A/N: For Pree.

Disclaimer: Oh, how I wish I owned this.

Quick recap of the last chapter: Edward proposed to Rosalie. Rosalie gave her consent at the masked ball. And Isabella found out after the announcement of Rosalie and Edward's betrothal that Rosalie had taken her letters.

A Game of Affection

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
~ W.H. Auden

~o~

"Sir Tristan looked mightily handsome at the ball," complimented Vera as she put her lady's blond hair into a single braid. Vera and her fellow maids had gained the opportunity of observing the ball by peeking through the door that led to the ballroom.

"Oh, spare me, Vera. I have no interest whatsoever in how handsome Tristan looked," the young Miss Hale replied in a tone tipped with ennui.

Rosalie felt a great deal of irritation that her new maid fancied Sir Tristan and presumed to indulge her fascination by conversing about it. However, she also felt a tiny bit of pity for Vera, for she knew that her affection was a waste since Sir Tristan was above her station.

The only maid who was capable of overcoming such eminence was Alice Brandon, and Vera proved to lack the courage that Alice possessed when she claimed to be Jasper Whitlock's wife.

"Oh, but so was the young Mr. Cullen," the maid went on, trying to please her mistress by diverting the discourse to a topic that might shed more attention on Rosalie. "The other maids heard talk about how much of a handsome couple you two made last night."

"Yes, we did make a very handsome couple, did we not?" Rosalie smiled. "Papa looked so happy." It had been the first time she had seen a smile on him in years. Mr. Hale hardly ever smiled or looked that pleasant. So pleasant to be rid of me, she thought, continuing with her cross-stitch.

"Everyone at the ball just couldn't stop looking at the two of you."

"I bet they thought it impossible that I could marry such a respectable man. Did you see Lady Stanley and her cousin, Mrs. Wilson? Looking at me with something resembling jealousy, no doubt." Rosalie laughed, recollecting their condescending looks in the ballroom when it had been noted that she and Edward had shared more than two dances, which indicated they were engaged. "It was all very amusing. And, after Lady Cullen—my soon to be mother in-law—announced our engagement, I swear I could hear Mrs. Wilson's gasp. I am sure she must have thought her daughter, our lovely, innocent Priscilla would capture Edward's—"

The door to Rosalie's bedroom opened abruptly and cut that train of conversation short. Rosalie looked at the mirror sitting on the dressing table in front of her and saw Isabella's reflection. Isabella was standing by the door, dressed in a light brown cloak.

Vera had momentarily stopped dressing her mistress's hair at the sudden interruption, so Rosalie waved for her to continue.

"Dearest friend," Rosalie greeted. "I must say I was not expecting your lovely presence in my bedroom this morning. We are to be at breakfast in a few—"

"How dare you!" Isabella employed an indignant tone. "How dare you take my letters, Rosalie?" Her brown eyes shot rage at Rosalie's reflection.

Rosalie had never quite seen Isabella so greatly vexed before. "Your letters?" asked she, in a serene voice and with an expression that suggested her manner was not in the least bit altered by Isabella's vexation. "Why, I seem to think otherwise considering it is my name written on them."

"They do not belong to you. You never wrote to him."

"Ah, yes. And yet, somehow, the gentleman is under the impression that I did and I am in love with him and he, me." Rosalie pierced the embroidery cloth with her needle. "Pray, tell me what am I supposed to do about this?"

Isabella moved toward Rosalie's direction and stood next to Vera. "A completely misguided notion! I told you about those letters, Rosalie. It was my decision that you should act as you did—"

Rosalie's gaze rose up to meet her friend's reflection in the mirror, and she put down her sewing on the dressing table. "Tell me, Bella, what is this really about? Surely, you could not have barged in here to discuss a bunch of letters."

"You cannot marry Edward."

"I believe I can."

"You care nothing for him!" Isabella cried, shock lacing her words.

"Well, that's not entirely true. I do care about his prospects." Rosalie sighed. "He asked me to marry him, should I have refused him when everyone knew about his affection for me? Do you suggest I jilt him now, so that half of the women in Forks may hope to gain his affection, and, with time, his name?"

"Is that what this is about?" asked Isabella, incredulous. "Capturing the opportunity to be his wife before he no longer showers you with adoration and affection?"

"I don't know, Bella. How long did you expect me to go on with this charade? It was your decision after all. You were the one who proclaimed to love him using my name. What did you predict—that he'd come to Forks and marry you?"

