Hello, friends.

I'm guessing most of you are as aware as I of the movie premier descending on us next week. Though MOTU (Master of the Universe, which was reworked into 50 Shades of Grey) has been on my short-list of favorite Twilight fanfictions since I stumbled onto it years ago, seeing the movie is not my idea of a useful psychological outing—and I do mean that more than one way.

Though she's a wonderful writer and has an excellent mastery (pun intended) of describing in emotionally-compelling/satisfying ways the Dominant-submissive dynamic, Ms. James seems to be one of the "submission equals strength" camp that is, in my own limited experience, the mainstream attitude within BDSM. [Yes, there's a mainstream in BDSM subculture, which can be as ignorant and disapproving of its outliers as mainstream culture itself was historically ignorant of BDSM. And so human nature goes…]

And I don't disagree.

HOWEVER…I am aware, through the fact of my reluctantly-at-times-continued existence, that not all who submit feel strong. Or remotely sexually-satisfied. Indeed, and this is THE CRUX OF THE MATTER for me in all I write, some of us unfortunate souls are wired to be submissive at all times, not just in the chosen confines of the bedroom. Or helicopter.

Of course, the sadly predictable results of this nature paired with the brutal world and the often damaged, unkind people in it tend to be a lot more scary and painful, not to mention permanent, than bruising on the butt or rope burn on the wrists. So I have to ask myself: given the everyday reality of my life, is it wise to allow my animal self access to images of a shy and self-effacing young woman being aggressively pursued by a powerful, painstakingly moral man wanting to oversee and control every aspect of her life in order to make her safe and happy?

There is a term I encountered in my own research into the BDSM community—inspired as so many others have been I'm sure by MOTU and the shocking idea that the way I am might actually be seen by certain others as attractive instead of repulsive, sad or funny. I share this term with you because I haven't been able to think of a better descriptor for the way being me feels, when "relational high-feeler" just doesn't cut it. The term is, "profoundly submissive," and it fits.

It is a dangerous fit, however, because the people using that term, as far as I know, are mostly in one of the outlying BDSM groups, one that advocates for a relational ideal of involuntary servitude, using language that I object to and advocating for profoundly submissive people to help themselves by throwing themselves on the mercy of those willing to be dominant towards them.

Um, can we say, "Recipe for disaster?" Yes, even someone calling herself "codependent liza" doesn't think it wise to pursue a future based on pleasing whoever is willing to let you serve them.

However, the relief of knowing I am not the only person who is almost constitutionally incapable of saying "No" in interaction with others is as profound as the term, so I offer it to those of you like me, hoping you too can feel better, or at least less ashamed, about all the negative fall-out from this frustrating characteristic of ourselves.

I cannot overstate how freeing, how transformative it is to understand all the well-intentioned f-ups of one's life not as the result of being a fundamentally bad or defective person, but at least in part the logical consequence of being a (profoundly) submissive person often necessarily unprotected or unintentionally exploited by those around you and made vulnerable by the fickle and frequently heartless social norms of our violent, dangerous, entropy-laden universe and culture. (To paraphrase the hyper-sexualized female cartoon character from a long-ago movie about Roger Rabbit, "I'm just drawn like this.")

Understanding ourselves this way doesn't change our responsibility—and right—to carry our own spiritual burdens for who we are and what we do with our lives, but I do believe it can make the burdens easier to bear and understand and more fruitful to carry, for our own good and the good of others around us. And all this fanfiction I write? It's my coping mechanism for the times when the burdens are so heavy, and though I know it will never happen this way for me, I long to feel the emotional panacea of the idea of someone vaguely like me finding safety and love in this horribly unsafe world.

So blessings on those of you who go see the movie, and on those of you who don't (especially those who will then later buy the DVD and obsessively watch their favorite parts over and over and over again—we know who we are!), and on all of us trying to "hack [our] way through the wilderness" (a "Last of the Mohicans" movie quote) of this existence with as much love, wisdom and fortitude as we can muster—which all too often seems not quite enough. It's better than nothing, though, and much better for those around you than just giving up.

