Disclaimer: I don't own the Twilight Saga.
Author's Note: (March 3, 2014) Sorry. I know this is long overdue. And what's worse, I'm only giving out the good ending today. I'm still not sure if I'm going to finish writing the bad ending, for when I read I read through all this again, I felt that Emmett and Rosalie deserve to have a good ending after so much pain and heartbreak.
The reason why I like giving two endings is because in life, there mostly always will be a negative or a positive outcome based on what decision a person makes.
This ending was already written and outlined long ago, way back in September along with the other chapters. It just needed some major dialogues and minor tweaks here and there. A lot of things just popped up in my life, so this was way delayed. I'm really sorry for making you guys wait so long. Also, sorry about not giving the bad ending, but I figured one is better than none. So here you go.
Good Ending: Revelations
Instead, an exhausted sigh touched his lips before he spoke in a weary tone, "I wanna stop playing games, Rose."
As seconds ticked by in agonizingly slow torture, we both simply stared at each other. Until his eyes darted to the blood sliding down my forearm. Frozen shock registered on his face, and for a still second, time seemed to cease – before all hell broke loose.
Finding him scrambling towards me in such brash movements, I hurriedly got up in fear but just as I was about to plant one foot behind, his hand caught my wrist and he held my bleeding arm high above my head until his body knocked mine against the sturdy wall.
With a gasp and the sudden loss of breath, I winced from the impact, my body shaking with terror engulfing my entire being.
"Why the hell would you do this, Rosalie?! Tell me! Why?!"
His eyes bore deep into mine, searching for an answer I couldn't utter, couldn't explain, couldn't even find out.
"Is this what you want?" His hand coiled around the open cut, and my scream reverberated throughout our room, the shrillness echoing in my own ears. "Is this what you like, huh?! The pain?"
"Stop it! Emmett, please stop it!"
I was crying, wailing, screaming. Not holding anything back, there I stood, the transparent liquid streaming down my cheeks, my frustration at this situation finally coming out in the open. I finally broke down. This was it. Before him, at my most vulnerable, this was who I really was inside.
The grip on my wound weakened little by little, until his hand, soaked in my blood, gradually fell to his side. His other hand lifted and with much difficulty, I could make it out landing against his forehead, his eyes shutting close. Then there was a sudden eerie quietness to the room for one breathless minute – before restrained sobs shattered the suffocating silence.
"Rose, goddamn it, what the hell are you doing to yourself?!" he asked, enraged, the exasperation injected in his words reaching out to me.
In a sudden flurry, his hands clutched my head, sliding down to cup my cheeks, his thumbs kissing the tears that wouldn't stop flowing.
"What are you doing, love? What are you doing?" he kept repeating, his forehead leaning against mine, his words breathing against my skin.
Shocked, terrified, heartbroken – I felt all these as he continued to shower me with the feather-light caresses of his fingers and sweet attention filled with so much concern that made me lose all sense of speech.
With disbelieving eyes, I looked up at my husband's downward dejected gaze. I couldn't comprehend anything he was muttering. But what completely took me aback were his tears. Never, in our three years together did I ever see Emmett's tears. He always seemed so lively, so complete, so happy in his own right.
This unusual situation unfolding before my very eyes struck me as both shocking and enchanting. I remembered the hurt he felt at the long-lasting family feud between his great-grandmother and grandfather, torn between his relatives that he loved and held the utmost respect for. Not even then did he lose his composure and broke down.
Was I the only one who could make him this broken? Was it only I who had the ability to coax those tears out of him? Was it only I who could truly hurt him?
And that's when I realized it. It was me. It was my fault. It was my own insecurity. I knew I didn't deserve him. From the very start, that thought nagging at the back of my head – it was telling me that my husband was too good for me. I didn't deserve him. I didn't deserve Emmett. I never did and I never will. He was too good for me.
Those nagging feelings at the back of my head ever since Emmett proposed… Those doubts and bouts of insecurity that resurfaced with much more intensity when I met Edward…
'You're not built for a long-term commitment, Rosalie.'
'You enjoy fucking different men, admit it.'
'You miss the one-night stands.'
'You know very well you're capable of cheating… You'll end up cheating on Emmett…'
'You're going to hurt him, Rosalie. 'Cause you can't be faithful.'
'You can't stay with one man. You've never been with just one man…'
Those were the ill misgivings that I now distinctly remembered. They kept my mind filled with anxious worry about my marriage to Emmett. It's what kept me back from him all this time. Me. It was I who kept myself away from him.
"Why would you do this to yourself?!"
With him shaking my shoulders, I was snapped out of my stupor. Somehow, angrily, I managed to push his hands away and turn around, my emotions and thoughts all jumbled into one puzzling mess. I didn't know what to think.
