Chapter 103: Happy Birthday Bella
The mid-morning sun poured down in crisp, golden sheets, warming the sidewalk as Bella tilted her head back to study the storefront sign. A stylized silhouette of a reclining woman, legs artfully extended, lounged next to the cursive script of Bare Essence Wax Salon. The figure looked far too pleased with herself for someone about to endure hot wax. Bella furrowed her brow and shook her head.
"I don't know how you talked me into this."
She glanced at Char, who had just locked the truck and was now sauntering over with the same smug grin she'd been wearing since they'd left Edward and Peter at the house. A girls' day, she'd called it—pampering, self-care, and, apparently, some strategic hair removal all in the name of pleasing her man. Bella never would've considered doing something like this, but Char had been filling her head with all the supposed benefits such a move might set off. Scenarios. Possibilities. Fantasies that promised to make her and Edward's alone time even more... adventurous.
Tomorrow she'd be thirty-six. The fact that it was her birthday stuck in her head as she stared at the salon's entrance, unmoving. Why was she the one changing her body for Edward? Shouldn't it be the other way around? The thought made her nod slightly, as if agreeing with herself on some unspoken point of justice. Of course, she couldn't actually think of a single thing Edward could improve—he was already perfect in ways that made her eyes hurt sometimes—but still. It was the principle.
Charlotte couldn't help but laugh at the hesitation written all over Bella's body. It never failed to amuse her. For all Bella's strength—for all her razor-sharp mind and world-shaking power—she still froze like a spooked teenager at the door of a waxing salon. Charlotte shook her head, grinning as she walked up to the most powerful and dangerous vampire alive—currently paralyzed by the thought of a little hot wax.
Without breaking stride, she slipped a hand to the small of Bella's back and gave a gentle push. Bella exhaled, clearly resigned, and started forward. Charlotte pulled the door open for her with a theatrical flourish, secretly relieved there were humans around. It meant Bella couldn't vanish into the wind without drawing attention.
As Charlotte entered behind Bella, she casually scanned the room while Bella stood stiffly beside her. The waiting area was clean and stylish, softly lit with blush-toned walls and tastefully gold-framed mirrors. A diffuser puffed out a subtle scent of jasmine and citrus—just enough to suggest spa-like serenity without overwhelming the senses—while calming music hummed from hidden speakers. A few women sat quietly flipping through magazines, their legs crossed and expressions unreadable. Beyond them was the door—painted a warm, inviting pink, like it was trying to pretend nothing terrifying happened behind it.
Charlotte smirked. She'd been coming here for years. She knew exactly what horrors went on past that door. Heated wax, firm hands, the occasional tear... She was just glad she didn't hear any screaming, or Bella might actually launch herself through the ceiling in a desperate attempt at freedom. What they did for beauty…
Bella, unsurprisingly, looked like she was one twitch away from bolting. The crease between her brows had deepened, and Charlotte knew any other vampire would think twice before approaching her. She rolled her eyes.
"Oh, stop that, you big baby. We both know you're curious what it feels like afterward—and that you'd do just about anything to spice up your sex life." Her grin turned wicked. "And don't pretend I didn't catch you staring at my bare hoo-ha when we went skinny dipping that one time."
Bella let out a scandalized huff. "I don't know what you're talking about!"
But she couldn't keep a straight face for more than a second. The corners of her mouth twitched, and then both of them were laughing—too loud for a room like this. A few women looked up with faint disapproval, which only made it funnier.
Charlotte gave her friend a reassuring pat on the back, then stepped forward as Lin appeared from the back room to take her usual spot at the front desk. As always, the owner was impeccably dressed, hair pinned back, eyes bright with recognition.
"Howdy, Lin," Charlotte greeted warmly. "I made an eleven-thirty for my friend here. It's her birthday tomorrow—she's turning twenty, if you can believe it."
She leaned in with a grin. "I'm treating her to the works. A full Brazilian." Her tone dipped into mock sympathy as she whispered, "It's her first time, so please be gentle. The poor thing's scared out of her mind."
The petite older Asian woman tilted her head, giving Bella a slow once-over. Her sharp eyes moved deliberately from her boots to her shoulders, lingering just long enough to make her feel like she was being weighed, measured, and mentally categorized.
"No worries. Our girls will take good care of her." The woman offered a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Follow me, miss."
Bella caught the smug tilt of Char's grin as the woman opened the pink door and stepped aside to let her through. She wasn't about to give her friend the satisfaction of seeing her hesitate. Straightening her shoulders, she passed by with her chin up and just enough bite in her tone as she whispered, "Bitch."
Char's laughter echoed behind her as the door clicked shut—and then it was just Bella and the hallway.
The air changed immediately. Cooler. Quieter. Too quiet. The soft music from the waiting room was gone, replaced by the hollow hush of a narrow corridor lined with identical white doors, each spaced too close together, each holding god knew what on the other side. The floor beneath her boots looked too clean, like it had been scrubbed of evidence. Her eyes adjusted to the brighter lighting—clinical, sharp. No more blush-toned walls. No soothing candles. Just polished tile and the faint scent of antiseptic buried beneath something floral and hot—wax, she realized. It smelled like melted plastic and lavender.
And then she heard it.
A sharp rip. Followed by another. Then a stifled yelp.
She slowed her steps.
From behind one door came a distinctly wet sniffle—someone was crying. Crying. Jesus Christ.
Every door she passed might as well have been a cell. The hallway felt like it narrowed with each step, the walls closing in, the lights humming just a little louder. The thought of escape filled her mind. If she turned around now, she could be out the front door in two seconds. Less, if she didn't care about exposing what she was.
But then the woman stopped in front of the last door on the left and opened it without ceremony.
"Please wait in here. Undress completely, then put on the robe that's on the table. Lee will be with you shortly."
Taking a deep breath, Bella stepped inside.
The door shut with a soft click behind her.
The room was small and sterile, sparsely furnished with just enough to get the job done. A sleek exam table took up most of the space, padded in vinyl and covered in a crisp paper liner—the type that crinkled if you so much as breathed wrong. A small tray of supplies sat in the corner: wax pots, wooden spatulas, strips. A mirror hung on the wall. A stool. That was about it.
Bella eyed the table with suspicion. It looked far too much like the ones from her human days and the few times she'd had gynecological exams. Same angle, same metal footrest, same quiet sense of dread. Thank god that part of her life was over. Those appointments had been among the most humiliating experiences of her human years—lying there half-naked, cold, vulnerable, praying the doctor wouldn't make any awkward comments to make it worse.
She'd insisted on female doctors—always. That had been non-negotiable. Her human self had been painfully self-conscious, modest to the point of neurosis during her formidable teen years, and the idea of a man poking around down there, asking questions, doing... things? No. Absolutely not. That would've shattered whatever thin illusion of composure her fragile human mind could have handled.
Char had been right, though. She was curious—about how it would feel. About whether the new look could actually crank up her and Edward's sex life into an even higher gear... was that even possible? Tomorrow, they were all going out on the town to celebrate her big day. But what she was really looking forward to was the moment they got back. The moment she could lie down on the bed and watch Edward's face as she spread her legs and he saw her newly bare... well, as Char liked to call it, her "hoo-ha."
