Happy July 4th weekend, everyone! May you all be surrounded by family, beer, fireworks, and fried foods. I honestly am bewildered at reaching the 100-review mark, and I can only thank you all over and over again for taking the time to read my little story and leaving your thoughts. As philosopher Katy Perry once said, "'Cause baby you're a firework. Come on show 'em what you're worth."

So as a special thank you, I've decided to write an EPOV. Hopefully it doesn't suck. And no, I will not be focusing on anyone else's relationship than the ones I've already introduced (A/J, B/E, B/J). We all know who ends up together :)

The (Ass)umption

Edward

"I quit." My words of freedom land flatly, without any cadence of emotion. Like other bittersweet occasions, I automatically compartmentalize how I feel, and instead focus on my decision.

My ex-best friend and research partner, Ben, just scoffs. "You're not quitting. You're tied to two of our biggest projects, which you spearheaded, and besides me, you're the only other person who's billed more hours here."

I raise an eyebrow.

He rolls his eyes. "Ok, your numbers are higher than mine. But seriously-you're not leaving."

He punctuates his statement by leaning back in his expensive, Swedish chair, and he almost appears impressive-maybe even intimidating. He is the VP of one of the largest health research companies, after all.

But he was also my best friend in college, and we met while puking in the same bush outside of the Theta Chi frathouse.

Whoever said money doesn't buy class...was 100% accurate.

I glance around his desk, taking in the penthouse style, open panel windows, and the various metallic and minimalist furniture that probably cost more than the secretaries' salaries on this floor. Ben traded his college hoodie and sweatpants for a three figure suit and wing-tipped shoes, and I don't think he's ever gotten the irony of the situation.

I don't think he's ever stood in front of his mirror after getting dressed in the morning and realized, "Damn, when did I become a grade A douchebag?"

And, despite weeks of wrestling with my decision, I don't think he ever felt guilt over the cover-up.

I clear my throat and stand up straighter. "I turned in my two week notice, I've made arrangements with the other project directors, and I've cleaned out my office. Technically, I don't even need to be here right now. This was a courtesy call."

Ben frowns and starts to fiddle with the glass chess set on his desk (I wish I were kidding). "Look, I get it. Everything's kind of shitty right now, but it'll get better. Dude-we're practically in charge of this company right now. We get to make the calls. And we can correct our mistakes in the future."

His voice takes on a more optimistic note towards the end, as if he actually means what he's saying, but I know better.

Still, he's a previous coworker and close friend, so I figure I owe him a modicum of decency.

"Maybe we shouldn't. Maybe what happened is an indication that we shouldn't be the ones calling the shots," I explain slowly.

He throws the chess piece down and stands up, agitated. "I don't understand why you're throwing it all away-all the progress we've made-just because of one fuckup. People fuckup all the time, your highness. Sorry we can't all be as honest and dignified as you," he spits.

I just stand still, absorbing his rage. "It's not just one fuckup," I respond quietly. "It's not an error that can be easily fixed. What you and Tanya did was inexcusable and unforgivable. You're both incredibly lucky that no one died."

He winces and starts to pace around, like a wild animal that's been hopelessly trapped behind steel bars. "The settlements were more than generous for the families-"

"Yeah, I'm sure they'll be hugging their money as tightly as their hospitalized kids from the side effects of the medication that we apparently had no knowledge of." I clench my jaw and remind myself to breathe in and out.

From the very beginning, I knew something was wrong with the contract to MedRing, a promising but still relatively unknown pharmaceutical company based in Switzerland. While the company was vouched for by our other partners, the medication they were pushing, which promised to alleviate the effects of neurodegenerative disorders, seemed too good to be true.

Though I had repeatedly voiced my suspicions, Tanya and Ben, the other directors on the contract, decided to move forward. A year into the project, families were appropriately worried about their children, who comprised the majority of the target population, and exhibited severe reactions to the medicine. After conducting an evaluation, we found that not only did the medication cause the symptoms to worsen, but it also increased the patient's risk of other conditions like liver failure, cervical cancer, and infertility.

My response? Report it to the FDA and accept the appropriate punishment, wiping our conscience clean. Tanya, Ben, and the CEO's response? Slap the families with an NDA and pay them enough money to keep their mouths shut.

Most of these families were poor and vulnerable. Essentially, we gave them a poisoned apple and then bullied them to hide the rotten cores.

And people ask me why I have trust issues.

Like any skittish rat, Ben nervously asks, "So what does this mean? Are you actually thinking of going to the Board?"

I smile wryly. This is what I'd been waiting for. Not that he gave a shit about my career or my well-being, but because he was only thinking of himself.

I don't even think Tanya, his wife, was on his mind right now.