"Why would you care…? A whore like me surely would be such a waste to invest your concerns on…"
A sharp yank on my shoulders turned me around to face him, and I was met with the frightening sound of his voice yelling, "Goddamn it, Rose! Don't you know how much you mean to me?! Didn't you even consider how much this would pain me? This despicable thing you're doing to yourself! Goddamn it, Rose, how much more pain do you wish me to suffer through before I get to you? Before you realize that no matter what you do, I'd still love you? I love you, Rosalie. I love you! As I said two years ago, in my vows that I'm willing to keep, forever and always, I will love you."
My mouth hung open at his powerful words, petrifying me to my spot for a minute. Not knowing what to do, I shook my shoulders to get his hold off of me. With blatant regret in his eyes, his hands quickly dropped to his sides.
"Why?" I whispered to myself. "I don't deserve you. You deserve so much more than me…" I wasn't certain if I wanted him to hear what I was mumbling about, but in the irrefutable silence we were both drowning in, there was no question that he heard what I was saying.
"Is this what it's about? That you don't deserve me?"
I stayed quiet, turning my gaze down to the floor. Two steps away from me, I heard him scoff, his footsteps then moving away from where I stood. The edge of the bed made a low sound as his weight was added to it.
"Rosalie, look at me."
I swallowed. I couldn't look at him. The shame I felt was too much to take.
"Listen to what I have to say. Please."
Gathering my courage, I took a deep breath and steadied my gaze onto him. Though the uncomfortable exchange of our tear-glazed eyes was beyond intimidating, I held my ground. And then he spoke.
"Our relationship wasn't based on whether you deserved me or not, Rose. I chose you. I chose you to be my wife. I chose you even though I knew everything you were capable of doing. I knew the temptations you couldn't resist. I've known what kind of lady you were ever since the first day I laid eyes on you.
I knew how your beauty blinded you, how shallow you could be, how little you wanted out of life, how important your status in everyone else's eye was to you. I knew you loved the attention, the lavish gifts of jealous stares from your peers and the lustful glares of men. You were such a superficial woman when I met you."
"Aren't I still?"
"No." His answer came out right away. No pause, no doubt, no uncertainty. "To me, you never were."
Confusion was written all over my face, and I opened my mouth to ask something, but closed it back because I had no idea what exactly I wanted to know.
"Ah, love," he sighed, clearly exhausted as ran his hand through his hair, combing it back half-way then ruffling it up as if from frustration. As he put both his hands down, his elbows meeting his knees, he clasped his fingers together and continued.
"How I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. You are nothing like the woman you think you are. Even though you think all those are bad qualities, I admired them. I loved everything about you. All I saw was a confident woman who knew her charms, the power she possessed over men, her innate beauty that she was born with, someone bold enough to flaunt it, someone who knew how to show it. You were and still are the most beautiful woman that ever came into my life, Rosalie.
But you lacked something. All you wanted was to find the happiness you deserve. But you never allowed yourself to grasp it because you looked down on yourself. Some people might think you think so highly of yourself with the way you uphold your appearance in public. But I knew you were never satisfied with yourself. Because you lacked that one thing. It's been right in your reach all along, Rose. It was right in your hands, the one thing you've always wanted. The one thing you so deserve. But you locked yourself up in that tight grip of yours. You just had to let yourself be happy. We ourselves decide upon our happiness and our own demise.
I've been trying to make you see everything that is beautiful about you, which is all of you. You never had to change. You should've never hated yourself, because you are perfect to me, just the way you are. And all I wanted was to see you smile, every single day, for you to finally be happy, because like everyone on this planet, you deserve to be."
My tears were rolling down my cheeks nonstop, my hands futilely fighting it to not reach the floor. From the blur of my tears, I barely made out his figure moving towards me. All I felt next were his hands slowly cupping mine, tendrils of my hair within his grasp, my tears soaking them into dampness.
He said in the tenderest tone a silent proclamation, "Rose, you are the one. You are the only one I've ever wanted for the rest of my life."
I couldn't comprehend how he could still be saying all this, when everything that led us here, all the despicable things I've done, were not only insults to our marriage but also to who he was.
"I know who you really are inside, Rosalie. I was aware of your insecurities. I just wish that you'd have come to me before your weaknesses took complete control over you."
This wasn't right. Why was he being so loving towards me?
In the midst of my confusion, I yelled out one degrading truth I knew to be true. "I'm nothing but a slut! A whore, who deserves the emptiness of one-night stands and for surely, doesn't deserve your loyal love."
And then I heard more of it. I felt it. I saw it. His tears dropping on the back of his hands that were still holding onto mine. I looked up to find them, so beautifully enthralling, so captivating and at the same, heartbreaking. I wanted to reach out to them, feel the realness to it.
"Please don't say that, love." His voice was silently pleading, desperately begging. "Because that's not what you are."