With love, with "profound" thanks to EL James and Stephenie Meyer, and with sadly-little butt-bruising (wink, wink),

liza

XxXxXx

Edward Cullen was walking his date, one Miss Rosalie Hale, in to her Manhattan apartment building late on a Thursday night in September when he found himself, most uncharacteristically, accepting Rose's cheerful invitation to come upstairs for coffee.

Normally, Edward would have turned Rose down. To him it did not matter that Rosalie Hale was a spectacularly-dressed blond bombshell, nor that she was a sharp and witty conversationalist, nor even that she was a savvy and skillful employment-law attorney just beginning to ride the swell of her own success. Edward was not a man looking for a partner, in business or in his personal life, and being perfectly capable of getting his physical needs met in a private manner that suited him, he was disinclined to date or socialize any more than was made necessary by his business and his family.

It had been family, after all, that had set him up tonight. His little sister Alice, to be precise, who was getting ready to be engaged to Rosalie's step-brother Jasper. This family connection had seemed a very strong argument to Edward not to risk alienating Rose's feelings towards him specifically and his family in general with what he felt certain would be a non-starter of an evening, but Alice took the opposite perspective of seeing how nice and cozy it would be if Edward and Rosalie hit it off, and nagged and cajoled and wheedled and whined until her long-suffering and rather doting adopted big brother said, "Alright, Alice, one night. One disastrous night so that you will leave me alone!"

Edward was glad the benefit dinner had not been a disaster after all, and knew he'd have to eat a little crow on Alice's plate in consequence. But he didn't mind, especially with how grateful he was to know Rosalie had no interest in him either—a fact she'd shared with admirable bluntness during the limo ride on their way home.

It must have been that relief at being let off the hook of Rosalie's potential hurt feelings and expectations that had him saying "Yes" to her coffee offer, he concluded in the elevator on the way up. That and his genuine enjoyment, now that he felt free to enjoy her so without worrying about sending mixed signals, of Rose's rather crude sense of humor and her withering commentary on the egos and foibles of the high-society types they'd both spent their lives around.

Well, most of his life, anyway.

And so Edward had spent a pleasant half-hour drinking Rosalie's coffee and laughing at her imitations of various New York elites.

He was just sitting up in his chair, getting ready to take his leave, his hostess turned away as she emptied her own coffee cup into the kitchen sink (one of two—like any self-respecting upper-crust New Yorker, Rosalie had a gourmet kitchen even though she rarely used it), when he caught sight of a young girl standing, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, in the hallway leading off from the kitchen.

Staring back at the girl, Edward plastered a half-smile on his face and tried not to make any sudden movements. He was used to scaring small children by accident; it used to bother him, how easily certain young people would cry and look for their mothers when he tried to be friendly, but he'd long since accepted that it was a necessary consequence of the aggressive power he radiated. He had also decided being whiny-child-repellent was not a negative.

Still, Edward had a very tender heart underneath all that aggression, and there was something so vulnerable in appearance about the particular, non-whining child in front of him, that he wanted to do his best to offset his obviously disturbing presence in what he assumed to be her kitchen. So he said to his host, who was still oblivious to the girl's arrival, "Rose, I didn't know you had a little sister. Does she live with you all the time?"

At the sound of his voice, as calm and low-key as he had tried to pitch it, he saw the girl flinch, and then wrap her arms around her torso as if she'd just felt a cold wind blow by her. Then her head ducked and he lost eye contact as she tucked her chin towards her chest, looking like she was expecting an onslaught from an angry grizzly bear and was just too petrified to run.

Inwardly, Edward laughed harshly at how ineffective she would be against a bear, let alone someone like him. And that thought made him mad—at himself and any peers he may have in scaring this girl. Which made him uncomfortable, not understanding why he would give a flying f- who did what to this girl and how she would feel about it.

So he looked away from the silent girl trying to hide in plain sight and towards Rose, who was just turning back from the sink and now returning his questioning gaze with a surprised expression.

"What are you talking about?" she asked him, obviously mystified.

In answer, Edward tipped his head towards the waif in the doorway without looking back himself.

