So from here on out, the chapters will be longer, which means that unfortunately, so will the time between chapters : / But hopefully it's worth it! Also, good news for those of you who are impatient for answers-they're coming around the corner. But first-let's check in with the Best Co-Workers of the Year, shall we?

The Shot Heard Around the Office

Fate may be cruel but reality is a bitch, which I assume are the only reasons I was placed on a project with Dickface two days after he started.

It's practically unheard of, a VP working so closely with a head researcher on the rather lucrative Boyz2Men program, a peer education intervention that focuses on generating discussion among young men about sexual health in urban areas. VPs are usually involved in the business aspect of projects, sometimes report writing, and generally very hands-off. I knew there was a good chance Edward would oversee the project, given the experience he had in the field, but I don't know why he had specifically requested to be involved in all other aspects of it.

Other than the obvious theory that he doesn't trust me.

Professionally, I had been involved in the program's development, which had its roots from my graduate thesis. Now I could finally evaluate it with the company's resources. Personally, I saw this as a much needed return to the topic that made me fall in love with my field in the first place.

So why is he expanding his role? More importantly, who the hell did I piss off in a past life?

Ok, yes-he and I are one of the few researchers with considerable experience in sex education programs at IHS. But sometimes, reason and logic can go fuck themselves, especially when I've embarrassed myself twice in front of this guy, apologized once, and still gotten nothing from him.

How is it possible that this is the son of a man I once caught feeding a stray cat outside of our building, who in response sheepishly grinned before joking, "Don't tell my wife."

Unfortunately, the reasons don't matter. We're officially working together on a project that I'm responsible for and screwing it up just because I want to get back at him is not a good idea. Even I can (begrudgingly) admit that.

Sometimes I hate being an adult.

"In conclusion, great job on the recruitment and testing plan-the instrument looks fully functional-"

"Looks functional? Is it functional, or not, Ms. Swan?" comes the grating voice of the human shaped testicles in front of me.

I hold back a fuck-you grimace but am unable to stop my left eye from twitching. "Yes, it's fully functional. Next, we just need to confirm the deliverables schedule with the client, and we should be able to start data collection sometime next week."

Edward frowns. "Do we have an estimated date?"

I grit my teeth. "Not yet. The programmers are still making last minute fixes in production mode-"

"Well, then how is the "survey fully functional?" He retorts. I clench my fists underneath the table and imagine him engulfed in flames. Or ripped apart by vultures. Yeah, that's definitely bloodier.

"The survey is fully functional because it's been thoroughly tested and every issue has been logged and fixed. Now it is in the production mode, which means the programmers are setting it up so respondents can access it by sometime next week. Do you need any further clarification, Edward?" I respond sweetly, punctuating my desire to see him tossed into the sea with a saccharine smile.

He raises his eyebrows, as if to suggest he had no idea why my response wasn't perfectly polite.

Remember Adult Bella, who decided to be mature and level-headed and not start a feud with her boss?

She is now applying war paint to her face, having sharpened her arrows and polished her guns.

We'd been doing this dance for the past week, each pushing the other step by step, teetering towards open hostility, but withdrawing into safer territory with some polite remark at the last second.

At first it started out as innocent banter-he would ask me to address him as "Mr. Masen", and I would politely decline, saying that it created a level of formality that went against the company culture. In response, he would narrow his eyes and nod, which I assumed was the douchebag way of saying, "Fuck you," in an office setting. I retaliated by gingerly sipping my coffee, sliding my middle finger to the front of the cup in his direction.

The list doesn't end there. He started to undermine my authority at every meeting (and there were too many), routinely finding fault with the smallest details and then take for-fucking-ever to approve of the changes. His approval would also conveniently come days before the deadlines, leaving me to stay later than usual and scramble to work on the final submission.

In short, if I don't stab him with my letter opener by the end of the month, I should be considered a saint.

It's been a week of this ridiculously insulting treatment, and I've finally decided to confront him. Despite my anger and frustration, I can't start yelling and throwing out Satanic verses cursing his ass.

Which is unfortunate, because I bookmarked a local occult store that confidently advertised their voodoo dolls with a "100% satisfaction guarantee".

"Do you have a minute? I just wanted to run something by you on the testing plan," I ask immediately after the latest staff update. A few co-workers glance at us curiously, noticing the interaction. I watch Edward closely and see his jaw clench. Nonetheless, he replies cordially, "Of course. Let's go into my office."

Ha, as if I'd fall for that again. "Actually, I'd prefer if we went to mine," I reply, my eyes narrowing just a bit to indicate that I was still just a bit pissed off over our last encounter.

He has the audacity to briefly smirk before nodding innocently. "After you," he gestures. I walk with my head held high and we maintain a tense silence until the door shuts in my office.

I slowly walk to my desk and cross my arms. "What exactly is your problem with me?" I demand. "I understand that my actions weren't the best introduction to a professional relationship, but you do realize that it's your actions over the last week, that appear juvenile?"

He slowly peruses my office, taking in the empty sandwich wrapper from lunch, the organized mess of papers burying my desk, and the three stress balls next to my laptop. Finally, he focuses his gaze on me.

"If I recall correctly, it was you who kicked me last weekend."

I visibly bristle. "Yes, for which I apologized last week, to you and the Board, apparently."

Edward leans forward and coolly assesses my rigid stance. "Regardless, I haven't done anything that's outside of a supervisor's responsibilities."

I mimic his actions, determined not to let him faze me. "That depends on who you ask. Because from where I'm standing, you have repeatedly questioned my authority and expertise in this area."

He cocks his head and folds his arms."If you have a problem with my leadership, you can bring it up with Carlisle." He pauses strategically. "It seems like you two are close."

