A/N: you're all wonderful. Thanks for the welcome back! So nice to see new and old names in the reviews đź’“

These first few chapters are light on word count, but the next is chunky. Chapter moodboards/song links are in my group on facebook - search 'Here For the Tea - Hotteaforme Fanfiction' x

Chapter 2

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Sincerely

It's true what they say about smoke and mirrors. How people use deflection and distraction to absolve themselves of responsibility by pointing fingers.

They think they can get away with it.

Sometimes they do.

This time, I'm going to make sure he doesn't.

Bree picks up a setting powder from the vanity, where multiple bulbs make my face feel too hot. Taking a large-headed brush, she dusts it in the powder, and then across dewy-looking skin.

This is smoke and mirrors of a different kind. It's an illusion. Gone are the dark circles, the drawn out, pale skin from sleepless night after sleepless night. On the surface, I look perfectly put together but the reality is it's a carefully crafted lie.

Underneath this polished exterior, I'm overwrought. The anxiety seeps like water—legs weak, hands trembling, heart racing along before it stumbles and stutters.

Bree continues to fuss as I take in a deep breath, rearranging soft waves over my shoulders and adding gloss to my lips before blotting gently at them with her index finger. We've gone for a natural look: a soft neutral shadow over my eyelids, a nude lip.

"Alright, I think we're good." She moves back, admiring her work.

"I didn't think anything was going to get rid of these dark circles. Really, amazing job." For a split-second I worry about how the praise lands. To my surprise, Bree responds positively. It's not something I've had in the past few weeks to anything I've done, or said—quite the opposite.

"You're sweet." She smiles, and then it falls and she lowers her voice. "And, can I just say—I think you're being real brave."

There's a few seconds where my voice feels too tight to speak. Instead, I nod and whisper a half-strangled thank you.

"That actually really means a lot. I have serious doubts right now."

"No doubts here. I'm hoping for nothing but the best for you and your sweet boy."

And this is what I hope most people will want to say after this is all said and done. Even though it's highly unlikely, I know I have to try. I glance down at my cell: a picture of Seth and I at Disney World set as my lock screen, taken a few weeks before our lives imploded. Our backs are to the camera, the castle in the distance, matching Mickey Mouse ears perched on our heads, his small hand in mine. Just me and him, enjoying the world.

With a lump in my throat, it hardens my resolve. "If this is what I need to do to be heard, then I can only be doing the right thing, can't I?"

"Of course," Bree agrees. "I know you probably don't believe it right this second, but everything's going to be okay for the both of you. I truly believe that. This will all be a distant memory before you know it." She squeezes my arm reassuringly before a blonde haired assistant interrupts us, peering around the door of the dressing room with a headset on and a clipboard in her hand.

"Isabella? It's time."

The slow drip of anxiety turns into a waterfall of light-headedness and Bambi-legged movements as I stand slowly from the chair.

Taking two or three deep breaths, I smooth down the fabric of the tailored black blazer I'm wearing, a light blue blouse underneath. It's smart. Demure. I shunned all attempts by the wardrobe department to dress me more provocatively—high cut skirts, low-cut dresses, anything that showed more than a hint of skin. I've been exposed enough, and this final move will strip me bare.

Apprehensively, I follow the assistant from the room. Bree is at my side, clutching a bag full of brushes and products for touch-ups, but we don't speak. A maze of corridors pass in a blur—until we arrive at our destination.

The room in the hotel we're filming in is a flurry of activity, the assistant ushering both Bree and me into the chaos, closing the door firmly behind her.

Bree leaves me alone to take it all in.

Tall windows along the right-hand side of the room make it feel light and airy and everything from the carpet to the chairs is decorated in a palette of soft greys and creams. It's a sharp contrast to all the bulky equipment that sits in it: multiple cameras, lighting, sound rigs. Front and center are two armchairs that have been carefully placed, a low coffee table in between them. With passing interest, I watch as they arrange lilies in a vase, positioned on a sideboard in view of the cameras.