I shook my head, gently pushing away his hands from mine. "You're wrong. That's all I am. That's all I ever will be."
Knowing it was true; I once again felt the shame, the heavy truth weighing upon my chest dragging my head to hang low.
"You're more than that, Rosalie. You deserve way more than that…"
I was beyond consolation, beyond repair. My fists balled up against my eyes, trying so desperately to block away the tears from falling. I must've looked like a child. Finally, giving up, not knowing what else there was to say, I could only utter questions I didn't know the answer to. For I really didn't know who I was.
"Then tell me, Emmett… Who am I? What am I? Who and what am I to you…?"
My voice was a hoarse whisper behind my palms in which I hid my tear-streaked face. I couldn't bear to let him see me this way.
For a long time, he said nothing. Bravely lowering my hands to see him, I noted how tears were now streaking down both our cheeks and we both looked at each other through the distorted vision of our eyes.
His palm then rested against my damp cheek, his thumb soaking up my tears as his face was inching closer to mine, his lips landing against my other cheek, kissing the tear stains away. I then felt my tears on his lips press against my forehead. Closing my eyes, he kissed my eyelids. Then my nose. Finally, his lips found mine. My lips quivered under his kiss. For a long time, we stayed right there, connected.
As he fought the reluctance to move away from my lips, his head lifted, and his whispered words hushed me into complete silence and utter gratitude.
"You're my wife…"
That was it. That's what I was. That's who I really was. And that… was enough.
In his embrace, I continued crying. I didn't know how he managed to get me to bed, but I knew I wasn't only in the comfort of his arms, but also in the familiar sanctity of our marital bed.
Long after I finally settled down, he took my left hand in his and gave it a kiss. His other hand lifted and I saw the gold shine in the split second of another flash of lightning. It was my wedding ring.
I had a feeling he wanted me to wear it. But I was a little bit hesitant.
"Do I still deserve to wear that?"
Instead of a yes or no, he answered me with a question of his own. "Are you still my angel?"
Those five words had the ability to stir up my tear ducts once again. I nodded, feeling so grateful and undeserving, but loved.
My husband paused in sliding the ring down my finger. Gazing up, I wondered if he was thinking he was making a mistake. I wouldn't blame him if he'd get up and leave, realizing just now that this wasn't worth it. That I wasn't worth it.
But there was no sign of hesitation or doubt on his face. He just stopped midway.
"Tell me you love me," he then uttered, his eyes finding mine, searching for the answer there.
"I know you love me, Rosalie, but I want to hear it. I want to hear you say it," he urged on further but left me some time to compose myself.
Looking at the clear sea in his eyes, I took one deep breath and choked out the words in my heart. The words that I never betrayed. The words that made every one-night stand hurt so much more.
"I love you, Emmett. I do love you. Very much…"
His love is what saves me.
He was my salvation.
He saves me. Every single time.
As his hands carefully parted my blouse open and the last button came undone and his lips touched the 'A' above my heart, I knew, right then, at that single precious moment, that I was forgiven, I was loved, and I was his. I was his. I was his wife.
I also knew right then that I mattered... I mattered to him. I wasn't just a nobody in this world. I meant something to a fellow human being. And he was right before me. I blinded myself for so long with my own insecurity.
"This is who I want… This Rosalie…" he whispered against my skin.
His kisses made my whole body ache, my soul now bared open to him, my tears speaking of the painful guilt I've been feeling. I was giving myself over to him fully, with all my imperfections, mistakes and regrets, and he took me in. Accepting my faults and failures, he washed away my pain with every kiss he planted, and I was renewed. Reborn in his arms, revived by his love.
Winding my arms around his neck, I clung onto him as his lips captured mine, my hands tangling in his hair, my fingers so desperately clinging onto every strand that I would never allow to slip past my fingers ever again. All of this, all of him, every fiber, every cell, everything within him, his entire being, belonged to me. And I… belonged to him.
His words and everything he revealed to me that night was the most precious gift I've ever received in my entire life. The same exact moment he thrust into me, I let go of that grip he spoke of, and finally freed myself from the cage I imprisoned myself in. And that's when I started to learn to love myself. I loved myself because he loved me. With his words and his actions, he showed me how he saw me, how much I really meant to him, how worthy I was of life and happiness, how in his eyes, I was beautiful, perfect and how I was his everything.
Somewhere along the line, I forgot and failed to see that one important truth.
Lightly placing the golden wedding ring in his palm, I then calmly said, "Edward, my husband and I are leaving."
"Rose, you can't leave. I need you here." The blatant desperation manifested in his voice was very clear, but I knew Edward only needed me for it was his weakness that clung onto me as I became an emotional attachment that he grew to depend on.
"No, you don't," I countered. "I have come to realize something of utmost importance."
"And that would be?" he asked me, growing wearily impatient, already frustrated with the knowledge of my departure.
