One

I knew that day would be a disaster. As soon as I struggled to hit my alarm clock and rolled out of bed, I crushed my elbow against the nightstand, hitting the carpeted floor of my bedroom, ironically blue—as my mood would proceed. I struggled to push myself to my feet and get ready so that I could get out the door, but instead I dropped all of my research files into the dirty dish water as I was making coffee, lit the hem of my blouse afire with the burner of my stove while leaning over the stove to make breakfast, and the entire carton of orange juice across the kitchen floor.

Could this day get any better?

The car ride to my office was torturous—every single green light seemed to flicker orange and then red as if right on cue for me, and I found myself gently hitting my head against the steering wheel at each stop, silently cursing the world—I was going to be late for work. I was never late for work—I'd made it a very oblivious and involuntary trait to be earlier than necessary every single day.

When the building finally came into view I glanced at my wrist-watch, reading 7:55. I heaved a sigh at the fact that I wouldn't be terrifyingly late. Within the blink of an eye—no, more like a flinch of the lid—my seatbelt was strangling me with all of its might, and my forehead was at the steering wheel once again, but for a different purpose, and this time it actually hurt. God damn it—I'd rammed into someone from behind. My clumsy foot had developed a mind of its own that seemed to completely shut down in that short period, forgetting that down meant 'please hit the damn break now'.

My airbag hadn't deployed so I made the analysis that the accident couldn't be too bad. I peeked up from the wheel to see cars weaving their way through the mess I had made, continuing about their business as the traffic continued to build up and subside in layers behind me. Loud car horns and various angry south-eastern accents filled the spaces in between. When I caught sight of the car that I hit and made note of how expensive-looking it was, I put my head back down.

After a few seconds of counting my blessings I peeked up once again and there was a very expensive-looking man standing just outside of the expensive-looking car, yelling furiously into his cell phone. When he glanced at me, he did a double take, storming over to my car door and slinging it open.

"Never mind, Pete, she's not unconscious." He spat angrily into his cell phone and ended the call. "Get out." He hissed at me. I undid my seatbelt timidly and stepped rather ungracefully out of the car and onto the bumpy graphite of the cracked road, stumbling in my uncomfortable but fashionable Giuseppe Zanotti skyscrapers. He helped to balance me and I steadied myself quickly.

"Are you alright?" He asked, scanning me for any lesions or bruises. I said nothing, too embarrassed to even look him in the eye. "Hello?" He asked, clearly irritated. I couldn't do this now—I had a meeting in less than 30 minutes with the board that would ultimately shape my future at Cullen Enterprises and it quickly flickered into my mind that I left my license on the kitchen counter at home in that horrendous haste of a clusterfuck to get out of there. Glancing over to my car and then his, I saw that there was very minimal damage done—only a few scuffs on my white Hyundai and a small dent on the bumper of his shiny jet-black. . . I figured it was a Fisker.

I swallowed, finally craning my neck up to meet his eyes. When I caught sight of what my eyes set on, my breath hitched in my throat. A man that of a God stared very aggravated down to me. His prestigious demeanor emanated from his body like an aura. Beautifully shaped hazel-green eyes gave me a very rude once-over, and then rolled to the back of his head. He ran his hands through his messy-but-perfect thick brown hair and sighed in disgust. I couldn't help but stare at him. He was purely unreal—unreal as in a person like him should not be a tangible thing, but a comic book character or your favorite Barbie doll. His square jaw and sharp nose were typical—it didn't take much analyzing to realize that women fall face-forward over a guy like this. All I wanted to do in that moment was to pull his face down to mine and taste the inside of his mouth.

His sumptuous voice snapped me much too quickly out of my reverie. "Look, this could go a lot quicker if you just—"

An idea sparked in my mind—probably the craziest idea I've ever had in my life. Before that moment I'd never done anything so absurd—but I had no choice. "Siento—no entiendo." I murmured, and his eyes began to bulge out of his sockets, but his demeanor quickly returned, and he shifted from foot to foot rather uncomfortably. He inhaled until his chest puffed up to his chin, and then exhaled slowly, releasing one decimeter of breath at a time. When he pinched the bridge of his nose, I couldn't look at him anymore. My eyes were darting all over the vicinity as if trying to find an answer for every phenomenon in the universe all at once. I thought he'd caught me.

"Haces tiene—uh—" He snapped his fingers, searching for the word. "Seguro?" I put my hands up defensively—I knew exactly what he was asking, and he said it very clearly, but I continued to play dumb.

"Ah—No entiendo que hablas, siento. Pero puedo llamas si quieres, o no." I stammered in a perfectly fluent but fake Spanish accent, backing away from him and into my car. I'd never been so grateful for my 4 years of Spanish in high school and 2 more after that through college in all of my life.

The man stood stock still outside of my car, staring incredulously at me as I pulled away. When I parked in the garage and practically sprinted into the elevator with all of my things, I patted myself on the back with a silent victory because I thought—I don't know what the hell I thought then—I just didn't know. I wanted to think that after such a shitty morning—just one thing would go right for me, but no. This was not the Hunger Games, the odds were not in my favor—I didn't have myself a Peeta—I died. In more ways than one, I died in that very moment.

