Chapter Text
Bella had finally returned to Forks. Her leg was still stuck in a medical boot, which only seemed to make her more clumsy than usual—a fact Sage found relentlessly entertaining.
“You’re like a very cute baby giraffe,” Sage had said that morning, helping Bella hobble from the bathroom to her bedroom. “A little tragic. A little majestic. Mostly limbs.”
Bella tried to scowl, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. “You're enjoying this way too much.”
“Obviously.”
Charlie had grounded her the minute she got home—house arrest, revoked car privileges, a stern tone he rarely deployed unless firearms were involved. And, predictably, Edward Cullen had been banned from setting foot on the property.
What Charlie didn’t know was that Edward had resumed his nightly climbs through Bella’s bedroom window like the world’s most polite vampire cat burglar.
Now, late afternoon light spilled across Bella’s bedroom, glinting off the edge of the mirror as Sage helped her into a soft blue satin gown—courtesy of Alice, of course. It dipped slightly at the back and shimmered faintly when Bella moved.
Bella eyed herself, skeptical.
“This feels… not me,” she said. “It’s so… flowy. I look like I’m about to be sacrificed to a moon goddess or something.”
Sage adjusted the shoulder strap, then stood back.
“You look hot,” she said simply. “Like, unapproachably majestic. Just... own it.”
Bella gave her a look. “You look like a rocker-version of Wednesday Addams.”
Sage grinned.
She did. The dress clung to her like smoke: black lace over sheer sleeves, high at the collar, flaring into a jagged hem that spun dramatically when she moved. The fabric caught the light in deep charcoal glimmers. Her lips were a deep wine red. Her dark brown hair was swept into a loose crown braid, coiled delicately around the top of her head with mahogany streaks shining through the braids—faintly romantic, but dangerous.
And the boots, of course, were sparkly black Doc Martens.
“Can’t believe Alice didn’t wrestle you to the floor,” Bella muttered.
“She tried,” Sage said. “I bit her.”
A knock came from downstairs.
They both froze.
Sage raised a brow. “Showtime.”
Downstairs, Edward Cullen stood perfectly still outside the front door, dressed in a sharply tailored charcoal suit. His Volvo idled obediently at the curb, polished like a mirror.
Charlie opened the door with a grunt. “Evenin’, Cullen.”
“Good evening, Charlie,” Edward replied smoothly.
There was a pause.
“Don’t break her other leg,” Charlie said flatly.
Behind Bella, Sage raised two fingers to her eyes, then pointed them at Edward. I'm watching you. Then she gave him a slow, almost theatrical wink.
Edward smiled—just a flicker—and inclined his head.
Bella turned several shades of crimson.
As she stepped onto the porch, Charlie’s voice followed her.
“You got your pepper spray?”
Bella groaned. “Charlie.”
“Just sayin’.”
Before she could respond, the low purr of an engine turned all three heads. A '66 Mustang convertible—blood-red, every inch of it gleaming like a showroom fantasy—glided to a stop along the curb.
Rosalie stepped out with the kind of grace that made time feel like it was adjusting to her schedule.
Her dress was a deep cherry red, satin cut within a breath of scandalous—low in the back, a soft plunge at the front, with a thigh-high slit that showed off legs like artwork. Her heels caught the light like daggers. Hair swept into soft retro waves. Lips painted crimson. Eyes sharper than sin.
And those eyes? They landed on Sage.
They drifted down slowly—down the lace sleeves, the bodice, the uneven hem—and finally stopped at the glittering combat boots.
Rosalie laughed softly, a sound like velvet being torn in half.
“Alice is going to throw an absolute fit.”
“She can take it up with my legal team,” Sage said coolly. “Which is also me.”
Without a word, Rosalie reached into the back of the car and pulled out a sleek, ribbon-tied shoe box.
“She saw you’d try this,” she said. “So she had me bring a backup plan.”
Inside the box: a pair of delicate designer heels in jet black. Strappy. Minimalist. Lethal.
“Wear them for the pictures and the first dance,” Rosalie said, stepping closer. “Then you can change back into your weapons.”
