Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or any of the characters in it.

Author's Note: This is in Rosalie's POV, when she realizes her marriage is loveless and how she feels about it. Italics means a flash back to her past. Hope you enjoy, and please review. Reviews are my oxygen.

His clammy hand trailed up the length of my spine, coming back to grab me by the circumference of my neck, holding me in place. His mouth crushed my own, the pressure of his lips brinking upon intolerable as he ran his free hand over my slim form, his entity dominating over my own. I wanted to struggle against his vigor, but that was not what I was raised to do.

"Rosalie," my mother cooed, brushing stray blond tendrils away from my pulchritudinous features. "Be a good little girl."

I sniffed, turning my face away. "And just what do you mean by that, mother?"

"Try and please him," she whispered, and we both knew who she was referring to.

"I do please him," I retaliated.

"Your looks please him—that is all. Being obedient. Be submissive. Your family depends on you. Always remember that."

His hand trailed down to my legs and I gasped, pulling away from his embrace. His forehead creased as his brows knitted, an expression similar to anger as well as confusion reaching his prepossessing features. We were alone in his room, no one else residing in here to give us the privacy they deemed we needed. I wanted to tell him that he was going too fast. That he was going too far.

But I could say nothing. I could do nothing.

"I've heard some rather disturbing rumors, Rose," my father stated, a firm edge to his voice. I looked up from the dreadfully boring book I had been reading in surprise—he hardly ever used that tone with me. "People are saying that you are not pleasing your dear fiancé." Anger drenched his tone causing my eyebrow to rise in disbelief.

"Is that so?" I forced out, my voice cold as I tilted my head upwards and straightened my posture.

"Your job is to please him—but do not take it to the final level. Then you are a whore."

I frowned. "I am not a toy to be used. I demand that I be treated in respect."

His hands slammed down upon the wooden table in front of me, the legs of it quivering beneath the force.

"You are his toy and you are nothing more if he decides not to keep you! What man will want you if he believes that you could not keep the attention of your fiancé? It is a shameful thing if you cannot do such a small task. Our status shall go nowhere if you cannot accomplish this, Rosalie." He used my full name, a sign that he meant serious business. I snapped my book shut and tossed it upon the table, standing up from the chair in one swift moment, flaunting my perfect equilibrium.

"I am unaware of where you got the absurd idea that Royce is bored of me. That is far from the truth, and I would highly appreciate if you would not listen to the false gossip that is spoken among those who inhabit this vicinity. They are merely spiteful and jealous of the fact I have managed to enrapture such a rich man." A small smile curved upon my face as I basked, once again, in the fact I had managed to do such a glorious thing. A small smile appeared on my father's face as well, realization dawning upon him.

"How could I have doubted my daughter?" he mused silently to himself, his posture straightening. "I did, after all, raise her to be perfection."

"Indeed," I stated coldly, a tad bit stung by his statement. I had achieved these things—not him.

"Keep him interested, Rosalie, but do not take that final step, understand? Not until after marriage. Your family depends on you. Always remember that."

"Why have you pulled away from me?" Royce asked and his tone was sad—I was able to distinguish the anger that tinted it. His arms reached out to gently touch my shoulder and I flinched away before regaining my composure, raising my head to attempt to look confident and serene. The atmosphere was tense as his hands dropped limply to his side, his eyes becoming hard at my refusal.

"Do you love me, Royce?" I asked quietly, my face hesitant.

"Sure I do. You are my fiancé, after all," he stated simply. Something about his answer made my stomach twist—did he only 'love' me because I was wearing his ring on my finger? Could he not confess his love for me? Could he not do it because he didn't love me? "And do you love me, my little Rose?" His hand came down to grab me by my chin, making his want for me to make eye contact evident. I met his eyes proudly, although I was struggling to contain the liquid that wished to leak down the expanse of my flushed cheeks. The God like man before me stared at me, his impatience becoming clear as the grip on my chin tightened.

"Do you think he loves me, mother?" I quietly questioned—it one of the very few personal questions I asked her. I was watching her knit my father a scarf, her expression determined. She glanced up at me briefly with a raised eyebrow before returning her gaze to her work. I wondered if I would be her someday, sitting in a rocking chair, knitting a scarf for my husband as my daughter sat obediently by my side. That would be a nice, peaceful future.

"Do you love him?" she responded. I hesitated.

"Does it matter, mother?" My voice was cold due to her retaliation. Did I love him? He was going to provide me with the future I wanted. He was incredibly handsome, not to mention he had a high status as well as lots of money. I could be happy as his wife—I would be most jubilant. But did I love him? I was not sure.