Isabella's rage faltered. "You do not love him."

"What is love anyway?" Rosalie turned away from the mirror to look at her friend while Vera stepped aside. "Why should it be necessary for marriage? Our parents never married for love, and love destroys, Bella. Why would I ever want to feel such an emotion that makes me vulnerable for another person to destroy? Why should you either? Do you think he cares for you? If he did, why did he not realize that you wrote the letters?"

Rosalie's words confounded Isabella's fears but she forced herself to speak. "He does love me, the letters—"

"—prove nothing. Even if he did love you, surely you did not think he'd love you after he found out you deceived him. What sort of person lies to the one they love? Tell me, Bella, for I am naïve when it comes to this game of affection. Do you think he will love you after he found out that his affection for me happened to be actually for you? Do you think he will accept you then?"

A tremor slid through Isabella's body. "He loves me," she whispered, albeit her thoughts were a tapestry of insecurities and uncertainties. "He loves me," she repeated, mostly as an assurance to herself.

"Yet, he asked me to marry him. He does not realize the difference between who wrote the letters and who claimed to. Love ought to be able to recognize, do you not agree? Clearly, his affection for you cannot be sincere."

Tears filled Isabella's eyes. "You cannot marry him!"

"Sadly, I intend to." Rosalie stood up from the stool. "You see, he is going to be beneficial to me. I would no longer need to be under Papa's roof. You see how Father treats me," she carried on, walking to the window, "like I'm a plague. Yesterday was the first time he acknowledged my presence in months." She held the curtain, speaking more to herself than to Isabella. "I no longer wish to be here."

Rosalie turned to beseech Isabella with her gaze. "You must understand, Isabella. You must forgive me for doing this," her voice had softened, "but even you can see the positive outcome in this. Edward will break your heart. I am doing this for the both of us."

Disbelief colored Isabella's countenance. She could hardly believe what Rosalie was saying. "No you are not!" she cried, and then took a deep breath to comport herself. "I have supported you in everything, Rosalie." Isabella walked toward Rosalie. "But what you ask of me is too great. I cannot support you in this. I cannot allow it. I love him deeply. I always have. And you are," she swallowed, "you are being selfish and deceitful. Yes, I lied to him but only because I wanted his happiness."

"I suppose we are both deceitful, no matter the reasons," said Rosalie. "You deceived him with the letters, and I, well, I am just finishing what you started."

~o~

The worst time of Alice Whitlock née Brandon's life had finally arrived and she had decided to accept it unwillingly. She sat at the periphery of her bed and stared at her window. Her gaze caught nothing, even though Forks had bloomed in the spring, creating a lovely image of the garden. The sun had risen, and for once, Alice had resented it.

The night before had been difficult. Alice had not slept but stayed in her husband's arms, thinking that if she were to close her eyes, she would lose one second of his beloved sight. One second of his love. One second of him. And she dared not part with him yet.

They had made love many times that night, and finally Jasper had succumbed to sleep. Conversely, she, herself, could not. So she stayed awake and watched him. Her hands darted over his face, his skin and through his hair, committing everything to memory. A memory that she hoped would keep her together until he returned.

Alice willed herself not to cry. She could not cry, for that would be accepting defeat, and defeat would be accepting that Jasper would not return.

Alice's gaze moved to her hands, where they rested on her lap. Her maid had dressed Alice in an exquisite ensemble of a green, long-sleeved blouse and a long grey skirt. Alice raised her trembling hands to her face. These hands, she thought, would not touch Jasper until his term was over. She wrapped her hands around herself, as if the embrace could bring her comfort.

"My love," Jasper called from the doorway. "I must leave now, and meet with the Captain—"

"I know," replied Alice, although she knew nothing except that Jasper was leaving her.

Jasper walked toward Alice and knelt down in front of her. "I know this is hard." He placed his head on her lap. "It brings me sadness to part from you, but we knew this time would come."

Alice swallowed, hoping that would help unclog the emotions in her throat. Her fingers skimmed through his hair. Alice wanted to speak but could not find the words. Closing her eyes, a tear fell into Jasper's hair. She turned her head to the side so he would not see her cry, albeit his head was still resting on her lap.

"Say something, my love." Jasper raised his head. "Say anything. You cannot expect me to leave without a word from you."

