Hello people and happy 4th to everyone in the US!

With a little delay, here is the latest and LAST chapter of Business Class Girl. I will leave parting notes for the bottom AN because I know you all want to know what happens and don't give a fig for my ramblings.

As usual, Alice's White Rabbit, Midnight Cougar, and SunflowerFran wield the red pens.
RobsmyyummyCabanaboy and Deh are my plot coaches and shoulders to cry on. I am a tinkerer, though, so any errors left are my own boo-boos.

Without further ado, back to BCG and AwkWard.

BCG – CHAPTER 44 – Epilogue

BCG

"I love you, EC."

"And I love you, BCG. How's Chicago?" he asks at the other end of the line. His voice sounds tinny, disjointed amid the din of the crowded airport terminal at O'Hare.

"Chaotic. Grey. Far as I can tell from Concourse F at ORD."

"That's one airport I don't have on my list yet," he quips in between yawns.

It is, after all, past his bedtime. Seth booked me to fly into Chicago on a red-eye because the book signing and meet-and-greet starts at 10:00 a.m. It made more sense to get a good night's sleep here rather than risk waking up at the ass crack of dawn in L.A., only to end up being late anyway if the weather decided not to cooperate. Screw the late October morass.

"You're not missing out on anything notable so far," I reply, suppressing a yawn of my own.

Jane, one of Fireblaze's PR people, who is travelling with me on the book tour and acting as liaison with Seth and Ang, touches my elbow to direct me down the hallway that leads out of the terminal. Hopefully, our pick up is already here, and I can get horizontal as soon as we check into the hotel.

I nod at Jane as we file out among a crowd of exhausted fellow travellers who pull their coat collars closer against the bitter wind. It's not even November yet, and Chicago already smells like impending snow.

"Duly noted. So, what's on the agenda tomorrow?" he asks. The background noises indicate he's sipping on his nightly beverage of choice—Earl Grey, of all things.

"We have two signings at two different independent bookstores, and then a meet-and-greet with a bunch of people who won one of the Instagram contest posts. About fifteen in total, I think. Still sounds surreal, to be honest."

"Ah, the much-reviled Instagram contest. You were dead against that," he comments with a snicker.

I wasn't just against that. I railed against the commodification of liberal arts. For about ten seconds. Until he pulled me back to earth by reminding me that he does meet-and-greets too, that's he signed posters and scripts auctioned off for charity, and that he regularly autographs stacks of pictures for giveaways and such. Nature of the beast and all that. Plus, as Edward stated at the time, I was already selling my art—my book has a retail price. I felt like an idiot for a good half-hour. Then I laughed at my own absurdity and tried to see the positive side of it. I'd get to meet real people who'd read and liked my book. It was far less abstract than reading starred reviews on industry publications—but potentially more impactful. So I sucked it up and told Jane, Vic, and Seth to run all the damn Instagram contests they wanted, as long as they kept Edward's and my personal life out of it.

"Hey, I'm learning," I protest just as a limo driver flashes a sign with our names on it and opens the door for us. Jane and I slide onto the back seat, and we drive off after she's confirmed our destination with the driver.

Jane—a deceptively diminutive five-foot-nothing blonde with the backbone of a drill sergeant and a wicked sense of humour—steers clear of me while I'm on the phone during the drive. She's been a big help for the last two weeks since the launch of Confidentiality Clause. We've had a bunch of signings in and around L.A. for the first ten days after the launch, and now, we're on the road for a few stops here and there. We've planned it with breaks in between, so I can fly back to L.A. and recharge. The book is doing moderately well so far, considering I'm a complete newbie on the scene.

"That you are, my love. Hey, did you talk to Em today at all?" he asks, humour dripping from his tone.

"Nope. What is my illustrious brother up to now?"

"He's been pimping you out like crazy!" Edward replies. He erupts into laughter that resonates through the speakers so loudly even Jane turns to me with a raised eyebrow. I mouth a laconic "later" to her, and she returns to her BlackBerry.

"Why does it sound dirty, the way you just phrased that?"

Edward snorts through the phone. "Well, because it's Em. But dirty jokes aside, you won't believe this …"

I'm starting to get puzzled, and my exhausted brain can barely keep up. "Uh?"

"He's telling every single one of his high-powered clients about your book. He's actually kind of sweet to watch. Rose said that he thrusts a copy into their hands at the end of the session and extracts a promise they'll read it, otherwise he doesn't let them leave."

That is kind of sweet. And such an Emmett thing to do. "He didn't get hit with a book in the face, yet?"

"Not according to Rose. But, hey, things can change."

At this point, Edward's cavernous yawn filters through the phone. "Go to sleep, baby. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

His knee-jerk reaction is a groan. "Sleeping without you feels weird. Like I'm missing a limb. I miss you, Bella. More than I can say."