Rose lifted her eyes in the direction Edward indicated, and Edward watched as understanding dawned. "Oh…"

There was a short pause as Rose processed it all, then smiled. Her eyes still on the small person, warmth and humor were in them now instead of surprise, and maybe also a layer of…concern? Edward found himself—despite his own selfish worldliness—immediately and inexplicably curious about why the girl would bring out such maternal emotions in the reasonably selfish, worldly woman he knew Rosalie Hale to be.

"Edward Cullen, please let me introduce you to my roommate, Isabella Swan. Bella, this is Edward. He's an alright guy, I promise. Do you want some cocoa?"

Edward was nonplussed in quick succession by Rosalie's admission to having a roommate (not something he would have supposed likely), her characterization of him as "an alright guy," (was that a compliment or not, he wondered dryly), and Rose's warmly nurturing enquiry towards the surprise roommate as to whether she wanted some … cocoa? What was she, 10?

Which is what he had assumed, really; that she was 10 or 12 or maybe 14, with a small frame and a juvenile taste in nightwear but intelligent eyes that didn't look as if they belonged to a middle-schooler. But they sure didn't look adult, either. So what did Rosalie mean with that crack about the girl being her roommate? And once again, why the f- did he care?

Edward had turned back to the girl in the doorway as he processed these things, so he was able to watch as Rose started moving towards her and the girl finally stopped her wide-eyed staring at Edward, her eyes flicking towards Rose before her face flamed—Edward saw the color rise—and she turned on her heels and soundlessly fled back down the hallway.

Rose halted her movement at Bella's sudden departure, lowering her outstretched hand with an audible sigh. And an even more audible "Shit."

Quirking his eyebrows at this "Bella"'s strange and anti-social behavior, something he wasn't too quick to judge being prone to a fair amount of it himself, Edward looked at Rose and said, tongue-in-cheek, "Was it something I said?"

Pulling out the chair across from Edward's, Rose dropped down into it and said, "No, for once Edward, it's not about you. It's all her. Bella is absolutely freaked out by men."

Tilting his head to consider this news, Edward seemingly idly asked, "Bad experience?"

Looking at a swirl in the marble of her tabletop as she absent-mindedly rubbed at it, Rose answered, "Not that I've been able to figure out. Just…" and she raised her eyes to stare directly into Edward's as she answered, "Shy."

Edward looked back down the hallway where the girl had disappeared, and from down which he had heard the click of a door firmly closing a few seconds after she fled. Then he grinned and said, "That seems an understatement."

Rose laughed, and stopped rubbing the spot, sitting back in her chair again, her usual confident, sexy poise returned with one arm draped over the chair back. "I know."

There was a moment, a pregnant pause, during which the two people far too alike to be lovers but both attracted by the other enough to be willing to be friends stared at each other. Their thoughts, though headed different directions, were on the same track, and that track was Isabella's. Or Bella's, in Rose's mind.

Rosalie had just had the rather shocking insight that perhaps she had been mistaken in trying to find ever more milder and milquetoast men to help her former college roommate and best friend slash unofficial little sister out of her shell. In watching Bella's terrified reaction to Edward's mere presence in the room, she realized that power didn't just repel Bella; it attracted her as well. In spite of herself, true…but Rosalie knew perfectly well how to use aggressive manipulation to make Bella do the things Rose wanted her to do, and in Rose's admittedly-biased opinion, Bella was much the better for them. So, maybe applying that principle to Bella's so far non-existent love life…

Meanwhile, Edward was first considering how Rosalie and the little mouse of a girl called Isabella (he liked that name, and ignored the nickname as something better fitting a dog, a high-maintenance poodle perhaps) ever connected, and coming to the correct conclusion that school had had something to do with it, moved quickly on to wondering what Isabella was doing now in her room. When he found himself speculating as to whether she was as child-like underneath her nightgown as she was above it, he pushed his chair back and stood, clearing his throat as he tried to clear his mind of any further thoughts about Rose's odd roommate.

