Chapter Fifteen

And I snuck in through the garden gate

Every night that summer just to seal my fate

And I scream, "For whatever it's worth

I love you ain't that the worst thing you ever heard?"

He looks up, grinnin' like a devil

~ Taylor Swift, Cruel Summer

BPOV

I stared at the card in my hand long after everyone else in the suite had returned to their own rooms for some well deserved sleep. I would regret the decision in a few hours when I woke up, but for now I couldn't tear myself away from it.

It hadn't shown up attached to flowers. It didn't come with any kind of plant or dessert or fruit or any of the typical congratulatory items people tended to send whenever you were succeeding in your field.

No. This card came with a basket full of essentials only a woman who had been doing the job for decades would be able to curate.

There were humidifiers and throat lozenges and tea's that did wonders on sore throats and numbers to call for IV nutrients around the world for the last week of the press tour and a dozen other things the average person would think were insane for gifts.

I did at first, too.

Then I read the note.

If a man talks shit, you owe him nothing.

Do what you do best.

And do it better than anyone else.

xx B

She knew it was coming before I did. Before my team had any idea. But it wasn't surprising. She was the most well-connected woman in the industry, and I had spent the last year and a half learning how she worked. Slowly realizing what it took to be anywhere near her level of success.

I started writing from the moment I could hold a pen. Dad taught me how to play guitar as soon as my hands were big enough to hold one. There wasn't a song I had put out that I didn't write at least seventy-five percent of. It was the only thing that kept me sane, kept me from completely losing my fucking mind day in and day out.

He knew it. Jacob. He knew how seriously I took my writing and my career.

Dropping his own album the day of mine wasn't the problem, not exactly. It wasn't even the fact that he basically put out an album full of songs about either loving someone else more than me or hating me and feeling trapped in our relationship for the majority of it. I wrote about him. He could write about me.

No. The problem was the interview. The way he said any song we ever wrote together was a majority of his work and he placated me by giving me credit. It was the way he said I had my father bribe most award shows for wins for the first few years of my career. It was the fact that he spent his whole fucking interview somehow making every question asked about him a soul-crushing dig at something he knew I valued.

Sitting in that house in London, the one I went ahead and bought on my own even after he left, everything clicked into place.

It was no fucking wonder I hadn't been able to move on until now. Why I always let him back in, always accepted any tiny crumb of his attention or love and believed him every time he said it would be different.

He knew. From the very beginning he knew I was better, and he had been manipulating me ever since. Using my own emotional outlet of writing to his advantage to get him album sales at the same time. He used my name every chance he got, even if a reporter hadn't so much as mentioned me.

The first time we were nominated for an award against each other, I remember coming home with the statue in my hand and Jacob smiling as he said a win for one of us is a win for both of us.

At the time I thought it was sweet.

Now it made my stomach roll.

I twisted the card between my fingers.

She knew. Somehow she knew I had been holding myself back. For him. For the possibility of a future with him where I knew he wouldn't forgive me for some of the things I had written about him. At least, until this summer.

This summer, he was no longer the bright shiny reward at the end of my day. He wasn't my goal, as pathetic as I realized it was he had been my goal for a lot longer than I had been his.

Only Jacob Black could ruin my day when, a few hours earlier, Jessica told me I had already locked in the number one spot on basically every chart possible for the week in a matter of hours.

My phone vibrated on the small table next to me, beside a long forgotten cup of tea.

I couldn't even fight my smile as I saw a picture of Edward pop up on the screen; one of my favorites I had been able to get of him last time I was in Seattle; him and Daisy cuddled up together on the couch.

"Hey, hotshot," I answered, my doom and gloom from just moments before slipping away.

"Christ, shouldn't you be asleep?"

I chuckled. I should. I was going on a good thirty-six hours awake, a majority of that spent working. But it was only about four in the afternoon. And it was hard to shut your brain down after the days I'd had lately.

Screaming fans.

Short shows every day, each somehow in a different country.

A house full of fans happily listening to the album with me as it came out at midnight a few days ago.