"I miss you too, Edward. But I'll be back in a jiffy."

"At least we're flying to New York together next week," he replies with another yawn.

"Aren't your parents flying in for the interview?"

"Yes!" he exclaims, partly revived. "'Late Night with Seth Meyers'. It's going to be a hoot. Mum has a crush on Seth, and it makes Dad mildly jealous. I'm going to have a little fun with it."

"You little hooligan."

"But you love me," he retorts. From his tone, I'd have to guess he's sporting one of his smug smiles.

"That I do, Cullen. That I do," I reply.

"Hurry back to me, my lovely," he whispers by way of goodbye.

"Always, EC."

###BCG###

The next morning, Jane and I get to The Quibbler, the first of the two independent bookstores where Fireblaze scheduled signings for today. I am mildly shocked to see a line out the door and around the block when we walk around it to get ushered through the back door.

The owner, a lady in her mid-forties, who could pass for a librarian but for the bright purple and teal streaks in her hair, welcomes us with hugs and a warm smile that immediately put me at ease and defuses my impending nerves.

Debbie—as she introduces herself—offers us refreshments while Jane gives her a rundown of how things are supposed to play out.

"We're here for two hours, and unfortunately, we don't have any buffer to stay over time because we're due for another signing elsewhere."

Debbie nods, and then with a thoughtful expression she asks, "We don't want to turn people away though, do we?"

"No. That would look disastrous. Readers had to register through the website to get in line, but there's bound to be some stragglers."

"You mean party crashers?" Debbie asks with a mischievous grin.

Jane nods with a resigned sigh. "Can't be helped, and it's a good sign if it happens. Means the book is making noise. It's what we want."

At this point, I interject. "But how do we ensure nobody goes home empty-handed? I'd hate for anyone to be in line for an hour and be turned away. Jane, ideas? How do you normally do this?"

Jane seems to be deep in thought for a minute, and then comes up with a reply. "You could start signing copies now, if Debbie doesn't mind. We could have a pile of signed copies for anyone who wants to grab one and doesn't mind that there's no personalized dedication."

Then one of my lightbulb moments hits. "What if that's not enough? I'm happy to sign more for Debbie to have on hand in the next few days. Debbie, any objections?"

"Heck, no! Signed copies sell like hotcakes. I've had a lot of requests for this title, my dear. If you're willing to help, I won't say no. Fireblaze is always great with us independent booksellers."

"Jane? I have an idea. What if we had Debbie deliver a couple boxes of books to the hotel? I can sign them after lunch before we leave, and then have the boxes messengered over to Debbie."

Jane nods pensively again. "That is a genius idea, Bella. Let's do this, Debbie!"

"That helps a lot. I can put up a sign that says I'll have more signed copies tomorrow for anyone who wants to come back. Let me tweet it and post it on the store's Facebook page."

Second lightbulb. "Let me post it on my Instagram, too."

Jane grabs my arm with a delighted smile. "If all first-time authors were as easy-going as you, Bella, my job would be tons easier."

"Oh, stop it. This benefits me, too. All these people are lining up to see me. I don't want to disappoint them."

"That's the spirit," she replies with a pat on my forearm. "Let's get to it, then. I'll get an ice bucket ready in case you get a case of carpal tunnel," she quips, and I shake my head at her caustic sense of humour.

Two hours later, I'm beginning to feel a tad crampy, wrist-wise. Not used to signing my name a hundred times in a row. But it's been a rush to meet and talk to all of these people. None of them have made any mention of Edward, or our relationship. So far, it seems like they're all just here because of my book. And that kind of soothes my insecure ego a little more—the niggling thought that people might see me as trying to ride his coattails never really dissipates.

The last person in line walks up to the table, and Jane signals to Debbie that it's time to cut off any remaining people waiting. Debbie nods, and with consummated poise, she walks to a few people left standing at the back of the shop where she calmly explains that I'm due elsewhere, but there are signed copies without dedications available if they'd rather have one of those.

"Who should I make this out to?"

A timid voice responds. "To Lory, please."

"Hi, Lory. Thanks for coming out today."

This girl looks so young. Maybe a tad too young to be reading my book, but sometimes, you can't really tell. I'm twenty-eight, and even I get carded every now and then.

"No, thank you, Bella," she replies, her voice sounding a little firmer this time.

"Would you like me to write something specific in here, or just your name?"

She shakes her head in reply. "Just my name, thank you."

As I open the book and prepare to sign it, she speaks up again. "Could I have a picture with you? Otherwise my friends won't believe me …"

She sounds so polite, shy, and reserved that I see no problem in granting the request. Jane nods in my peripheral vision but taps her watch to remind me we're on a schedule.

"Of course, but we'll have to make this quick because I have another signing on the other side of town."

