AN: I know it has been a while. I got a new job that is super stressful. RL is kicking my ass. I'll have the next update ASAP.

"Ahhh…shit," I whisper to myself.

What. A. Day.

"Hi," I step out of the elevator. As always, my mother's appearance is impeccable. She has on a burgundy sheath dress and khaki blazer. Then, there are the Loubitons. You can't have a Renee Dwyer ensemble without the ever-famous red bottoms.

"My darling," she dramatically sighs. "Come here," she lunges to close the long distance between us in a hug. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," I awkwardly pat her back. "You?"

"Fabulous," she turns to walk down the hallway.

Shaking my head, I follow her down the pathway. I watch as employees ogle her and pretend to work. I gag internally. I can't deny my mother's beauty. She's the kind of woman that has a hundred percent double-take rate. Men stare with desire. Woman stare to determine if she's gotten any work done because no ordinary woman can be in her fifties and look as good as she does.

As she sashays through the hallway to my office, she smiles and waves at all of her admirers.

What the hell is she doing here?

"Renee."

"Yes," she grins, muttering a 'hello' to an intern.

"Mother."

"Uh-huh," she accentuates her answer. "Cute shoes," she compliments Angela.

"What are you do…" I stop myself, as she opens the door to my old office. Shit. "Mom…"

"He-llo," she smiles, entering Peter's office.

"Renee?" my asshole ex-husband asks.

"Yes," she gives him a huge hug. "You look wonderful," she holds his arms out to inspect him.

"Thanks," he grins. "Ever-radiant as usual."

"You give the best compliments," she rests her chin on her hand. "My daughter is a fool," she whispers, kissing both of his cheeks.

"I heard you," I inform.

"I wanted you to hear," she quickly replies. "What the Hell is this?" she motions around the smaller office that makes Peter's office. "What happened?"

"We put a wall in," I point to the obvious.

"Oh, dear," she shakes her head.

Renee' stares at me with a look that can only be described as a mixture of confusion and disappointment. She huffs and throws her hands in the air.

"Well..." she puts her hand on her hip and starts to tap her foot incessantly. "I just...this is...ugh..." she motions between the two of us.

Peter and I look at each other. My mother had a flare for being dramatic. Her temper tantrums have become legend amongst the upper-crust citizens of Boston. One time, she got a waiter fire because he felt her water was too cold.

"Renee," Peter says in a calm and borderline patronizing way.

"Don't even," she snatches her hand away. "I've seen enough," she looks around.

"Mom," I lead her out of the office.

"Come on," she takes a mirror from her purse. "I'm taking you to lunch," she confesses. "You!" she points to Angela's mentor. "Grab my daughter's coat and meet us at the elevator," she orders and checks her impeccable makeup.

"I don't have time," I sigh. I don't have time for whatever drama my mother has planned.

"Liar," she calls my bluff. "I talked to your assistant. You have a whole hour," she presses the elevator button.

"I just came back from lunch with Peter and the first years."

"Fine," she takes out her phone. "We'll have mani/pedis. We may be able to add in a few martinis," she nudges my shoulder.

"Here you go," Franklin hands me my jacket.

"Don't fight it," Mom gently pushes me into the elevator.

"Renee."

"None of that," she squints her eyes at me. "You need to relax. You've had a hard few months," she pushes a stray hair behind my ear. "Plus, your cuticles look like shit," she giggles. "I can only imagine what your feet look like," she looks at my hand.

"Thanks for that," I roll my eyes.

"I only speak the truth," she glides out of the elevator into the lobby. "We'll take my car," she volunteers as her driver opens the door for us.

The entire ride to the spa is filled with the kind of gossip only the upper class know about. I just smile and try to look remotely interested.

You'll never guess who skipped his daughter's rehearsal dinner to take his mistress to the Hamptons for her birthday.

I've seen Little Miss Obvious has been hitting the club scene lately. It seems like she's looking for a new sponsor… I mean husband. You know her current one is going away for insider trading.

She's not fooling anybody with her bullshit excuses. Deviated septum? Please. Just admit you had the nose bridge of a caveman and wanted it fixed.

A pool boy? What is this…2002?

"We're here," I interrupt her story on how her neighbor is becoming infatuated with her teenaged pool boy.

"Fabulous," she steps out of the car.

It seems as though our chairs and technicians are waiting for us. They must have known we were coming.

"Now that you can't run away," my mother points to my feet in a jet spa. "I must admit that I came here for an additional reason other than catching up."

"An ulterior motive?" I feign shock. "Never," I chuckle.

My mother is one of those women who is always working an angle. In addition to being devastatingly beautiful, my other is also wicked smart. That's what my father loved about her. I never understood why she was content with being a trophy wife. She could be so much more.

"Of course," she gives a sickeningly sweet smile. "I've come to meddle in your personal life."

Shit.

"Mom," I warn. "No."

