Good Morning, Lovelies!

Thank you so much to Mel and Pamela!

II

Bella

Las Vegas, Nevada

June 2, 2025

It is difficult to sleep, and after tossing and turning for nearly an hour, I eventually give up and resign myself to doing more research on the phone. Despite my fear that it may be a trick phone somehow, I am desperate for information.

I spend the night reading up on the new Russian monarchy that shouldn't exist, utterly baffled by the shift in time. As far as I know, nothing like this has ever happened. Why now? Was it really because of me?

My mind keeps flashing back to the day I saved Edward, the day we met, and I cannot help but wonder if I started some irreversible alteration in time by doing so.

But how is it that saving one person could change history this much?

By the time the sun comes up, I have a headache from thinking about it all.

I eat a measly breakfast of an apple and string cheese from the food provisions I bought at the store, and by the time the library is open, I am ready to be on the move once again.

I don't risk leaving any of my belongings, so I pack them all up into my small backpack to bring with me. The last thing I need is for someone to break into my room and rob me.

When I set out in the early morning, it is already uncomfortably hot.

To distract myself from the heat, I run a list through my head of things I need to do.

One: Track down more information about this supposedly new world that I know nothing about. Did the World Wars still happen? What side was Russia on? How powerful is the Russian monarchy?

Two: I need to get my hands on a fake passport somehow, which will certainly cost more than the couple of hundreds I have left. It gives me two options: I can either steal the money or hope that my luck will win out and gamble.

I'll make up my mind later on the how.

Three: I need to get out of this desert and back to England so I can begin trying to figure out how to track down Edward.

Four: I need to investigate the travelers as well. In all my life, I've never sought out another traveler in any capacity, never thought about whether we've left some sort of documentation behind. It's time to learn.

I make it to the library before I can come up with another action item. Inside, the building is cool from the blasting air conditioning, and I let out a contented sigh.

I've missed air conditioning.

I make my way toward the bank of old computers along the south wall, and after making a free account, I'm able to log on.

The first thing I search for is Edward.

Like the night before, nothing comes up and I feel my stomach twist into knots. My husband cannot be forgotten by history. He simply cannot be.

I change the search to the Russian imperial family, half hoping that it will be a dead end.

But then the webpage loads and there are millions of articles written about the czarina.

Fuck.

It's true. Somehow, by some impossible way, I have irrevocably changed the history of the world.

This poses new questions in my mind. How do I change it back? Can I? If I can, should I? The moral ramifications of wiping out entire future generations that were never supposed to be born gives me a headache. Maybe this was the course life was meant to take and I righted the world?

There is no way of knowing, and suddenly I feel claustrophobic.

I tug at the hemline of my shirt and gulp down a deep breath, trying to regulate my breathing.

I need to focus.

I won't find the answers I'm looking for on the computer. Instead, I need to figure out how to get the proper identification in order to travel across the world.

I spend the rest of the day online, trying various dark web sites that I am familiar with until I locate someone in the greater Las Vegas area who is willing to make a passport for two grand. Once the library closes, I set to work to collect the money.

My main objective is to steal it, but if I need to cheat in gambling, I don't mind doing that too. Years ago ,I learned how to count cards, mostly out of curiosity. I haven't had many chances to use the skill, but I still remember how. Combined with my natural abundant sense of caution, I think I will be okay.

I stay away from the Strip, trying out the smaller casinos where I haven't shown my face yet. I don't want to draw too much attention to myself if I can avoid it.

Las Vegas is a city that never sleeps, and I rely on that to collect enough cash for my passport. I have a stroke of luck when I pickpocket a wallet off a man that has nearly a thousand dollars in cash in it. I leave the cards, not needing the paper trail, and pocket the money.

By two in the morning, I have more than enough collected and I reach out to my new contact, arranging a time and place to meet.

Unsurprisingly, my co-conspirator is up and responds quickly, instructing me to meet him at his home north of the city.

Long ago I learned that most criminals were not who you expect them to be, and indeed my forger fits that mold. The address he gives me is a nice house in the suburbs, and when I tap on the back door as instructed, a scrawny guy who can't be much older than me opens the door.

"Come in," he says quickly. "And be quiet or you'll wake up my ma."

I barely resist rolling my eyes as I slip into the house. I take in the clean kitchen littered with Live, Laugh, Love paraphernalia all over it. It looks like the home of a middle-aged suburban mom, which I am sure it is.

"This way," he says, garnering my attention.

I follow him to a set of stairs that lead down to a basement. Down here is clearly not his mother's domain. It's dark and crowded with electronics that fill the room with a warm humming sound.

The forger bolts the door behind us, and when I lift an eyebrow at him, he shakes his head. "It's to slow down my ma, in case she wakes up," he explains. "It's a regular deadbolt. You can flip it at any time."

I reach to do just that and find that the door opens easily. At ease, I close the door and flip the bolt back before turning to the forger.

"Right," he says, plopping down in a swivel chair. "So, one passport, right?"

I nod. "I need to travel overseas," I tell him. "And I have no ID of any kind at the moment."

He turns to his computer. "Okay," he says, humming. "Well, I can print you a passport and a driver's license if you want. I can do specialized forms of ID too, but those will cost you more and they take longer."

"A passport and license will be fine," I tell him.

He glances at me. "Are you American?"

When I frown, he blinks and pushes his glasses up his nose. "I'm only asking because you don't sound American. I'm not great at European passports. I don't have the right supplies."