Then, voice low enough to shiver, she leaned in and murmured into Sage’s ear:
“Or nothing at all, if you like.”
Her lips brushed the side of Sage’s neck—just once. Barely. But enough to pull a breath from her.
Sage blinked, momentarily frozen.
Charlie cleared his throat, visibly redirecting his eyes toward the clouds.
Rosalie straightened with a satisfied smirk. She turned toward him and offered her hand with that impossible elegance.
“Charlie,” she said smoothly. “Thank you for trusting us.”
He nodded. Grunted. “Look after my girls, you two. They mean a lot.”
His moustache twitched. The closest he got to a public emotional breakdown.
Rosalie didn’t miss a beat. “Sage means a lot to me, too.”
Then she opened the door for Sage, waited for her to adjust the shoes, and the two of them glided off in the Mustang like royalty in exile.
***
Forks High had been transformed.
Eric Yorkie, against all odds, had crushed the Bond theme. The gym was lit with moody reds and golds, faux chandeliers dangled from the basketball hoops, and glittering casino tables lined the corners. Everyone walked in feeling ten percent more important.
The boys were all in tuxedos, over-gelled and proud. Several had toy earpieces and fake ID badges that said “Double-O Tyler” or “Agent Mike.”
Rosalie pulled the Mustang to a perfect stop. Then she circled around and helped Sage step out—now in the heels, though the Doc Martens peeked from the back seat like they were sulking.
Tyler whistled. “Damn, Sage.”
Rosalie looked almost like she was going to glare—then reconsidered. Sage did look incredible. Haunting, punk, elegant. Like she belonged on the cover of an underground fashion magazine.
Inside, Bella and Edward had made it past the photographer. Her boot made each step slightly lopsided, but Edward adapted without blinking, guiding her like gravity itself bent politely for him.
Sage watched them for a moment, lips quirking.
Angela and Jessica swarmed her next.
“Sage, you look insane—in the best way,” Angela gushed.
Jessica nodded, wide-eyed. “Like a gothic vampire bride.”
“I’ll take that,” Sage said.
They glanced nervously at Rosalie, who simply offered them a tight, unreadable smile that probably triggered every fight-or-flight instinct in their bodies.
Then Mike approached, grinning.
“You ready?” he asked, grabbing Sage’s arm.
Rosalie narrowed her eyes. “Ready for what?”
Sage smiled cryptically. “You'll see.”
A few songs later, Eric stepped onto the stage, flushed with nerves.
“If I could have your attention!” he called. “I’d like to welcome three people to the stage—Sage, Mike, and Tyler.”
A ripple of excitement moved through the gym.
The stage lights shifted.
Onstage, waiting: a drum kit. A bass. And a sleek black Fender electric guitar that gleamed like obsidian.
Eric beamed. “Ladies and gentlemen… it’s my pleasure to present Sage & The Gothdamn Liabilities!”
There was a pause. Laughter broke out. Whistling. A cheer from somewhere near the refreshment table. Rosalie blinked, at first confused—then smiling, slowly, like moonlight finding the ocean. Sage stepped up to the mic, slinging the guitar strap over her shoulder.
“Happy prom,” she said, adjusting the mic. “This one’s for someone very, very special.”
She looked straight down at Rosalie, who had moved toward the front, the crowd parting around her instinctively like she was untouchable.
Sage winked.
Behind her, Mike and Tyler were already getting into position.
She counted them in.
And then: music.
They launched into a crackling, high-energy version of Johnny B. Goode that had half the gym floor jumping before the chorus even hit. Sage’s voice was raspy, powerful, cool as hell. The room was electric.
Alice and Jasper were on the dance floor, eyes lit up. Emmett was filming from the back with his phone, already texting Irina.
Rosalie stood at the edge of the crowd, arms folded, glowing like sin incarnate.
Sage caught her eye, grinning as she belted out the last verse.
Tonight—this moment, this stage, this spotlight, this music—it was theirs.
And in the blur of movement and laughter and light, it felt like the world was finally in tune.
