A/N – Okay, so this ridiculous piece of fuckery came to me while I was driving home one day from work. Turns out after I fleshed it out a bit, there was a pretty decent story behind it. I hope you enjoy all the twists and turns that Izzy (the psycho formally known as Isabella) takes us on in this one. This story is not for the faint of heart. There's adult language and situations (like a chick trying to murder her husband) and later lemons (and I do a hot lemon if I do say so myself) so, be warned.
Oh, and I really need you to check out the banner for this one before you get started to get the full affect: http : // farm3. . com/2475/4022537382_996fa94d23. jpg
And you KNOW I had to put Jake in here somewhere, so fear not, he's coming (teehee…)
A huge shout out goes to my proxy Betas, Dahlia J Black and VampWolfGamma for keeping me straight and her words of encouragement. I heart you!!
~~Yeah, yeah…All Twilight characters and themes are owned by Stephenie Meyer, not ArtBeatsandLife…yadda yadda yadda.~~
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Chapter 1 – See. Shit like this is why I drink.
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I hate that bastard.
I mean I really hate that motherfucker.
Every time I look at him or hear him breathe through his open mouth while he eats his eggs, or forgets to unplug the iron or to pick up the dry cleaning, I just want to sail across the kitchen table and stab him in the neck with a steak knife and release some of this abhorrence thumping in my veins every minute of every day.
But, alas, I cannot- and trust me, I've considered it more times than I can count over the years.
If not for the obvious moral reasons, for the fact that I really don't think my pale skin would look at all appealing in prison jumpsuit orange.
And, I'd definitely be a bottom. A weak bottom.
I glanced at the purple beaded gown mocking me as it hung lifelessly from the door of our closet. Why did I have to go to this damn thing anyway?
All work and one too many charity functions standing next to this idiot made me a homicidal girl.
Awaiting his emergence from the shower, I laid flipping absently through the channels of the flat screen television hanging from the wall opposite our bed. This was boring and so was he, but I had to kill some time before the the event tonight.
He'd been in the bathroom for the last hour- which, by the way, was obscenely long for a man to groom himself.
I mean really, what the fuck could he be doing in there that long?
I was sure of one thing though: while he did whatever that thing was, he was, no doubt, doing something painfully annoying as well. I could hear him whistling that damn song again, by that band.
You know the one. Well, they all really sound the same anyway.
So, yeah, whistling away he did, the sound echoing from our master bath and the familiar churn began in my stomach and the bitter taste of bile began threatening its gurgle at the back of my throat.
Damnit where were my Tums? No more fucking spicy food for me, and that coffee kills me every time.
And of course, having to stomach him.
My doctor said I'd developed some sort of stomachy-ulcerish issue that I needed to keep an eye on.
I wonder why.
I shook it off quickly though, attempting to get a hold of myself. I couldn't let the fury consume me. No.
There would be time for that.
I needed a drink. A stiff one to deal with this shit.
Pulling the silk robe I wore tightly around me and readjusting its belt, I made my way towards our long hallway. I cupped my hair, pushing it away, scrubbing my hand over my face, willing the anxiety to wane.
Descending the stairs and padding my way to the mahogany bar area on the first floor, I pulled the brown liquor from the cabinet.
Ah, Jack, you're the only man I really love.
Wrapping my lips around the edge of the crystal lowball glass, I sipped and welcomed the warming liquid into my mouth. I glanced at the clock again. Just 10 minutes from the last time I'd checked. This fucking night was dragging on like the fucking last fifteen minutes of class before summer vacation.
I felt like I was in a time warp, a vacuum spiraling me against the space-time continuum.
I sighed, resting the length of my body across the marble counter top and swirling the amber whiskey around my glass. As I refreshed my cocktail, my mind began to wander to a simpler time in both of our lives.
I had just begun my internship at CollinsHarper, and he'd been visiting a colleague from his days at Yale. I was tapping away on my laptop completely engrossed in a project I had been working on for the duration of the summer. I glanced up from my screen and my work-strained eyes connected with his, which were taking in my entire body approvingly. I'd caught him as he lingered a little too long on my nipples pressed against the white silk shirt I wore. He blushed bright red and cautiously sauntered over to me, buttoning his sports jacket and running his fingers through his hair, that over time, I'd learned was perpetually messy, despite my most valiant efforts to have him tame it.
My heart flew in my chest and I felt the beginning of something so intense, so otherworldly, that I could hardly function in his presence.
I was flustered.
I lifted a shaky hand to my collarbone, sliding fingertips over the skin there as I watched his eyes follow my every move.
He smiled his smile at me and I melted. Those eyes.
The most peculiar shade of green I'd ever encountered.
After chatting for as long as I could before my manager began her scowl that meant our time was running short, he'd asked me out to Indian, and I accepted.
Over the course of a few months, he wooed me, and I allowed him.
