PoeticBrunette looked it over but I added stuff afterwards. Like always. All mistakes are on me.

Chapter 1

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May 13, 2011

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I struck a confident pose as I strutted into the skyscraper building, keeping my shoulders back and my head held high. My designer pumps clacked noisily against the expansive marble floor, while I attempted to gracefully maneuver through the whitecollars. I pushed my glasses higher up my nose impulsively.

I usually only need them when I'm reading but my friend, Rosalie, thinks that they make me look older, more serious, which is exactly what I was going for. If I was going to be chewed out by some know-it-all attorney with a waistline proportional to his exorbitant fee, I better not look like a freshman without a clue. Not that I was. A freshman, that is. I was, however, pretty clueless in this scenario.

Damn, I should've consulted Emmett. He's a lawyer, he would've told me what to do. Why hadn't I?

Oh, yeah. Because he and Rose were on their honeymoon and I didn't want to bother them with my petty issues. A small voice inside my head acknowledged that I hadn't involved them because I knew Rose would've kicked up a fuss at my need to "save the day". I'm already cringing at what she'd say in that particular lecture. I couldn't help it, though. I had to do something. But I wasn't sure what.

I uselessly ran a hand along the pencil skirt and straightened the jacket of my "power suit". Rosalie's words, not mine. She also believed that looking good helps you feel in control. I beg to differ. Underneath this veneer of strength, I was sweating bullets.

I ran a nervous hand through my loose curls as I squeezed into the packed elevator. Papers were shuffled, orders were barked into phones, shoes were tapped in impatience while I anxiously shifted from one foot to another. People filtered out and squeezed in at intermittent levels, before I finally reached the 44th floor. Stepping out of the stuffy elevator, I was greeted into the brightly-lit reception area of the law firm with a huge company logo staring me in the face.

Cullen Bloodsworth Whitlock

What's with these law firms and their longass names? What would happen if someone had an unfortunate last name like Weiner or Beaver? Weiner Berns Beaver? No. Wait for it. The master piece, ladies and gentlemen. Moore Long Weiner. I snickered, shaking my head at my ridiculousness. A throat clearing to the right interrupted my amusement and I was reminded of where I was standing. My cheeks went slack, as if a switch was flicked and I was back to freaking out.

The pretty receptionist looked at me like I was the most entertaining person to have ever graced the confines of this office. With a start I realized, I probably was. So before I could make more of a spectacle of myself, I swallowed my embarrassment and walked assuredly toward her. She scrutinized me from head to toe and I could see the conclusion in her beady black eyes. I don't belong here.

So much for the power suit.

I opened my mouth but the shrewd woman beat me to it.

"Welcome to Cullen Bloodsworth Whitlock. I'm Vanessa Angstrom. Can I help you?"

"Yes, please. I'm here to see Edward Masen." Here's hoping I got the name right.

Her finely-shaped eyebrow arched, "Do you have an appointment?"

Fuck. I don't have an appointment. What now?

"It is imperative that I meet with him, Vanessa." I insisted, holding my ground.

"Oh, it always is." She nodded her head emphatically, "It's a law firm, after all. People's lives are at stake here."

Ok, she's scaring me now.

"Listen. I realize the value of time in the legal world, but I really need to see Mr. Masen." I didn't back down, praying like hell my voice didn't sound whiny.

God I hope she doesn't have the guards escort me out. That'd take mortification to a whole new level.

"Alright. I'll see what I can do." Then she leaned over the desk and peeked down at my feet, "Only because I love your pumps. Fendi, right?"

The way she reverently spoke the name suggested that she was a fashion aficionado. I, on the other hand, knew jackshit about it. If it looked good, I'd wear it – that was my modus operandi. Rosalie had tried to instill some appreciation of the finer things in me, but after a few failed attempts, she'd labeled me a lost cause. Something told me, revealing my ignorance won't be the best move here, so I simply nodded.

The woman smiled brightly and said, "They are simply gorge." Then she picked up a phone on her desk and dialed a few numbers off the top of her head.