The meeting with the Cullen board was rescheduled to tomorrow afternoon at the last minute because of my unexpected absence. But here's the thing—I was 16 minutes late—and the meeting wasn't scheduled to commence until a little after 8:30. I groaned and bumped my head against the cabinet in the break room.

"What happened, buttercup?" Micah patted my back and cooed softly. I lifted my head and propped it on my hand, my elbow resting on the counter. Her big green eyes flooded with sympathy as she waited for my response, leaning her tiny hips against the tabletop. I puffed my cheeks out and blew my distorted fringe out of my eyes.

"I hit someone this morning." Micah's eyes went wide at my confession, and her hand slowly found her mouth. "—with my car." I added sullenly.

"Dear, God, Bella." She squealed, her face etched with horror.

I shook my head, righting myself for a moment. "No, Micah—you silly duck. I hit their car with my car." I explained, and as I did her body visibly relaxed, and then she began giggling up a storm.

"I find nothing about this situation humorous." I deadpanned, pouring coffee into the transparent coffee mug that my brother gave me for my birthday the year before. Nothing says happy 23rd birthday like a transparent coffee cup. CJ was never good with gifts, he was almost allergic to giving good ones.

Micah patted my shoulder and failed to stop giggling "Too bad that Carlisle is stepping down from his position as chairman—he could have easily gotten you out of that situation." With that announcement, my head snapped over to meet hers, and she jumped when I leaned into her. "What?" I hissed in a deathly tone, looking her square in the eyes. She shook her head in a what-the-hell-did-I-say gesture. "Carlisle Cullen is resigning and you're choosing to tell me now?!"

She shriveled into a raisin and spoke again. "…We all just found out now." She whispered. "Well—it was last minute. The decision was made yesterday night and was announced this morning—you know—when you were late." She said sweetly.

My entire world stopped then—Carlisle is leaving. What the hell am I going to do—will the person who is taking over for him keep me as their Personal Assistant as well, or will I from today onward be without a job? Carlisle Cullen gave me my big shot at Cullen Industries, putting all of his faith in me to succeed in his self-made company. Though he was old and damn near senile—he was a good man. I can't possibly see myself working for anyone but him. "Where is he?" I asked her, she just stared at me.

"He's—gone." She said simply, shrugging. "Probably lounging on a beach in Barbados."

"Who's taking over for him?" I attempted to calm myself, inhaling and exhaling. She bit her lip and thought about it for a while.

"They didn't say…But you're going to be meeting him or her in like—" She glanced at her watch. "Soon." She said simply, and then took a sip of her coffee. I stared incredulously at her, waiting for the continuation of this baseless conversation. When she failed to respond I groaned like a barbarian and turned around, running out of the break room and to Dr. Cullen's office just down the hall. His large mahogany doors came into my view first and then Marcus Lexington's ridiculous face followed much too quickly after. He suddenly rounded the corner adjacent to my desk and I jumped, squealing like a frightened schoolgirl and the smoldering coffee in my cup spilled onto my hand, causing me to screech like a banshee, shaking it hastily.

"Good morning, Isabella."

"Is it? Is it really?" I asked in a scornful tone, switching the mug from my singed hand to my undamaged one. He took the mug from my hand and set it on my desk, removing a tissue from my tissue box and handing it to me. I wiped all of the steamy liquid from my hand and tossed the paper into the trashcan. "Carlisle—" He interrupted me.

"We're about to meet his son now." My eyebrows pulled together as I dropped my purse on my desk along with all of the work I'd taken home yesterday.

What?

"Son?! Carlisle doesn't have a son!" I scoff, shaking my head in amusement before waving him off entirely.

Marcus' mouth twitched when I said that. "Correct—he has four sons—and two daughters." When he said that, my mouth dropped open. I couldn't believe my ears because I knew that he had two daughters Alice and Rosalie—I've met them both—sweet girls, but I didn't have the slightest fucking clue he had not one—but three sons.

"Marcus—what the hell are you talking about?" He shook his head slightly, a ghost of a smile playing on his thin lips. I swear that I'd never wanted to punch a man so hard in the face in my entire life. Why the heck was everyone being so damned obtuse that day? Everything was topsy-turvy and I was pissed as hell that I could get a real grasp on anything that was happening—it was as if I'd stepped into an alternate universe.

Marianne Walters stood in front of Carlisle's office doors alongside Levi Cullen's personal assistant John McLane, looking humorously uninterested with everything in the world as usual. Directly in front of John was the skinny blonde chatterbox of the office Lydia Baker, running her mouth away about everything that isn't her business—shocking. When her glance lingered over to me and she did that ground-shattering once-over that she does and then laughed inwardly for no particular reason, the continents must have shifted on their plates because I made no effort to give her the time of day which just isn't like me. Usually I'd have cursed her in my head and flipped her off when she turned around, but I just couldn't deal right then, I was mentally exhausted, and it wasn't even noon yet.

