Disclaimer: S. Meyer owns. No copyright infringement is meant.

Ironic

"And isn't it ironic, don't you think . . . A little too ironic, and yeah, I really do think." —Alanis Morissette

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Bella's POV

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My hands shake as I give my coat to the attendant. Only two weeks I've been a new team member and already I'm wining and dining at some fancy banquet. Well, not only me, but everyone who seems to work for them.

I smooth down the wrinkles in my requisite black dress while begging my feet not to trip over anything. Dressing up is never my idea of fun, but I know it comes with the territory of working at such a prestigious law firm.

Cullen, Hale & McCarthy is one of the top – if not the most – sought after firms for Business Law. Million dollar deals are ironed and worked out in their offices and board rooms. Quite intimidating to a small town girl from Forks.

Some would think, how such an awkward girl could get such an esteemed position; and I guess it really comes down to who you know.

Having a father as a long-time friend of a partner also helps. That doesn't meant I don't carry my weight. One has to constantly prove oneself at such a high-powered firm.

Being a paralegal may not seem like the most exciting of jobs, but it pays the bills and keeps the top echelon of lawyers from having to do the grunt work. It is often joked: behind every good lawyer is an even better paralegal. Or so we tell ourselves.

As I step into the Salon ball room and allow my eyes to take in its beauty, I have to remind myself this is real and I'm actually here. Ironically the classic line, "we're not in Kansas anymore," flashes in my mind. I wonder if everyone has such a moment in their lives.

Glorious views of the Chicago skyline meet my eyes. All the drapes are pulled back, affording the beauty of the city to mingle with each guest.

The white-cloth tiered chandeliers add soft ambient lighting to an already overwhelming scene. Tables with fine silk clothes, and even more exquisite flower arrangements, are centered around the room, giving people a place to set their drinks down and mingle.

A heated blush comes to my cheeks as I take in everything, especially all the fancy-dressed people. I can only imagine the labels and fashion houses being showcased tonight. I try not to let my black dress – purchased at the local mall – feel inferior.

It isn't clothes which makes a person, I remind myself. It is their personal worth.

With those words ringing in my head and several deep fortifying breaths later, I make my way into the salon and start to mingle.

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A couple of hours later, after several glasses of champagne downed, I am feeling better. More confident. The gold, bubbly drink is really wonderful and goes a long way to shoring up my courage.

The room has become fuller since I arrived; many people are talking, laughing and probably sharing secrets to the universe. They all seem so self-important.

My own arrival must have been too early as most people seemed to have arrived a couple hours after the stated time on the invite. Fashionably late seems as in style as all the shiny dresses the women have on. I wondered how they aren't blinded by the reflection.

Jessica's inane chatter keeps up at a steady stream as people filter in around us.

"Such a tacky dress. Can you imagine wearing such an ugly color as vermillion?" The women standing in our circle giggle at Jessica's remark. I guess she is the ring leader of this tribe. More like circus, I think snidely.

My eyes take in who she's talking about, and I somewhat agree. I don't know about the color vermillion, or what it really is, but the orange-red color is sure bold. Quickly, I look away. It puts my black dress into a better perspective.

I bring my flute to my lips and down the rest of my drink, successfully drowning out Jessica and her hen-pecking. Politely, I make my excuses about having to refresh my drink and leave. My head seems to have unclenched from its mental strain.

After retrieving a fresh glass from a passing waiter and waving to several people I somewhat recognize, I run into one of the partners.

Carlisle Cullen, even in his early fifties, is a beautiful man. His blond hair even curls fetchingly around his ears. I can't help but wonder what these people drink and how their DNA is so astounding.

He and my father went to high school together and still keep in contact – well, as much as Charlie talks to anyone. He is a quiet man. After junior year, the Cullen family moved on to greener pastures.

"Mr. Cullen," I greet politely. "This is quite a nice event." My cheeks heat up as I take in what I say and how stupid it sounds. Way to stay the obvious there, Bella.

"Thank you, Bella. I sincerely hope you are enjoying yourself."

And strange enough, I know he is being quite genuine. There is something about Carlisle Cullen which makes a person feel comforted and important. Even for someone as low on the totem pole as myself.