"Sleep during a release week is pretty much non-existent."

He let out a playful scoff. "I tried to keep up online. You're… fucking everywhere here, Bella."

An apology was on the tip of my tongue, but he kept going.

"I didn't want to bother you. But I couldn't figure out all of the different variants and versions. How do I make sure I got every copy?"

My head tilted the side. "Copy of what?"

I was met with silence.

"Are you fucking with me?"

Oh. "The album?"

"Yes, princess," he said softly. "The album."

I took a deep breath. Closed my eyes and told myself that Edward Cullen was about as opposite of Jacob as I could get, and I was done letting him interfere. Done giving the man who walked away the morning of our wedding without a glance back any place in my mind.

"Where are you?" I asked, placing the card back on the table with the gift basket full of what I would now dub my popstar essentials kit.

He didn't need to answer. I heard the swish of automatic doors and an employee welcome him as he walked into a store.

"I bought the digital copy. And downloaded it on Spotify. But you lost me at all of these different physical copies. I'm at Target now. What do I buy?"

I curled my legs up underneath me, smiling out the window of what I once thought would be a nursery for one of my future children with – one of my future children. It still could be. One day.

"You don't have to buy anything, Edward."

"Hold on," he mumbled, but I heard his entire conversation with someone over the phone. Listened to him ask about the variants on what I assumed was a display of albums in front of them.

"What's the difference between all of them?"

A girl answered, excitement in her voice making me smile as she energetically started explaining why she was holding four CDs and three vinyl albums in her hands. Talked about the colors and covers being different, the extra set of photos in the different versions and the standard tracks versus the deluxe. She knew her stuff, I had to give her that.

"Oh, I–um–do you want me to, you know, pick you out one of each?"

I smiled to myself. She must have just looked up. Either she realized my boyfriend was standing beside her or she got distracted by the green eyes and disheveled hair and jawline I personally found myself thinking about on a nearly daily basis. Usually hourly.

"Please," Edward sighed before he seemed to remember me. "There's a fuckin' crowd surrounding the display, princess," he whispered. "Someone already had to ask an employee if there was more stock in the back. Goddamn."

There was a lot of shuffling and talking. I didn't mind Edward kept me on the phone the whole time. I enjoyed every second of it. And somehow fell even more in love with him as I listened to him buy every single person surrounding him whatever copy of my album they wanted.

—How You Get The Girl—

"This isn't as fun," I whined, plopping myself down on the couch beside Seth. We were in Japan. I think. Could have already moved onto Australia, but I was too exhausted to look out the window to see.

Seth snorted, stacking his sock covered feet on the coffee table and grabbing the bottle of beer beside him. "If Dad could see you now…" he mused, before he realized what he had said.

Dad. Charlie.

He congratulated me on my album via an instagram post. Wished me the best on my future endeavors. My father.

He loved football, though. Seth had a point, it would have cracked Charlie up to see me so invested in the sport when I actively avoided having to suffer through it every Thanksgiving when he and Seth huddled in front of the television.

"Do you miss him?" I asked tentatively. The game hadn't started yet. Announcers were talking about stats of the other team I had absolutely no interest in.

Seth shrugged, and I knew my answer.

He chose sides immediately after everything went down. I didn't ask him to, didn't expect him to cut Charlie off just because I did, but he was nearly as stubborn as me.

"You can call him, Seth," I told him quietly. "Thanksgiving is in a few months, you could go down and–"

"No."

I sighed, taking my hint to drop the subject. I appreciated his loyalty… more than he would ever know, but I still didn't want to be the reason for the rift between he and Dad. They were about as close as a father and son could be right until we realized he was helping Jacob blacklist me.

Shaking my head, I pulled out my phone.

B: Football on television isn't as exciting

We were still watching the pre-game, but I wasn't expecting an answer.

E: Get some sleep, princess. You've got to be exhausted.

B: I miss you.

E: You have no fucking idea.

I failed my fight against my smile. He had no idea.