Lory's face lights up with a brilliant smile. "That is so kind of you. I was right, and they were wrong. Bitches," she murmurs on the side, as if I weren't meant to hear her comment.

"Who's wrong?" I ask genially.

"My friends," she replies quickly with a grimace.

"How so?"

"They thought you'd be a stuck-up bi … I'm sorry," she edits herself when I start laughing.

"Well, you know what they say about people who assume, right?"

She shrugs. "I guess. But they were catty about it. You see, they're fans of … well, they're fans of Edward Cullen. When I brought your book to read at school, they started making fun of me and hurled insults at you, saying that you'd gotten published only because he's your boyfriend. I mean, I'm a fan of Edward's, too, but I didn't believe any of it. I promise," she explains, her words a torrent of justifications, even if she has zero fault that her friends are a bunch of spiteful hags.

"Look, Lory. I don't know your friends. But nothing you or I ever tell them will convince them otherwise, if that's what they choose to believe. Honestly? I don't really care what they think because I know the truth. But thank you for coming out today. Truly. Come here and let's take that selfie, okay?"

She nods again, her smile returning to her face. As she's about to leave, an idea suddenly pops up in my mind. "Hey, Lory? Would you mind leaving your phone number here with the store?"

Her brow scrunches up in a perplexed frown. "No, but what for?"

"You're a fan of Edward's, right?"

Cue the excited smile. "Yes!"

"If you leave your digits and your email with Debbie over there, I'll arrange for Edward to send an autographed pic here for you. Then Debbie will call you so you can come pick it up. How's that?"

She jumps into my arms without warning. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! Yes! You're the best, Bella!"

I disentangle myself from the enthusiastic embrace and think there and then that I made myself a fan for life. Fans are not so bad after all.

###BCG###

A week later, Edward and I are having dinner in New York after the taping of his interview on Late Night with Seth Meyers.

As he predicted, the whole thing was hysterical, and he played up his mum's crush on Seth much to poor Carlisle's consternation. On the air. They sat me right next to them in the audience, and even if I wanted to empathise with Carlisle, I was howling with laughter so badly that my efforts went south pretty fast.

"You traitor. You're supposed to be blood of my blood," quips Carlisle in between sips of his Prosecco. Seth—blessed be his name—managed to get reservations at Per Se with barely any notice.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm a traitor. But who got you to meet Natalie Portman in the green room?"

The good doctor appears to have a crush of his own, which Esme milks for all she's worth. "A delightful young lady, just like Seth. So polite," she waxes poetic.

"And both very married, last I checked." Edward snickers. "Come on, people. A Martian just off the spaceship could tell the two of you are madly in love and all of this is nothing but a little theatre you like to play. You're not fooling me."

At this comment, Carlisle and Esme turn to each other, and the secret smile they exchange says it all, to the point I begin to feel like we're intruding on a private moment. At long last—but in fact, it's only been a handful of seconds—Carlisle coughs, breaking the atmosphere, and looks at Edward and me with one of his genial smiles.

"Well, kids. Don't we have something to celebrate tonight?"

Edward jumps in. "Somebody made it on Publisher's Weekly's Bestseller List," he answers, nudging my shoulder as he leans in to kiss my temple.

"In twenty-fifth place. A very august position." And the very last one.

"Humbug," Esme interjects. "You're on the list, Bella. So we celebrate."

"On to the New York Times Bestseller List next!" Carlisle says right on her heels, clinking his glass with mine.

"How did the signing go today?" Edward asks. He couldn't tag along because he had a sit-down interview with Rolling Stone and a couple of other phone interviews. His calendar looked too much like level 4353 of Tetris without trying to ram an appearance at my signing into it.

"Goodness, I didn't tell you yet! Tons of people."

"Define tons of people," he says. "Any nasties?" He's always concerned I'll get cornered by someone determined to be unpleasant. So far, fortunately, it's not happened.

"A line for three blocks. It was that quirky place in Greenwich. It's fantastic, isn't it, Esme?" She came with me this morning since she was curious to see how "these things are done," she said.

"I loved it. I bought a bunch of books, too. Everyone was so nice to Bella. It was heartwarming."

"Did any of Edward's groupies turn up?" Carlisle asks, not without sporting a mischievous grin.

"Not again," the man himself groans. He's conflicted about the fact that a tiny group of his fans seem to turn up at every signing. But you can't really stop the tam-tam of the interwebs, and the publisher does advertise the events online. And so do I, on my Instagram profile that has gained some thirty-thousand followers or so in a month, which, for a newcomer like me, is a humongous metric. Vic and Jane are over the moon. Edward made me swear not to answer all the nasty comments. He's still wary about the whole social media thing.

"In fact, five or six ladies did," Esme replies with a knowing smile. The ladies in question were not the typical "Cullenettes" demographic.