"I don't need you."
Anger flashed across his features and the quick stride he took towards me took me by surprise, the strong hold of his hands around my arms shaking my body in helpless frustration igniting a sense of panic but no fear. He wasn't that kind of person. After the seven months we spent together, I knew for certain, Edward wasn't a violent man.
"Of course you do!"
Clutching onto his forearms, I then rubbed my hands up and down to soothe his irate mood and shook my head slowly. "No, I don't. And you don't need me, either, Edward."
His hands dropped lifelessly to his sides, and his body collapsed onto his seat, his elbows resting on his knees, his head in his hands.
I had loved my sister dearly. Six years younger than I was, I was very overprotective of her. When our father died ten years ago in 2002 at the age of forty-two, I was eighteen, my sister was only twelve. As soon my sister reached her teenage years, she distanced herself from me. At thirteen, she got hooked onto illegal drugs and spent time with the wrong sort. At the age of fifteen, she had her first abortion.
Our mother, Elizabeth, for whom my sister was named after, never thought ill of her daughter and thought that Eliza, as we used to call her, was only acting out because she lacked paternal guidance. My mother loved her even more to make up for the lack of a love of a father.
Eliza overdosed at the age of sixteen and was sent to Rehab for one whole year. During this time was also when our mother fell gravely ill. When Eliza got out of Rehab on October 2008, she immediately relapsed into addiction as she saw our mother's dying state. Four months later, on a cold February night in 2009, Elizabeth Masen, wife of the late Edward Anthony Masen, Sr., mother to Edward Anthony Masen, Jr. and Elizabeth "Eliza" Ann Masen, died of heart failure at the age of forty-five. Eliza, who was so close to our mother, admitted herself into Rehab, not being able to handle and cope with the death of the only person who still loved her despite everything she has ever committed.
As for me? I ran away. That was my way of coping. Sex, alcohol, tobacco, spending my fortune on strippers, hookers, prostitutes, I led my life with the shallow pleasures of men. Not long after, on a warm autumn day in August, I was called back home by my grandfather and was devastated to hear the news of my sister's suicide. To add to my despair and loneliness, grandfather died ten months later at the age of eighty. I was the only Masen left from our family by June 2010.
The guilt that nagged at me since Eliza's death was what urged me to donate to the Rehabilitation Center where she had hanged herself as a mark of her first death anniversary in August 2010.
During my period of mourning of all the relatives I had lost, I had learned to compose four piano sonatas, each one for the specific loved one. "Eliza's Melody" was my first piece, followed by "Elizabeth's Lullaby," inspired by the lullaby my mother used to shush me and my sister with whenever we were restless at night. "A Father's Spirit" and "Old Soul Whispering" came after.
In September of 2010, a month after I started donating, I volunteered to help out at the Rehab Center, and that's when I met Isabella Marie Cullen. I've heard of the Cullens before, our families were after all in the same social circle. We Masens though, always paid off paparazzi to keep our faces off the newspapers every time a disaster occurred in our personal lives; one example was Eliza's entrance into Rehab or her accidental pregnancy in 2006. Though we managed to keep quiet about Eliza's profuse scandals, gossip always spread quickly. Socialites especially, were quick with such juicy gossips.
I knew of Dr. Carlisle Cullen and his wife. They were always celebrated in our estate whenever they came back from Europe, welcomed warmly by my grandfather who was being treated by Dr. Cullen himself. The doctor and his wife never stayed long in our city for Dr. Cullen being a world-renown surgeon was always requested in Europe. The couple always came home during Christmas to spend it with their children and would leave right away after New Year.
Their children, I have heard their names before, Jasper, Rosalie and Isabella were about the same age as I was. A few months before my grandfather's death, I heard of one of the girls getting married. As I met Isabella in Rehab, I found out it was her older sister who had gotten married in April, a month after she admitted herself into Rehab. She disclosed to me that she didn't want to attend her sister's wedding and thus, came into the Rehab Center to seek refuge. I instantly got curious as to what kind of relationship Isabella had with her older sister.
Isabella stayed in Rehab until March of the following year, and the more time I spent with her and the more she told me about her sister, the more I was reminded of my own younger sister and the last few years of our relationship as siblings. Before I knew it, March 2011 had arrived and Isabella was out of Rehab. She thanked me for the times I spent with her inside the facility, telling me that weren't it for me; she probably would've hanged herself long ago.
The thought of losing someone else to suicide forced the buried memory of seeing my sister's strangled neck forth, and that very minute, I crushed the tiny figure before me in my embrace, desperately holding onto her like she were the only thing that could keep me standing.
As if she knew what had urged me to cling onto her, with the feeling that I needed some encouragement, her weak, fragile arms wrapped themselves around me, and for a long time, we stood in silence, finding solace in each other's presence. That was the first time I leaned into her and kissed her cracked lips.