I was falling hard.
And, as he looked into my eyes or introduced me so proudly to his friends or colleagues, I knew he was falling too.
We learned so much about each other in such a short time. We spent every free moment together, and I found that he was so much of a kindred spirit.
He never once judged me about my upbringing or family.
Thoughtful, brooding, of few words initially, but once he finally did speak, I realized how wildly intelligent he was.
I loved him.
Before I knew it, I was meeting his parents and brothers. Turns out he was one of the fucking Kennedys- well, all for the Mason name. I mean, they actually had a compound in Cape Cod where they spent summers.
A compound.
His family was kind and seemed to love me, though I'm not sure I ever had the emotional capacity to return even a tenth of their affection. So, I went with it. I played the part, stood beside him at philanthropic events and auctions. Attended his mother's Sunday teas and worked his brother's campaign for Connecticut senate.
I was overwhelmed.
I didn't have much family, and wasn't used to all the commotion. It made me so uncomfortable.
I was skittish whenever we were all together.
Ours was a whirlwind courtship and engagement. Against my own better judgment, I moved into his immaculate condo on the Upper East Side after knowing him only a few short months. Carlisle, his father, had all but made me another member of the family, and his mother Esme, though wary of a woman of my pedigree (or lack thereof) zeroing in on her youngest, soon welcomed me as well.
And, when he proposed with an absurdly large diamond at his parent's Fourth of July celebration one summer, I felt I had no choice.
I wanted him to come to my rescue.
I wanted him to save me, to understand what I was feeling. To allow me to be the woman that I knew he realized I was.
But no. He threw me to the sharks, and in those simple moments, I realized there were cracks in the foundation.
Our foundation. Little fissures that emerged before our house, our forever was even built.
I smiled and grinned like a good little fiancé when his brother Emmett's wife Rose insisted on planning the wedding, and his mother insisted on helping me design my dress, and his father, insisted one of his old crewmate's daughter be one of my bridesmaids. I took it all and nodded my head while my sub-consciousness was screaming.
I felt that with every yacht party and polo match and derby attendance, I was losing myself. I hid it though, there was one thing I'd learned how to do in my life, and that's hide my true feelings - to lie without saying a word with incredible ease. It became second nature.
That's how I got through my workday. How I dealt with his family, and so many defining points in my life. But most importantly though, it's how I could look him in the eye and unflinchingly tell him I loved him.
I'm what most people would call a little rough around the edges. I grew up in a shit part of North Jacksonville, Florida and later, an even shittier part of Phoenix with a divorcée single mother who took care of my brother Seth and me. There was a mile-high pile of shit that I'd done in my life that I wasn't entirely proud of.
The things we do when we have no other choice.
And my husband? Well, he's been handed everything with a big red bow tied around it his entire life. His father made a call and he was accepted to his premiere school of choice, though, he decided to follow Carlisle and become a bulldog. Upon graduation, he had a Vice Presidency offer at one of the largest financial institutions in the world – where Carlisle just so happened to be Chief Operations Officer.
Life just isn't fucking fair.
And, over time, the things that I'd initially loved about him, that were gold stars on his resume, I began to loathe.
We were the typical newlyweds, we fucked like rabbits, invited family and mutual friends over for dinner parties and cocktails often.
But things were, different.
Initially, even before the wedding, I'd thought my issues with him, with his family were just cold feet.
I was being silly.
But, after the uproar and excitement and friends and family were gone, and it was just he and I in the massive place we'd made our home, I realized.
He was different.
I was different.
That drive, that fire that had fueled so much of my attraction for him, that thoughtful consciousness that was so appealing before had waned.
He even stopped playing the piano, skipping his daily sessions, until he'd stopped altogether, something that still tugs at my heart.
He was so often at work or out with his brothers, or doing whatever the fuck it was he did.
Our marriage had deteriorated to something that I barely recognized anymore.
...and my loathing started. A tiny pebble, gradually gathering snow down a mountain, until it became an unstoppable force that I could barely hold onto. That I could barely handle anymore.
He had become a sickeningly blasé, pushover type who has no backbone. To make matters worst, he'd been given everything in his fairytale existence of a life.
And did he appreciate it? Did he at least show that he was grateful for what others in the world would kill there own mothers for?
Fuck no.
I hated that motherfucker.
I mean really. Who did he think he was? Always flaunting the fact that he had grown up with such the ideal family life, complete with silver-spoon-in-mouth. All, "Mummy this" and "Daddy that."
Shut up.
The world wasn't all roses and fucking rainbows. Some people had to actually work for what they wanted.
And work, I did.
It took me six long years at Seibert and Samson to become one of the most sought-after publishers in the city of New York, no thanks to him or his family's money or influence. It was all me, Isabella Swan-Mason.
Yes, Swan-Mason. And looking back, I am so fucking happy I'd decided against taking his last name fully.