"Alice, there's a woman here to see Edward." she said into the handset, her fingers playing with the coiled wire.

"No, she doesn't have an appointment, but she says it's really urgent and she didn't have time to make prior arrangements." The monologue continued.

"I know, but Ms. -" she looked up at me and I muttered "Swan."

"Ms. Swan here is wearing the Fendi pumps that you were salivating over at Nordstorm last Sunday."

There was a gasp at the other end and then there was shrieking. I'd feel bad for the receptionist but she started screeching too.

"I know, right?" Only dogs can hear her, I'm sure of it.

Is that even acceptable in law firms?

"You can go straight in. Turn left and you'll see a short brunette with a pixie haircut wearing a Marc Jacobs Stripe dress." She gave me a meaningful look, like I was supposed to know what that meant.

I thanked her and went straight ahead, repeating in my head, "Marc Jacobs stripe dress". What does a Marc Jacobs stripe dress look like, anyway?

"Oh. My. Fendi," a raven-haired woman practically skipped toward me, her eyes trained on my footwear.

I wondered if I'd somehow been transported to a Gossip Girl episode. Not that I'd ever seen one. But I suspected that the girls in that show would definitely appreciate the "designer" status of my apparel as much as these women have been doing.

"I want to hear all about how you came to own these babies," she said and I gulped, already terrified of this conversation, "after you've had your meeting, of course."

I followed her to a beautiful, glass-walled office, with several racks filled with books and CDs.

"Please have a seat. Mr. Masen will join you momentarily."

"Thanks." I mumbled, looking around a little star struck. Books were my life – I lived in storybook-world half the time, so it wasn't a revelation, really. But the amount of books here had me itching to get my hands on one. Just one.

The receptionist closed the glass door behind her as she left the room. I tapped at the glass-top of the table. I could see my reflection in it. I ran a quick hand through my hair to settle the rebellious strands. The books were calling to me. I tapped some more. I think it's been five minutes since I've been sitting here now. Convincing myself that I'll keep my ears open for any footsteps coming this way, I wandered over to the book shelf, unable to hold off any longer.

There were all kinds of books here. An entire shelf was dedicated to thick, leather-bound legal journals that I immediately skipped over. The next shelf contained an amalgamation of classics and contemporary. There was Shakespeare and Tennyson. There was Fitzgerald, Steinbeck and Faulkner. He had a compendium of Arthur Conan Doyle's works. Sherlock Holmes. He predictably had a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. Atticus Finch is definitely a legal superhero. I noticed that his collection was particularly arranged, perhaps by their publishing years. Oldest to the left and time passes as you move right.

I was intrigued as I moved to what I believed was the contemporary section. Too many names I was unfamiliar with. I chose a book at random. Never heard of this one. It said on the cover it was a bestseller. The summary sounded scarily fascinating. An ugly custody battle, child abuse, murder. I opened the book arbitrarily and delved headfirst into the story. One page into it and I was sold.

Why haven't I read this?

I was so lost in the book that I didn't hear anyone enter until it was too late.

"Oh, please. Make yourself at home." A sarcastic voice sounded behind me.

I gasped embarrassingly loudly as I wheeled around, clutching the book to my chest. My eyes widened. The man standing before me was strikingly handsome with reddish slicked-back hair and a clean-shaven angular jaw. Dressed in a decidedly designer gray suit, one of his hands leisurely buried in the pocket of his trousers, he was positively model-esque. Okay, I had grossly underestimated the lawyers at Someone, Someone and Someone else. This one didn't have a huge belly that preceded him. In fact, I'm pretty sure he has some serious abs going on under his shirt.

Why am I thinking about what's under his shirt?

"Ahem." He cleared his throat and I looked into his cutting green eyes, my cheeks reddened at getting caught ogling him. He raised an eyebrow and looked at the book I was still holding on to like a lifeline.

"Oh, I'm so sorry." I carefully placed it back on the shelf and looked at him, "You have a vast collection. I was tempted."