Apparently, she had heard of my sister's suicide and the real reason as to why I was donating and helping out at the Rehab Center. She told me that I was a good person, trying to keep the memory of my sister alive through my volunteer work and as an advocate speaker on substance abuse.
I courted her with the permission of Dr. Cullen and Esme, and after six months, on September 2011, exactly one year after we first met, I proposed to her. Three months later, in December, just as she wanted, we wed in a garden filled with snow around us, her love for winter always giving her a sense of hope. All the socialites attended, as was expected, and as she expected too, her older sister wasn't present.
Four months later, in late April, as our city welcomed the lively sight of spring, I finally met my sister-in-law. She had just celebrated her second wedding anniversary with her husband. It only took a few days before I found myself buried deep inside Rosalie's heat. And as I penetrated her over and over, I fought back the tears that were suddenly surfacing at the sudden memory of my deceased baby sister.
My masterpiece, "A Lover's Regret," was inspired by my affair with Rosalie, which I performed at a concert where my wife, her sister and her sister's husband were present. Needless to say, there was a certain tension that night as we gathered in my estate for the after party.
"Do you remember what you told me that night after you played that tune inspired by me?"
"I remember that night vividly, Rose…"
With the after party over, all guests gone, my wife asleep, I once again found myself diving into my sister-in-law, so deep inside her that I had to stifle her screams with a kiss, only to have my hands pinch those perky nipples of hers with such intensity that her loud cry had managed to escape our tongues intertwining. Rosalie was utter perfection when she cried out loud. The clenching of her walls around me was excruciating pleasure; her orgasm shuddering through her body was a pleasant relief that brought about my own downfall.
I had no idea why it was so easy to talk to Rosalie about things I never dared to utter to my own wife. So even I surprised myself as I whispered mournfully into the night, "It was my fault that my sister killed herself. I should have stayed. I should have taken care of her. I shouldn't have shunned her after she turned to drugs. It was my fault. It was my entire fault. I killed her."
That night was the first time Rosalie kissed me not in the heat of a sexual activity, but a kiss that was shared among intimate lovers.
"I'm here. I'll listen," she told me with her lips grazing back and forth on mine.
I then continued. "At first, when I met Isabella, I thought to myself that if I help her out of Rehab, it would sort of make up for the lack of help I gave my sister. Now, lately, I've been wondering whether I married Isabella to make myself feel less guilty about the death of Eliza."
"But you do love her, don't you, Edward?" she asked, as if we were just continuing our conversation that night.
"I do. She made me fall in love with her. But the thought of my sister that always crept up on me always made me doubt my motives behind my marriage."
"Edward, it was your doubt, and your guilt that led you to me. I was your escape from those feelings that you felt whenever you were with your wife. And my insecurity, thinking I didn't deserve my husband for I felt like nothing more than a flirty snob who needed the attention of thousands of men, was what led me to you. The more I felt the emptiness after each of our nights together, the more I thought that that void was the only thing I deserved in life."
These realizations were painful to us both, and I couldn't stand being the only one whose eyes were teary, so due to my own arrogant selfishness, I cupped his cheek in my palm and brought his eyes to meet mine. Sure enough, with his eyes glazed with his own emotions, my tears slid down my cheeks at the same time his did.
He lightly leaned into my palm and turned his head just a little for his lips to plant a light kiss on it. "You've been my strength for a long time, Rosalie."
"I know. But now we know that this isn't what either of us needed. You've kept my sanity intact as well, Edward."
"Where will you be going?"
"I can't tell you that. Emmett and I plan to start life anew. And we'd forever cut our ties with our family. We're both sick and tired of being tied to a society which tells us what to do, or how to behave. We don't plan on ever coming back here. Our parents will understand. We're no longer children they can scold."
His hand clasped mine gently. "Rose, I'm genuinely glad that you finally found the strength to free yourself from your dependence on me."
I smiled up at him. "Now go and do the same. My sister will be overjoyed by having her husband back."
Surprise registered on Edward's face for a moment until it was replaced with a pleasant smile. "That's the very first time you addressed her that way."
I nodded. "I know."
Leaning in to lightly plant a kiss on his cheek, I then said with all the gratefulness I felt, "You'll always have a special place in my heart, Edward."
"As you will in mine," he answered solemnly, the palm of his hand warmly pressed against my cheek.
"Oh, before I go, my husband wants a word with you."
I arose from my seat and watched Rosalie walk to then stand by the open doors to my room until her husband came into view. Towering at six-feet-four, Emmett McCarty was a relatively ominous threat even to someone like me, though our gap in height was only four inches. I didn't know what to expect, or what he'd say, and I definitely didn't see that right-hook coming.