"I already have," I answer, watching him freeze. "But I guess when the CEO's daughter and her husband fuck up, it's not that big of a deal. Congratulations, Ben-you got the father-in-law you've always wanted."

For a second, I think he'll punch me, but I almost laugh at myself for the ludicrous suggestion. As if he would lift a finger to get something done.

Still, I wait for the inevitable anger and fake threat.

"You son of a bitch. After everything I've done for you-this company has done for you? Fuck you, man."

I nod. "Excellent. You could have also said, 'This isn't over', 'You'll regret this', and the classic-'Yippie Ki-Yay, Motherfucker'."

I don't bother to stick around and listen to the rest of his explosive rant, and instead button my suit jacket, grab the "World's Biggest Jackass" mug I had gifted to him after his promotion, and close the door behind me.

Good riddance.

It isn't ideal going to work for my father, who owns the company that I had competed with for the last five years, but I almost had no choice at this point. Every company, once they achieved a certain level of success, started to fuck around with the rules. Granted, sometimes it's not that big of a deal, but other times-as in the case with my previous place of employment-the results can be catastrophic.

I still have nightmares from listening to all the voicemails left on my office phone-all of the families' tirades, tearful pleas, and appropriate threats. We had injured the most precious and vulnerable people in their lives, and the only reason behind it was money.

It was always about the fucking money.

I enjoyed my work (when it was in the right hands), and even though I had sworn to never work with my father, wanting to prove myself and carve out my own path in the health research world, there was also no one I trusted more.

Would I have some benefits and flexibility just given the nature of our relationship? Probably; I'm not naive enough to dismiss the possibility. But I had been working for almost nine years, collaborating with some of the world's most renowned researchers and organizations, and if anyone wanted to play the "nepotism" card, then I would gladly show them my list of accomplishments and publications.

"This is wonderful. My boys finally working together-oh I'll have to visit more often now!" Esme grins, grabbing both my and Carlisle's shoulders. "Edward, sweetheart, have you started looking at apartments yet? You're welcome to stay here, you know. There's plenty of space."

I almost choke on my drink. I was already single, early 30s, and (momentarily) unemployed. If I moved in with my parents, I might as well just give up and start looking for cats and inflatable sex dolls.

I smile appreciatively, making sure to flash the dimple. "Thanks, mom, but I actually just moved into a 1 bedroom over on Capitol Hill."

She simply raises an eyebrow, and shoots me a, "You're cute but not that cute" expression. "Perfect, then I'll be over to help decorate. Be sure to text me the address. I can stop by sometime next week."

I stifle a groan. I should've known she would try the highballing technique.

Carlisle refills his lemonade and pats me on the back. "Esme, the boy is almost 30-" Close, I just turned 31 last October but thanks dad- "Don't you think he can buy his own home furnishings by now?"

Esme simply raises the other eyebrow. "Are you saying you could go to Crate and Barrel and pick out the appropriate items to create the same atmosphere I have in our lovely home?"

Poor Carlisle just blinks. I'm pretty sure he doesn't even know what Crate and Barrel is.

I wipe my mouth and start to stand up. "Mom, I'll be around next Monday and Tuesday for some last minute furniture to arrive and to have cable set up. You're welcome to come over anytime. Dad-I'll see you at the office on Wednesday."

He rubs his hands together like a toddler gleefully. "Sure, son. Be prepared-IHS is well-known for its hazi-I mean, unconventional welcome." He snickers and finishes the rest of his lemonade while my mother shoots him an exasperated but loving look.

I roll my eyes and hug them both, feeling my heart squeeze in my chest. While I treasured moments like these, there was still a leftover part of me that felt like the lost kid looking in from the window. Carlisle and Esme were the perfect parents, and I've never taken them for granted or forgotten how lucky I was to be adopted by them. But sometimes, I wonder if I've let them down. Sometimes I wonder if they wish they found me earlier, so I wasn't as reserved and skeptical as I am now.

Ultimately, it doesn't really matter. On paper, I was educated at some of the best schools in the country, traveled extensively throughout my 20s, and exemplified every inch the lifestyle of the 1%. People are often jealous of these experiences, and on a certain level-they should be. The life I was given is far better than the life I had, but things that sparkle and glisten are the most noticeable when they start to fade.

Eventually, the insatiable need for power and money become the sole motivations for living, and I was either too naive or too cynical to believe that would ever make me happy.

Then again, it took me a week before telling the CEO about the cover-up. It took me another week to resign. The college version of myself would have kicked my ass for waiting so long.

I close my eyes and lean back against my car seat, inhaling deeply. ABS, Ben, Tanya-that was in my past now. Yes, it was shitty, but I had no doubt that things could only improve from here.

Three weeks later

I was wrong. Dead wrong.

I prefer Dr. Swan.