Alice could feel his melancholic gaze on her face, but she could not look at him. She did not want to say good bye. If she said those words, it might kill the possibility of him ever returning to her.

"Tell me you love me," Jasper continued. Alice had always been one to offer support and reassurances, the one who always looked toward the future but she had no words for him now. "Tell me anything," he pleaded.

Then, Jasper pulled her face to his, and his lips sought hers. He slid his tongue into her mouth and tasted the tears of his wife before he stopped kissing her at once.

"My lord?" The housekeeper knocked the opened door. "My lord, it saddens me to interrupt but they require your presence downstairs."

"I will be there in a moment," said Jasper, and then the housekeeper left. He looked at his wife. "I love you. I love you more than anything. It grieves me to know that I must go but I will return. So be safe. I will write you. I love you." He stood up, kissed her forehead and left.

As soon as he left, silence and loneliness slipped into the room. Alice looked at the side of her bed Jasper had slept on—it still dipped due to his presence on it a few moments ago. However, now it was vacant. As vacant as the hole in her chest.

Alice began to reason that she could not let Jasper leave without telling him she loved him. She would not say good bye but she would tell him she loved him.

With that thought, Alice stood up from her bed and ran. She moved hastily down the steps, almost colliding with one of the housemaids as she ran outside the house.

"Jasper!" she cried, running after the stagecoach. "Jasper! Wait, please!" Tears fell from her eyes as Alice ran. "Jasper!" she shrieked.

The stagecoach stopped suddenly at the bend of the road that led to the main city, where Jasper would take the train to meet his fellow soldiers in New York before they made their way to the Philippines.

Jasper came down from the stagecoach and Alice ran straight into his arms. Panting, she kissed his face—his forehead, his nose, his cheeks and finally his lips.

"I love you. I love you. I love you," she said.

After they had assured each other that they would see one another again, he left.

~o~

Edward Cullen had thought all his problems would be solved once he announced his engagement to Rosalie Hale. He thought that any feelings he possessed for Isabella would be obliterated as soon as he declared his affection for Miss Hale.

Unfortunately, that had not been the case. On the contrary, Edward had been tormented with the recollection of Isabella's countenance when Rosalie voiced out their betrothal. He could not comprehend why she appeared to be distraught by such news, nor could he comprehend why he was burdened by Isabella's distress. Perhaps she had expected him to tell her sooner considering the fact that they were close friends. Edward wanted to talk to Isabella, though he had no knowledge of what he would say when he was finally presented with the chance.

Such a chance never came. For if she saw him down the hallway of the Swan manor, Isabella would turn away and presumably go to her bedroom even if that was not her destination in the first place. During breakfast, she barely ate and never caught his gaze. When Edward tried to converse with her, Isabella excused herself, leaving him in the presence of Rosalie who went on and on about the wedding.

Edward knew that his thoughts should have been occupied with the wedding, but he was more concerned about a beautiful brunette who read books and poetry and had decided to ignore his presence for whatever reason. Dear heavens, what had become of him?

"The wedding bands will be arriving from Tiffany & Co. next week," said Rosalie. "I can hardly wait."

"Now now, Rosalie, there are other important matters to discuss besides wedding bands." Esme placed on her eyeglasses. "We still have not decided on the total number of guests to be invited."

"A date has not even been set yet," Rosalie responded. There was a hint of disappointment in her tone.

"Just as soon as things are sorted out, we will. We have to find out and ensure the arrival of our friends from England. I know Edward will want Emmett as his best man, won't you, Edward?"

"Pardon?" asked Edward, who had not been paying attention to their conversation.

"Sweetheart." Esme removed her eyeglasses. "Is something the matter?" his affectionate mother asked with concern glowing in her eyes. "You have been somewhat distant lately. I hope nothing is wrong."

"No, Mother. Everything is absolutely fine," he replied, reaching for a glass of whiskey but then immediately stopping himself before his action could belie his words.

He felt his mother's curious gaze on him as Renée said, "You know how men are about weddings, Esme. The poor boy is probably bored with our conversation."

"Perhaps he needs to spend some time with me," Rosalie interjected. "We've hardly been able to speak to each other since the engagement. He must be missing my company terribly." She looked at Edward with a charming smile.

"Ah, yes. Indeed, that must be it," Edward agreed, though it was not. However, he was missing someone else's company. "You must excuse me, ladies. I have errands to run." He stood up and walked over to his mother.