He utterly failed, much to his dismay and disgust. Dismay because Isabella seemed like such an improbable candidate for attention from someone like himself, and disgust because he failed to see how any involvement with him could do anything but hurt her.

And yet, when he was giving his personal secretary (he had two secretaries in his business office, one to oversee work-related matters and the other to attend to everything else and manage his schedule as well) her marching orders the next morning, which included sending Rosalie Hale a sophisticated and very expensive arrangement of flowers ("No roses," he was careful to specify) as a thank-you for the night before, he found himself—without any forethought or permission from his conscious mind—including instructions for a separate, smaller arrangement ("Something sweet, old-fashioned; almost Victorian" he heard himself instructing the nodding secretary) to be sent to the same address but for one Miss Isabella Swan.

"How would you like the card to read?" his secretary asked, pen poised.

Edward stared back at her, unresponsive besides a slow blink.

The secretary looked up from the blank spot on her notebook, surprised by the pause. Normally she made full use of her skills in old-fashioned shorthand to keep up with Mr. Cullen—he hated the sound of clicking computer keys when he was trying to think. She saw him seemingly lost in thought, his eyes now focused beyond her, out the window perhaps, his brows slightly drawn together, a small frown on his face.

Breathing in and out once, twice, the secretary finally asked, hesitant, "Mr. Cullen, sir? Was there a message you wanted included?"

Quickly Edward's eyes shot back to his waiting secretary, and he shook off the uncertainty that had just overcome him, saying in his usual assured style, "No particular message, just my regards."

The secretary nodded as she jotted that down, but a second later Edward Cullen broke from the norm again and reached out across the desk as if he would have touched her arm if his desk weren't so big there were no way he could reach her. "Angela," he said, surprising the secretary with his use—very infrequent—of her first name, "Better make it my warm regards."

And he smiled.

Surprised again, but responding as any non-comatose heterosexual woman would to the breathtaking beauty and sex appeal of Edward Cullen's smile, Angela smiled back before looking down to make the note, catching her breath as she did so in order to reply, "Absolutely, Mr. Cullen."

And they were back to business as usual.

Bella, on the other hand, was not feeling "usual" at all. Completely discomfited by her accidental run-in with one of Rose's many boy-friends the night before—in her nightgown, to make it even worse—Bella woke up feeling anxious and out of sorts, much more than usual.

She tried to follow her own routine, going for a jog in the park and making breakfast for both her and Rose, who had said a quick "Good-night" to her the night before but hadn't made any reference to the Greek god who'd been sitting in their kitchen. Bella had been too shy and embarrassed to ask any questions, but her mind kept straying back to that man and how incredible it had felt to be near him; to be looked at by him.

For Bella had felt every micro-second of Edward's attention; she had simultaneously burned and been in ecstasy by it. And she hated herself for both reactions: the attraction and the fear. Over and over again she told herself, "Rose said she had a nice time. That means she's not into him; that means I won't see him again. Stop thinking about him, you big fat loser!"

But no matter how she beat herself up and berated herself, she couldn't keep her thoughts from wandering back to the electrifying, terrifyingly-hopeful image of Edward Cullen looking straight at her, as if he knew what he was looking at more than she did.

After a trying day at work in the editorial office of a small but well-regarded publisher, where she was a very junior assistant in the children's books department, Bella came home in the rain to an empty apartment with groceries for dinner. She had forgotten that Rose was out again, this time for dinner and drinks with work friends.

Reading the note that Rose had left her on the table, reminding her of these plans and telling her not to wait up with a winky-smiley-face for good measure, Bella was overcome with a feeling of sad loneliness…until she read the p.s.

"We both got flowers from Edward Cullen today. I put yours on the desk in your room. You should call to say 'Thank you.' His number is: 212-" and Bella's eyes widened a bit as she stared down at the actual phone number for the insanely rich and successful (she hadn't been able to help herself and had done a little Googling on her lunch break, discovering Edward was a self-made billionaire after developing the technology Holy Grail of a so-far hacker-proof financial-transaction system for cell phone and internet use) not to mention unbelievably good-looking (she hadn't needed Google to know that) Edward Cullen. Sometimes being friends with Rose was overwhelmingly stressful for a middle-class girl from small-town Washington state, and this was definitely one of those times.

