ISABELLA CULLEN

19th April, 2014

I married the wrong man.

The words were blunt, but I was done being polite. I had been polite my entire life; blunt was the only thing I had left. And why be polite when speaking the truth? The truth was cruel and malicious and dangerous, which made it so much more entertaining.

I had married the wrong man.

I had deluded myself into thinking that my marriage would be different than the 1/3 that failed. I'm sure they deluded themselves too. I'm sure they told themselves while dressed in white that they were different. Shocker: we weren't different. I was intelligent, yes, but naïve – we had been young. I'm still young. I don't know why I ever believed my marriage would be any different than those that failed; he fucked me well, I guess. Or he used to.

I had been the doe eyed student, transfixed by the green eyed Lawyer. He was power and I was innocence. Even then, he had an advantage. His smile, his voice, his touch, oh how he had electrified me when I was a girl. I was stupid enough to believe his words. He was a good liar, as was I. But he was better – he had convinced me of his love, and for a moment, a small moment, I think he did love me. But how can a lion love a lamb?

I wasn't a lamb anymore.

I hadn't been for years.

I was a lion, now, just as he was. I was as powerful as he was. I was everything I had thought he was, and more. I used to think I was nothing – a plain pale face that would soon be forgotten. Girls are meant to think they're nothing, though, aren't they? They're meant to believe that they're ugly and flawed, as if men aren't as well. It keeps expectations to a low, I guess. Women are meant to settle – are meant to accept that their husband have a beer belly while they keep a trim physique, otherwise he'll leave you for a twenty something with fuck me legs who, too, believes their nothing. Why else would they be with a forty year old balding mortgage broker? It is so easy for a girl to think they're nothing. To think otherwise would be vain – no, girls have to be modest.

They have competitions between their friends over who hates themselves the most, but of course they are called attention seeking sluts for bringing up the fact that they can't stand the look of themselves in the mirror. Whereas men believe they're everything and doubt is little to no importance in their view of themselves. No, men already have value – they don't need validation to know that they are valuable. They just assume so. But girls? No, girls are conditioned to believe that from the moment they breach their mother's womb they are nothing. I thought so too, once. I guess that made it easier for me to let him do what he did. Yet I no longer thought I was nothing. No, I was everything. I was the cool one. I was the lion. I was the fucking sun.

And he?

Well, he was nothing.

To me, at least.

But to the world, my green-eyed husband was everything. The man who had kissed me in alleys and romanced me in cheap bars was everything to them. And I stood by his side, a polite fuck me smile on my lips as I waved to his adoring fans. It nauseated me; it crumbled whatever respect I had left for myself. He would kiss my cheek after speeches, and I would flush – as if I enjoyed the trivial bullshit I had to listen to. His hand was constantly on the curve of my back, leading me through crowds and onto stages. I used to yearn the feel of his guiding hand. I now shunned it. It was control. It was dominance.

I hated it.

I hated that fucking crooked grin. I hated those fucking green eyes. I hated his fucking voice. I hated everything I once loved.

I hated him.

My husband, my beautiful ivy league husband. Oh how the times had changed us.

I felt a hand on my naked back, trailing up my spine before it rested between my shoulder blades. I couldn't fight the smile that slipped onto my lips as I looked up at him. The man I should have married. His lips were on mine in an instant, pulling my bottom lip between his teeth. I giggled, turning in his hold as I pulled him to me. His warmth was intoxicating and when I was near him I was an addict for it.

This was heaven.

I opened my eyes to see his brown eyes watching me. My brown eyed man, so different to my green-eyed husband. His copper skin glistened with droplets of water; his hair dripping from the effects of his shower. He smiled, so wide that I wondered if his face could handle it. Green eyes never smiled.

Not at me.

"Good morning, First Lady Cullen," He murmured, pressing a kiss to my lips again.

I grinned, tracing the lines of his face. "Good morning, Senator Black."

Yes, that's right.

My husband is the President of the United States.

And I'm fucking his opposition.