As she undressed, her mind drifted—back to high school, back to the cafeteria, back to that one humid spring afternoon like it had just happened yesterday. Sandy dropping into her seat across from her and their friends, a grin so wide you'd think she'd just won the lottery. Leaning in, voice low and conspiratorial, she'd proudly announced that she'd gone au naturel. "Like, not even a landing strip." Bella could still hear Amber's voice—wide-eyed, half in awe—asking questions, stunned by the boldness of their slightly older friend. The table had exploded with whispers and laughter, lunch forgotten as Sandy went on, regaling them with every shocking detail like she was unveiling the secrets to womanhood itself.
It didn't take long—within a few weeks, every one of her friends had followed suit, and soon their table talk revolved around who was smoother, who had the best waxer, who had managed not to cry. They'd begged her to join them. Sandy had even offered to take her to her lady personally. But she just couldn't do it. While her friends had all been sexually active in their junior and senior years, she had, unfortunately, been more of a devout nun. Blessed with a moral compass that apparently cursed her not to get any real action until she was fucking thirty-five.
The only consolation she could find in that never-ending dry spell was that she'd finally landed Edward. And now they were both making up for lost experiences with... extreme prejudice.
Undressed, she picked up the light blue robe and slipped it on. The fabric clung awkwardly to her skin as she moved—thin, and a little too breezy on her rear. She hopped onto the table, the paper crinkling beneath her, and sat with her feet dangling off the side.
Despite all her complaints about the pain, she wondered if it would even hurt that much now that she was a vampire. She found it rather weird. She didn't mind getting the living shit beat out of her during training. But this? This seemingly harmless act was causing her real anxiety.
She heard soft footsteps approaching the door.
She wasn't ready. She was still trying to psych herself up when a gentle knock broke the silence.
"Come in."
The door opened, and a young Asian woman stepped inside. Her expression was calm, almost serene, as she closed the door behind her and moved with practiced ease to the small counter where the wax pot waited. She flicked it on and adjusted the temperature dial to high.
Bella's eyes locked on the pot. The red light blinked on.
It was too late to run.
The woman turned, offering a polite smile.
"Hair all gone, right?"
Bella gulped.
Edward hit the ground hard, landing flat on his ass. Dust exploded around him, clinging to his shirt and stinging the back of his throat. He winced, but the pain wasn't unexpected—he'd been getting knocked into the dirt for the better part of two hours. Across the clearing, Peter's laughter rang out, bright and unbothered. Edward looked up to see him already back in a fighting stance, muscles coiled, the sun catching on his glittering skin like a warning flare.
With a sharp breath, Edward sprang to his feet and mirrored the stance. He squared his shoulders, feet braced, eyes fixed. Peter grinned and gave a taunting little wave, motioning him forward. Come on, then.
Edward focused. He studied Peter's posture, the angle of his weight, the set of his lead foot—just like Peter had drilled into him. He sprang forward, aiming for what looked like an opening—
—and immediately found himself airborne, then slammed face-first into the dirt. Peter moved faster than he could react. A sharp impact rocked through his ribs as the ground met him hard, the air leaving his lungs in a rush. Before he could so much as roll away, Peter dropped low, forcing his neck to tilt—and then came the light, mocking graze of Peter's teeth against his skin.
"Dead again," Peter drawled beside his ear.
Peter hopped up, light on his feet, and Edward followed a moment later, brushing dirt from his shirt as he rose. To an outside observer, it might not have looked like he was doing much—but he knew better. He was improving.
Since returning from Volterra, he and Bella had been staying at Peter and Charlotte's ranch. It hadn't taken long before he'd asked for help learning to fight. Ever since that first fight with Bella back in Washington, he'd known something had to be done. So they'd built a training schedule—and that schedule had quickly become a daily ritual of him getting his ass handed to him. Still, as bruising as it was—figuratively speaking—he couldn't deny how far he'd come. When he'd first stepped into the training arena of Peter's front yard, he hadn't lasted more than five seconds. Now he could stay on his feet. Most of the time…
He still couldn't beat any of them. Not even close. But his body didn't move like it used to. Each day, the gaps closed—by inches, maybe, but they were closing. He was faster off the ground. His strikes, when they landed, were hitting where they were meant to. And when he moved, it wasn't just reaction anymore. There was intent. There was strategy.
He wasn't there yet—but for the first time, he could see the path in front of him.
He sprang forward again—
As they sparred, Edward often found his mind drifting—branching out far and wide. Ninety years of isolation hadn't come without consequences, and he knew just how easily his thoughts could splinter into tangents, even when his main focus stayed locked on the present.
Thinking about Peter and Char, it had become clear early on why Bella liked them so much. They were easy to be around. Loud, chaotic, unpredictable—but genuine. Recently, the four of them had returned from a skiing trip in Denver. It had been his first time, and the thin mountain air had hit him like freedom—vast white slopes, blue skies, and trails so steep they'd be off-limits to any sane human. He'd loved every second of it.
His fist connected with Peter's face—a clean, satisfying hit—and for half a breath, he felt proud.
That feeling lasted just under two seconds.
Peter knocked him flat again, and he hit the ground hard, spitting dust.
He sprang to his feet, already analyzing. Adjusting. Working to find a way to reverse their roles. He hadn't yet, not once—but he was no quitter.
His mind drifted back to two weeks ago, to open water and blinding sun, when the four of them had taken a boat out—one Peter claimed he'd rented, though Edward still had his doubts. It was a sleek, high-end thing, all polished teak and chrome, slicing through the waves like it belonged in a billionaire's marina. The day had been clear, the water endless, the sun relentless. Riding the open sea with Bella beside him had felt like something stolen from a life that was never meant to be his.
They'd cruised far from shore, wind lashing their hair as sea spray misted the deck, the engine purring beneath their feet like a true predator. Bella had been beside him the whole time, the breeze catching strands of her hair, her skin catching the light. Eventually, Peter eased off the throttle, the engine dropping to a quiet murmur before slipping into silence entirely.
The boat drifted to a smooth stop, gliding forward a few final feet before settling into a soft, rhythmic bob. The water stretched out in every direction—endless blue, sun-glittered and perfect, like the sea itself had been draped in diamonds. And for once, it was everything else that sparkled, while the four vampires looked completely normal.
Then he turned toward Bella—and froze.
Without a word, she reached for the hem of her shirt. He watched her hands slide beneath the fabric, gripping the soft cotton, then lifting it up, higher, inch by inch. Her stomach came into view first—smooth, flat, toned—and then her ribs, the edge of her bathing top. His eyes locked there. The fabric barely covered her breasts, black triangles held together by narrow strings tied behind her neck. As the shirt lifted free, her chest rose with the motion, and for a split second the suit pulled taut, pressing tight against her skin. Her top held—but just barely.
She dropped the shirt without looking at him, already hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts.
Down they went.