"Then does it matter, Rosalie?" she hissed back, her tone lowering a notch so as not to be overheard.

I frowned, my eyebrows narrowing as I leaned into the couch cushion, allowing it to mold a shape around my form. "I do wish to be loved, mother. As wonderful as marrying him will be, it should be even more glorious if we love one another. If he loves me, then I am certain I can love him in return. Our union shall be most disconsolate if we do not care for one another, yes? I obviously shall marry Royce either way, for I shall be happy regardless, but if I had to choose between his status and love, I might just choose love, mother."

She stopped her knitting, her eyes meeting my gaze.

"Then you are a fool."

"Sure I do." I kept my voice confident. "You are my fiancé, after all," I repeated his cold words.

His mouth came down to smother my own once more, his hands entwining in my hair as he kissed me, pulling my warm body against his own. I did not enjoy his kisses very much—he kissed too much and took things too far, but I would do as I was ordered. This is what my family expected of me. This is what would lead me to the perfect life. This is what would lead me to happiness.

"Capturing attention isn't hard, Rosalie. It's keeping the attention that is," my father lectured.

"I'm aware." My response was short, the livid feeling I felt at his teachings leaking in. Did he think me incompetent?

"Royce does not tolerate disobedience. Remain beautiful. Stay graceful. Do not talk too much. Do not give your opinions or thoughts on any matter then for your wedding. If Royce complains about something, say whatever pleases him. Do not be tripping over your own two feet to please him—then you will just appear desperate. Always be charming. Be complacent," he ordered.

My fingers curled together, my eyebrows knitting together.

"Royce likes to hear me speak," I hissed."He enjoys hearing my thoughts and opinions. Do not attempt to tell me otherwise, father."

He arched an eyebrow. "What sort of opinions have you expressed to him?"

"I explained to him about the terrible dresses the dress shop around the corner has started making, and the hideous hats people have been wearing and claim is in fashion." I scoffed, shaking my head. "It is ludicrous to even spare a second glance at such hideous articles of clothing. Royce agrees with me completely, and says the things I wear are so much more gorgeous and extravagant then what other ladies love."

My father leaned down so he was closer to me, his tone dark and demanding. "When expressing your opinion, keep it to anything revolving fashion and the wedding. Never attempt to speak of anything political and always agree with what he says. Always know that he can get any girl, and can replace you at any moment. Always know that you are his toy and nothing more until you two are wed. Always be a good little girl, Rosalie."

One of his hands freed themselves from my hair, gently caressing my cheek instead before slipping down to wrap around my shoulder, holding me in place. His mouth worked against my own and I stood still, not sure of what I should do. I felt a bit disgusted by the way his mouth pressed against my own. Should I kiss him back, or pull away so he does not think of me as a whore? Would he think of me as too bold if I kissed him back? Should I stay completely still?

"You are his toy and nothing more."

"Rosalie," he whispered my name, pulling back momentarily to lean his forehead against mine. "Look at me," he demanded. My eyes fluttered open—I hadn't realized I had shut them. "Do you love me?" he repeated, almost as if we were ignoring the fact we had previously discussed this topic. I went to turn my head to the side but this hand that gripped my hair stop me from doing so.

"Mother, what am I?" I questioned her, following her as she ventured towards our garden.

"My daughter," she responded blatantly.

"Yes, mother, but what am I?"

"A girl," she responded, exhaling in annoyance, her back still to me.

"Am I a toy?" I blurted out. She froze, before slowly turning around to face me.

"Who told you that?" she murmured, and her expression was almost sympathetic.

"Father did, mother," I confessed, entwining my hands together. Almost instantly, her face went cold.

"And whose toy did he say you are, Rosalie?" she questioned, but her tone held no curiosity.

"Royce's, naturally."

She was silent for one long moment, staring at my expression of despair. "Yes, Rosalie," she finally responded, her voice cold and detached. "You are his toy, and you shall forever be so until the day he dies. I highly recommend getting used to the truth now." She turned on her heel, swiftly walking away without sending my distraught form a single glance.

"You are my fiancé," I responded simply.

"But do you love me?" he repeated, his voice becoming harsh.

"I must. You are my fiancé, after all."

Strangely enough, I found it a struggle to force the words out.

"What are you?" my father demanded.

"It appears as if I am a toy." My tone was drenched in disgust.

"And whose toy are you?" he hissed, the anger in his voice due to the retaliation in my tone.

"Royce's."

He kissed my jaw, and then my neck, and he trailed downwards, placing butterfly kisses upon me. I stayed still. "Say it," he demanded, pausing in between his kisses to order me.