And I prefer having a co-worker who didn't just embarrass me on my first project, but I guess we're both shit out of luck.

I watch her stride out of the conference room, forcing myself to count backwards from ten, a calming exercise from my childhood.

Ten...ten...ten...ten…

Fuck it.

I push the doors wide open and take the long way back to my office, and I see a few associates quickly move out of the way or conveniently leave to go to the bathroom. I clench my jaw and try to separate my incoherent thoughts.

What the hell was I doing? Granted, when I first realized she was the co-director of the department I was presiding over, I was relentless. After all, given our introduction in which she assaulted me, I hardly think I was overreacting.

It didn't help when I found out that she was practically Carlisle's right-hand woman. "Bella is the best of us," Carlisle had told me with a wide smile. "She won't fall for anyone's bullshit, and she works twice as hard as any of the other directors." He rubbed his chin. "Maybe even some of the execs, to be honest."

I stared at him disbelievingly. "She assaulted me in a coffee shop."

Carlisle rolled his eyes. "She didn't actually hurt you-she sent a message. And that's why you shouldn't take things that aren't yours, a lesson I had hoped you learned after the brownie incident." He pointedly glanced at me.

I winced. Apparently the brownies at Louise Smith's fourteenth birthday party were for everyone, and not just my greedy little hands.

"Well, if she's as tough as you say, then she shouldn't have a problem with me," I reasoned.

Carlisle just snickered. "You two-I swear, it's like a damn Harlequin novel." He paused to frown, a rare sight, before shooting me an almost threatening look.

"As amusing as this all is, and as much as I trust you, son-make no mistake. If you hurt her…" he trailed off, unsure of how to finish, probably because this was his first threat, possibly ever.

My expression turned sour, and I dryly finished, "You'll kick my ass?"

He didn't smile. "No, I'll fire you."

Regardless of whether he was serious or not, I couldn't believe that someone like Bella Swan, who had no class whatsoever, earned Carlisle's loyalty. Yes, she was a hard worker, and had an almost impeccable record at IHS, but she was too casual, too impulsive, and too dramatic (erectile dysfunction? Really?) for someone of her position.

Was I hard on her as a supervisor? Sure. But I hardly doubt my overbearing tactics warranted her little stunts, clever as they might be on a certain, April Fool's Day level. So what exactly was my next move in this twisted chess game? And what did I hope to win or lose? I had repeatedly misjudged her, thinking she would back down each time I stepped over the line. Yet she not only stood her ground, but kept pushing it forward. It was infuriating, and if this were a few years ago, I might have continued plotting against her. As sick and twisted as it sounds, there was a thrill each time we confronted each other.

Safely in my office, I run my fingers through my hair and tug. It was clear from the past two weeks that I had made two mistakes.

My first mistake was underestimating my opponent.

My second, and worse mistake? Underestimating the chemistry between us.

It wasn't the pleasant, nonchalant kind of chemistry, dominated by shy glances and coy smiles. This was an all-consuming maelstrom of tension. And any ill will I had for her paled in comparison to the rage I felt towards my lack of control around her, the frustration of my not-so-pure thoughts-

The struggle between punishing her with another petty task versus shoving her up against the wall, fisting her hair with one hand, while crashing my mouth on her disobedient tongue-

Compartmentalize. And that's how I figure out what to do next. Two hours after the disastrous conference call that will no doubt reach Carlisle any second now, I realize three things:

I couldn't keep playing this game with her, not when I didn't have full control of the rules.

I shouldn't have any more ridiculous thoughts concerning her and those stupid skirts.

I wouldn't allow anything to happen between us.

Two weeks ago

My phone vibrates and I quickly glance down, stopped at a red light. Hey, I'm running a bit late. Just leaving now. See you in 10-15 min!" I chuckle, knowing this would happen. She was practically allergic to being on time. Not that I had anywhere to be at the moment. While this was usually one of my biggest pet peeves, she was the exception.

Plus, her obsession with those Housewives tv shows were a lot more problematic.

I park my Aston Martin next to the Mercedes, thankful that we were meeting in Georgetown. The last time we met up, it was at a Chipotle off of North Capitol Street, and my car had not only gotten broken into, but to add insult to injury-someone had urinated all over the front seat.

It was also my first visit to D.C.-an appropriate welcome indeed.

Deciding that the lemonade I had earlier couldn't keep me awake, I order a caramel frappuccino (something I was mercilessly teased about in college and grad school, but real men drink sweet coffee). While I wait for my drink, I stand to the side and quickly pull up my email, until I hear a gasp that causes me to look up.

A brunette in a tight red dress with deathtrap heels gets in line, crossing her arms and tapping her finger impatiently on her arm. For a moment, her eyes flutter closed and I wonder if she's just fallen asleep standing up. She goes up to order, high-heeled shoes and all (I don't understand why she doesn't just take them off) before retreating to a corner and rubbing her temples.