Esme lifted her head to look at him when he approached her. Bending a bit, Edward kissed her cheek before walking out of the parlor.

Once he was outside, Edward called for the stable boy to bring his horse. After he had mounted his horse, he galloped away from the manor.

It was not long before Edward found himself in Forks' Central market. He gave the reins a tug to stop the horse. Edward was surrounded by crates and open wagons filled with all sorts of farm produce. There were bushel baskets containing various fruits and vegetables. Bananas hung inside the tents of traders. Young boys pushed small carts of beef and meat.

A young boy rolling a wheelbarrow of oranges passed Edward. "Oranges!" the boy called out. "Oranges! Oranges! Get your oranges here!"

A little girl, who looked ten years of age, approached him with a bouquet of flowers. "Sir, would you like to buy some flowers for your lady bride?" she asked in a soft, childish tone.

Edward looked at her and then caught a glance of a middle-aged woman watching their exchange. He assumed that she was the girl's mother. "No…" he answered, looking at the girl with an expression of guilt for not buying a flower from her. The girl returned his gaze with sad eyes at being rejected. "All right," said Edward, "I suppose I could have that lovely white lily in your hand for a few cents."

The girl handed the flower to him and he gave her the money. Isabella liked flowers. Edward had once caught a glimpse of her plucking some from the garden. Perhaps she would appreciate this white lily and forgive him for whatever offence he committed.

At that thought, he cursed himself. Rosalie was the woman he ought to give the flower to, she was his bride-to-be. Edward held the stem of the flower between his lips and grabbed the reins of his horse.

As soon as he was about to turn and head back to the Swan manor, Edward heard a familiar laughter amongst the noise of the marketplace. It was Isabella's laughter and it seemed to be coming from a couple of wagons in front of him.

Edward put his heels to his horse and moved farther along the road, peeking into the wagons he passed by and looking for her. He tried not to trample on a trader's produce along his way. And, as soon as he was able to find Jacob's wagon, it started to move down the street.

Edward then decided to follow them.

~o~

Jacob watched the young lady in his smithy with a high degree of fascination. He had thought that her countenance would express a great repugnance at the sight of his work place considering it was decidedly not a suitable place for a lady. However, Miss Swan proved him wrong. Instead, she seemed genuinely curious and possessed a naïve charm about the tools and objects in his shop.

Jacob smiled when Isabella's gloved hand reached for one of the objects lying on the anvil but immediately withdrew, as if she had recollected her manners. On top of the anvil sat a couple of twisted nails he had used to construct an intricate design, next to it was a bunch of keys he had made for his cousin, Seth.

"What is that?" asked Isabella, staring at the twisted iron nails. Each nail curved around the other like a snake, forming a loop, with points of the nail sticking out at the end of every loop. It looked like a necklace of nails.

"Just something I made." Jacob slid his hands inside the pockets of his trousers and leaned slightly against the door. "Sometimes, I tend to create unusual objects from the metals in my spare time."

The twisted nails arrested her attention. "Do you ever sell them?"

"No," he answered, folding his arms across his chest. "I doubt most people would want to buy them. There are other things that are in higher demand like wagon springs, candle stick holders, farming tools or cooking utensils, horseshoes…though I fear that horseshoes may no longer be needed once people start using electric cars."

"Do you enjoy it?" Her gaze finally moved to Jacob.

"Blacksmithing? Yes, I find it to be an art." He moved away from the door and crossed to the opposite side of the room. "Not, of course, like the kind of art you might enjoy," he smiled, "but an art in the sense that it requires skill to create something out of a metal. Not everyone can be a blacksmith."

"Oh, I do not doubt that." Isabella turned away from the nails and glanced at the forge.

"I also find that the life of a smith is simple compared to that of the upper class. They pride themselves too much on material things instead of focusing on what really matters." Jacob tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling. There were so many cracks in it. "It all seems too much to handle if they can disregard the value of friendship all just for the feeling of comfort and security."

Isabella let out a deep breath, as if doing so would somehow alleviate the feeling in her chest. "You should not generalize."

"Perhaps I should not." Jacob brought his gaze back to hers. "Then again, I do not know much."

There was an interval of silence as Isabella moved around the table separating them toward the door.

"I do know," Jacob started to fill the silence, "that you are a very beautiful woman, smart and different, and you do not deserve to suffer this way."

