A/N: Okay, so I'm not sure how this one is going to turn out. This is one part Beauty and the Beast rewrite, one part new writing style (which will make itself abundantly clear in the next chapter), and one part last-ditch attempt to finally write a version of my Baby that I can be happy with. So, uh, here goes nothing, I guess. Enjoy. :)

Someone had died for her, once.

That had been twenty-eight year old Tressin Johnson's reality since 2007, and it was now 2013, but a part of her was still stuck on it. In the back of her mind, she knew that she wouldn't ever truly be free of culpability. She did a good job of not thinking about it, but that was only because nothing had come back to bite her in the ass just yet. As the alleged World Savior, the notion seemed to come with the territory.

She hadn't believed it at first—this being the 21st century, it was understandably difficult to—but in the end she hadn't been able to deny it. There had been a prophecy for her to fulfill, and she had done it. She had just done it in ways that would make anyone want to groan in exasperation.

She had needed to choose between protecting and destroying a rose, of all things. If she was wrong, then everything was supposed to die. The icing on the cake was that a fourteen-year-old girl had been sacrificed, essentially to save Tressin from herself.

There was more to it—worse things—but that was sick enough.

But here she was, six years later, happy and alive. That meant something. It was what was supposed to happen; she didn't have to feel badly about it.

For all she had and hadn't done, and for all the things she knew people had done in her name, and for all the atrocities still happening to reach people like her, thoughts like that just didn't sit right with Tressin. She couldn't help thinking that she knew more than was healthy, more than perhaps she had the ability to handle.

"Tressin, you're spazzing again."

And people like Raoul Jacqués could never know.

Tressin shook her head and smiled at her boyfriend. It was genuine, because he always seemed to make her smile, but she wished times like these would stop her from feeling like a bad person for having the gall to.

"Was I?" she said. "Sorry. I didn't mean to."

"You say that every time, you airhead." He put his arms around her shoulders and held her against that place where belly met chest (she was sitting and he wasn't; it made sense). She relaxed into his familiarity as he asked, "Anything substantial?"

"No, just staring off into space."

Did she wish she could tell him? With everything she had. Everybody else would throw fits about it, though, and Tressin owed them a little more.

They never said how often they had saved her life. She never wanted to know.

Raoul laughed. She loved that sound. He spoke jokingly, "Somehow, I'm not surprised."

"Ha ha. You're hilarious." She tapped one of his arms. "Let me out."

He obliged and she stood up and turned around. Her hands brushed his waist and she leaned into him. "You're wearing that cologne I like."

"I was wondering when you would notice."

"I knew all along," Tressin murmured, sealing his mouth with her lips.

For every guilty moment, there was always something like this to wash it away.

You should also probably read this A/N. It's long, but it will explain a lot about this story:

Someone once told me that this story reads like a sequel, even though it is a standalone. I told her she was right, but here's the reason:

You already know what happened. Yes, you, reading my work for the first time. Or you, the loyal fan that was never told exactly what happened from some of the other books, but gets the gist anyway.

This novel is the sequel to the contemporary-fantasy tale of the Chosen One. You know, the saga of the person who is told at the last minutes that he/she is an important part of an underground culture. There is some task only he/she can accomplish, or a powerful object only he/she can manipulate. Through a series of action-packed scenes, explanatory dialogue, and usually the heroic sacrifice of a secondary character, the Chosen One accomplishes the seemingly impossible task and saves everything.

I just described a storyline you've read a thousand times, haven't I? Perhaps you've watched or heard about it, instead of read—the point is you don't need me to tell you that story again. The details of the underground culture, the important task/object, and even the Chosen One's gender are completely arbitrary.

Your job, as a reader of this novel, is to automatically slot characters into their stereotypical roles as they are introduced, and then watch how things have progressed since the stereotypical end of their well-known, epic tale. With any luck, these characters will give their tired labels some new life, and perhaps give you, dear reader, some new insights into this weary old song and dance.

Or perhaps you will simply roll with the punches and enjoy a (hopefully palatable) rewrite of that lovely classic, Beauty and the Beast. Really, the choice is yours.