The material slid over her hips, then her thighs, slow and easy, until they hit the deck in a soft pile at her feet. The matching black bottoms clung to her hips, cut high on the sides, leaving nothing to the imagination. Her stomach tightened as she stepped out of her clothes and walked toward the edge of the boat, her back bare, her legs long and toned, the shape of her ass fully exposed in the tiny strip of fabric she'd chosen to call swimwear.
She didn't hesitate.
She dove cleanly into the water, barely making a splash, disappearing beneath the surface.
He'd just stood there, stunned, watching the ripples spread across the ocean. Her bikini—as Bella had later identified it—had to be the greatest invention in human history, at least in his opinion.
Not that those thoughts had any room in his mind at the time. The only thing he could think about then was how fast he could pull off his own shirt and jump in after her.
They had descended into the depths together, their bodies cutting clean through the water as the light from above faded to gray, then to black. The deeper they swam, the more complete the darkness became—until there was nothing but cold pressure and void all around them. And then, without a word, Bella began to glow.
It started low, like a pulse under her skin, then spread—her body radiating with a soft, otherworldly light that shimmered through the water. Her skin took on the sheen of pearl, her hair trailing behind her in dark, silken strands, catching and refracting the glow. It wasn't just light—it was alive, moving with her, casting wide arcs and delicate patterns through the water. She illuminated everything around her with an unearthly clarity, transforming the sea into something alien and exquisite. He hadn't been able to take his eyes off her. She swam ahead of him, graceful and unhurried, her glow pushing back the blackness like a living star.
As they reached the seafloor, the light from her body revealed the sprawling bed of the Gulf—fine, rippled sand stretching outward into shadow. Patches of seagrass waved gently in the current, and small reef fish darted back into rocky overhangs. A sea turtle drifted near, then turned lazily away. The faint shimmer of a barracuda flashed in the distance. Her glow moved with her, wrapping her body in an ethereal light that shimmered through the dark. He watched the muscles in her legs move as she kicked, the curve of her back as she glided through the water, the slow twist of her waist when she turned to look at something hidden in the sand. With each motion, the sea around her shimmered and shifted. She looked like some enchanted siren—real, untouchable, and lit from within.
Of course, when they finally broke the surface sometime later, the first thing he saw wasn't the wide blue sky or endless sparkling ocean—but Charlotte, completely naked and braced against the bow railing of the boat. Peter stood behind her, hands locked firmly on her hips as he thrust vigorously into her from behind. The broad rail mercifully blocked the most explicit view, but everything else was painfully clear.
His mind catalogued everything before he could look away. Charlotte's breasts bounced heavily with each thrust, her skin wet and gleaming in the sunlight. Her head was thrown back, lips parted as moans spilled out freely. Her body rocked forward and back in rhythm, breasts swaying, nipples taut from either the breeze or the act itself. He'd frozen in that instant, eyes wide as Charlotte's face tightened, mouth opening wider, her expression briefly startled as she spotted their sudden audience—but she didn't stop. If anything, her reaction intensified—mouth opening further now, chest heaving as she came right in front of them, either too far gone to care or openly enjoying the attention. Maybe both.
He and Bella had turned away immediately, of course—but it didn't matter. That single instant had burned itself permanently into his brain: Charlotte's face, the full rhythmic bounce of her breasts, her open-mouthed moan echoing shamelessly across the water. There was no erasing that memory now.
Sadly, this hadn't even been the first time he and Bella had caught them in the act. Peter and Charlotte's sense of propriety was, to put it mildly, almost nonexistent. Certainly looser than his—and thankfully Bella's. Not that he and Bella weren't sexually active; they absolutely were. But they had the sense to keep it private—not out in the open, not where anyone could surface from a swim and find him mid-thrust.
"Jeez, guys!" Bella called out, quickly turning her face away toward the open water. "How are we supposed to get back on the boat after seeing that? I'm sure something awful is going to happen. Edward's probably going to slip on Peter's splooge and fall right off the side."
He shot her an incredulous look, eyebrows raised high. "Wait—why am I the one slipping on Peter's splooge? Aren't you the one always claiming you were clumsy? You should be the one slipping and tumbling off the boat."
Bella laughed, shaking her head. "No way. I've lived with those two before. I learned early on to always keep one eye on the ground so I wouldn't get my shoes dirty. God forbid I ever try walking around barefoot."
Through their exchange, Charlotte's breathless moans carried across the water, accompanied by the steady slap of skin against skin. Their banter clearly hadn't slowed Peter and Charlotte down in the slightest.
"Will you two fuckers shut up already?" Peter called out over the noise, his voice tight with effort. "You're ruining a very special moment between me and the missus."
Between moans and whispered prayers to the Almighty, Charlotte chimed in breathlessly, "Honestly, you two—after living in our house this long, I thought it'd be pretty damn obvious by now that Pete and I have fucked in every room, every nook and cranny—not to mention the countless times on that bed you've both been resting your heads on every night."
At that, Bella's face twisted in disgust. "Ya know, when we get back, we should definitely go bed shopping. I haven't wanted to say anything because I didn't want to be a rude guest, but that mattress is just too soft. I haven't had a good night's sleep since we got here."
A fist slammed into his cheekbone, jerking his head sideways and shattering the memory. He staggered back a step, vision reorienting as the bright Texas sky reasserted itself and the sound of the ocean and playful banter faded, replaced by the low thud of boots on sun-baked dirt.
"Focus, Edward!" Peter barked, already resetting his stance. "You need to have complete focus at all times. This might be fun and games right now, but when it's the real deal, it's your life on the line. And you're not the one the little lady's gonna come crying to if you meet an untimely end—so get your head out of your ass."
The words hit harder than any punch. Peter's tone was sharp, stripped of all the usual mischief, and it landed with the weight of truth.
He shook off the daze. He'd deserved that.
No more slipping. No more wandering thoughts. If he wanted to stand beside Bella when it counted—not just in name, but in skill—then he had work to do.
He squared his shoulders, reset his footing, and stepped back into position.
Two hours later, the sun had climbed high, and the training was still going. The air shimmered with heat, and the dirt beneath their boots had been kicked into a fine haze. Edward's shirt clung to his back, ripped in several spots, but his focus stayed locked on Peter's movements—until the distant crunch of tires on gravel pulled his attention toward the road.
A truck was approaching, its engine low and steady as it climbed the hill toward the house. He straightened instinctively, seeing Peter do the same just ahead of him. The rhythm of training broke as they both turned toward the driveway, expecting to see their partners return.
The truck rolled to a stop, dust curling up around the tires. The engine cut off. The driver's door opened.
Charlotte stepped out.
Alone...
He frowned, eyes drifting to the empty passenger seat as a faint breeze stirred the silence. Then he looked back at her, confused.
"Where's Bella?"
Charlotte flipped slowly through the Cosmo in her lap, eyes skimming the glossy pages without taking in a single word—what was playing out in front of her was far more entertaining. The woman across from her had been whispering into her phone for the past five minutes, and no daytime soap could compete with what she was hearing. Everything about her screamed trophy wife—beautiful, early thirties, bleached blonde, boob job, polished head to toe. Her outfit was conservative. Her mouth wasn't.