It was me knocking heads and busting kneecaps in that boardroom everyday pulling weight and rank with those good ole boys. It was me getting things done beside men twice my age. Me.
Bracing myself on the banister while simultaneously sipping more of my drink, I headed back into our room and realized happily that the liquid was beginning to take its smooth, warming effect on my body.
I crawled back into bed and began reading, finally becoming more relaxed. After finishing a chapter or two, I glanced around the room at its lofty ceilings and pricey, tasteful furnishings, letting out a deep breath.
Why couldn't I love him? I had once upon a time, though I can't seem to recall the actual emotions. It was like looking at a photo of yourself from years ago that you never even remember taking. I feel about as close to understanding and feeling any real emotions for him as I could, say, a goldfish at a state fair.
What had I done to deserve this; being trapped in this marriage? It was like a Hitchcock film.
He was a complete and utter fool to not even realize what I'd really thought of him all this time. I mean, did he think it was an accident that more often than not, I'd find a way to stay out of the house for as long as possible most days or that I'd head out the front door of our 5 bedroom Manhattan townhome just as he was entering?
Um, no.
Of course, it wasn't always this bad. I actually did love him for a brief moment of our courtship, engagement and marriage. We'd had some things in common. We were both ambitious. And well, the sex.
Yes, I had loved him once.
I had fallen for him and his now non-existent depth.
I was once wildly attracted to his quirks, his passionate look at the world and how we all operated within it.
When I peered into those green eyes I saw something once.
But not any longer. It's almost like once he'd courted and married me, he lost all brain function. Like he was feigning intelligence, like it had all been an act. Now he was a grinning fool. Grinning and babbling and weak.
…and here it was – my complete and utter disdain for him.
My eyes darted to where he stood after he'd finally stepped from the cold tile onto the plush carpet of the bedroom we'd shared for the last seven years, so blissfully unaware of his idiocy. God, and now he was dripping water on the rug, like he always did, not bothering that I'd just had Jim in here to steam clean its expensive surface, again so unaware of his actions that he made me yearn for a blunt object close-by to hurl at the mass of bronze curls atop his head.
That hair.
I mean, really. How does someone always have bed head? Though, even I'd have to admit it was a bit sexy at times.
Oh, no. No.
I know what you're thinking: how can she hate someone so much, yet find anything about them even remotely sexy?
And, I'd reply, well, if you had husband with a cock on him like the one he did, you'd find that question rather ridiculous.
Our sex life was about the only thing I could tolerate from him now. I mean, is it so bad that I could so completely separate our physical relationship from our marriage? Men did it all the time. And, even now, I couldn't stand having sex with him nearly as much as he wanted to.
So, there he stood, droplets of water covering his smooth skin, pooling at his feet, and causing the off-white carpet to darken around him. He vigorously rubbed the blue towel across his chest and through that hair and down his legs.
He glanced at me intently with a grin and a wink, and I knew I would vomit. I was sure of it. He started toward me, his nude body still moist and warm from the water.
Shit.
That motherfucker was looking like he wanted something.
Something that I didn't have the stomach or wherewithal to give him at this moment. The horrified look spreading across my face obviously didn't register with him, not that it ever did – and he continued his approach. His eyes darkened and wandered up the length of my body sprawled across the bed.
"Izz," I fucking despised my name on his lips, the fury rippling down my spine, "baby," he said softly with that look. His towel dropped to the ground and he had the gall to slide my copy of Wuthering Heights from my fingers, absently tossing it aside.
Who the fuck did this jackass think he was?
Before I could react, he'd already begun his assault on my body, and it immediately responded beneath his touch and kiss.
Stupid, treacherous body.
Before I'd known what they were doing, my arms and legs were wrapping themselves around his muscular build and my lips where pressed firmly against his.
Well, he did smell pretty good.
His moist lips made their way down my body through the thin nightgown I wore, and my consciousness was no longer in control, complete with 'Out to lunch; Back in an hour' sign hanging from the proverbial door of my common sense.
And, well, he sure did know what he was doing with his hands.
I wanted so badly to feel utterly repulsed by the physical manifestation of his desire for me persistently pressed against my leg, but I swear for the life of me, at the moment, I couldn't remember why. My hands began roaming over his body of their own volition, and before I'd realized it, I had disrobed and he was atop me, doing things to me an- albeit extremely small- part of me still loved him for.
Those green eyes stared into my brown ones, and I was entranced for half a beat, as my release swelled within me, and I hated him for it. I hated him for making me feel like this. I hated him for doing this to me and making me question everything I knew and was positive of.
But, mostly, I hated him for being.
And, at the moment, as the waves hijacked my body, and my eyes rolled back and my toes and fingers involuntarily curled under, I knew without as shadow of a doubt.
I'd have to kill Edward.
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