Making herself finish the p.s., she saw, "Don't worry; he won't bite. More's the pity!" with another winky smiley face.

Bella couldn't help but laugh at Rose's ending joke; she loved her friend's self-confidence and intelligence, and Rose in turn loved having a friend with whom she could always be both those things and not worry about the impact on her perceived sex appeal or social standing.

As soon as she was done with the laugh, however, Bella wanted to vomit. Call Edward Cullen! Rose had to be kidding!

But she wasn't, Bella knew. Rosalie was an absolute stickler for social niceties and decorum, no matter how uncomfortable Bella felt. This was confirmed when a phone call from Rose lit up Bella's phone a few moments later.

"Bella? How was your day?"

"Okay, thanks. How was yours?"

"Perfect. I love not having a hangover—I'll try to remember that tonight. So have you called him yet to say 'Thank you'?"

"Called who?" Bella tried to stall.

Rose wasn't having it. "You know perfectly well who, Bella Swan, and I swear if you haven't called him by the time I'm home I'm going to make you do it then. No matter what time it is."

"But Rose—" Bella tried to protest.

Rose wouldn't let her. "But nothing, Bella. That man spent a small fortune on flowers for us, and we both need to tell him how much we appreciate it. Because I for one intend on enjoying his company, and his limo service, again in the future. And it wouldn't kill you to participate either."

"Rose, couldn't you just tell him how much I appreciate it too? I'm sure he just sent flowers to me to be polite."

Rose snorted, and then said, "Have you seen them yet? He was not just being polite. Edward Cullen pays attention. I think he liked you."

"Rose, you're imagining things! I didn't say one word to him. He didn't have time to like me."

"And whose fault was that?"

"Rose, please; you know how I feel about men. Can't I just send him a thank-you note?"

Bella was close to tears, and Rose knew she needed to back off just a little or risk Bella putting her foot down. It didn't happen often, but she was really good at it when she did.

"No, sweetie, you need to call, but you can make it quick. If you call right now he'll probably be at dinner and it will go to voicemail and you can just leave a message."

Undone by Rose's sweetness, as Rose knew she would be, Bella groaned at the inevitability of it. "But what if I interrupt his dinner? Isn't it rude to call now?"

"No, the rule on no phone calls sticks to the old-fashioned middle-class dinner hours of 5 to 7. It's perfectly appropriate to call after 7. Kind of like how everyone drinks on Sundays but lots of liquor stores aren't open. It's a custom dating back to outdated ways but we keep it because otherwise life is chaos. Weren't you paying attention in sociology?"

"You know I was, Rose, but they didn't cover phone calls to the insanely rich and gorgeous in that class. You should know; you were there."

"Not so much, I wasn't; but you were, and that was good enough for me to get an A-. That and making doe eyes at that jerk of a professor."

Bella laughed, remembering how much Prof. Gerandy would sweat in Rose's presence. "That wasn't very nice of you, Rose," she said, gently chiding, but with affection in her tone.

"It wasn't very nice of him to be looking at college-aged students when he was married and retiring in a year," Rose countered.

"True," Bella said cheerfully, almost having forgotten about the phone call hanging over her head in the walk down memory lane back to easier times.

Not that those times were easy when they happened, of course. Rose didn't know this, but Bella had had to ward off an unwanted advance from that very same professor.

Rose would have killed Prof. Gerandy if she knew, or at least had him kicked out of his tenure position and financially ruined, so Bella had made up a failed paper as a reason for the B she got in the class. Bella had been so sure the episode had all been her fault, that somehow she had sent out the wrong signals, that she had been relieved that the grade hadn't been any lower and had gone on with a sense of a horrible hurdle cleared.

If she had known that really he was an unrepentant smarmy low-life who was going to make more unwanted advances to an even more vulnerable girl the very next semester, she would have told Rose and let him face the consequences. But she hadn't, and remained clueless, and was much more worried now about ringing Edward Cullen than about a long-ago lecher she had successfully evaded.