We've talked about the disintegration of my marriage before…once. After that, Mom and I agreed to disagree on my decision to end it. She still made her signature one-off comments about it but she never fully approached the subject ever again.

What's her deal now?

"Yes," she calmly replies. "Divorcing Peter was a mistake."

"No. It wasn't."

"You overreacted," she argues. "You do that, Bella. You overreact to things. Then, you make rash decisions…"

"He cheated on…"

"Did he have intercourse with the bartender?" she asks.

"He says he didn't," I tell her for the millionth time.

"There you go," she huffs.

"What?"

"So what?" she asks. "Your husband found another woman attractive and liked to talk to her."

"He cheated on me emotionally. He couldn't talk to me about stuff? We hadn't had decent sex in like six months…but he had time to go to some random ass bar and stare at the hot bartender until midnight instead of fucking his sexually frustrated wife?" I whisper.

I hated talking about the sexual side of my marriage to Peter. He was good in bed. At least I think he was. I've never been with another man. Our first few years together, Peter couldn't more than two days without being inside of me. As time went on, it was like that need disappeared. The months he was sneaking off to stare at Charlotte the Bartender, he basically stopped touching me altogether. During that period, we may have only had sex like three or four times.

That's not why I divorced Peter.

"That's your standard mid-life crisis," she stares at me like I'm an idiot. "Men his age need to know that he can still be considered attractive to women who aren't his wife," she reasons. "It doesn't mean…"

"You weren't there," I say for the millionth time.

I'm getting really tired of talking about this.

"Sure," she rolls her eyes. I would have gotten an eye roll. Fortunately, the woman who was waxing her eyebrows was about to yank off the strip. "How he looked at her," she mimics my voice. "He looked. He didn't touch."

"By default," I counter. "By that time, he'd already seen me."

As soon as Peter knew he'd been caught in whatever he'd been doing or not doing, he went into Preservation mode. He dropped the Bartender like she was on fire and immediately starting making excuses.

It's not what it looks like.

It didn't mean anything. I promise.

I love you. You know I'm not 'that' guy.

I believed him…a little.

I've worked enough divorce cases to know that Peter despised cheaters. He always said, "If you ever think about cheating something is already wrong in your relationship." This is why I was so pissed when he tried to pretend like what he did was harmless flirting.

That's now why I divorced Peter.

"Bella," she mutters a sigh. "He... is…a…man," she looks in my eye. "He had a moment of weakness."

"M-"

"He was wrong. He knows he was wrong. You punished him," she lists on her fingers. "You've followed every step in the handbook. Next step is to forgive him."

"M-"

"Forgive him and move on," she expounds. "He's a good guy. Don't lose him."

"Please don't—"

"Dad was a good man," I hiss, knowing it will stop her in her tracks. "You didn't have a problem losing him."

She flinches at my curt attitude. Her lips purse together and then form a perfect snarl.

How dare she betray the only man who truly loved her with no second thought and think she has the moral high ground when it comes to tumultuous marriages? Are you fucking kidding me? She can't really think she's an authority on forgiveness.

"Flirting with the idea of an affair does not compare to stealing peoples livelihood."

"Good God," I shoot from my seat. "Spare me your lesson in hypocrisy. I'll take a cab to work."

"Don't-"

"I don't love Peter anymore," I admit. "I just…" I pause. "That's why I left him."

I like to think if I loved Peter in the way a person loves their soul mate that I would have been able to forgive him. It would have been hard. I imagine there would have been a ton of marriage counseling. There also would be some bullshit vacation to a tropical paradise to attempt to regain my trust.

I thought of all that work and thought… meh.

So I filed for divorce.

If I'm being completely honest, part of me is a bit guilty that I didn't fight for my marriage. Peter seemed-still seems- determined to save our marriage. Then again, it could be less about losing me and more about losing period. Peter likes to have the last word professionally and personally.

"Bye, Mom," I grab my bad, smudge my nail polish and exit.

Luckily, there is a subway station a few blocks away. I get back to the office a few minutes late. This just gives me another reason to be pissed off.

"Nice mani," Angela jokes, motioning to my smeared polish.

"Don't even," I hang my coat on the wall. "I just want to catch up my ass." I speak in a perfect imitation of my mother.

"I saw that coming a mile away," she admits. "I can't believe you fell for it," she giggles.

"I must be a bit off my game," I sigh.

"No one can make you feel like shit better than your own mother," she returns my sentiment.

"Who are you telling?" I check my watch.

"The Foster case starts in ten minutes," Angela points out.

"Of course it does," I huff for the tenth time in five minutes.

Worst fucking day ever!

I spend the rest of my day strategizing how to penetrate a damn good pre-nup.

Joy!

The only thing I want to do is take off my heels, drink my dinner and sleep off this shitty day.

You can imagine my surprise when Kate was sleeping on my couch.

"What are you doing here?"