The woman's voice was low, but not nearly low enough to escape Charlotte's ears.
"I can't stop thinking about last night."
A man's voice crackled softly on the other end. "I've been hard all day thinking about you."
"You should've seen my husband this morning. Totally clueless. Kept asking why I was in such a good mood."
"You tell him it's because you were on your knees for hours, with my cock stuffed down your throat?"
"No." She laughed quietly. "But that's what I was thinking."
He chuckled. "You know you scratched my back to hell with those nails. You're lucky I like a little pain."
"I need you."
"Tell me he's at work. I could swing by."
A pause.
"I'll head straight home after the salon. Back door'll be unlocked."
"Back door, huh? Might fuck you there too."
Charlotte wished she had a bucket of popcorn to go with the show, but the steady footsteps approaching from the hallway pulled her attention, breaking the spell.
She looked up just as the pink door swung open.
Bella stepped through, walking—though not quite straight. There was no hiding the slight bow-legged shuffle in her gait.
Charlotte burst out laughing.
An instant later, an invisible jab hit her square in the chest, knocking her back just enough for her head to clip the wall behind her with a dull thud.
She straightened quickly, smoothing her shirt like nothing had happened, and hoped she hadn't cracked the plaster. Without missing a beat, she crossed the room toward Bella.
"Don't be such a pussy, Bella. You and I both know it only hurts for thirty seconds, max." She tossed the magazine onto the table as she passed it, doing her best to keep the smirk off her face.
Bella's mouth twitched as she stood up straighter. "Alright, alright. Maybe you were right. But that was still traumatic." Her usual smile returned.
Charlotte caught the glance from Lin behind the desk—discreet, but watching—so she lowered her voice.
"So," she murmured, "did you take a look? Do you like it?"
Bella's grin widened as she leaned in. "I did take a look before I got dressed. I think I like it. It feels… different. I just hope Edward appreciates everything I do for him."
Charlotte smirked. "Please. Ever since you brought Edward home, he's been an eager beaver for anything new. I'm sure he'll be lapping up the changes the second he gets a peek at the new you."
Bella's grin deepened, her excitement impossible to hide.
"Just make sure you enjoy it while it lasts," Charlotte added, her voice dipping lower. "You'll be back to normal in about two to three weeks."
She leaned in a little closer, whispering, "Now just imagine if you'd done this right before your change—you never would've had to do it again."
Bella let out a quiet sigh and nodded. "I know. I consider myself damn lucky I went to a spa a few days before my birthday—got myself all gussied up for what I had hoped would be a night to remember with David." Her smile twisted as she shook her head. "I got that night to remember, all right. Just not the one I wanted."
She nodded knowingly. "I hear you. I wasn't as lucky. I got turned in 1938 with the biggest fucking bush known to mankind. I had to trim it myself every couple of weeks until places like this finally started popping up in the early 2000s offering the full treatment."
Finished with their shopping for the day, Bella climbed into the passenger seat of Char's truck and stretched her legs out as they pulled out of the mall parking garage to head back to the ranch. The sun was high overhead now, glaring down through the heavily tinted windows and heating the interior in seconds. She leaned her head back against the seat, already looking forward to getting a few rounds in with Edward.
She could guess he'd be a little frustrated by now after spending the whole morning and afternoon sparring with Peter. And rightly so—Peter didn't hold back. He never had. She remembered what training with him had felt like, and it wasn't gentle. But he knew what he was doing. She was living proof of that.
She didn't particularly enjoy putting a beatdown on her man, which was why she focused more on his technique—footwork, timing, teaching him when to move and when to strike. Most of the time, she just dodged his attacks. But when he did land a clean hit, she always made sure to reward him.
Even though he was still green, she was genuinely pleased with how far he'd come. His fighting skills in the beginning had been beyond abysmal—maybe only a notch better than hers had been when she first started working with Char. The one thing he had going for him, though, was his speed. He was fast—stupid fast—with great reflexes. His body just didn't know what to do with either.
She could tell from the start that he'd never possess the innate instincts of a natural fighter. But with enough time and training, she knew he'd get there.
Downtown traffic thickened around them as they wound through the streets toward the highway, the tallest buildings of Houston rising like glass spires on either side. Sunlight gleamed off their mirrored faces, throwing sharp reflections across the hood of Char's truck. Johnny Cash played over the speakers, and both of them were singing along, enjoying themselves—until Bella noticed the traffic ahead was beginning to slow.
Soon, she saw that the flow of cars was being diverted off the main road—vehicles forced one by one into a right turn that led back toward the heart of downtown.
As they got closer, it became clear the traffic hiccup was caused by two police cruisers parked side by side across the center of the street, lights flashing but sirens silent. Officers stood in front, directing each car with flat-palmed gestures—calm, efficient, and offering no explanations. When they finally reached the front of the line, Char lowered the window and leaned slightly toward the officer, offering a smile that could melt the defenses of even the strongest man.
"What seems to be the trouble, officer?"
The officer looked young—early twenties, maybe. As soon as Char smiled at him, Bella watched his whole posture shift. His eyes seemed to glaze over, and for a second he just stared, clearly trying to remember whatever script he'd been given. He blinked hard, gave his head a quick shake, then finally managed to speak.
"Ah—bomb threat. I mean... a situation. Just a precaution. Nothing to worry about. Please move along, ma'am. We need to keep traffic moving."
Char didn't miss a beat. "Right away, Officer." She offered him another of those smiles that tended to short-circuit people's brains, then turned the wheel as the window rolled back up. The grin stayed on her face as she looked ahead.
"A potential bomb. You know this sounds like a job for Starshield."
A bomb... Bella didn't know the first thing about bombs—beyond being a living one herself. But she could think of a number of ways she might be able to help. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out her mask, the cool fabric sliding between her fingers.
"I guess it couldn't hurt to check it out," she murmured. "Pull off when you can, somewhere out of sight, and I'll make a break for it."
Char nodded as she slipped the mask over her eyes.
With the mask now in place, she gave Char a bright smile. Her friend was a big fan of the whole Starshield persona—she'd even let Char try on the mask, though she'd drawn the line when Char had asked if she could use it for twenty minutes with Peter... in their bedroom.
A few minutes later, Char pulled off the main road and into a wide service lane that ran behind one of the towering skyscrapers. It was quiet, shadowed, and she couldn't see a soul in sight.
"Want me to wait for you?"
She considered it, then shook her head. "Nah. If there's really a bomb threat, the cops are probably watching for parked cars in weird places. You don't want to get stopped in broad daylight while I'm off playing superhero. Just head back—I'll make my way home when I'm done."
She adjusted the mask one last time and glanced around to make sure the coast was clear. "Well, wish me luck. First potential bomb. Let's hope I don't end up nuking the city by accident."
Char didn't even blink. "Shit, Bella. If it's a nuke, just fly it into space and chuck it into the sun. You've seen the movies."
A laugh slipped out. "I hear ya."