"Yes, I am." I smile shyly, cursing my father and his dominate genes. Sometimes I wish I could be more like my out-going mother. So unafraid of life and taking chances. "One can't help but have a nice time in such a nice setting."

As he laughs good-naturedly at my naivety, I feel warmed by his laughter. It is so full and rich. Again, it only does him credit.

"How is your father doing? I haven't the opportunity of speaking to him recently."

"He's good, Mr. Cullen," I mumble awkwardly, still so taken aback being in his presence and him actually taking the time to speak with me, when there are so many people vying for his limited attention. "Still living in Forks and fishing on the weekends."

A twinkly wistful looks comes into Mr. Cullen's eyes. "Many a time your father and I fished on the weekends."

I smile politely, not really sure what to say or make of his wistfulness. Mr. Cullen must see something in my face because he goes on to explain, "I never really knew how to fish and your father thought that such a crime."

This time I do laugh. Charlie is nothing if not predictable. I can imagine his horrified look, even now at someone not knowing how to go fishing.

"'Well, big city,' your father first called me, 'I'll just have to teach you. It is a crime what they teach us young people these days.'"

Embarrassing giggles escape from me as I relish Mr. Cullen's story of Charlie. He seems to have my father's number – knowing him quite well. Even after all these years it seems.

"And just between you and me, Bella, I still don't understand the lure of fishing."

I can't help but share a conspiratorially smile with my boss. "But the stillness of the water and the quietness of the act is something I can relate to."

I give my companion a small smile in understanding. Those were the only things I liked about fishing, too. Often I would just want to put the poor slimy creature back in the water, letting them go. My father said I had too weak of a stomach.

"A man after my own understanding," I joke. "That is about the only thing I can tolerate about fishing, Mr. Cullen."

We both laugh over my father and his love of his sport before taking a drink.

"Please, none of this 'Mr. Cullen' nonsense. Carlisle will quite suffice." I nod as my cheeks become a slow burn. I hate feeling embarrassed and out of my element.

"It may take me a while," I tell him honestly, still not comfortable calling my (for all intent and purposes) boss by his first name.

"That will be fine, Bella. Take all the required time necessary."

Before anything else can be said, someone is waving at Carlisle, trying to get his attention.

An apologetic smile takes over his distinguished face as he waves back. "It seems there is no rest for the weary. Persons to mingle with and niceties to make. Perhaps I should take your father's example and go fishing on a quiet lake. Hmm?"

I feel bad for Mr. Cullen and his now apparent tiredness. I can't even imagine the level of energy he requires to constantly go and never stop mingling. It gives me hives just thinking about it.

"Do enjoy the rest of your evening, Miss. Swan. And please give my fond regards to your father."

"I will, sir. And please tell Mrs. Cullen I say hello."

"Surely, Bella." And with a slight bow, he leaves with his fancy words and impeccable manners. I send a good thoughts up for him, hoping he can also enjoy his evening.

I sigh as the uncomfortable feelings of the evening start to overtake me again. I don't know if I'll ever truly fit in.

I pick up a fresh glass from a roaming waiter and make my way back over to Jessica's group. She may get on my last nerve with her constant gossip and husband shopping (as she puts it), but at least she's a familiar face.

As I near, I make out Angela and her shy smiles. Thank God, I can't help but think. Someone I can actually talk to.

And funny enough, Angela Webber is even shyer than me, which is saying something.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," I joke as I near her. In her glass is some sort of clear liquid with bubbles. She must be drinking sparkling water. Something you should soon switch to, I warn myself.

"Hey Bella. How are you doing? I didn't see you when we first arrived." I turn to my left and see her boyfriend, Ben, speaking with another entry-level lawyer. They started around the same time as me.

"Yeah. I was just roaming around . . . mingling." I roll my eyes playfully. I wonder if she can feel my air quotes.

"Talking to the head-honcho, I see." She wiggles her eye-brows at my influential hobnobbing.

I pretend to raise my chin snottily – as I've seen some of the women doing here, tonight.

"Yes, I'm quite important, you know," I say in my best drawling accent.

We both quietly giggle, trying not to draw too much attention to our silliness.

But as I look up, I take in the sound of the person addressing us; I know we've failed spectacularly.