"Oh?" Carlisle asks, genuinely interested.

"Closer to forty than twenty, for starters. No catty remarks. But get this," Esme continues. "They knew about the book because some actress posted about it on her Instagram, and she's been in one of Edward's movies."

"Who?" Edward wonders with a frown.

"I swear, Edward, if you keep worrying like that, you're going to turn prematurely grey."

"He might look distinguished. It didn't hurt George Clooney one bit, did it?" Esme quips, completely revelling in Edward's discomfort for a minute.

"I worry about you, love. My prerogative. Who was this person?" he prods again.

"It was Irina, you worrywart," I reply, putting the man out of his misery. He does heave a sigh of relief.

"What did she do?" he asks, genuinely interested now.

"She read the book and put up a picture of the cover on Instagram with the caption 'Reading BSwanWrites's book, and people, let me tell you, that Cullen picked the best girl out there!'" Esme answers. "And then urged everyone to go read it."

"So, how did that turn into those ladies showing up at the signing?" Carlisle asks. Apparently, he still isn't well versed in the interaction between celebrities and social media.

"I explained it all to you, Dad. Celebrity A puts on Instagram that they drink smoothie so and so, sales for the godforsaken smoothie soar. Irina—who's a really nice girl, by the way, and a professional—did a really good turn for Bella by posting about her book. No doubt a ton of her followers saw it and will read the book because of it. She's kind of a big deal on Broadway."

Carlisle nods sagely, mulling over the information. "So these ladies showed up at your signing because of it?"

"It's the strangest thing. They picked it up because Irina gave it a shout out, but get this, they're all PAs at a major law firm in town."

"Oh, they must have gotten a kick out of it, then!" The good doctor is a quick study.

Esme laughs. "They had a ton of anecdotes. Bella even offered to put a few of those in the next book. It was hilarious."

As Esme goes into details of the entire scene with Carlisle, Edward turns to me with a look that exudes tenderness and pride. "It was nice of her to do that. But you earned the praise all by yourself, love," he murmurs, kissing my temple again. "You've built this. And no one can take it from you. I'm so fucking proud of you."

"Thank you," I manage to whisper as emotion chokes me again. I still haven't gotten used to the praise and the rush this kind of validation gives me. I hope I never do.

"Ready to fly to London?" he then asks.

Carlisle and Esme are carrying on their own conversation at this point.

"Yeah … but I'll miss you."

I'm flying into Heathrow in two days directly from JFK. Edward has another interview here in New York tomorrow, so we'll part ways at the airport, flying in opposite directions. We'll be apart for almost ten days, but it can't be helped. He'll be stuck in L.A. for pre-production meetings.

"Not as much as I'll miss you."

"That cheese. I'll find it one day." I shake my head, then kiss him without a care for the fact that his parents are here, we're in a fully booked upscale restaurant, we have an audience, and some jerk will probably tweet this picture. I just kiss my man and let the chips fall where they may.

###BCG###

Edward

A week after my dinner in New York with Bella and the parental units, I'm working on a diabolical plan that has taken shape in my head. A plan for which I need at least an accomplice—Seth.

It all came to me in a rush after Bella flew to London last week. I flew back to L.A. with my mood stuck in the crapper. Call me childish, but I still hated being away from her. I longed to be with her in London instead. Seeing the rest of the gang—Alice and Jazz, or "Jalice", as Emmett has taken to dubbing them, much to Alice's chagrin—would have been an added bonus.

But these fucking pre-production meetings, table reads, and costume fittings have me stuck in L.A. I thought I could swing it because Bella's signing is on a Friday, but the time difference flying eastward sucks a ton of time out of the schedule. Teleporting would be easier—but potentially problematic.

While I stared at my calendar, willing all the slots blocked out for this and that to change and disappear, my gaze fell on a date that gave me pause.

The day I met Bella in Angela's office a year ago. Her signing in London was scheduled on the same date—one year to the day. And bam! An idea popped up. After cajoling a day off for "personal reasons" from the executive producer, I had Seth rearrange a bunch of commitments and set him off to do research on something else that would be vital for my plan to work.

And now, as I sit here at our kitchen counter, drinking my morning coffee alone, I wait for Seth to appear with the results of his research. At 8:30 on the dot, like every single day, the man turns his key in the front door lock and glides into my kitchen like a mild hurricane. Somehow, he's always on the go. Which isn't any different from Bella's "Run, Forrest, run" perpetual setting when she worked as my assistant. Bollocks, a year ago. Minus a week.

"So, I have good news and bad news."

My disgruntled expression while I take another sip of my coffee should be indication enough for Seth as to what I want to hear first. "Come on, Clearwater. Put me out of my misery."

"Okay. You both being British citizens is a plus. But no eloping in the United Kingdom. Not anymore."