Stumbling sideward, I found myself trying to grab something to hold onto for balance. As my palm finally landed on the back of the chair I had just occupied, my other hand hovering over the raw, aching, swelling skin on my cheek, I glanced up and found the eyes of Rosalie in the corner of the room, watching silently in the background, her lips pursed.
"What the hell was that for?" I spat out bitterly. Surprisingly, there was no feeling of anger rushing to the surface to drive me into punching him back. I think I knew I deserved it.
Straightening my bent over form, I grazed the sore skin with my knuckles, trying to find any blood traces. I wouldn't have forgiven the bastard if there were any. Fortunately for him, there weren't any. Finally finding myself on eye-level to the death glare of Emmett, I spoke up once again, asking the same question. But he cut me off as soon as I got the first words out, and this time, I felt my back slammed against the wall, his hands grabbing the collar of my shirt, his knuckles forcing my chin upward. His words were a mere whisper, but the anger injected into them was clear as liquid.
"Listen to me, you lying, cheating bastard, you better tell Bella everything or I swear to God, I'll fucking come back just to kill you. She fucking deserves to know what you've been doing behind her back, and you fucking know it. You of all people know very well how much pain she's been through, and the news of her husband's infidelity coming from me would crush her more than if she were to hear it from you. Be grateful I didn't beat you to it."
"Emmett, that's enough."
The slight warning tone in his wife's voice made us both look up and his grip on my collar finally loosened. He backed away from me and then offered an outstretched hand. The polite handshake felt quite ridiculous after his violent outburst.
"Take care of my sis-in-law, will ya? Tell her I said hi."
One of Emmett's famous grins flashed at me and I couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of it. This man was quite amusing. If we were in another time and place, he could've been the brother I've always wanted since I was three.
Minutes later as I led them to the main door then watched them drive away, forever leaving this place with a thousand memories of them both still lingering in my memory, I knew that even if they said they didn't have any plans on returning, they would always be welcome here.
By the time you read this letter, I'm already far gone from our home, and there is a chance we will never see each other again. All you need to know is that I needed to get away from there so Emmett and I are planning on starting our life anew far from home. Before I leave though, there are several things you ought to know.
I know the reason why you've been inflicting pain on yourself. I've known from the start. As an older sister, I feel much guilt for never acknowledging the fact that my younger sister was always under pressure, always having to walk in my shadows, always trying to reach further than I have, in both physical aspects or career-wise.
Have I ever mentioned that I am so proud of you, baby sister? You're a great dancer, and if you'd just leave your insecurities behind, you can be the best out there.
I know it was difficult for you to always be compared to me, your looks to my beauty, and due to my selfish vanity and arrogant self-centeredness, I admit I have always felt superior to you, and thus, never really cared what happened to you as long as I had the attention.
Isabella, my dear baby sister, if I could take away all the pain my ego has brought upon your simple, humble being, I would. But since I can't, know that wherever I may be, I will forever be repenting for it.
If only I wasn't blessed with the curse of my beauty, maybe, we could've been the most inseparable sisters on Earth. I am so sorry, Isa.
I hope, one day, you can forgive the evil, wicked sister in me, and start to see the real me, the real Rosalie who now realizes that she would give anything for her younger sister to be happy. And I do want that, with all my heart. Your happiness, Bella. Please promise me, never to inflict pain on yourself ever again. I don't want you ending up in Rehab once more, and this is not because I care about the shame that you'd bring to our family again, no. That no longer matters to me. What truly matters is your well-being. And being in Rehab will only depress you more, and what's worse, will give you limited time with your husband.
Focus on your husband now, Bella. You'll find that he needs you now, more than ever. Just as he helped you out in Rehab, help him now. I know you know about his sister who killed herself in Rehab. But you might not know the pain and guilt he still feels for what was beyond his control. Do not be frightened, thinking you don't have what it takes to heal him. Because you do. You are all he needs now, Isa. Just as much as you need him, he needs you.
Please, my darling Bells, take care of yourself. I love you, Bella. And you may not believe it, but I always have and I always will.
All my love,
"Bella, I need to tell you something."
As my wife turned around, I instantly froze in my tracks. Tears streaking down her cheeks, a letter in her hand that now fell to the ground as she lifted her hands up to cover her quivering lips, I watched on as my wife wept, and the sight of it broke my composure.
I could feel my own tears at the back of my eyes stinging, breaking through, and before my wife could witness the breakdown of her own husband, I pulled her in close to my chest, wanting nothing more but to erase the pain she was feeling.
"Where is she, Edward?" she whispered in between broken sobs. "Where is my sister? Where's Rosalie?!"
She was slamming her tiny fists against my chest, and with a pained heart, I endured them, trying to soak in all her anger at the abandonment she was feeling. I could tell, she already knew Rosalie was gone.