He snorted, "Aren't we all?"

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, you heard me. I would've made a that's-what-she-said joke, but judging by your shifty eyes and overall skittish demeanor, I bet you would've sued me for sexual harassment." Then raising a challenging eyebrow, he added, "Or passed out."

Suddenly there was nothing beautiful about this guy. He was an asshole through and through. I frowned, unsure whether he was testing me or trying to throw me off. Either way, I knew I didn't have much time, so I sucked it up and said the first thing that came into my mind.

"Why is Richard Harrison being sued for plagiarism?"

"Why was Clinton sued for sexual abuse?" he fired off immediately.

A product of being a know-it-all my whole life, I jumped to answer the question without a second thought, "Because there was sufficient evidence against him that supported the claim."

"There you have it," his mouth quirked into a lopsided grin, "You just answered your own question."

He moved further into the office, and made his way around the table, settling into the comfortable-looking leather seat. It hissed softly under his weight.

"Now if you will excuse me," he waved at the bundles of papers and files on the table, indicating wordlessly that he had more important things to do. With that, he unceremoniously buried his head into a file, as if he were alone.

I was completely incensed. I had expected a patronizing asshole but he was practically ignoring me when I was right in front of him.

That won't do.

I covered the meager distance between the shelves and the table quickly and thumped the file close. His eyes shot up. I felt strangely invigorated. The power suit was finally serving its purpose.

"I want you to tell me what kind of evidence there is against him."

"Sure." He said faking congeniality, "Why don't you sit down and we'll discuss the details of the case over high tea."

Even though it clearly wasn't an invitation, I sat down at the opposite end of the table as I took my head in my hands.

"Look. It's important. I was his editor. I liked his premise and accepted his manuscript. He was my first writer and now he's caught up in this lawsuit. It makes me feel like I'm responsible. If it is true then I should've known and if not, I should be there to testify or whatever it is that I can do to help him."

"How touching." He deadpanned, before he asked, "Why didn't you go to him?"

"I wanted to get an unbiased view on things. He certainly wouldn't confess to me, if he actually did plagiarize." That was only partially true. Richard wouldn't tell me anything saying his lawyer told him to keep shut about the case.

The room was completely silent for an indefinite amount of time, as I looked at my downtrodden reflection in the glass covering the table. When I lifted my eyes, I found him gazing at me with a curious expression on his face.

"What made you think I would tell you whether he is guilty or not? I'm his legal counsel and it's my job to prove the allegation wrong, regardless of its authenticity."

"I thought if I could help -"

He out right laughed at that and my face heated up in utter chagrin.

"Ms. Isabella Swan, 26. Junior Editor, Norman & Norman Publishers. Graduated Summa Cum Laude in English Literature from NYU, and right away got an internship at your current place of employment." Cocking an arrogant eyebrow, he said, "I can go on, if you want. You don't think I looked into everything and everyone who could possibly be brought in to testify. Besides, this case is not going to court. We've made a settlement offer, which you don't need to know about."

Completely deflated, I got up from the seat and made my way toward the door.

"Miss Swan," I halted but didn't turn around, as I waited for him to deliver his final blow, "this is a cut-throat world. Everyone for themselves. Don't trust anyone, until you have indisputable proof."

Though his voice was surprisingly soft, an unexpected shudder rippled down my spine at the cold tenor of his words.

What a creep, I thought shaking my head.

Little did I know that this advice, I was so quick to dismiss, was what I should've taken to heart. It could've saved me a lot of heartache.

AN: Ok kids, raise your hands if you think Edward's an asshole?

Aw, don't be so harsh on the poor guy. PB asked me if he even has a redeeming quality. All I have to say to that is – Bella liked him – she accepted a promise ring from him. She must've seen something.

So I attempted to actually plan the story out before posting. I was initially thinking about making this a fic like iambeagle's "It Begins Like This" - alternate now and then chapters. But then I think I should just stick to then untilI get to the prologue. Any ideas? I'd love to hear them.

Thanks for reading, you guys.