I've been awake only for half an hour, and the caffeine hasn't jump-started my system yet. "In plain English?"

"You can't get married on a whim. You have to file notice at least twenty-nine days in advance."

"Fried bollocks on a stick. Twenty-nine fucking days?" That puts a mild monkey wrench in my plan. Make that a huge one. "You said you had good news. Do not trifle with me, mate."

He slides a website printout in my direction. "California Department of Public Health? What am I to do with this?"

"Get married in L.A. County."

"How? Again, plain English."

He points to a list in the printout. "See that? You both are legal residents in the US. Matter of fact, Bella has dual citizenship, but that's beside the point. The real kicker here: there is no waiting period for a marriage license in L.A. County. So you can apply for one and be married on the same day."

"Tell me more," I prod him. Things are looking up.

"And you can apply for a confidential license. It won't be public record, and you don't need witnesses. You need an officiant, though."

Who … who … who … "Russell. The old man will know a judge or two, or knows someone who knows someone. Call his assistant. If she has no clue, I'll call him myself. You, my man, are an absolute fucking genius. Can we apply for the license online?"

"I think we can, but I'll check. If so, do you want me to go ahead and do it?"

I do a quick mental rundown of what else I need to do. "Yes. You should have all the info for it. Book me that fucking plane to London now. Do we still have an extra copy of the keys to Montagu Square?"

Bella had some made when Charlie transferred the deed in her name "just in case." Little did she know …

"Yes, we do."

"Good. Operation Hitched is a go, Seth."

Shit. Now I need a ring.

###BCG###

BCG

"Wait, Jane!" I exclaim on hearing my phone blare from the depths of my tote bag. It's "In The Navy," so it has to be the Admiral, and he wouldn't be calling to chit-chat at eight in the morning.

She nods. "I'll wait for you in the lobby."

"Thank you. It's my dad. I have to take it."

"Don't worry about it. We still have plenty of time," she answers, walking ahead of me to the bank of elevators.

We've spent the last week or so in meetings at Fireblaze's London office. They've been trying to drum up interest for the book in the rest of Europe, and that might mean other publishers buying rights to the translations, lining up translators, hatching customized marketing plans, and all that good stuff. It's been an interesting challenge. The first of my two signings in London is scheduled for this morning. The remaining one is this afternoon.

I manage to grab my phone out of the bottom of my bag just as the last notes of "In The Navy" resonate, right before sending the call to voicemail. Sending the Admiral to voicemail in the morning is not a good idea.

"Dad? Is everything all right?"

"Hey, Bells." His voice is eerily sombre.

"What's the matter? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Bells. I'm fine. It's just …"

Let's see … The Admiral is calling early in the morning, on a day we're not scheduled to meet, and he's sounding more evasive than a campaigning politician. This does not bode well. "Dad, you're starting to scare me."

"For cripes' sake. I'm sorry, Bells. There's no easy way to say this, and I hate to do this over the phone. It's MB."

"What's wrong with Merlin?"

"He passed away last night. I found him this morning by his food bowl."

It's at this point that I have to turn my face away from the rest of the people milling about the breakfast bar of the swanky hotel Fireblaze booked for me and plonk on the next armchair I find. I try to muster words, but none come. My vision gets blurry. I start sniffling.

"Bells? You there, poppet?"

I sniffle again. "Yes, Dad. I'm here."

"I'm so sorry, Bells. I know how much you loved him. The vet dropped by on his way to the surgery. It was a stroke. There was nothing we could have done to prevent it."

I sniffle more and bitterly regret I won't be able to hold MB or pet him one last time. "Thank you, Dad. I understand; he was old. I'm going to miss the opinionated fur ball."

He finally snickers lightly. "He sure was a character. I buried him. Under the old yew tree at Moor Lodge."

Now I'm crying in earnest, digging into my bag for a Kleenex and hoping I'll find one. At long last, I do. "Thank you, Dad. He loved that tree."

"I'm sorry I had to spring the news on you like this. Today of all days. You've got that … signing, don't you?"

I nod, then realise he can't see me through the phone. "Yes, I was on my way to it."

"Well, I'm sorry, but … I couldn't not tell you, Bells."

"I know, Dad. Thank you. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

The sound of jingling keys filters through the speaker. He must be opening his inner office at the Naval Academy. "Please do. Let me know how today goes, all right?"

"Yes, Dad. Bye."

"Good luck, poppet. Take care," he replies, signing off.

Some may say MB was "just" a cat. But this "just" a cat kept me company through most of the darkest moments of the last decade or so. Already considered a senior cat when I adopted him at eight years old, I knew he wouldn't live forever. But I never thought I wouldn't get to hold him one last time. And this hurts more than anything else.