Which worry came back as Rose signed off, saying, "Just do it now, B, and get it over with. You'll be glad you did; I promise."

And Bella didn't have a chance to contradict her, because Rose was hailed just then by her work friends and she signed off, "Love you, Bella. See you later," and Bella just had time to say "Love you too, Rose; be careful," before Rosalie was gone.

Sighing, Bella disconnected her phone and set it down next to the paper with the dreaded phone number. Deciding the obvious first thing to do was to look at the flowers, Bella went in to her room—and had her breath taken away.

They were BEAUTIFUL. No, they were beyond beautiful…they were exquisite. Each bloom was radiant with color, steeped in the heady perfume of hothouse flowers allowed to grow at their own slow speed and nurtured with extravagant care, and each was just beginning its bloom. There were creamy white roses starting to unfurl, and sprigs of heather tightly bound to bursting with sweet purple color; there were deeper purple violets, which wouldn't last long but were remarkable for their rich tone and velvet petals. There were freesia and snowdrops—greenhouse babies for certain, so out of season—and in the ultimate indulgence, a few fine specimens of purple orchids, their elegant beauty highlighting perfectly the delicate gorgeousness of the bouquet.

All these botanical treasures in artful arrangement together were indeed breathtakingly lovely, shown off in a short, wide-mouthed crystal vase with sparkling glass stones making even the water full of color, and with a luscious purple silk ribbon bow tied around the top. Tucked into this ribbon, nestled in the verdant greens and under the cheerful buds of a sprig of heather, was a small white card made of thick paper embossed around the edges, and as richly elegant as the rest of the arrangement.

In the middle of the card, in neatly hand-written black ink, was the message:

"With warm regards, Edward Cullen."

As Bella read this, she let go of the card as if it had bitten her, then watched in shock as the heavy white paper fluttered to the carpeted floor of her room like a descending butterfly. It landed with the words face up, as if to mock her.

Or so Bella felt as she turned on her heels and ran out of her room, uncharacteristically slamming the door behind her. She didn't stop until she was back in the relative safety of the kitchen, and leaning against a chair as she tried to catch her breath. Calming down in the mundane everdayness of her surroundings, she bit her lip hard as she tried not to cry, which she—for some ridiculous, unfathomable-to-her-because-she-didn't-want-to-fathom-it reason—very much felt compelled to do.

Several deep breaths with closed eyes later, and she was in control again…but when she opened her eyes to see Rose's note laying on the table, reminding her of unmet obligations and unasked-for flowers from insufferably handsome and arrogant and very scary men (well, one man, but he felt like an army in the moment to Bella), she was seized with one of her moments of righteous anger. Wisely making the most of it, Bella grabbed up her modest, old-fashioned cell phone from the table where she'd left it after her conversation with Rose, and typed—more like, punched—in the digits from Rose's note.

Almost forgetting she was dialing a phone number, Bella perfunctorily lifted the phone after hitting "Send," and had just begun to feel the nervous butterflies in her stomach multiplying from the single white specimen that had fallen out of her hands in her bedroom earlier when a tense, terse, distinctly-unfriendly male voice said in her ear, "Who is this?"

So surprised was Bella at the unexpected attack that the phone fell from her hand and hit the kitchen table, bouncing once hard before falling further to the floor. Standing and staring in horror at it for a few moments, Bella heard a voice still coming from the phone. She couldn't tell, but the voice was warmer now, concern starting to bleed in with the previous defensiveness. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

And then, as Edward on the other end of the line opened his eyes wide and fully remembered whom he had just sent flowers to and whom, according to Rosalie whose properly-ID'd text had come through a couple hours earlier, would be calling him from her pay-as-you-go-no-caller-ID cell phone (Rosalie hadn't told him that part, but he was piecing it together now), the voice warmed considerably and he asked, much more gently this time, "May I ask who's calling?"

But it was too late for Isabella, who by then had the terrifying phone back in her hand and just managed to hit the disconnect button before sitting down in the chair in front of her and bursting into tears.