She should be having several rounds of 'You're home!' sex with Garrett. What gives?

"I know," she slowly moves her legs off the couch. "I should be somewhere fucking Garrett," she admits.

"And…"

"I needed a break," she takes a beer bottle and molds it to her cooch. "He pounded me all day," she exhales in a mixture of ecstasy and pain. "He only let me stop to eat and use the restroom," she smiles as if it's a tender memory.

"He was gone a while," I reason, grabbing a glass and a bottle of wine.

From what I've heard Garrett's sex drive is insane. Kate jokes that he makes up for taking so long to lose is virginity. He's never admitted it but I think Kate was his first.

"Yeah," she grins. "It hurts sooo good," she moans.

"I'm so jealous," I admit, changing into sweatpants and a tank top. "It's been so long since I've had sex."

"Even longer since you had good sex," my friend points out.

"Don't remind me," I shudder.

The last sexual encounter Peter and I had sex was tragic. He rolled on top of me, buried his head in my shoulder, pumped away, came and then rolled off. He didn't even check to see if I came.

Spoiler alert! I didn't.

"We need to get you laid," she nods her head.

"If my abysmal date with the sexy ginger taught me anything…"

"Fine!" she relents somewhat. "Let's get you a really good vibrator," she excitedly suggests.

"After what happened to Greta Hamilton?!" I question.

Greta Hamilton was my college freshman roommate. She was pretty cool. She was a bit on the slutty side but she was okay. Anyway, she had a vibrator. One day when I was studying down the hall, I heard a blood curdling scream. I ran back to my room to see that Greta's vibrator shorted out and singed her clitoris. She had second degree burns. I'm not sure if she ever got full feeling back after it happened.

The concept of jamming a plastic foreign object up my pussy has scared me ever since.

"The odds of that happening to someone you know twice in one lifetime are so small," Kate rolls her eyes.

"My fingers are just fine," I blurt out and pray this conversation is over.

"No! They are not," she argues. It almost looks like she is offended by the mere suggestion. "Your fingers don't have shit on a vibrator. You have no idea how…" she grinds her hips. "They provide the best friction…besides dick."

"Stop using that beer bottle as a makeshift vibrator!" I order and shut my eyes.

In order to illustrate her point, Kate took the bottle she previously used to cool her junk and started to move it against her pussy.

"Anything is a vibrator if you're desperate enough," she laughs at my awkwardness and puts the bottle down.

"Eww!"

"Prude!"

"I'm not a prude," I debate. "I'm just not for foreign object in or around my vagina."

"You have no idea what you're missing out on," she shakes her head. "There are at least three things in this house you can use for a vibrator."

"You're crazy."

"I'm resourceful," she gets up from the couch. "I'm going to go…"

"Lalalalalalal" I block my ears.

Confident in my friend's inability to complete her task, I turn on the TV. I'm in the middle of a Scandal rerun when I get a text.

Peter: I'm sorry about this afternoon. You were right.

I look at his apology and smile. Maybe there is hope that we can truly be friends after all. Peter hates admitting he's wrong. This must be a step in the right direction.

Bella: You're forgiven.

I smile as I hit 'Send.'

Not a second after I send my reply, I get a phone call from the front desk."

"Hello?"

"Ms. Swan?" the receptionist asks.

"Speaking," I pour myself another glass of wine.

"There is a Mr. Cullen for you downstairs," she announces.

What?!

Edward is willing to be within 20 floors of me after yesterday. That's not something I saw happening.

"Uh…yeah?" I answer tentatively.

I promise myself that I won't get too excited. For all I know, he left something on our cluster fuck of a date and he thinks I may have it.

"Does he need anything?"

"Is it okay with you if he comes up?"

Why is he here? It can't be because he wants to see me again. It's only 9:30. It's too early for a booty call. Plus, we haven't had sex so that's definitely not…

"Ms. Swan," I'm interrupted.

"Okay," I blurt out and end the call.

Shit.

Then, I catch my reflection in the window. I look like crap.

I rush to my closet and find the first pair of cute pajamas I can put my hands on. I settle for a silk, dark blue gown that comes to mid-thigh with sheer cream lace across the bust and a slit running up the right thigh. I put on the matching kimono that comes with it.

With seconds to spare, I hear a soft knock at the door.

"I'm coming," I call. I check my face again.

Not bad.

I cautiously open the door.

"I wasn't expecting comp…" I look at him and I'm immediately caught off guard.

His button down white shirt and khaki pants are the definition of simple but he just looks a bit more dashing than most men. He's bouncing on the balls of his feet and he looks at me with this adorable look on his face like a child who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"I…uh…" he takes a bouquet of pink roses from behind his back and hands them to me. "I just…"

"See!" I hear Kate yelling from inside my apartment. "You can totally use your electric toothbrush as a vibrat…" she stops mid-sentence and notices Edward. "Shit."