I smooth the tears away, grab a refreshing wipe from my bag, rearrange my face until it's presentable enough for public consumption, and steel myself to go do my job.

Goodbye, Merlin Britannicus. You've been a wonderful friend.

###BCG###

The morning signing flashes by in a blur. Rather uneventful, really. The crowd begins to thin out when lunchtime rolls around. Unexpectedly, a tall, distinguished figure in a crisp three-piece suit and a camel coat to match appears in my peripheral vision.

"Jasper? How did you manage?"

He approaches the signing table as I rise and circle around it to hug my oldest friend. "Rose and Alice nagged me to no end. And when I found out this was basically around the corner from the office … I'm kidnapping you for lunch, if you're agreeable?"

I throw a sidelong glance at Jane. True to form, she taps her watch. We're on a schedule. As always.

"She runs a tight ship, that one, doesn't she?"

"How did you figure? But she's a good egg. Jane, do I have time for a sit-down lunch?"

She shakes her head with an apologetic expression. "Sorry, Bella. We're kind of late already."

"Coffee and sandwich? On the go?"

"You got yourself a deal. See you in twenty, okay?" she confirms, smiling and picking up her briefcase.

"Well, at least I can buy you some lunch," Jasper says, leading me out by the small of my back. "What is that sombre expression you're trying to hide there?"

"Oh, Fitz … Merlin Britannicus died. Dad called me this morning."

He wraps an arm around my shoulder, pulling me closer into his side. "I'm sorry, B. I know you loved the cantankerous bastard."

Cue the sniffle. "Thank you, Jazz. It helps."

Then Jazz turns to face me with a thoughtful expression. "Did I ever tell you about the dog I had when Rose and I were kids? Paddington?"

"But that's a bear, not a dog!"

"Fiddlesticks," he counters with a defiant grimace. "What about freedom of expression? My Paddington was a dog. Best dog ever. Hands down."

And like that, with tales of the gallant Paddington, Jasper restores my good humour before I have to run to the other end of town to a renowned bookstore by Battersea Park.

###BCG###

This bookstore is a completely different affair from the quaint, quirky place we visited this morning in Spitalfields. That one, with its exposed brick walls, mismatched armchairs, and reading nooks, was a haven away from the sounds of London's business district and its people perpetually on the go.

This place, on the other hand, is a modern monument to writers, with murals dedicated to Virginia Woolf and James Baldwin, T.S. Eliot and Maya Angelou, W.B. Yeats and Oscar Wilde. Literary quotes lining the walls form intricate vines of poetry tattooed on every single surface that's devoid of a shelving unit. The tall ceilings and steel beams harken back to the building's industrial past, and yet, the entire space is flooded with sunlight from the immense front windows with their old glass panes filigreed with art-deco style curlicues at the top.

The space set aside for the signing is towards the back of the store near one of the registers, so people can ring up their purchases once they're done with getting their copies autographed by yours truly.

It's Friday afternoon, and as the end of the workday dawns around the corner, the line grows longer instead of dissipating into thin air. I throw a worried glance at Jane. Today of all days, I'd like this not to run overtime so I can have the evening to myself.

Jane catches my questioning look and approaches me, leaning down to my ear to whisper. "No worries, Bella. We've capped this at one hundred people. Security at the front door is keeping a headcount and filtering out anyone who hasn't registered online. All of these people have already been screened. We don't expect any delays."

"Thank you, Jane," I murmur by way of reply, extending my hand to the next person in line. This continues for the better part of another hour, and I soldier on between grim thoughts about MB being gone, me being tired and missing Edward, and the insidious onset of a wicked headache.

"Good afternoon, I hope you haven't been waiting long. You're going to be the last one today," I greet automatically without even lifting my gaze, as I open a copy of my book.

I know by heart what it looks like by now, but this particular copy weighs far less than usual. When I lift the hardcover page and its dust jacket, the book turns out to be an empty cardboard form. A black velvet box sits in the middle of it. A velvet jewellery box.

"I bet you didn't expect that, did you, my lovely?"

"Edward? How …"

###BCG###

Edward

Devious. I've been utterly devious.

I had Seth liaise with Jane so she'd make sure I was the last one in line at the signing.

Seth also reminded Jane to get Bella's luggage messengered over to Montagu Square so we wouldn't have to go back and retrieve it.

I flew in yesterday, and with an inexplicable stroke of luck, I found the perfect ring in the first store I stumbled across, smack dab in the middle of Portobello Road. Cliché, I know. But it is fucking perfect. I just hope it fits.

A quick call to Alice gave me the perfect idea for presentation. She dropped by Montagu Square with supplies, and hey presto, twenty minutes later, I was ready. So much more convenient now that she lives and works in London.

Another call—this time to Jasper, who also relayed the sad news about MB—ensured that no girls' night outing would be planned tonight for Bella and Alice.