The tears were short-lived, and she was just wiping her cheeks and shoving the whole episode into the locked closet in her mind where all scary, shameful things were stored when…the phone, back on the table, rang.

Bella jumped, staring at it. Willing it to stop making that noise. It kept ringing.

Against her better judgment, Bella looked at the display, and saw—to her horror—"E Cullen" and the recently-dialed number staring back at her.

She sat frozen, watching as the phone moved slightly with the vibration of each ring. Finally, after the requisite four torturous rings, it stopped.

Only to start up again a few seconds later.

It was the third round of ringing when Bella finally gathered the resolve, though her eyes were closed, to lift the offending phone off the table and gingerly hold it to her ear, bravely hitting "Accept Call" as she did so.

Immediately, her eyes squenched together like she was in physical pain, Bella heard a recently-familiar voice saying, "Miss Swan? Isabella, are you alright?"

Edward had verified his suspicion about the identity of his hang-up caller with a quick text to Rose, who was now biting her lip (a habit she'd unknowingly picked up from Bella) in anxiety for her friend dangling over the precipice of direct contact with a living Adonis and masterful, well, Master—no matter that she, Rose, herself had pushed Bella to the edge and then some.

Bella managed to stop biting her own lip just long enough to force out, "Yes, I'm fine, thank you Mr. Cullen." Then, carried along by the current of her voice speaking and determined to get this necessary torture over with, she quickly started in on, "I'm so sorry—"

But she was interrupted immediately in her intended combo apology-thank you, by Edward neatly overriding her words with the beginning of his own apology. "Not at all, Miss Swan—may I call you Isabella?"

And sagely waiting as long as necessary for his conversation partner to manage to think of a response and then find a voice to speak it, Edward waits for a number of heartbeats—Bella's being almost loud enough for him to hear—until a soft voice squeaks back, "Of course, Mr. Cullen."

To which Edward laughs, remarkably gently, and says, so matter-of-fact but they both know it's direct frontal assault on Isabella's pretense of any personal boundaries at all, "Then you have to call me Edward, sweetheart. Okay?"

There's another long pause, which Edward waits out with ever-growing confidence that he has absolute control over this surprising young woman reluctantly hovering on the periphery of his life, and equally growing though much more surprising confidence that whoever and whatever she is, she's worth any effort he might bestow on her. Why he feels this way he is not yet sure, but his instincts are sublimely certain about her potential value to him—and Edward is a man who trusts his instincts.

So he has moved away from the conference table where he was immersed in a late-in-the-day strategy session with his top advisors on an emerging overseas billion-dollar business deal, (Edward having used the gargantuan proceeds from his financial software to fund his private company's very-satisfying venture into the buying, refurbishing and most-remunerative selling of troubled businesses around the globe), and is standing at one of the floor-to-ceiling windows he favors, at work and at home, (there not currently being much distinction for him between those two environments, other than the uniforms he wears). He appears to be lost in thought, staring out over the New York City skyline, but really he is pouring all his considerable powers of concentration and elucidation into this slow-moving conversation with the most reluctant conversation partner he's ever had the tingling pleasure of engaging.

When he hears her soft, "Okay," with no mention of his name whatsoever, Edward grins—and decides to enjoy himself a little.

"Okay, who, Isabella?" he says back to her, sprinkling his soft, gentle inquiry with just the slightest flavor of expectative authority.

It works, and sooner than before, he hears, not just quickened breathing, but a stuttering, "O-o-[inhale]-okay, Mr.-Mr.-Mr. Edward," and she ends her attempt at being familiar with him—the equivalent of a terrified fairy-tale princess reaching out to stroke a dragon's head, as ordered by the dragon—with the tiniest sob of an exhale.

Edward closes his eyes and inhales deeply himself, enjoying the exquisite emotional bouquet being presented to him as much as any gourmand ever enjoyed a particular pairing of fine wine and French cuisine. And certainly far more, he realizes, than Bella could possibly have appreciated the beauty of the mere flowers he had sent her.

Smiling to himself at the unfair discrepancy in their exchanges already, and ruefully anticipating the ledger only getting more distorted over time, Edward says with absolutely satisfied approval, "Good girl, Isabella. You're a very good girl."