"I am allowed to say as I please!" I shrieked.

"You disobeyed us! We told you to remain complacent, but instead you fight with Royce about your education. You want to learn more—you know how to read, how to write, and therefore you don't need to learn anything else. He wants you to be a good little housewife who will stay home, tending for your children and that is exactly what you will do! Am I making myself clear?" he roared. I clenched my jaw together, leaning back away from my infuriated father.

"I am not his toy!" I shrieked, pulling my arm back from his tight grasp.

"You are," he hissed.

"But Rosalie, darling," my mother whispered, "You are."

"Say—"His lips landed on my own harshly, cutting off my speech. "Say what?" I gasped out, turning my head away from him when he pulled back for a brief moment to receive some oxygen.

I stared at the broken mirror before me, something I had done in a fit of rage, however improper it was. Once again, I was locked inside of my room, this time for speaking my opinion to Royce once more—an opinion which differed from his own. My father had been furious when he had heard. I saw in the reflection my mother approaching, her aged face void of all emotion.

"You are sad." It was not a question.

"Yes," I agreed.

"Stop being like that. You look unattractive when you scowl."

I turned to face her. "Do you not care that I am disconsolate?"

Her eyebrows narrowed, her full lips pursing together in irritation. "You are my daughter, but our family always comes first, Rosalie. Always."

"As you've made apparent," I muttered, turning back to the broken mirror.

A broken mirror.

"What are you?"

A broken girl.

"A toy."

A broken life.

"Say that you love me," he whispered, halting in his advances to hear my words.

I stared at my two little brothers, and they stared right back at me. Father was off at work like usual, and mother was sitting next to me, gently stroking my hair. Occasionally, she would lean over and kiss my cheek, the way she showed her affection. It appeared impossible for her to ever do such in words.

"Is that a new ribbon?" one of my brothers asked, referring to what held my hair back.

"Yes," I responded.

"It's quite nice," he remarked politely. "Father bought it for you." It was not a question—his spite and envy was obvious. I was the favorite child by far, due to my beauty. My parents knew it would bring them great things.

"Indeed," I agreed.

"I am envious," he remarked coldly. We all knew it was not my ribbon he was envious of. It was the attention I received from my parents.

A small smile found its way onto my face. It was absurd of him, of all people, to be jealous of me. "But why? You are a male."

"And you are a toy."

I stared at him coldly for one long moment, the patronizing smile still upon my face. "Yes," I agreed softly. Silently, I wanted to scream and rant—but I did not. I wanted to tell them all that I was not just a toy and that I was a female who had thoughts and opinions—but I did not. I wanted to hit my brothers and then scold them for being jealous over such a silly thing—but I did not. I was raised to be a 'good little girl'. I was raised to do and say as expected. So instead, I said what I was meant to say.

"Yes, I am just a toy."

"Say it," he demanded, holding my tightly against his chest. I inhaled deeply, my eyes flickering about desperately—nobody was coming to help me.

"You are a good little girl, Rose," my father remarked warmly as he entered the house, kicking off his shoes. I figured he had heard wonderful things at the bank about my relationship with my fiancé. "You will not be tossed or thrown away. You'll be kept around for a long time, my darling—I simply know it. This works in our favor immensely. You will not be forgotten about by Royce."

"I shall not be like a neglected toy."

It was my comparison.

He smiled softly. "My darling, you shall be that one toy that sticks with us for a lifetime."

"I am a toy." It was not a question—and yet I wanted him to deny it.

"Yes," he murmured, petting the top of my head lightly. "You are a toy."

"Say that you love me," he hissed, his hold on me becoming excruciating as the anger at my reluctance took hold. "Say it, Rose. Say it."

"You are a toy."

"Rose, say it."

"You are nothing more."

"Damn it, Rosalie, say it!"

"Do you love me, mother?"

"Yes."

"Would you love me if I were not beautiful, mother?"

"Yes."

"Would you love me if I did not marry Royce, mother?"

"No."

"Rosalie." He grabbed me by my shoulders, shaking me lightly. "I want you to say it, Rosalie. Say that you love me. Tell me it."

"Will I be happy married to Royce, father?"

"Yes."

"Over time, will he see me as a person, father?"

"You are his toy. Nothing more."

"Say it, Rosalie!" His hand reached out to grab my chin tightly, tilting it upwards to face him. "I want to hear it from you."

"Tell me you are a toy, Rosalie."

"But… why, father?"

"Tell me it, Rosalie!"

"Father—"

"Say it."

"I am a toy."

"Say it, Rosalie! Tell me that you love me," he demanded once more.

"I love you."

After all, I was his toy.