My cheeks instantly become an alarming shade of red, the likes of which I never felt before. It truly feels as if my skin is on fire.

Standing before me is the most handsome man I've ever seen. TRULY.

"Hello, Angie. You look quite lovely tonight." His voice sounds the like smoothest of silk and my skin reacts accordingly.

His jade-green eyes are quite sincere as he takes in my friend, and her pretty evening dress. Unlike me, Angela actually looks quite beautiful – as if she fits in, despite her shyness.

"And whom might your friend be?" he asks my dark-haired friend, now looking at me.

I can't help but drop my chin in nervousness. This man is too gorgeous and too something for me to handle. His close proximity is doing strange things to my body and heart rate.

"This is Bella. Recently hired on. About the time your holiday started, I think," Angela jokes, which goes straight over my head.

From the corner of my eyes, I can see them sharing a knowing smile from some inside joke. I feel a little sad at that, wishing I could be in on it. Or at least have something only he and I share.

"Bella, this is Edward Cullen. My boss."

Somewhere I find the courage to smile bashfully at him. I try with all my might to will the extreme redness from my cheeks. And not the first time tonight, I'm thankful for the low lights of the room.

"Pleased to meet you, Bella," Edward says, his voice dripping honey as his immaculate hand reaching out to shake mine.

I cringe as I reach out shakily and meet his. I hope he isn't too grossed out by my clammy hands. If all else fails I can always blame it on the condensing glass in my hand – though it really isn't.

"You, too, Mr. Cullen," I mumble embarrassingly. Angela looks at me strangely, as if I have some horrible pimple on the tip of my nose.

"So, you're new to us. Where are you from, originally?" Edward kindly asks. I try and process what he's saying as my brain thinks up ways to be something and everything to him. Why does he have to be so damned gorgeous?

"And please, call me Edward. Mr. Cullen is reserved for my father – and he alone." A slight wink crinkles the corner of his eye, giving him even more appeal. Anymore and I just may faint at his feet.

"Um . . . well, thanks, E-Edward." I beg for anything to swallow me up. I don't know how long I can endure this humiliation.

A gracious smile turns his lips, making them look fuller than possible. What I wouldn't give to lick them.

". . . you from?" I hear.

Quickly I shake my head, trying to clear out the mounting fluff. How is anyone able to function around him?

"Um, I'm from Forks, Washington. O-Originally," I stutter, hoping I've answered his question correctly. His surprised and grinning face tells me I have.

"You must be Charlie Swan's daughter. My father often speaks of Charlie and their friendship."

For the first time since meeting him, I actually smile. Though I am still mortified beyond belief, I can feel something starting to loosen up. The topic of my father also helps me to feel freer, my tongue less rigid.

"Funny, I was just talking t-to your dad about him." I stutter only once and consider it my achievement of the night. "He was telling me about my dad's antics."

Edward laughing is even better than him speaking. Not unlike his father, when he laughs it takes over his whole body. It seems as if not one part of him is immune to his mirth. His head falls back and his strong jaw is revealed.

His gorgeous neck is just begging for my teeth to sink into. Stop it, Bella!

"Yes, I've heard the stories myself," Edward continues. "My favorite is the one with Carlisle falling out of the boat and into the lake after a bass escaped your father's clutches. Supposedly it scared my father right out of the boat and into the water."

This time, my giggles mix with his. Parents are such a source of hilarity for their children.

"My father often says how much he'd like to go back to Washington, at least to visit on an extended vacation." I nod, understand Mr. Cullen's wistfulness.

When I first moved to Forks – after having lived in Arizona with my mother – I didn't like it. I was used to sun and golden sunsets. But after acclimating and getting to know my father again, it somehow became home.

"Tell me, Bella," Edward says, and I have to truly will myself not to faint. His lips caressing my name is true perfection. "What do you miss most of Washington? What did you do for fun?"

And like that, the flood gates of our conversation opens. I find myself telling him about my wacky mother and my reasons for moving to Forks, about my difficult acclimation to Washington, how I felt as if I was always hurting my father's feelings in not having the same interests has him and wanting to be somewhere else.