With one final glance, she cracked the door, hopped out, and shot straight up into the sky.
Bella flew through the air, cutting between the high-rises with practiced control. The downtown core of Houston surrounded her—towers rising in all directions, their edges sharp and clean beneath the sun. She weaved between them at full speed, a blur threading through a man-made maze of steel and glass.
Reflections flickered across the mirrored surfaces as she passed, flashes of her masked figure caught in windows and metal. She flew tight along one building's edge, catching glimpses of people working inside, then rolled sideways to skim beneath a skybridge connecting two buildings, her body just clearing the underside. It was all instinct now, and despite the potential seriousness of the situation, she loved the new experience of flying through such a built-up area. She slipped through gaps not meant to be flown through, pushing speed when she could between towers.
Below her, the grid of streets tightened. Cars crawled through narrow lanes, boxed in by crosswalks and traffic lights. She climbed again, gaining altitude over a rooftop garden before angling southeast, toward the area where they'd first been diverted.
Up ahead, a plaza stood out, immediately catching her attention—it was empty, cordoned off, and quiet in a way that didn't match the rest of the area. That had to be where the trouble was.
The plaza looked new—clean, geometric, almost too perfect, like something lifted from a postcard. Symmetrical rows of olive-toned trees lined a central walkway, polished benches flanking each side, and a wide fountain spilled water in slow, arcing tiers. At the far end stood what looked like a courthouse—neoclassical in design, imposing, and bathed in gold by the noonday sun.
The area was deserted, which was unusual enough at this hour—but what really made the scene feel surreal was the matte-black armored van creeping slowly toward the center of the plaza. She flew lower, just in time to see the rear doors swing open and a man step out wearing what had to be the bulkiest suit she'd ever seen. It looked even more layered than the astronaut gear used on the space station.
She hovered quietly above the plaza, eyes sweeping the layout below. Nothing looked immediately out of place—not from this height. No smoke. No suspicious packages. No figures lurking among the trees. Still, something had caused all this, and whatever it was had warranted that armored truck and a full shutdown of the area. She just hoped the man in the bomb suit wouldn't mind a little backup—or, at the very least, another set of eyes.
Frank stepped down from the back of the armored truck, his movements stiff and heavy. The suit he wore—technically called an EOD 9 bomb suit—was state-of-the-art and a recent upgrade for the department. It weighed over 80 pounds, distributed unevenly across his body, with thick plating over his chest, back, limbs, and groin, and a massive dome-shaped helmet that limited his peripheral vision almost entirely. Getting in and out of it required help, and it had taken nearly twenty minutes of assistance from his tech to get fully suited up in the back of the truck as they drove to the site.
Now he was sealed inside it, moving like a man wading through concrete.
The call had come in less than an hour ago. A suspicious backpack had been spotted under a bench in the plaza in front of the courthouse. A patrol officer sent to investigate had reported wires visible through a side zipper and—thankfully—had the presence of mind not to touch it. He'd cleared the area immediately and called it in.
That's where he came in.
In his five years on the bomb squad, he'd only encountered one actual device—and thankfully, it had been a crude construction that he'd managed to deactivate before it had a chance to detonate. Most of what they were called in for turned out to be hoaxes or abandoned electronics. Still, you never walked in assuming it was fake. That was how people got killed.
He took a slow, steady breath inside the helmet, trying to control his adrenaline before it surged too high. His gloved hand tightened slightly on the handheld control unit clipped to his chest. He could feel sweat starting to pool beneath the suit. The cooling system helped, but not enough under the merciless Texas sun.
Then a flicker of motion caught his eye, reflected in the curve of his helmet's visor. He turned his entire body toward it—the suit's restricted neck offering no chance for a casual glance.
He froze.
Standing just a few feet away was a woman. Not a police officer, and definitely not part of his team. His eyes moved slowly up her form. Boots. Jeans. Red blouse. Blue and gold mask.
It took his brain a second to catch up.
Starshield.
Live. In person. And smiling… at him.
He'd seen her on TV, in headlines, all over the internet—and for months, his kids had talked about little else. But seeing her now, standing right in front of him, was something entirely different.
"Hi." Her voice was calm, clear even through the helmet's audio dampening. "I was in the area and saw the commotion. I thought I could offer my assistance."
He stared at her for a beat. She talked like she was offering to jump-start his car—not walk into a possible blast zone.
He glanced her over again. She wasn't wearing any armor or gear, but then again she'd worn pretty much the same when she flew into space.
He shifted his weight slightly in the suit. Every protocol he knew screamed to keep civilians away. But there was no section in the manual for "masked superheroes who flew down from the sky and could break the laws of physics." Was she even human? An alien? Something else? He didn't know. What he did know was that if this thing went off, he was the human who could get hurt. If there was even a chance she could help…
"Well…" The words came slower now, more cautious. "I won't say no to help. But do you know anything about explosives? How to disable them?"
She smiled, tilting her head slightly. "Not a thing. But I tend to resolve situations in ways that probably aren't covered in your training manual."
That gave him pause.
"I could walk with you. Take a look. Once you know what we're dealing with, I can tell you what I might be able to do."
Frank nodded slowly. Oddly, that didn't sound unreasonable. It wasn't protocol—but none of this was.
"Alright. With any luck, it's nothing," he muttered. "Most situations are false alarms."
They started walking side by side into the open plaza. Her steps were light, casual. His were slow and mechanical, the suit making every step lumbering.
Soon she spoke again—voice lower this time. "By the way, I've placed a shield a few feet in front of you. Just in case."
He blinked. "You what?"
"A shield," she restated. "You can't see it, but it will protect you from pretty much anything."
"Right." He nodded. He had no idea what she was doing, but having an invulnerable shield in his line of work sounded like a good thing he wouldn't turn down.
They moved across the plaza in silence, the rhythmic hiss of the suit's air system the only sound in his ears.
After another thirty feet, he spotted it—a black backpack shoved partway under one of the benches.
"There," he pointed with his gloved finger. "That's what triggered the call."
He crouched down on one knee, inspecting the backpack from a safe distance.
"I can see some unusual wires coming out of the side," she stated, her eyes fixed on the backpack. "I'm no bomb expert, but that definitely doesn't look right. Want me to put a shield around it while we figure out our next steps?"
He glanced at her, surprised by the offer.
"Would that actually help?" He kept his voice even. "If it detonates… would your shield hold?"
"It would." She nodded. "I've stood in the middle of worse. I'm not saying I understand how it all works, but nothing's broken through my shield yet. Whatever's in that backpack, I'm confident it's not stronger than me."
The way she said it—so matter-of-fact, no bravado—made it hard to doubt her. Still, it wasn't every day someone offered to wrap a potential explosive in an invisible force field.
He took another look around. The plaza was empty, cordoned off, and silent. No civilians. No cameras. Just him, the backpack, and a woman who may or may not be bulletproof.
"All right." He nodded. "Let's see what you can do."
Her eyes narrowed toward the bag. "Okay. I've put a shield around it. Give me a second—I'll move the bench, get us some space."
He blinked. "Wait, you'll what?"