There's a surprising amount of people I need to meet; the director, the producer, show runners. I smile, shake hands dutifully, trying not to feel overwhelmed. But it is overwhelming. And that feeling only intensifies when I spot Victoria Sutherland in the far corner, her arms crossed and a sheet of paper hanging from her hand.

Victoria holds court with a man, who I assume is her personal assistant, her signature red hair pulled back into a sleek bun, a forest-green all in one pant-suit emphasising her slender waist. I've seen her on TV, but she's even thinner and more glamorous in the flesh. Her talk show, The Victoria Sutherland Show, is wildly successful, her interviews watched globally at times. She's firm, fair, and famous for her probing interviews of celebrities, politicians, and foreign royalty alike.

And now she's interviewing me. And I'm none of those.

Not even close.

I don't want to be either.

Victoria's face lights up when she realizes I'm here, confident as she walks over, her hand extended outwards before she even reaches me.

"Isabella, it's a pleasure."

I'm not so sure it is, but I shake her hand firmly, anyway.

"Likewise. I'm a—a big fan of yours, so it's great to meet you, even if the circumstances aren't… well."

Her hand moves to my forearm, a touch of reassurance.

"Not ideal for you. I understand. Hopefully, this will give you a chance to shine a light on things. Don't be afraid, I'm here to ask questions, of course, but I'm also here to hear you. Just believe in what you're saying—speak with conviction, and your audience will believe you too."

"It's the truth," I tell her resolutely. "Whether people want to believe that or not—I'm not interested."

She appraises me with intense blue eyes and I wonder whether she has the measure of me already or whether the things I've done will shock her. Somehow I doubt it. If anything, Victoria Sutherland is the least flappable of all.

"Perfect," she says finally. "Well, let's run over some of the things we'll be covering, and then we can get started.

She offers the white paper to me. Typed words jump out as I skim read, and the more I do, the dryer my mouth becomes. Seeing it all written in black and white somehow makes the experience even more real; the truths I'll have to speak, the things I will have to admit out loud.

"I'll throw some curveballs in there, of course. We want this to be fluid—a natural discussion," Victoria continues.

"I understand," I tell her.

She takes the paper gently out of my hands and hands it off to her assistant. I can't help but follow its journey as it travels to the back of the room and onto the clipboard of a runner, as if my fate is written on there too.

But I don't know it yet.

I don't know what will happen after this.

All I know is that I loved Edward Cullen once, but I'll never, ever let myself love him again.

"Shall we?" Victoria gestures at the chairs, and I notice water and tissues have now been added to the coffee table. I try not to read too much into their presumption that I might cry. I might.

"I guess."

"Isabella," Victoria says, sensing my reluctance. "This might not have the effect you're after, but it's probably the only way to be listened to."

"I know. It's just… all been very intense. The intrusion. The media… I mean, it's too late now."

"Just remember, we can stop for a break at any time," she reassures me.

Before I feel truly ready, we're sitting in the armchairs, lighting, sound, and camera angles adjusted; make-up touched up until the director and producer are happy.

"And go!" Eric says from his seat, staring at a monitor that frames us in high definition.

Victoria starts talking into a camera, introducing me—the background to why I've ended up here, but I find myself barely listening.

Inhale for four counts.

Exhale for four counts.

"Why now?" I hear Victoria say, turning her head towards me. It takes a second for my brain to kick into gear, for words to form now that she's put me on the spot. Still, I look directly into the camera and address it.

"We all know that there's two sides to every story. I feel I don't deserve to be judged on lies circulating in the media by expensive PR teams hired by Edward Cullen and his family to minimize his behavior. What I do deserve is to be judged on the facts, and that's what I'm here to tell. The truth."

Victoria nods, whether in agreement or just for the cameras, I'm not sure.

"Your story."

"My story," I confirm.

Victoria pauses. "Let's start from the very beginning."