At which unasked for, completely unexpected but desperately desired sentiment Isabella of course starts to cry. Hard.

Leaning against the kitchen table, her forehead in one hand, Bella lets her phone-hand drop into her lap as she sobs for a few moments.

Then, the initial shock wearing off enough for her to start to feel horrified about her bad manners, she lifts the phone back up and says, tears in her voice and frequent sniffing, "I'm so—"

But she doesn't get any more out before Edward interrupts again, this time saying, "Isabella, have you eaten dinner yet?"

Surprised by the abrupt change in topic and the lack of any reference to her hysterics, Bella's tears dry up and she is able to answer reasonably quickly, albeit uncertainly, "Um, no?"

Edward grins again at this, resisting the urge to tease her about her question-answer, and instead announces, "Neither have I. Any objections to me as a dining companion?"

And Edward laughs out loud, though swallowing it quickly to turn it into a cough-chuckle, as Bella repeats herself, her incredulity announcing itself in every syllable with her fear tap-dancing in the background at a heretofore unbelievable pace, like a 1950's Donald O'Connor on speed, "Um, no?"

The last syllable rose so high she ended in a squeak, and Edward's mind moved on from musical theater to cat-and-mouse, lion-and-prey analogies, considering whether Isabella was more gazelle or antelope.

As he decided with satisfaction that she was something much less gamey and far more domestic, a fluffy little white lamb perhaps, he was responding to Isabella with his full-bore authority work voice, "Very good then, Isabella, shall I pick you up in—say [and Edward checked his watch and did a mental glance down the check-list of what would have to happen to rearrange his evening in this way]—half-an-hour?"

Unknowingly, Edward had over-shot his mark and sent Isabella careening from overwhelmed obedience into shocked resistance and retreat.

Though he figured that out fast when, after a couple seconds of silence, and then a couple more, he said, expectantly, "Isabella?" and got back, "Um, Mr.-Mr….Mr. Edward? I'm sorry, I think there's some sort of mis-"

Edward wouldn't let her say the nasty word. "Absolutely not, Isabella; at least not on my end. I can understand if you would rather not spend the night in my company, however." Hoping he was remedying with undeserved guilt what he had caused with overapplication of stern authority, Edward waited to see what his mark would make of that.

To his relief, it had his intended effect this time, and a horrified Isabella managed to say, "Oh, no, of course I would love to-to-to spend the night with you-" at which faux pas Edward grinned again and Bella blushed so hard Edward could sense it over the phone.

Deciding it best to ignore rather than tease the highly-flustered girl at this point, Edward continued matter-of-factly with, "Good. Then I'll pick you up outside your place at—" checking his watch again, Edward finished "eight o'clock. But Isabella?"

Isabella was speechless, and just nodded, which wasn't much help to Edward. Trying again, he said, "Isabella, are you still there?"

Blinking, Bella came back a little from her mental oblivion with a question she could actually answer and got out, "Y-yes?"

"Wait for me inside the building, all right, sweetheart?" He paused a moment, letting it sink in, then repeated, speaking slowly and deliberately as if to a small child or someone mentally impaired, "I'll come in for you. Wait for me inside."

And feeling reassured that this flustered, adorable girl-woman wouldn't be standing alone at night on a New York city sidewalk waiting for him, Edward heard her soft, hesitant "Okay" and turned around to head back to the table and wrap up his business for the night.

"Good. Be safe, Isabella, and I'll see you soon."

The finality in his tone brought forth a reflex response in Bella, even though she was not at all comfortable with the one-sided arrangements Edward Cullen had just pushed through. To her great frustration, she heard her own voice saying, "Bye, Edward," and that maddening voice saying back, "Good-bye, sweetheart," before disconnecting.

Edward Cullen was coming to see her? Edward Cullen was coming to pick her up to go out to dinner in (now) less than half-an-hour?! It was unbelievable! It was incredible! It was TERRIFYING!

And as it turned out, it was absolutely impossible. But that's another chapter.

THE END (for now)