I tell him about how one day, I woke up one morning and saw the sun shining in my room and wished for it to be cloudy. It was the definitive moment I knew Forks had become my home.

By the end of my story, I feel as if Edward should be charging me money for listening to my woes. Dr. Edward takes it all in stride, joking that he did ask.

"Yes, but not to hear about Bella, her madcap mother and introverted father. I should take my family on the road."

Edward laughs at my dry humor before commiserating.

"There are some in every family, Bella. My father works awfully hard yet wishes for a quiet life in a small town; my mother goes along with his whims, loving him regardless; my sister is a fashion diva with enough clothes to outfit an army; and I'm supposedly my father's clone." He gives me a wry smile. "So you see? We all have our stories."

In the back of my mind, while we continue to talk, I can't help but be happy. Never have I ever connected with someone so easily. We've talked for half an hour, and yet, it seems so effortless, so joyful. My heart beats freely in my chest – as if at any moment it will happily flutter away. The smile parting my lips is one of bliss.

I wonder if everyone at some moment in their life feels such rightness – as if but for one moment the stars are aligned and everything in the universe feels meant to be. Like nothing can ever be wrong again. These are the moments dreams are borne from.

I'm pulled back from my wanderings as the most exquisite smile overtakes Edward's face. This night has been one of surprises for me, but even with all that, the smile now overtaking Edward's face is the most beautiful of them all.

His eyes all but sparkle in the brilliant glow of the city lights. The green of his irises are memorizing. The smile he's sporting all but stretches the length of his jaw as his coppery colored hair falls boyishly into his left eye. His comfortable posture seems to melt even more, as if his own existence has come into alignment.

My heart rate accelerates as I take in everything about him and this new level of contentment, which transforms his beauty into something of fairy tale princes.

"We should do this again, Bella," I hear through the happy ringing in my ears.

Always . . . Anytime . . . Forever . . .

I push through the loudness of my ears and go to answer him. But even before I can say one word, Edward is looking beyond me and over my left shoulder.

The utter elation I started to feel is cracking. Surely, I put that smile on his face, that easiness in his shoulders, the utter rightness in his universe. Surely, he must feel what I feel . . .

"Please, excuse me. Do have a lovely evening, Bella." With one last fleeting grin, as if out of forgetfulness, he brushes by me. His shoulder, touching my arm, sends a deep tingling to the very tips of my fingers.

I can feel a prickling starting behind my eyes and an embarrassing blush starting to overtake my cheeks, again. The rightness I felt seems to have totally left me. I'm left cold and strangely bereft.

And like the emotional masochistic I know myself to be, I turn around and see what has put Edward into such a reassuring state, a rightfulness state.

The question turns out to be not what, but who.

Just when one thinks fate has shown them something exquisitely divine and ethereally gorgeous, it shows them something even more astounding – as hard as that is to believe.

Because standing not twenty feet in front of me is the proof. Sublime, splendid, otherworldly aren't even words strong enough to describe her beauty. For truly she is the most beautiful person I've ever seen. No one has anything on her – not even some overrated Hollywood actress, whose entire career is nothing but the next boring photo after another.

Golden-blonde hair tumbles artistically down her pale neck in big curls. The sides are pulled up and pinned back, showcasing her blindingly beauty cheekbones and violet eyes. Seriously, who has purple eyes, I can't help but sadly think. This woman is the epitome of intrinsically unique. How could anyone ever compete with such inspiring awe?

The lavender dress she wears can't even compete with her beauty – not that anything ever could, my mind snidely interjects. Flawlessly it matches her eyes, sparkly shoes and glittering diamond on her finger. My watery eyes sadly fall on the three caret diamond on her left ring finger. It is followed with a solid white-gold wedding band.

Married . . . Already taken . . . Never meant . . . Fate, cruel bitch . . . Empty.

All fleeting thoughts as my eyes cloud with tears.

I tell myself to turn away, to leave this forsaken party, but I'm rooted as I watch the perfectly perfect couple in front of me.

Edward's wife finishes up her conversation with whoever she's speaking with and finally notices her approaching husband. How could she not notice him before? I ask myself. He is unforgettable. She must be so secure in their shared love, I answer.

A blinding smile overtakes her overly full lips as she notices her husband coming towards her. A gentle loveliness falls over her features, making her appearance even softer, more approachable.