Before he could finish the thought, the metal bench lifted clean off its legs like it had never been attached. It floated smoothly across the plaza, hovered for a moment, then settled gently on the grass without so much as a thud.
His brain stalled for half a second.
"Holy shit." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Jones!" Sandy said warmly, shaking hands with each of them in turn, her smile genuine and bright. "I'm certain you'll both adore your new home. Honestly, that location… I think I might've fallen in love with it almost as much as you did."
Mrs. Jones laughed softly, exchanging a pleased glance with her husband. Sandy gathered the final paperwork, neatly stacking the signed contracts and documentation into her sleek leather briefcase. She felt a surge of satisfaction. Closing the sale on a sprawling $5.6 million estate just outside of Houston was more than just a professional victory—it was life-changing. She had driven down from Dallas to handle the final signing herself, using her company's Houston office to conclude the sale. Her commission would do wonders for their family's finances, and she and Dave were already planning to surprise Jackie with a trip to Disney World during her February vacation. Their daughter was finally at that magical age to truly enjoy the park's wonder.
Just as Sandy snapped the briefcase shut and began to rise, the conference room door swung open abruptly. A young secretary rushed in, breathless, eyes wide with excitement.
"You guys won't believe this! There's some kind of bomb scare down in the plaza below," she exclaimed, pointing to the windows. "And the craziest part—Starshield just landed down there! She must be planning to defuse it or something!"
Sandy's head snapped up, her breath catching. Starshield. Bella... Bella was here, in Houston? Without thinking, she moved quickly to the window alongside Mr. and Mrs. Jones, her heart pounding hard in her chest. Down below, the plaza was already cordoned off by police vehicles, their lights flashing. From their vantage point on the tenth floor, she could just barely make out two figures—one smaller, slimmer, the other bulkier, likely someone in a heavy protective suit.
Her pulse quickened. How many years had it been… Too many. And now, by some strange twist of fate, she was just steps away from her childhood friend—now a literal superhero. She had to see her, even if only for a moment. Turning sharply, she left her briefcase on the polished conference table, startling everyone with the sudden urgency in her movements.
"Please excuse me—I just—I have to go," she muttered hastily, practically sprinting out of the conference room.
The elevator ride felt painfully slow, each second stretching endlessly as she stared at the illuminated numbers counting down. When the doors finally slid open onto the lobby, she burst out, heels clicking sharply across the marble floor as she pushed through the revolving doors and stepped out onto the busy street across from the plaza.
Outside, a crowd had already gathered, bystanders craning their necks and pointing at the unfolding scene. Several news vans were parked along the curb, reporters speaking urgently into microphones. She maneuvered her way forward, breath tight in her throat, eyes scanning the plaza for any glimpse of Bella.
Standing at the barricade's edge, Sandy waited breathlessly, heart hammering. Her fingers curled around the metal railing, knuckles whitening with anticipation. Somewhere out there, in the middle of all this chaos, was Bella—her Bella—now Starshield. Pride, longing, and anxiety twisted inside her, a knot of emotion she couldn't begin to untangle.
Bella glanced over at the man beside her, suddenly realizing she'd forgotten something.
"I'm sorry—I never asked you your name."
Behind the thick helmet, his face was mostly obscured, but she caught the faint shift of his expression into a smile.
"It's Frank. Thank you for asking. What's your name…?"
Her lips twitched as she let out a dry laugh. "Touché."
Turning back toward the backpack, she refocused. "Okay, Frank. I'm going to unzip the bag. Slowly."
He leaned in closer, his voice steady, though she could hear the curiosity beneath it. "How are you planning to do that from way back here?"
"I can manipulate my shields at a very fine scale. I've used them before for small, everyday tasks—flipping switches, opening and closing doors, that kind of thing." She narrowed her focus on the backpack. "This won't be any different."
She concentrated, guiding her shields down toward the zipper. She took her time, mentally bracing for any sudden shift or resistance. The tab moved smoothly, inch by inch, until the flap loosened and fell open.
The inside, though, wasn't filled with textbooks.
"Shit," she muttered. "I don't know what I'm looking at, but it sure looks like a bomb to me. Do you want me to destroy it?"
"Wait." Frank's voice cut in quickly—sharper now, more alert. "This shield of yours—it's still around the backpack?"
She gave a quick nod.
"Alright. Do you think you can remove the device from the backpack? That bag might hold the key to identifying who did this. We might be able to lift prints or recover other evidence from it."
"Yes, I can do that." She lifted the backpack upward, hovering it at a better height for her to manipulate more easily. The work was delicate, but she'd practiced this kind of precision more times than she could count. Her grip held steady as she slowly separated the device from the fabric. Once it was clear, she adjusted the shape of her shield to let the backpack float free, guiding it gently to a bench several feet away.
"Okay, the backpack's clear." Her eyes shifted back to the now-exposed device inside the shield. "So… tell me, Frank. Is that thing the real deal?"
"I'm afraid it is." Frank's voice came through the helmet, even and low, but there was no mistaking the weight behind it. "And it's a nasty one, too. See that lower section—where it's wrapped in plastic? That's shrapnel. Nails, screws, chunks of jagged metal. All packed tight. If this thing had gone off in a crowd, it would've torn through bodies like someone stuck their hand in a blender. Whoever made this had one thing in mind—maximum damage."
He shook his head slowly, posture stiff beneath the armor. She could feel the revulsion coming off him, that quiet kind of anger reserved for the truly evil.
Bella kept her eyes on the device. "Do you want me to destroy it now? Because, no offense, I don't want you getting any closer to it. I can crush it. I could burn it. Hell, if you really want to play it safe, I could fly it out into space and throw it into the sun."
She wasn't even joking—well, maybe a little. Char would've loved it if she actually did that.
Frank let out a small breath, and she thought she saw the corners of his eyes crease behind the faceplate when he heard her last option.
"Well," he replied, "this isn't how it's done, not by a long shot. But I'd say we passed 'off the books' about ten minutes ago. If you're certain that shield of yours will hold, then yeah. Go for it. Destroy it."
She nodded once, gaze locking onto the bomb. "Alright. I'll generate a fire—get it burning hot enough to hopefully melt the internal components and maybe disable whatever sets off the detonator."
Frank watched as the air shimmered—and then, without warning, the device was engulfed in fire.
Not a spark, not a flicker. An eruption. Like someone had torn a hole in the world and poured the sun through it.
The flames weren't chaotic or wild—they moved with terrifying precision, coiling and tightening around the backpack like they were alive. Gold, white, and something else—something deeper that didn't belong in the color spectrum. He'd never seen fire like this.
He raised an arm instinctively to shield his eyes. The light was unbearable—not just bright, but blinding. Like staring into the flame of an arc welder from just inches away. The fire kept intensifying as Starshield stood completely still, focused on the device.
Then the blast hit.
A thunderous crack ripped through the plaza as the bomb detonated inside the firestorm. He flinched hard, every instinct screaming—but nothing reached him. Shards of metal ricocheted off an invisible wall just feet away, slamming into unseen surfaces and bouncing back in sharp, jarring angles. The entire impact had been contained in a perfect cube around the blast zone.