It was early, but I had been awake since yesterday morning. Practically. I got maybe an hour of sleep last night before I woke up with a racing heart, drenched in sweat, and fairly certain my lungs no longer held oxygen.

Did I have time to be lounging on the couch with my brother watching a football game happening a world away? No. It was the only thing out of my pocket of tricks to get the panic to dissolve from my veins that had worked, though.

—How You Get The Girl—

Curling myself in a ball in the corner of the couch, I closed my eyes as I listened to the music float through the room. It was one of the happiest places on earth, to me at least. The corner of a dark and cozy soundproofed studio with music blasting dangerously loud through the speakers as we listened to a rough demo. Or two. Or ten.

Writing made everything make sense. It was easy for me to say how I felt in a song. Sometimes too easy. Edward's suggestion of writing about the bad stuff, the stuff that I kept so close to my chest most people had no idea existed, still rattled around in my brain, but I tried not to get distracted by it.

I didn't write about him anymore. Didn't let myself think of him much in the last few days. Based on the looks my team gave me he was still galivanting around the country promoting his new album and taking every chance to talk shit about me and mine.

I stayed in my lane. Put on a smile and answered the same dozen questions every news outlet asked and happily played a few intimate shows around the world for hand selected fans.

And I wrote.

Not about him.

About Edward.

Spent far too many nights up too late doing it. Enjoying every second of it. Then Peter Clark showed up at a show in Australia and asked me if I had been working on anything recently.

It wasn't technically a studio. It was a hotel room with the best equipment we could get on short notice and a whole hell of a lot of caffeine. But there was a couch. Some speakers. And new music floating through the room.

We found wonderland

You and I got lost in it

We pretended it could last forever

I sighed, happily curling in on myself even more.

"It's a damn shame you already put the album out," Peter sighed, shuffling through a mess of lyrics scattered around the room.

It was a shame. But I also had this plan. And idea I never could have gone through with back when every decision of mine had to go through my father and a dozen other people who had his best interests in mind as opposed to mine.

I didn't have to worry about them anymore. I could do what I wanted.

I shrugged. "Not necessarily."

—How You Get The Girl—

I fidgeted with the sleeves of my Seahawks crewneck. Fall was coming, and Seattle was its usual rainy, cloudy self as we landed an hour ago. After weeks of dresses and skirts and sparkles and clothes that cost more than the average car, I was more than happy to be in my worn out jeans, sweatshirt, and sneakers that Edward got me what seemed like ages ago now.

Hiding a yawn behind my hand, I smiled at the crowds of people that scurried out of their own boxes as I made my way to Edward's. They were all nice; all smiles and cheers and congratulations on my recent success.

I breathed a sigh of relief once I was safely in the box, though. Being on for weeks on end, functioning on absolutely no sleep, it had drained every ounce of energy I had. But a wave of calm washed over me as soon as I was in the box, the field crystal clear in front of me, and Edward's mother's arms immediately wrapped around me in a tight hug.

"Congratulations, Dear," she sighed, patting my cheeks.

Stats filled my head, the ones Jessica and Carmen couldn't help but repeat over and over on the flight here.

Is It Over Now? Became my biggest debut of an album within the first day of its release. It had sold 1.3 million copies by the end of the week. Stayed right there in the top spot in the two weeks since with no signs of slowing down.

It had also made my first three albums chart in the top five again along with it.

Apparently, people were no longer shunning me and were excited to listen to the music they shit on a few years ago.

I wasn't mad. I wasn't too mad. I had learned a long time ago that fans and the general public were fickle, fickle beings. And I was glad I Bet You Think About Me was getting the attention I was devastated it never got when it was released.

Still. Sometimes, even when things were amazing and I had the sales and numbers behind me, all I could think about was the next time I was going to fall.

I shook my head, took my seat between Carlisle and Esme, and smiled as I saw number thirteen run out on the field.

A/N: I know, I know. I'm so sorry about the long wait. I've been in a bit of a writing funk, and this is un-beta'd but I didn't want you guys waiting any longer than you already have been. I hope you enjoyed it either way!