I knew all this time that Isabella loved her sister more than anything and anyone in the world. And her real reason for admitting herself into Rehab a month before Rosalie's wedding to Emmett was because she was sure that Rosalie wouldn't want her there, after all the shame she brought to the Cullen name. She told me the day after our wedding that she really wished she was present at her older sister's wedding ceremony and that Rosalie would've been present at ours.
"I'm sorry, Bella. God, I'm so sorry, love…"
Feeling partly responsible for her sister moving away, I held my wife, scared that she'd wither in my arms as I crushed her in my embrace, afraid to let go of her, terrified by the thought of her leaving me to go find her sister.
The arms that held me, protected me, and always made me feel safe tightened around my body racking with sobs. I quieted and stilled, drinking in the sorrow I felt from my husband's presence. I knew he had something important to tell me, something to confess to me. I've been waiting for it for months.
I've always known there was something going on with my husband. And learning that my sister knew more about his pain than I did, it wasn't hard to guess what he was so preoccupied with. But it no longer mattered. He was back. Back with me. Back in my arms. Just as my sister asked of me, I would take care of him and heal his pain, no matter how long it would take.
As soon I felt my husband's tears on my cheeks, I had already accepted his silent apology.
Everything would be all right. I only wished I could see my sister one more time… Maybe some time in the future… She'd come back…
I loved Rosalie, no, love her. More than anything in the world. And even more than I love my husband. For my love for my sister has been established and built a long time ago. Since I was a child, I had always looked up to her. It was my own insecurity, listening to everyone's comparison between us two, leading me to shame the Cullen name numerous times.
And the real reason why I admitted myself into Rehab a month before her wedding was because I knew she was ashamed of me and hated me for bringing shame to our family name. I didn't want to stand in her way, didn't want to spoil her happiness on her wedding day.
My tears were threatening to once again spill from my eyes, but before they fell, I felt my husband's lips on mine. This reassuring exchange brought me closer to him, my body melding into his as he slowly lowered my own onto the bed.
His face, hovering above mine, was perfect and so, so beautiful. As my fingers grazed his cheeks and were marked by teardrops, I instantly wound my arms around his neck, pulled him close to my body and listened to his aching heart beat in time with mine.
I silently pronounced my love over and over, and as he whispered it back, a sense of relief flooded through me, my emotions pushing past my eyes, spilling with every emotional pain that slowly left me with the following tears that held nothing but pure joy.
I couldn't help it. I couldn't help my tears. I was leaving a huge part of my life. The place that brought me up to be the woman I am today. And yet, I was so sure that this was the right thing to do. But still, I couldn't stop crying. I was leaving the home I knew since I was a child.
I had both good and bad memories in this city, and leaving a place I love was painful, but for a chance to salvage my marriage to the man who loved me more than anything and anyone in the world, I was more than ready to leave everything behind.
The silence inside the car was a little unbearable, but when I looked up to see my husband, the vision of tears touching his cheeks, I knew, this was what was best for both of us.
I had no idea why the fuck my tears wouldn't let up. Probably because I knew this place held so many dear memories I held close to my heart. Meeting my angel, proposing to her, learning of the existence of my great-grandmother, becoming the owner of bars and hotels, marrying the woman I love, living with her in the home of my great-grandmother who became special to me just within six months… Those memories I held dear, all those happened here, in this very city I was driving away from.
I was aware that my wife was crying as well. I could hear her, even though she was staring out the passenger's window, trying so hard to conceal her sadness. This was painful for us both, but I never expected it to be this excruciating, driving away from the place we both love.
I wasn't sure if we were ready for this, but as my wife's hand landed on mine, I found her looking up at me, and as her other hand darted out to wipe the salty streak of tears on my right cheek, she whispered with firm determination in her voice, "I'm ready."
And when she said it, I knew I was too.
We were able to start our life anew in a new city alongside a new year. Living in a simple three-bedroom house with a little garden in the back and a lawn in front, we made our life here. I was still managing the hotels owned under the McCarty family name, but I no longer had to be around that place, having left a trusted employee in charge.
Making my way to the master's bedroom, I was met with the lovely sight of my wife sitting by the vanity mirror, combing her hair that she cut short to just above her shoulders, her reason for it that by doing so, she's leaving behind what was once an important part of who she was.
As she took note of me standing by the doorway, our eyes meeting through the reflection of the mirror, she gifted me that smile that I so loved. How blessed I was feeling at that very moment, I couldn't even explain. Seeing her, knowing she was still mine, knowing she wanted to be here with me, was more than I could've ever asked for.
My angel was still with me.
Moving towards her, she turned around on her seat, making sure to be facing me as I knelt before her towering form. In her white bathrobe, she exuded a lovely aura of innocence. With her smiling down at me, my heart swelled with so much love for this woman whose presence I could bask in forever.