When the sound finally dropped, the fire was gone. No smoke. No heat. No trace of flame. Just Starshield, standing where she'd been, untouched.
Whatever she had summoned, it wasn't fire as he knew it. And whatever shield she'd put up… it had held.
"Whoops." Bella tilted her head slightly, eyeing the spot where the bomb had once been. "I guess incinerating it didn't work. Oh well—at least the bomb's gone now."
Frank didn't hesitate. "No, that was excellent, Starshield. No one got hurt, the bomb was neutralized—more or less—and we've got the backpack intact. With any luck, forensics will find prints or trace evidence we can use to catch the bastard behind all this. That's a big win in my book."
She returned his smile. "Well, I'm glad I was able to help."
He paused, then asked the question he just couldn't hold back. "That fire you created… it was incredible. I've never seen anything like it. What do you normally use a power like that for?"
Bella didn't miss a beat. "Roasting marshmallows, of course." She let the grin stretch across her face, eyes sparkling just enough to sell it. "I like 'em crispy."
Frank blinked inside his helmet. Then—finally—he laughed.
Frank's grin lingered for just a beat before slipping away, the professional in him reasserting control. "Okay, I still need to sweep the area. Sometimes bombers plant secondary devices and stagger their detonations. It's meant to catch emergency responders… or just rack up the body count."
"Asshole," Bella muttered, scanning the plaza. "I hope you guys catch him. Let me check the area—I can do a full sweep in under a minute."
He turned to ask what she meant, but she was already gone.
One moment she was standing in front of him, the next—nothing. Then a ripple of movement, a blur that darted from one end of the plaza to the other. His breath caught as he tried to track her. She wasn't just fast—she moved faster than his eyes could follow.
To his right, the air shifted. A flash of red—then she was across the square, then beside the fountain. How fast was she moving? Easily over a hundred miles an hour, probably more—and it looked like she could stop on a dime, with no recoil. His brain tried to catch up with what he was seeing, but the physics—really, nothing about her—made sense.
How the hell was she doing all this?
He wasn't sure if Starshield was human, alien, or something in between—but whatever she was, she was on their side. And watching her work, he was damn glad for it.
In less than a minute, just as she had said, she reappeared in front of him, perfectly still. She didn't even look winded.
"All clear," she reported, eyes focused and calm. "I searched every corner of the plaza—benches, trash bins, trees, bushes. Nothing else looked even remotely suspicious."
The confidence in her voice was absolute—and he believed her.
They walked together toward the remnants of the device. The smoke had cleared, leaving behind only the jagged aftermath. Frank could see shards of metal—nails, screws, and bits of wiring—still floating in the air in front of him. He could only assume they were suspended by the surface of her invisible shield.
After studying the scene for a moment, he glanced over. "We'll need to collect all of this. Every piece helps us figure out what we're dealing with. Materials, construction method—sometimes even a manufacturer's lot number if we're lucky." He let out a small breath. "Any chance you could lower it to the ground? Just so it's ready for the techs?"
Bella gave a nod. "Of course. The shield is only there while I create it. If I were to leave, it would disappear."
Without a word or a gesture, the fragments began to lower, settling gently onto the ground. It was as if gravity itself had decided to cooperate—but Frank knew it was just the woman standing next to him.
"Well… thank you for the assist, Starshield. I mean that. It was good working with you."
He gave a short laugh, shaking his head behind the visor. "I can't wait to get home and tell my kids about this. They're already big fans of yours, and… well, they're going to lose their minds when they hear what I saw today."
Bella smiled, stepping in to offer her hand. "Glad I could help. It was good to meet you, Frank."
Frank watched Starshield extend her hand. Without hesitation, he clasped it in his gloved one—her grip was firm but relaxed. Despite everything that had just happened, there was something remarkably grounded about her. He would've expected a real-life superhero to feel larger than life, but she didn't. She felt real. Normal—even though she was anything but.
Bella's eyes swept the plaza, taking in everything that had happened—and all that might've, had things gone differently—before turning back to Frank. "Well, keep up the good work. I know I kind of jumped in and took over today, but your job… it's hard. And it's dangerous. Just… be careful out there."
A smile touched Frank's lips. "I always am."
He glanced toward the growing sea of onlookers pressed behind the barricades. News vans lined the curb, cameras angled and ready, reporters speaking into microphones as they pointed in her direction. "Looks like you've drawn a bit of a crowd. I think we both know they're not here for me. You planning to go talk to them?"
Bella followed his gaze, spotting the cluster of media crews at the edge of the plaza. She grimaced. "I'm not exactly eager to get grilled. The press always seems to want answers to questions I'm not able to give. Maybe I'll just head over, give them a quick wave, and call it a day."
Frank gave a dry chuckle. "Good luck with that."
Her smile flickered—real, but edged with something he couldn't identify—and then she turned and walked toward the waiting crowd. Frank watched her go, still trying to process everything he'd seen. Whatever she was—whoever she was—she wasn't just some myth the news had inflated. She was the real deal. And from the show she'd just given him, the world was only beginning to understand her power.
He turned back toward the remnants of the blast site. The danger might've passed, but for him and his team, the real work was just beginning.
As Bella walked toward the cordoned-off edge of the plaza, she saw a line of onlookers stretched along the barricades—many more had gathered since she first arrived. Police stood in front, arms out, keeping everyone at bay. Phones were raised in nearly every hand, some filming, some snapping photos, flashes going off in bursts that lit the air like sparks. Reporters clustered along the edge, holding out microphones, their voices rising above the hum of the crowd as they shouted questions, eager to be heard.
She wondered if she'd ever get used to this. After so many years spent trying not to be noticed—for who she was, for what she could do—it still felt unnatural.
Sucking it up, she put on a bright smile and gave the crowd a wave. She ignored the shouted questions entirely, offering only a thumbs-up to let everyone know the danger had passed and they were safe.
Satisfied, she turned, about to fly off—when she froze.
Turning slowly back toward the crowd of onlookers, her gaze locked on a woman standing slightly apart from the others. She wasn't holding up a phone. She wasn't shouting questions. One hand rested against her chest, the other wiped away tears. But she was smiling—brightly, openly—like the sight of her had cracked something open.
But that wasn't what had made her stop.
She knew that face.
Sandy.
Her best friend. The one she used to laugh with until their sides ached. The one who'd known all her secrets—at least, the ones she'd had back then.
How many years had it been? Eighteen. God, how had so much time passed?
She remembered their last day together—her, Sandy, Amber, and Chrissy—celebrating graduation, drunk on sugar and summer and the promise of everything ahead. She'd left for Boston the next day, full of plans. None of them had known it would be a final goodbye.
She looked at Sandy now, and time folded in on itself.
Gone was the girl in cutoffs and sunburned cheeks. Standing in her place was a full-grown woman. Wiser. Stronger. Beautiful in all the ways that mattered. Bella had kept up with her friends through social media over the years—holiday photos, family vacations, snapshots of a world she could no longer be a part of.