The crowd was electric—stomping, clapping, hollering. Sage played like she was born under a spotlight, fingers a blur along the frets of her guitar, her voice a gritty, soulful thing that burned through the gym’s cheap sound system and landed right in your chest.
Rosalie couldn’t take her eyes off her.
The way Sage moved—with total command, fire behind every note, like the music wasn’t just something she played, but something she was. Hair coiled in that loose crown braid, combat boots traded temporarily for heels, black lace swirling around her—she looked like rebellion in a ballgown.
And then Sage looked down. Right at her.
Their eyes met, locked across the gym’s haze of twinkle lights and hormone-fuelled chaos.
Rosalie mouthed, I love you.
Sage didn’t hesitate. She touched her heart—fist closed over it—then threw it, theatrical and sweet, straight to Rosalie.
Rosalie smiled. She caught it, imaginary and yet so real it ached.
Then, a tap on her shoulder.
“May I have this dance, ma’am?”
Emmett stood behind her, grin wide, bow tie slightly askew, offering his hand like a Southern gentleman.
Rosalie raised a perfectly sculpted brow. The instinct to dismiss him was strong—but then she caught Sage’s look from the stage. A tilt of the head. A silent: go on. Have fun.
Rosalie sighed, smirked, and placed her hand in Emmett’s. “One dance.”
He led her to the floor just as Sage leaned into a bluesy, guttural riff on the guitar, fingers bending the strings into something raw and alive. The gym erupted in cheers.
Emmett glanced toward the stage, spinning Rosalie effortlessly once.
“Your girl,” he said, low and genuine, “is wild, electric, terrifying, impossible to ignore—and absolutely incredible.”
Rosalie followed his gaze.
Sage stood in the center of the stage, legs wide, head tipped back, coaxing a storm of sound from the Fender. The spotlight washed over her in gold. The crowd was hanging on every note, swept up in the spell she cast so easily.
Rosalie’s voice was soft—almost reverent.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, she is.”
***
Edward and Bella—who had slipped away earlier to the covered pagoda behind the gym—were drawn back inside by the cheers, the pounding rhythm of live drums, and the unmistakable edge of Sage’s guitar. The lights swirled across the crowd like champagne bubbles, catching Bella’s hair as they stepped through the doors.
Bella blinked in surprise, then let out a startled laugh when she saw her sister on stage, black Fender slung low, head tilted in that way she always did when she was really feeling the music. Mike was on the drums, pounding with uncharacteristic swagger, and Tyler handled the bass like he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment.
Edward hummed beside her, something between admiration and mild disbelief curling in the sound.
“Your sister,” he said, voice low and amused, “is a force of nature.”
Bella grinned, pride rising in her chest. “Yeah. She really is.”
Edward chuckled, glancing sidelong at her. “She still thinks about that punch, you know.”
Bella laughed again, eyes still on Sage. “Of course she does.”
“She’ll get over it.” He squeezed Bella’s hand. “Eventually.”
He turned to her fully, lifting her hand in his. “Come on. Dance with me.”
Bella looked out at the dance floor—Emmett and Rosalie spinning with dramatic flair, Alice and Jasper moving like they were born in perfect time. She hesitated.
“I can’t dance,” she whispered, shaking her head slightly. “Not like them.”
Edward leaned in, his breath brushing her ear. “I can make you.”
Before she could protest, they were already moving—his hand steady on her waist, her feet clumsy but somehow still carried by his effortless rhythm. And when Bella glanced across the room, she caught Sage’s eye. Her sister arched a single brow at her from onstage, then smirked before launching into a solo that made the gym erupt again.
And for a moment… everything was perfect.
The light, the music, the warmth of Edward’s hand in hers. The glint in Sage’s eye. Rosalie’s soft laughter. Charlie’s small, proud smile as he hovered in the corner with a cup of punch and a twitching moustache. Everything was exactly as it should be.
But just beyond the edges of that warmth, where the twinkle lights ended and the shadows of the trees curled in the dark—
A glint of crimson hair.
A flicker of red eyes.
Watching.
Waiting.
Because though tonight felt like an ending…
it wasn’t.
There was more to come.
THE END.