As I parted her bathrobe open, I leaned in to her chest, planting a kiss upon the mark I gave her a little over a month ago. I traced the scar with my finger, feeling the indentation it made on her milky skin. It was healing.
Pushing up the left sleeve of the robe, revealing the multiple vertical cuts on her arm, those too, I kissed. They were healing. She was healing. We both were. Slowly but surely.
And though we planned on leaving everything behind, her growing belly that I also planted a kiss upon was part of our past that at first, we thought, was punishment for both of us, something to haunt us with.
The first time Rosalie learned of it, she was already nearing the end of her first trimester. She immediately told me she wanted to get rid of it. But I didn't let her. I told her no one had to know. The child would be ours, no matter what. We were going to raise it as our very own.
I wasn't going to leave her, I reassured her. And whoever the child might be, I would love them both, for eternity. I was able to convince her that this wasn't our punishment, for how can a child ever be a punishment? Children were blessings, and I was right. Six months later in early July, she arrived. Another angel I was blessed with. A little angel we both were blessed with.
"Why would you possibly want me to keep it? It's a fruit born of a painful memory, a memory that to this day, I still try to bury! We're being punished, Emmett. I can't allow it to be born! I'll hate it."
"Listen to me, love. You're not going to hate it. Do you know why? Because it'll be a part of you. And I'll love him or her just the same. Because it will be ours. He or she will be a blessing. The ultimate mark of us starting over. The baby will be the mark of the end of a painful memory, and the beginning of a new and better one."
"Don't you trust me, love?"
"Of course I do, Emmett…"
"Trust me when I say this: he or she will be our salvation."
I believed his words. And he was right.
There were times when it was difficult to look at her without remembering, especially every year that she grew to look more and more like her biological father. But despite that, with my husband's love that he showered upon me and our little girl every single day, I learned to accept everything that happened, for she became an important part of our life.
She brought us even closer to each other. She was the unbreakable bond that tied us together. She completed our happiness. She was our redemption.
Several years later…
I watched my daughter playing in our garden, running around, in chase of a butterfly. And though in my mind, I knew she shared no same genes as mine, in my heart, I loved her like my own daughter. No matter what, she is my daughter.
My daughter's singing voice that was so much like her mother's called out to me and I watched her run over to where I sat. Under the gleaming sunlight, her bronze ringlets shone brightly and bounced with each step that she took, and as she looked up at me with the green forest in her eyes, only one thought crossed my mind: how would we ever explain to our daughter, once she'd start asking, how she got bronze hair and green eyes if neither Rosalie nor I have that feature?
"Daddy, are you listening?"
"Yes, Renesmee, I'm listening."
Rosalie wanted to thank both our mothers who have given birth to us, thus giving us this extraordinary opportunity to be standing here with our daughter, so in tribute, she combined her mother's name with my mother's, giving birth to the name Renesmee, the carrier of the name being this little girl standing before me, smiling up at me the same way he'd smile at people.
He will never know about her. He didn't have to know. To Rosalie and me, it didn't matter anymore. Renesmee was ours.
Looking up to find the source of the voice I so loved, I found an angelic face hovering above mine, blocking the sunlight out of my view and my eyes instinctively squinted to find my angel bathing me in her shadow, her divine presence refreshing in the heat of the summer sunshine, our five-year-old daughter perched upon her hip.
Under the sun, my lovely wife appeared to have a golden glow surrounding her that almost looked surreal, and an imperceptible golden halo lightly floating above her head was the result of my imagination that underwent too much sunlight.
Despite knowing that it was impossible that my wife has wings and a halo floating above her head, it was the image I always saw whenever I looked at her. It always has been, since the day I first caught a glimpse of her at the bar of the hotel I worked at…
She has always been an angel in my eyes. She is and always will be.
For this was the real her. The real Rosalie.
My beautiful wife. My one and only.
Author's Note: That was the happy ending to Emmett and Rosalie's relationship (with a little twist). I'm tempted to write an extra piece where Rosalie comes back and sees her sister again. And Bella meets Renesmee… And Edward would catch a glimpse of himself in the eyes of a certain bronze-haired little girl, aged the same amount of years that Rosalie and her husband were gone for. I'm still thinking about it, though.
And yes, this story is slightly based on my own personal relationship with my fiancé. It's about my act of infidelity. I knew I'd get hurt by some reviews, but I understand some people have very strong feelings about infidelity. I had to get my pain from my own act of infidelity out somehow and since I let go of my emotions through, well, writing, this story was therefore created. Some readers might not be able to relate too much if they don't understand the amount and level of insecurity Rosalie (or rather, I) have when it comes to being in a relationship.
Well, I shared something very personal by writing and posting this story. I'd love it if you let me know what you thought of it. Review or send me a PM, I'd appreciate any. Thanks so much for sticking with this story and reading it through to the end.
P.S. My next stories might be a series of Twilight Incest.