She used to wonder if any of them still thought of her. Bella Swan—the girl who vanished.
But now—somehow, impossibly—Sandy was here. Close enough to touch.
She didn't move. She just stared, letting herself feel it.
Sandy's lips began to move, and though her voice was soft—barely more than a breath—Bella heard every word as clearly as if they'd been whispered into her ear.
"Happy birthday, Bella."
She felt it like a blow to the chest. If she could cry, she would've. Instead, she gave a small, bright wave, her smile stretching wide—too wide, maybe—but it was real. Of everything that had happened today, this... this was the moment that would stay with her. The gift she hadn't dared to hope for.
But the spell didn't last.
The noise surged back in—press shouting over one another, voices overlapping, the crowd leaning in, hungry for something—anything from her. The quiet moment between them shattered."
She turned back to Sandy, needing one last second—just one—before it all slipped away.
One final smile. A nod. And two silent words: miss you.
She saw Sandy nod in return, a quiet understanding passing between them.
Lighter than she'd felt in years, Bella drew in a long, steady breath. Her feet left the ground. Then, with a turn, she rose higher—above the noise, the questions—and flew off, leaving the plaza behind.
Sandy stared up in amazement, watching as Bella lifted into the air before streaking out over the city—a flash of red cutting across the sky. Seeing it in person was astonishing, something no video could have prepared her for. But what stayed with her wasn't the spectacle. It was the quiet certainty settling in her chest.
Bella was okay.
After all these years, her friend was still out there—still her—no matter what had happened. That knowledge filled a space inside her that had been hollow for so long, it had started to feel permanent. Even if their reunion had lasted only seconds, it was enough.
Around her, reporters pressed forward, cameras rolling, voices rising in a blur of questions and excitement—everyone talking about Starshield. She just smiled.
If they only knew.
Still smiling, she turned and headed back toward the office to retrieve her briefcase. She couldn't wait to get home and tell Jackie who she'd seen today.
To the world, she had seen Starshield.
But to her alone… she had seen her friend.
Bella flew for a while, letting the wind cut against her face, the skyline slipping beneath her like a dream she hadn't quite woken from. Her mind kept circling back to the plaza—to Sandy. That moment had caught her off guard in a way few things still could.
She had known. After all this time, Sandy had known who she was.
The thought settled deep, warm and unexpected. To the human world, Bella Swan had vanished without a trace—just another girl who'd gone overseas and never returned.
She banked west, letting her body dip and turn effortlessly between a pair of low clouds. The city stretched out beneath her in golden afternoon light, but her focus was inward. Sandy hadn't just recognized her—she'd kept her secret.
Bella smiled to herself. The idea of reconnecting with any of her human friends wasn't something she'd allowed herself to consider in years. Back then, disappearing had felt like the only option. No explanations. No goodbyes. Just silence. But things were different now. The Volturi were gone, and she had already revealed herself to the world. She wouldn't say anything about vampires—that part of her life wasn't for human ears, no matter who they were—but Sandy already knew she was Starshield.
She angled lower, the treetops blurring past as she descended. As soon as her boots touched down, she took off running, the ground firm beneath her feet, a rush of speed flooding her limbs. Trees whipped by in streaks of green and gold, but her mind stayed on Sandy. On what might be.
She told herself she'd think it through. Be rational. Weigh it all carefully.
But before the thought even finished, she was already smiling—because she knew exactly what she was going to do.
Bella burst through the front door and straight into Edward's arms. The moment he wrapped her up, she felt herself relax. She pressed her cheek against his chest, eyes closed, grounding herself in him.
"Hey, guys," she murmured, voice muffled in his shirt.
Edward held her close for a beat, then leaned back slightly to study her face. "Are you alright?" He could sense that Bella was a little emotional—which was rare for her.
She stepped back and gave a small nod. "I'm fine. I'll tell you later."
Her eyes shifted to the living room, where Peter and Char were sprawled on the couch. Both looked way too comfortable.
"Did you guys catch it?" She gestured vaguely behind her. "There was an actual bomb. And I helped destroy it."
Peter raised a brow, but it was Char who answered, flipping the remote idly in her hand. "We caught the tail end of it by the time I got back, but every local channel's been replaying it since. You're officially the lead story."
Bella gave a small nod, trying not to think too much about that part. "Good. Then I don't have to rehash it."
She turned back to Edward. "So, how was training?"
He gave her a smug grin. "Great, actually. Peter's a pretty decent teacher. I'm sure I'll be beating you by week's end."
She leaned in, patting his cheek gently. "I'm sure you will," she said sweetly.
Then her gaze slid to Peter.
"Stop hitting my boyfriend in the head. He's clearly concussed and delusional."
Char snorted, while Peter threw up his hands. "Hey, I tried to go easy on him! It's not my fault he bruises like a damn peach."
Everyone laughed as Bella pulled Edward toward the loveseat, where they dropped into the cushions together, still grinning. She tried to hear more about his training, but it seemed all anyone wanted to talk about was Starshield's latest heroics.
"Alright, alright." Bella settled back, then launched into a blow-by-blow of her short time as an honorary member of the bomb squad.
They spent the rest of the day unwinding, letting the calm settle back in after the excitement of the afternoon. Later, she and Edward headed outside for some one-on-one training beneath the starry stretch of the wide Texas sky. She worked on sharpening his fundamentals, correcting his stance, challenging his timing. Their matches felt good—simple, focused, fun—especially once they started adding little wagers to keep things interesting.
By morning, the rhythm of the house had returned to normal. Bella was sprawled out on the loveseat, smiling as Edward gave her a foot massage—his penance for losing to her in their latest round of sparring matches. They were in the middle of debating where to go later that night to celebrate her birthday. She'd suggested the bar where she'd first met Peter and Char, but she'd been shut down almost immediately.
"No way," Char stated, like the matter had already been settled. "Tonight needs to be someplace special."
Peter backed her up, tossing out several ideas—though most sounded like they'd end with at least one, if not all of them, in a holding cell.
They were still trading opinions when a knock sounded at the front door.
Three sharp knocks—the sound cut through the conversation like a blade. Everyone went still. None of them had heard anyone approach.
Bella sat upright, quickly pulling on her socks and boots. The silence beyond the door told her everything she needed to know.
No heartbeat.
A vampire was outside.
Peter furrowed his brow. "Don't get up," he muttered, already rising to his feet. "I'll see who it is."
As he passed through the room and down the hallway, he hated that his knower didn't work when Bella was around. Being blind like the rest of them was never any fun.
Bella watched Peter vanish down the hall. They all listened in silence as the front door swung open.
Then Peter's voice rang out—sharp, raw, and brimming with anger.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
Bella's gaze snapped toward the hallway.
But before anyone could move, a woman's voice followed—low, clear, and thick with a Spanish accent.
"Peter. Mi viejo amigo. I need your help. I've made a terrible mistake."
Comments are welcome and appreciated. This chapter was a long one, and it sets the stage perfectly for the finale. The next chapter is titled Clash of the Titans.