"Alright scumbags—" Marcus clapped to get all of our attention at once. My eyes stayed fixated on the marble floor as he continued in a hushed tone. "Edward Cullen. 26 years old. Stanford graduate with highest honors. He's basically considered a genius in the business world—everyone who is anyone knows of his accomplishments."

"I've never heard of him." Lydia's mouth managed to utter syllables yet again—every single time she found the oxygen in her already shriveled lungs to speak it amazed me like a child is amazed with having a coin pulled from behind their ear.

"Well you do now, bitch. Isn't it amazing how that works out, hm?" Marcus spits out in an irritated tone, and Lydia flips him off before rolling her eyes. Marcus ignored her and continued. "Here's how this is going to work—he's going to examine every single one of us today because we're the most immediate workers that he has. If he doesn't like you—he'll fire you in a nanosecond. Get it? Don't piss him off, don't get too anxious, and don't make him feel uncomfortable. He's a very elemental guy, and I'm scared shitless of him already."

"You've seen him?" Marianne scoffs quietly, leaning in closer to Marcus.

He nods. "Yes. I have." We all gasp like a bunch of teenagers at his confession—all except for John who once again looks like he couldn't give two fucks if the sky came crashing down to our feet right now.

"What does he look like?" She leans closer.

"You'll see." He winks, positioning himself in front of Carlisle's—I mean Mr. Edward Cullen's door and knocking firmly just above his head.

I hear a deep, calm voice echo from the inside. "Come in." Marcus didn't hesitate, quickly pushing the double doors open and stepping aside for our clearance. All four of us filed into the office one by one like kindergarteners and lined up in front of his desk like prisoners of war. His back was to all of us and he was looking out of his crystal floor to ceiling windows that perfectly assonated the beautiful dusking New York skyline as they always do. He was wearing a crisp white pressed shirt rolled up to his elbows, allowing his masculine arms to press through the thin fabric of his shirt, and black espresso dress pants—both were brilliantly tailored to fit his exquisite physique. His blazer was draped across Carlisle's large black leather Bahaus desk chair.

It took me all of three seconds to recognize that thick messy mop atop his head. My heart plopped into my stomach, and I prayed and wished and conjured every being I knew of—deliberating how much luck I would have if it would just wouldn't be him.

There was no way.

He turned around slowly.

Oh, fucking hell no!

My life slowly fell apart around me and I wanted to cry, run, scream. So many emotions hit me at once as he scanned over the lot of us one by one. When his brilliantly tinted eyes fell onto me, my jaw tightened, and the only thing that I could hear was the cavity clenching sound of my teeth grinding in my ringing ears. I expected all hell to break loose, cities to crumble, empires to fall, legions to rapture, but instead his gaze remained impassive and then moved away from me, not even the slightest gesture of his recognition of me. I would have actually thought that he'd never seen me before in his entire life had the following events not occurred.

Marcus cleared his throat and began to speak. "This is Marianne Walters, your receptionist." Marianne curtsied like the dainty flower she was. "Lydia Baker, your personal administrator." Lydia's huge, ass-kissing smile could have burn holes through the man, and when he didn't make any effort to smile back I had to suppress the laughter dancing inside of my larynx. Instead he simply crossed his arms over his wide chest and raised an eyebrow to her volcano-flushed mug. She was so obviously attracted to him, and thinking back on it now—I couldn't blame her in the slightest bit. 'Perfect' wanted to be him.

"You've already met John, I'm sure. He's your uncle's right hand." Marcus gestured to John and John gave Mr. Cullen a tight nod. "And finally—" I suddenly forgot how oxygen worked, or more over how to actually utilize it. "Ms. Swan, your right hand." I flinched when he finally said my name.

"Pleasure to meet you." I whimpered like a spineless loser, nodding and keeping my eyes to the floor where they belong.

I heard a small chuckle resonate through the room then, and when I looked up, his eyes were boring into my flesh, but he wasn't angry—he was thoroughly amused. "So you do speak English?" My cheeks heated with ferocity, and I knew that at that point I was some shade of red, just didn't know which.

"You two have met?" Marcus asked, his eyes darting back and forth between the two of us.

Mr. Cullen settled into the desk chair and leaned back, resting his chin on his cupped hands. He waited a while before he finally spoke. "Miss Swan and I have quite a bit a history you could say." He sneered, and I snickered. Does he consider me hitting his half-million dollar car and then driving off history? What an odd man.

"Is there something funny, Miss Swan?" He mumbles under his breath.

"No, sir." I shook my head. "I'm sorry for laughing." I tried to hide the sarcasm in my voice, but it was too prominent, and he knew that it was there because his entire mood shifted from amused to enraged within the blink of an eye.

"Get out." He hissed, and I couldn't hide my astonishment. I turned, and began to walk out of the room. "Not you!" I turned back around to meet his irritated expression; he was looking around at everyone else. They were all just as stunned as I was, but they didn't argue. They all filed back out of the room like children once again, and when the doors were closed it was just him, I and the sound of busy cars below us bouncing off the dark gray walls of his office.