And now I'm here. Standing in front of my future, who looks at me with glassy, surprised eyes.

"How? Well, you see … I took a plane, and then …"

She laughs in between unshed tears. "What are you doing here, EC?"

"What does it look like I'm doing, BCG? I'm getting performance anxiety. Can I please say my piece?" Only Bella would question me when confronted with a jewellery box.

She laughs again. Or sobs. I can't really tell. Jane and the other PR people have disappeared into thin air. No patrons are milling about. Stroke of luck, I tell you.

Finally, Bella nods and lifts the velvet box out of its cradle in the fake book cover.

"Ah, ah. Don't open it yet. Please?"

She nods again, gesturing for me to continue.

"When you flew to Heathrow last week, you took a piece of my heart and soul with you. You always do, wherever you are. Because my home is with you, Bella. You are my home. And I don't need a year to know that. I already know. Today—one year to the day I met you—I know I want to spend the rest of my life finding a new normal together. Washing dishes. Reading scripts. Walking on the beach. Grilling lobster on the deck. Riding your bike. But I want that tomorrow to start today."

With a trembling hand, I lean down to open the ring box. Bella gasps, just as I sink down on one knee—at least I'm doing this properly. "Bella, my lovely, will you marry me? Reform my sorry arse for life?"

"Oh my God, Edward!"

"Is that a yes?" I ask, still anxious this might blow up in my face. In public.

"Yes, you gorgeous, silly man! Yes!" she exclaims, pulling me up as she also stands from her chair. I finally breathe a fucking huge sigh of relief.

She said yes. To me. Bella's going to be my wife.

"Well, do I get that ring on my finger any time soon?" she questions with a glorious, watery smile, pointing at the box in my hands.

"By all means," I quip, popping open the ring box. "Here. You said yes," I murmur solemnly as I slide the ring onto her finger. It fits perfectly. Another fucking stroke of luck. Or maybe it's a sign. "Do you like it?"

"Like it?" she asks, turning her hand this way and that. "I love it. But this … it's an antique, isn't it?"

Busted. "Yes. I wanted something unique. Like you, my BCG. I saw it and thought of you. But, Bella, love … When I said I want to marry you now, I meant it."

She looks puzzled—and she has a right to be. After all, I'm springing this on her out of the blue. "Tell me more, Cullen."

"Well, fly back to L.A. with me and marry me? Tomorrow? I got a license and everything."

Her eyes narrow to slits. She's seriously considering this. "No fanfare? No announcements? No big party? You don't give a shit about any of that?"

I shrug. "You know me. If I could send a holographic clone of myself to my own premieres, I'd do it. What makes you think I want to mount a three-ring circus to marry you? I'm not marrying the invitees. I'm marrying you, for fuck's sake. You, me, a judge. That's it. What say you, Swan?"

"I'm ready to change that to Cullen. Tomorrow. Let's do it."

"God, I fucking love you," I reply, spinning her around to kiss her. "She said yes!" I holler, still spinning her around with nary a care that we're in public, that this might end up on TMZ before the ring is warm on her finger. Who the fuck cares. Bella said yes. She's going to be my wife. Tomorrow. "Let me take you home, my lovely."

"Montagu Square?"

I nod at her, smiling, as I pull the bunch of keys from my coat pocket. "Yes. That 'just in case' key came in quite handy, I must say."

"But wait, my stuff is at The Rookery."

"Nope. Jane had it messengered over this morning after breakfast."

As she collects her various odds and ends, she turns to me, arms akimbo, sporting a calculating expression. "You ran an entire covert op to pull this off?"

I shrug. I'll be damned if I'll reveal my secrets now. "I have my ways. Ladies first?" I ask, ushering her out of the store with my hand to the small of her back.

"We'll have to tell Charlie. And your parents."

"And the rest of the gang."

"We could Skype them. Band Aid style. We tell them all in one go."

"Alice will give us hell for it."

"Bah, humbug," Bella comments with a Charlie-worthy expression. "It's not her wedding. She can have the damn engraved invitation when she ties the knot."

"Well said, Mrs Cullen," I reply, flagging down a taxi.

"Not yet."

"Eh. Close enough. What's twenty-four hours?"

###BCG###

An hour later, we're lounging in the bay window nook at Montagu Square after a raucous, utterly chaotic, but laughter and love-filled group call via Skype with "our people," as Bella affectionately termed them. Quite aptly, if I say so myself.

"I think Alice's squeal pierced my eardrum. I might not recover," Bella quips, sipping her ever-present Earl Grey. No sugar, no milk, no lemon. In a mug.

"Angela was uncharacteristically mellow about the entire thing. Not one threatening remark. I'm shocked."

Bella shrugs. "Ben is making her mellower by the day, I swear. She sounded almost human. But she did make a valid point. Announcements?"