"I suppose you think I have brought it upon myself," said Isabella, staring out the window. She watched as a young boy ran to catch up with his mother down the street. "Oh, how I have made a terrible mess of things, Jacob."

"But it can be fixed." Jacob walked toward her. "You just have to tell him. Think about your friendship. Do you truly want him to get married without knowing the truth…even if he loves Rosalie? You have to give him a chance to make his own decisions. He has to know, Isabella, so you can free yourself from this…burden."

Isabella's gaze dropped to her hands, like a child who was being admonished for disobeying her parents. "I must tell him, then."

"Yes."

"Tonight."

A look of understanding passed between them.

~o~

Edward had waited patiently at the corner of Jacob's street, hiding behind the side of a building, until Isabella left. He felt like some sort of criminal, especially when an old lady with a walking stick had caught him. The look she gave him before she shook her head and passed reminded him of the admonishing glares Esme had given him when he was a child.

When Isabella left, Edward had watched her and the blacksmith carefully. It appeared that the boy was insisting on accompanying her to the Swan manor, but she had declined, and for that, Edward was grateful…until he thought of the danger that she could encounter on her way back. Minutes after their minor argument, Edward had seen the blacksmith hand something wrapped in a brown cloth to Isabella.

An emotion classified as rage, perhaps disgust, or conceivably jealousy overcame Edward. He struggled hard to prevent himself from marching at once to meet the couple. Nevertheless, when Isabella finally left, he got his chance and stomped all the way to the blacksmith's workplace.

Edward's hands curled involuntary into fists as he approached the entrance. The door was still opened, as Jacob did not shut it when his visitor left. Finding the blacksmith standing over his anvil looking at something, Edward tapped the boy's shoulder. When the boy turned, he received a nasty blow from Edward.

Reeling back in pain, the blacksmith held his jaw and turned to look at his attacker. "What the devil!" But before he could even comprehend this sudden intrusion, Edward's knee connected with his stomach and he fell to the ground.

"I know," Edward started, flexing his palms, "that it is not in your nature to be a gentleman. Seeing as you are a blacksmith, you have hardly been taught anything about how to act in the presence of a lady. Therefore, I am going to take it upon myself to inform you that forcing a lady or persuading her to come unchaperoned to such a…" He glanced around, taking note of his environment. "Filthy place to do God knows what is highly unacceptable! How dare you tarnish her reputation by bringing her here? Is it your plan to ensure that you take away her dignity so you can entrap her into marriage?"

The boy who lay on the floor, breathless and clutching his stomach, looked at Edward and then doubled back in both laughter and pain. "I suppose," said Jacob in between breaths, "that barging into someone else's shop without invitation and attacking him is considered gentlemanly," he finished with a sneer.

"Were it not for the fact that she is in love with you, I would have you arrested!" said Edward.

"And for what reason?" asked the blacksmith, standing up slowly from the floor. "That it was her choice to come here?" He placed his hand on the table beside him to support himself. "I bring no women back to my place, unless they ask to come, Mr. Cullen." He smiled devilishly, wiping away the blood from his injured lip with the back of his hand.

"You scum!" Edward thrust forward, wrapping his hands around Jacob's neck.

He roughly slammed Jacob's body against the wall, his fingers curling around Jacob's throat. Struggling to breathe, Jacob tried to pry off Edward's fingers and, when he failed, used his head to knock Edward's before he was finally released. However, the brawl did not stop there. Jacob punched the side of Edward's head and withdrew his hand back in pain. Edward took advantage of the opportunity, wrapping his hands around Jacob's waist in an attempt to throw him back against the floor. Unfortunately for him, Jacob was fast and kneed Edward in the sternum. The two men fell to the floor with a thud. Edward fell backwards, pulling Jacob along with him.

"What do you care why she comes here?" asked Jacob, holding Edward to the floor. "I do not see how her whereabouts should concern you."

"She is my friend! Of course I care about the type of company she keeps," retorted Edward, pushing Jacob off him and pinning him instead.

"Do you, now?" A knowing smile spread across Jacob's face.

Edward was almost tempted to wipe it off by punching him again, but he resisted. He had to think of Isabella, as much as he did not want to: she was in love with this boy. All Edward wanted to do was make sure Jacob understood clearly the kind of lady that loved him and how she needed to be treated. He wanted Jacob to stop taking her for granted.