I shake my head. "An American one will suffice," I tell him, wondering if my voice has changed much since my time in 1897. I've always sounded a little different to people, but most don't call it out.

"Okay," he says, turning back to his computer.

"What's your name?" I ask, making him look at me again.

"Erik," he says slowly. "What name do you want on your ID?"

I consider that for only a moment. "Isabella Marie Cullen," I tell him.

"Okay, write it down. There should be some Post-its near you." He gestures to the edge of his desk near where I am standing. I shuffle through the trash and wires until I find a small stack of yellow Post-its. I fish around for a pen before finding one and jotting down my name.

"Write down any other details you'll want me to include," he says, not looking at me. "Then we need to take your photo."

"What other information is there?" I ask.

Erik blinks and looks at me. "Well, I guess really just your height and weight and age. I can give you a fake address and stuff."

I've been this tall since I was about thirteen, but I have to guess on the weight. I glance down at my changed body that is hiding under the baggy shirt I'm wearing and I let out a breath. I write a weight I'm comfortable with and silently dare anyone to challenge me on it. I can't do the mental math right now to estimate a date of birth based on this timeline, and anyway, making myself older could only help if I need to rent a car or something. I jot down that I am 25 even though I only just celebrated my 21st birthday with Edward in September.

When I'm done, I hand the information over to Erik who tosses it to the desk in front of him.

"This passport will be good enough to fly with, right?" I ask.

Erik glances at me. "Yeah, I mean I wouldn't linger in the airport if you can help it, but it'll fake the system long enough to get you where you need to go."

I wonder what that means.

"How long will this take?" I ask.

Erik lets out a breath. "Usually about a week."

I shake my head. "I need it sooner."

He looks at me curiously. "It'll cost you. You have the money, right?"

I pull a wad of cash out of my pocket. "This is half. You get the other half when it's done," I tell him, tossing him the stack. "How much to expedite it?"

Erik frowns, like he's trying to calculate something. "Well, let's see, I …"

I interrupt him by pulling out one of the wallets I stole earlier. "There are at least four credit cards in here," I tell him, feeling guilty about it. "Will that be enough?"

Erik's eyes widen and he nods. I toss him the wallet and let out a breath when he catches it.

"Shit, yeah, that's great. I'll get this done asap. Come over here. We need to take your photo."

He directs me to a small square of cleared space beside a hanging backdrop. There is a little x of tape on the ground and I stand on it as he hops behind a mounted camera.

"On my count," he directs. We take a few photos before he goes back to his computer.

"Okay, these look good. I'll give you a call when they're done."

I nod. "Good. The sooner the better."

Erik nods and reaches for an open energy drink. He takes a long swig before tossing the can across the room and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm on it."

…

It's only twenty-four hours later that Erik contacts me to let me know my paperwork is ready. I'm surprised by his speed and wary that the work won't be up to snuff in such a short amount of time.

We meet in a run-down twenty-four-hour diner the next night. There are a handful of other patrons which helps us not stand out as we select a booth away from everyone else. He hands me a large envelope, and I quickly pull the documents out, flipping them open. I'm impressed with his work. Everything looks shockingly real.

"This is good work. How did you do this so fast?" I ask, looking at him.

Erik blushes a little. "I have a connection. That's a real passport. I just … altered it."

I don't even know what that means. I slip the passport and ID into my pocket and pull out the other half of the payment, sliding it into the envelope and handing it back to him.

"Thank you, Erik. You don't know how important this is to me."

He nods, chewing on his lip. "Yeah, I mean, my pleasure." He pauses and seems to hesitate.

"What?" I ask.

"You just, I don't know. You seem like the sort of lady who wouldn't need this," he says slowly.

"What does that mean?"

Erik shrugs. "I'm not judging. I can usually spot a potential customer a mile away. They have this energy I guess." He looks me over. "You don't have that."

"I suppose I'm not your average woman," I agree. "I should go."

Erik swallows and shifts in his seat. "Do you want to stay for some pancakes?" he asks. "I mean, they are really good here."

I smile at him. "Thank you, Erik, really." I look down at the table before I shake my head. "I'm afraid I'm on a sort of deadline, though."

He lets out a breath. "Right, of course. Okay, no worries. Have a good one."

I smile once more before I climb out of the booth and head out of the diner. I have my backpack with all my belongings in it, so I don't bother going back to the hotel. Instead, I hail a cab and head straight for the airport.

…

A ride and a stolen credit card later, I am sitting in the terminal several hours early for the next flight out of Las Vegas to London. It's an indirect flight, one that has me stopping in New York before I continue on across the Atlantic, but I don't mind. So long as I am heading home.

Home.

It is strange to me that a place I've barely lived is now home to me. India feels like home when I think on it, but London is where I met Edward. It's the place where I decided to stay.

My heart yearns to go back.

I try to occupy my time by reading a paperback from one of the shops, but it proves futile. My mind is racing, trying to make a plan.

I'm not entirely sure what I'm expecting when I land in London. I just have this sense that it is where I am supposed to be.

I hope I'm right.

I pull out my small notebook and pen and begin jotting down everyone I'd met in 1897. Even if I can't find information on one, surely not all of them will be impossible to track down.

After all, Rosalie is the ancestor of the current czarina. If I can find record of Rosalie, I should be able to find out what happened to Edward.

For perhaps the millionth time since I arrived in Las Vegas, I look down at my wedding ring and feel my eyes spark with tears.

Perhaps the worst of all this is that I know exactly when my husband is, but he must remain clueless as to when and where I am.

What must he be thinking?