I huff. My reclusive and media-averse nature would dictate to skip the entire thing. But if we want to avoid being mobbed by photographers and press inquiries, we have to give them something. It's the usual trade-off.

"Something low-key?"

"I might have an idea," she replies with a devious look of her own.

My only reaction is to jump my fiancée, mug of Early Grey be damned. "I fucking love you, B."

###BCG###

A little less than forty-eight hours later, Bella and I—finally Mrs and Mr Cullen—are lying on the deck in Venice Beach, lounging on one of the lounge chairs in full view of a gorgeous California sunset.

Sam and Maurice came through with a last-minute wedding dress for Bella, which I wasted no time peeling off her after she said, "I do," and the judge proclaimed us man and wife.

Now, after a few hours, it's becoming real. It's starting to sink in. Another delicate ring of filigreed platinum dusted with diamonds and emeralds adorns my Bella's finger next to the antique emerald I gave her in London. A sturdier ring of hammered platinum sits on my ring finger. As I thread my fingers through hers, our wedding bands glisten in the sunset.

"This is perfect!" Bella exclaims, stilling my movements.

"Perfect for what, love?"

She raises our intertwined hands into my field of vision. "Look! Don't we look gorgeous in the twilight?"

"That we do. And, Mrs Cullen?"

"My idea, remember? I know Ang will put out a statement when we say the word. But I think we should dip our own toes in the water, so to speak."

This from the girl who didn't even want an Instagram account. "And?"

"Let me grab my phone," she counters, blindly reaching across the side table for the iPhone she's recently traded in for her old BlackBerry. "Here, lift our hands again like before, in that direction."

I obey because it's in the contract. I signed and everything. She snaps a couple pictures.

"Fuck me sideways, I think my hand just became an Instagram boyfriend."

"Husband, Cullen. Husband. We're married."

"How could I forget?" I smack my forehead dramatically before leaning down to kiss her.

"My point is that picture is our perfect announcement. Look," she orders again, now totally in the zone. She pulls up an empty Instagram post, uploads a picture, and starts typing a caption. "How does that sound?" she asks, showing me the draft post.

"Way to break the internet, my lovely."

"But what do you think?" she prods again, undeterred.

"It's fucking perfect. Let's do it," I entreat, echoing her own words in London.

"Ready? 3, 2, 1 … We're official. Instagram official."

And we erupt in a rain of laughter and kisses as her perfect Instagram announcement travels through the web.

A picture of our intertwined hands with our wedding bands and the two point three carat emerald of her engagement ring in the foreground. The post reads "BSwanWrites: When you know, you know. #TheCullens."

###THE END###

And that's all she wrote for now!

Thank you all for joining me (or joining me again) in this journey. I couldn't have done it without my friends and beta's: Deh, Emma, Lory (who gave me the idea for this story first), Yummy; Fran, Sally, and Midnight Cougar - the three ladies who keep me and my grammar straight. I couldn't have done this without - one of my earliest and dearest fandom friends, who made the first and the latest BCG banners. You're my star.

I have plans for a few outtakes on this story, including those chosen as bonuses for landmark reviews. Pixie's Mama picked hers - BCG's lockdown at Moor Lodge from MB's perspective. I love the idea, and it will materialize at some point. These outtakes will be in a separate thread, because this one will be marked complete as of today!

What is next? I have two stories in the works:

Behind the Ivories or, #EditorWard

A serious field accident ended Edward Cullen's career as a war correspondent six years ago, and left him with more scars than are visibile to the naked eye. After a personal and professional betrayal uprooted her life in Europe, Isabella Swan has navigated a sexist and elitist industry by smashing stereotypes and glass ceilings everywhere, one concert and one social media post at a time. They have nothing in common, until their worlds collide one fateful day for an interview that can't be rescheduled. What kind of havoc will Isabella's appearance wreak into Edward's monotonous, solitary life?

Correct the Narrative

"Ladies, if a dude spreads a rumor that you slept together, don't deny it. Use that shit. Tell everyone how bad he was. Make up some damn fetishes, say that he called out his mom's name. Destroy him."

That's what Bella does when the office Christmas party turns from rowdy to unfortunate. The rumor mill at the law firm churns while the sassy marketing manager goes to the mattresses. But a guardian angel lurks in the shadows, in one of the partners' offices. LawyerWard, OlderWard. Story won by Sharon Fulda at Ashley's Auction.

When will they be posted? Soonish, when I get to a good writing point that ensures me continuity of posting. If you're so inclined, please follow/alert me to know when new stories appear.

Also, my FB group LaMomo's Lair is a good place to find out news and teasers (just type the name in the FB search bar to find it and join).

Thank you to everyone from BCG and CluelessWard/AwkWard for your continued love and support.