I allow myself to smirk, though not in her direction. Women like her were easily a dime a dozen in big cities, and while her hungover state and regret from her obvious one night stand were amusing to me, I also wondered what the hell she was doing in the nicest part of town.

Seriously-I think the inventor of toaster strudel was the one glancing judgmentally at her in the corner, muttering to his wife.

This is why I'm single, I remind myself. What was the point of flings and one night stands when all you got in return was a few minutes of satisfaction and a night of drunken regret?

I never saw the point, and even though this perspective caused others to question my sexuality, I didn't put in the effort to refute anything or to care.

"Caramel macchiato!" The barista shouts. At the same time, my phone vibrates again. Right outside-where are you? I smile and text her back as I grab the coffee and take a sip. Outside where? I'm in the coffee shop.

Just as I put my phone away, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

I turn around and see her. Though her body is clearly tense, her lips force themselves upward. Her left eye twitches subtly, and I briefly wonder if she's packing any weapons. "Excuse me," she starts. "You seem to have taken my coffee-my name's actually written on the side there."

Annoyed but slightly impressed at her direct approach, I glance down at the name. "Your name is Bailey?" I ask, feeling my phone vibrate again. She casually shrugs her pale shoulders before replying, "It's actually Bella," clearly hoping that I'll understand.

Well, I already took a sip of it, lady. Get over it.

Impatiently trying to end this encounter, I simply repeat her gesture and say, "Well then I guess it's not yours." For the first time I notice some college kids behind us, giggling and chatting, so I add nonchalantly, "Also, I think your friends are leaving without you."

Ok, that was kind of a dick move.

I turn around and grab my phone, seeing all the confused "I don't see you?" texts, and quickly start typing out a response. Just as I'm about to hit send, I feel something kick me, causing me to lurch forward. I hobble, trying to find my balance. Coffee spills to the floor, and I hear an "Oh heavens!" from the elderly couple.

What the fuck was wrong with this town?

Not even bothering to mentally recover, I whip around and assess her. Short, skinny, with just a light enough tint in her hair to know it was highlighted. Last night's make-up had not stayed in place, and I was afraid to bump her head, lest woodland creatures crawled out.

I needed to make sure she knew this would not end well for her. So I coolly respond, "This is why I never come here. They always forget to take the trash out."

And I expect her to immediately apologize, maybe even tear up a bit, shoulders hunched downward, eyes big and pleading. Most of the women I knew wouldn't have assaulted me in public in the first place, but even I figured she would have enough sense to apologize. Given her current state, I highly doubt she had any self-respect left.

Instead, I watch her straighten, planting her stance, with her shoulders rolled back, before she lifts her furious gaze to mine and spits, "Fuck you."

She tosses her hair back (something I thought women only did in TV shows) and struts away, stumbling a bit on her heel. I let out a deep breath and suddenly notice the patrons staring expectantly at me. Like a jackass, I take a bow, announcing, "I'll be here all week, folks. Thanks."

I rub my jaw tiredly, struggling to process what just happened. I had gotten attacked over a cup of coffee and instead of apologizing and admitting guilt, my attacker cursed me out and ran away.

I hate this city, I really do.

"Hey," I hear above me, and I quickly put my phone away and stand up to hug her.

She looks almost the same, except for the wrinkles around her eyes and face, no doubt caused by the added stress over the past few years. Her long, dark hair curls around her shoulders, and clear blue eyes fill with warmth as they fix on mine.

"Hi," I grin. "It's been too long. How's everything?" We both sit across from each other, and it feels like we're in our pre-teens again, whispering secrets and "What if" statements to each other in the dark.

She smiles hesitantly and pushes back a lock of her hair behind her left ear. "It's been better," she responds. "I've been going to a few job interviews and there are some promising leads." Her eyes brighten. "One of them said I could possibly start as an associate given my experience."

My eyes widen. "That's amazing," I answer. "We should celebrate." She laughs and I'm relieved of her recent change in mood. When I last saw her, she had broken down in my arms, confused and afraid of who would hurt her next.

"I don't have the job yet," she teases. Her smile dims a bit. "Plus, they haven't done an extensive background check, and if they find something-"

"They won't," I reassure her. "We both know that."

She looks down and nods, and I grab her hand from across the table. For a minute, we exchange a look of reassurance, reminding ourselves that everything would work out the way it should. This was our calibration of reality, our breath of air from being submerged, our little nod to the past that despite how shitty everything could be-we would survive.

She squeezes my hand from across the table. "Thanks, Masen."

I squeeze back. "Anytime, Alice."

A/N: Breathe with me, people. Answers will be coming soon.