, she complimented Renata on her necklace. Her trembling was bad, and it showed in that syllable. She was trembling like she was shivering in the cold.
In a conversation that Isabella found irritatingly gendered, the boys began to talk about stocks. Bella tried to put the girls at ease. "That's a beautiful necklace," she said, enunciating so carefully that her words sounded perfect.
"Your ring is gorgeous," Meghan gasped. "How many carats?"
Bella smiled blushingly. "I um. I think the centerpiece is 4 carats," she explained quietly, letting them see her hand. "I'm not really sure."
"So," she said politely. "What do you two do?"
Their answers were flat and disinterested. Meghan was a banker. Renata was into olive oil exporting. Meghan was more receptive to her questions. "And you?" Meghan asked, squinting.
"I work in Education Policy," Bella said, brightening, and Meghan squinted at her studiously. "Well, Childhood Policy, actually. I work for a small nonprofit think tank that advocates for improvements in health and educational services for underserved kids in the K-12 sector."
Bella's cheeks pinkened, and she drifted off. Their eyes had glazed.
"Do you come here often?"
Renata nodded. "The boys love playing golf," she said, in her perfect but accented English.
Awkwardly, Bella smiled. She turned to Edward. Looking at him felt like she had an out-of-body experience. He was so familiar to her, so dear – sharp-jawed, straight-nosed. He looked so different, though. It was like his adolescent cockiness had matured into cold, calculating arrogance in adulthood. He spoke with casual, icy indifference – and rarely, though he listened attentively. He never tried to cut in.
For brunch, Bella ordered eggs benedict. She only ate half her plate, which had two benefits. The first benefit was that it kept her losing weight. The second benefit was that nobody would see how bad her intention tremors could become. Casually, very gently, Edward spoon-fed her once, a bite of his Italian omelet.
Bella was mortified again when Edward helped her from her wheelchair onto a golf cart. Above them, the cloud-covered sky threatened rain, and Edward offered up his jacket.
At the tee box, Edward examined Alec Voltaire's golf clubs with cold disinterest. "They're bespoke Damascus steel," Alec explained with a smirk. "Titleist."
Bella watched from her perch on the golf cart, but she stopped paying attention by the ninth hole on the green – thankful her phone had internet service and that the golf course was beautifully set up.
"That oak tree is beautiful," Bella marveled. Even from afar, she could tell it had a circumference of at least a yard, meaning it was several decades old. The wind blew through the cart, and she wrapped Edward's jacket tighter around herself.
Renata and Meghan looked at each other with matching, furtive smirks. Bella felt her cheeks turn pink with humiliation. She tugged Edward's jacket tighter around her frame.
"I've met Jane," Meghan told her, evidently trying to find a route for them to bond. Bella felt her stomach somersault. "She's become very, very fat," Renata expounded giddily. She held her arms around her in an illustrative circle. "And she converted from Lutheranism to Evangelical Christianity. It's wild to talk to her lately."
Bella hugged her waist tighter. She thought about Jane Ashcroft Voltaire often. Jane sat at the top of the list of culprits for the hazing e-mails she was receiving. Opening them was like a compulsion – like watching a trainwreck – and it salted all her wounds.
The e-mails from different burner addresses kept coming, and they became cruder and angrier with every iteration. They made her hands shake, and her stomach sink, and the latest one made her eyes burn. She didn't want to tell anybody, even though it felt like bullying. The messages had a kernel of truth, and they gutted her. Crippled insect, he'll be wiping your ass with –
"I hope she's doing well," Bella said tartly.
At night, Bella collapsed with exhaustion into bed, feeling completely drained.
She had survived.
Her mother was always in the back of Isabella's mind. Isabella called her mother every day, and she was taking unpaid leave at the end of June to go visit her again. Those daily phone calls gave her mother ample opportunity to commandeer the wedding preparations.
After the engagement announcement, they started to develop what Esme would delightedly call a social calendar. Some events loomed large on that calendar: a weekend at Siobhan Cullen's Finger Lake Villa; Alec and Meghan's wedding; and a private fundraising dinner for Aaron "Aro" Voltaire in 2015.
Isabella felt overwhelmed. It showed in bags around her eyes and in the fragility of her thinning frame. Edward had kept reading to her – managing to lull her into sleep that became very fitful. In sleep, memories exploded into nightmares that left her feeling groggy and disconcerted all day.
Her impending Nuptials – with a capital N – loomed large in the back of her mind. Her mother was nudging Edward to produce a wedding list that was slowly approaching the hundreds. Edward was drafting it himself, in cahoots with his aunt. Bella procrastinated reviewing it because it always left her drained.
She checked on the second week of June, squinting at dozens of names and highlighting the ones she needed to ask about.
"Baby? Who is Felix Vanderboss?"
The name sounded so vaguely familiar – like so many of the names on that list. In her sleep-deprived anxiety spiral, she couldn't guess where she'd heard the name before.
The guilty, defensive expression on Edward's face became imprinted in her memory. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He lowered the volume on the television.
"I invested in his company," Edward said flatly. "I've told you. I've become a major shareholder."
Bella wasn't so sure. She unlocked the wheels of her chair and spun it in his direction. "I don't really remember," she insisted, feeling groggy.
Edward shifted his body, sitting with his elbows on his knees. "I came into my trust from my grandfather when I turned 21," Edward said quietly.
"I know that."
"It's only eight million, angel."
"I knew that, too, Edward. It's a lot of money."
Edward looked at her so condescendingly that she was almost angry. He sucked in a breath, his lips twitching strangely. Bella hated the feeling it sparked in her gut. Was he making fun of her plebeian ways? Was he angry at her lack of worldliness?
"The interest only yields 40,000 a year, darling." For the first time, the gentle tone he seemed to reserve just for Bella irked the recipient.
"I understand the concept of interest," Bella said dryly.
"It's not enough. It's more than enough to cover rent with a supplemental income but – It's not what I want for us in the long run. The fortune's dwindling. My Dad's an idiot with finances," Edward continued to explain, and the pitch of his voice grew, evincing a strange desperation.
"Edward," Bella hissed angrily, shaking her head disappointedly. She felt offended on behalf of the best person she knew.
"He is an idiot. He's been eating out of the principal for decades to support the property portfolio, and that's just shit financial management, Bella. My Dad's always had weird priorities. I'm richer than he's ever going to be. We are going to be richer than my father has ever been, my love."
Her mind was a maelstrom of thoughts – many of them contradictory. Why? Do we need to be that much richer?
And yet. Isabella wasn't a saint. Anybody wanted to be rich – she included. Isabella just didn't like the spark of cold greed in his eyes, the hint of casual arrogance in his brow. She caught another full-blown glimpse of Edward Cullen III.
"What does this have to do with Felix Vanderboss?"
"I met him at MIT. I took a statistical analysis course there as an undergraduate. Felix needed startup cash, and I gave him 100,000 dollars. It was the best investment I could have made. I've made it back in millions."
Feeling dizzy, Bella blinked and rubbed her forehead as if a headache were forthcoming. "And what is the company in? What does the business do?"
"It's called Corvus."
"That sounds familiar," Bella said, and she rubbed at her forehead anew. "I think I read something about Corvus last year. On the Washington Post. What do they do?"
His chin, the line of his mouth, and his tone, brimmed with defiance. "Surveillance technology."