"You think you are incredibly smart, Mr. Cullen, do you not?" Jacob interrupted Edward's thoughts. "Then you should ask yourself this: why do you care so much?"

"I fail to see how my feelings on this matter should concern you."

"Really?" asked Jacob, his tone laced with sarcasm. "If it does not then why are you here beating me about it?"

Edward stared into the blacksmith's eyes for a moment. His eyes were dark, almost as dark as the cold coal in that forge behind them. After a while, Edward pulled away from Jacob. Turning away from the sprawled boy on the ground, he ran his hands through his hair, paced a bit and took a deep breath.

"I only came here to warn you that if you possess an inch of affection for Isabella, it would be wise to take great care when you are in her company. She cannot be seen constantly with you all over town—"

Jacob slowly stood up. "Bella can do whatever she likes."

Edward turned to look at him in annoyance. He was not sure whether his annoyance stemmed from the air of nonchalance with which Jacob had uttered his response or that he had called Isabella 'Bella'. "Have you no regard for her reputation? Do you not care what other people would think of her?"

"Do you?" he replied, picking up the dirty handkerchief on the table to wipe away the blood that had trailed down his jaw.

"What?"

Jacob licked his lip. "Do you care, Mr. Cullen? More importantly," Jacob dusted his trousers, "do you have any care at all for her feelings?"

He walked toward Edward and poked his chest. Edward's gaze slowly descended to Jacob's finger.

"Look to yourself, Mr. Cullen, before you go barking up a tree," said Jacob. "I am not trying to destroy Bella's reputation."

Edward stared at Jacob carefully, and suddenly he realized what his anger had not allowed him to see. All this time, he had thought Jacob's intentions toward Isabella were not genuine, but as he looked at Jacob, an emotion flickered in the young blacksmith's eyes.

"Good God," said Edward, drawing back in astonishment. "You truly like her, don't you?"

Jacob turned away, as if to hide a secret. "Who would not?" he asked. "Besides, what does that matter?"

Edward blinked in confusion. "But I thought…"

Jacob turned back to Edward. "You thought wrong," he said, "I am not the one she wants."

~o~

Isabella picked up her violin from its black case. She sat on the stool next to the mirror in her bedroom. Tilting the end of the violin, she placed her chin against the chinrest of the instrument. She held her bow with her right hand and brought it to meet the strings of the violin. The bow greeted the strings with a cry. The sound was almost a relief…almost, but not quite.

Isabella began playing the Moonlight Sonata. The first movement—adagio sostenuto —was a perfect description of her anguish and the heartbreak she was sure to cause when she finally told Edward the truth. The violin, as always, was able to express her unhappiness. And, as the sonata moved to the allegretto, it helped build the fortitude she would need when the time came. The third movement of the piece —the presto agitato —almost expressed the anger and betrayal she knew Edward would feel when he learned that it was she who wrote those letters.

Footsteps slowly approached her bedroom door out in the hallway. And when the knob of the door twisted slightly, Isabella placed the tip of her finger lightly on the string to increase the pitch of the music.

The door swung open, blowing a small wind to her direction. Isabella's gaze swiftly moved to the door, and there, standing in the hallway, was Edward. Her fingers trembled slightly on the string, causing a slight dissonance as the end of the piece slowly drifted in the atmosphere between them.

Isabella stopped playing at once, placing the violin to stand on her lap with the bow. Edward looked absolutely terrible. His clothes were disheveled—the collar of his formal dress shirt was undone, and she could notice that there were blood stains decorating the lapels of his frock coat. Edward's handsome face had been swollen with bruises and his cheeks appeared to be flushed. His right knuckles were glistening red, and his hand was clutching a white lily, which looked like it had been trampled on.

Despite his appearance, Edward's dishevelment was not what brought the feelings of anxiety and compunction in Isabella, but the expression on his face. His countenance wore an expression of bewilderment intertwined with resentment.

The atmosphere between them sizzled in an uncomfortable silence, as Edward's icy green eyes revealed that he had finally discovered the truth.

I want to express my gratitude to Mrs Boyscout, TwiDi, Regina and LJ Summers for all their input. Seriously, this wouldn't even be close to what it is without them.

And thank you dear readers, for your patience, and for reading and reviewing. I truly appreciate it.

Till next chapter! In the meantime, what do you think will happen next?