His lips press tenderly on her forehead as she happily tumbles into his opened embrace. Who the hell wouldn't be happy to fall onto Edward and his gorgeous body?

Slowly, as if they have all the time in the world, he trails his lips from her forehead to her waiting lips, his finger under her chin, lifting her face to his.

For several moments they kiss, entranced in a world all their own. Not even God himself would intervene in such complete purity.

I feel deep trenches of jealousy and envy eating away at me. All the champagne I've drank sits too heavily in my stomach, threatening to make a reappearance.

How can life be so unfair? So unbalanced? Their beauty together should be enough to implode their world, having them constantly competing to one-up the other. But they aren't, and I'm meanly and spitefully wishing it to be so.

A wistful sigh is blown into my ear, pulling me from such fallen depths within. I sneakily wipe the few tears from my cheeks. My eyes close as I will all the negativity from me. I'm not this spiteful person, and within the course of this evening I'm proven horribly wrong.

"They are so in love. Aren't they beautiful together?" Angela innocently remarks. The happiness for her boss is so heavy in her tone. I exhale slowly before turning to face her.

"Yeah . . . beautiful." I try to infuse some believability into my voice, but fail. Angela pulls her visage from the too perfect couple gazing at each other and puts it on me.

"Bella? Are you okay?" Her worry only adds to my guilt. Angela is too kind for her own good. It makes me feel tainted standing next to her.

Before I can answer, more tears escape my eyes and a clear understanding comes into her eyes.

She knows, I sadly think. Just great. Here comes the pity.

And I'm not wrong.

She grabs my hand and leads me around the room to the entrance doors of the Salon ball room. We step out, but a small crack is left open.

"I thought you knew, Bella," Angela consoles me.

This is beyond ridiculous, I think. I just met this man and already I'm being comforted – as if I'm some jilted lover.

"Knew what?" I pretend not to know, but I can see the truth in her eyes. My foolish attempt to brush this off won't work.

"That Edward was married, Bella." Her forthrightness is enough to make me wince. Hearing the worried 'married' spoken aloud sounds dirty in my ears.

Edward shouldn't be married. We should have a chance to see where we could go. I felt the connection. It wasn't some made up fantasy on my part.

"He and Rosalie are expecting their first child. I'm surprised Carlisle wasn't gushing about the upcoming event. It is all he can speak about."

A soft smile overtakes Angela's lips, and I want nothing more than to smack it off.

Why must she twist the knife even more?

Married . . . Pregnant . . . Expecting his first child . . . Perfectly flawless wife. She doesn't even have the graciousness to look fat and bloated. No, she looks divine. Ethereally glowing.

I say nothing as I look back into the Salon, through the slit in the opened door. As if fate hasn't beaten me enough tonight, I now have the perfect view of the expecting couple.

As if from a modern Norman Rockwell painting, Edward and his Rosalie exhibit the ideal portrait.

He stands behind her, arms around her waist and hands resting on her still-flat stomach. His face is tucked into the crease of her slender, pale neck as if he is hiding his laughter or simply smelling her. His hair falls over his face and on her healthily flushed cheek.

The ripe pinkness of her skin is so much prettier than mine. Where she looks fresh and unspoiled, I usually look like an overcooked lobster.

The glow of the city being viewed through the wall to wall windows rounds out the complete picture of them. It almost pales in comparison to their seamlessness. Almost spoiling the beauty of their love and connection.

Picture perfect is all I can think in reference to them. As if she was made for him and him for her.

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("It's meeting the man of my dreams . . . and, then I'm meeting his beautiful wife. And isn't it ironic? Don't you think?")

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Author's Notes: This is part one of two. I had a lot of fun writing this little story and it's been such a while since I've written anything from Bella's POV. I am quite out of practice.

One day I was listening to "Ironic" by Alanis Morissette and one line got my creative juices flowing. This was the effect and the last line in this chapter was the cause. Anyhow, hope you like. The last part should be posted next week and it will feature Edward's POV. My Achilles heel, as you know (given how much I complain about it . . . hehe). If you have the time, please review. I'd love to know your thoughts! Hope everyone is well.

Hugs!