For most people, this might be when they snap. If history was any indication, now would be the time for me to kick his ass or slap his perfect face. But this time I was prepared. I knew he would bait me, like he'd done this entire week.

So instead, I allow a wicked smile to slowly creep onto my face with the slightest bit of suggestion, and take a lazy step forward. "We are close." Fucker. "So close that I know he would never doubt me."

His eyes flash. "Are you sure about that?" He asks sharply.

"Are you?" I counter back, tilting my head towards him in a show of defiance.

Even though there's still a few feet separating us, I can almost hear his breathing accelerate to the rhythm of my pulse, and see his pupils dilate. Green and brown are suspended by contention, fed by a slow burn, radiating a simmering heat. Our conversation was a humid, mid-July afternoon and this moment was a slow bead of sweat crawling lazily down smooth, wet skin.

Yes, he's probably one of the most attractive men I'd ever met, but he's also one of the worst co-workers I'd ever had. It doesn't matter how pretty the packaging is when you realize a rotten apple was waiting for you. This is my career on the line. If he doesn't want to work with me and instead rely on underhanded tactics and power plays to make me look incompetent, then I would play.

"On a scale of one to marrying my backup dancer, how bad is this idea?" I ask Rosalie, not completely sober. It was a Friday night, so sue me. I just told Rosalie my brilliant retaliatory strike, and waited eagerly for her response.

"I mean, you get points for creativity, but are you sure you want to screw with your boss?" She asks, forcing logic and common sense into the conversation per usual.

I scoff. "I'll just go in and rewrite the file myself so no one will ever know it was modified in the first place. Plus, I looked up his resume. He doesn't have any computer science experience or skills. Even if he did, I think I'd still be able to hack circles around him."

She rolls her eyes. "You dated a computer science major. Knowing how to turn off autocorrect and jailbreak Candy Crush does not suddenly make you the Girl with a Dragon Tattoo." She snickers. "More like girl with the weirdest neck tattoo."

I glare. "I was going through a phase, ok? Everyone has those."

"Not when it's to permanently record your love for a fictional character on your body, it's not."

"It's not even that noticeable!"

"Noticeable enough for that one guy to say, 'I wanna get up in your wonderland'."

I groan while she cackles wildly. Before my parents got divorced, my mother would read "Alice in Wonderland" to me every night before bedtime. It was the only pleasant memory and tangible evidence I had of her being a mother. After she remarried when I turned 14, I hardly saw or spoke to her. The last time she visited me was when I first moved to DC, almost six years ago.

You'd think this would bother me or at the very least leave behind some bitter taste in my mouth, but I'd long since thrown away the rose colored glasses I used to view my childhood.

Still, I'm not heartless. So when she died two years ago, I thought of no better tribute than getting a tattoo of the Chesire cat, which was also her favorite character. I had a permanent reminder of the last happy moment she left behind, and thought it a fitting punishment for the grief I didn't feel.

Only one person knew the significance of the tattoo. But then again, Jasper's family dynamics were always more fucked up than mine.

Rosalie points her French fry at me. "This is your reality check. As your best friend, I need you to acknowledge that I tried to convince you to not go through with this. That this is clearly a horrible idea."

I nod solemnly. "You have done your duty, Rosalie."

She stiffens. "Please don't-"

"Ask not what your friend can do for you — ask what you can do for your friend."

"Bella, seriously-"

"Four score and seven years ago-"

"I don't know why I ever told you I majored in History-"

"Give me friendship or give me death!"

Rosalie sips her margarita. "Finished?" She looks unamused, although I could see a hint of a smile peeking from underneath her pursed lips. I narrow my eyes at her and steal a French Fry off of her plate.

"You know, you used to be fun," I accused, chewing loudly just to show off my extra charm. Her nose wrinkles in practiced disgust before she passes over the ketchup bottle.

"Yeah, and I used to have pink streaks in my hair and aspire to be an N'Sync groupie. People change-maybe Edward will too," she advises.

I take a healthy sip of my margarita. "Not likely. Plus, people don't change. We just like to think they do so we can justify our reasons for staying with them. To hope that maybe they'll change for us or because of us."

And when they inevitably leave us, we're left wondering what we could've done differently to make them stay.

Rosalie silently stares at me with an expression that is equally calculating and sympathetic. I swallow the sudden lump of my throat, knowing she won't press for details but almost hoping that she would. I briefly mentioned to her that Jasper was back, and she wisely knew not to push. For now.

She dips her finger in her glass and slowly traces the rim. I shoot her an annoyed glance at her blatant disregard for public hygiene.

"You're really going to do this?" She asks carefully. " I know we've had a few, but this is something that's actually going to happen?"

I smile like a fat cat that just caught a nice, juicy mouse. "I don't know what you're talking about," I say coyly, as I finish my drink. Oh happy hour, you complete me. I lean in and dramatically tip my head forward.

"That fucker's going down."

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," I say brightly. "Thank you for joining us to discuss the roadmap, so to speak, for this project. As you can see from the slides, I'll be covering the basic overview, the background, and the technical approach, including data collection, analysis, and report delivery. Edward will take it from there and go over the management plan, timeline, and needed staff."

Murmurs of agreement come through, while the Devil's Advocate clears his throat before saying, "Thank you, Ms. Swan. If at any point you have any questions, please save them until the end. Let's begin."

He quickly passes me a note that reads, "I prefer Mr. Masen." Restraining the urge to roll my eyes and flip him off, I instead put the note aside, stand up, and launch into my well-rehearsed notes.

I love giving presentations because it's the only time I feel completely in control. Having done weeks and weeks of research, I know exactly what I'm talking about, and can't wait to share the information with the client. I'm every inch the strong, confident, empowered woman I aspired to be after college, and for a second, I feel like nothing can faze me.

But this meeting isn't about my rockstar presenting skills; it's about payback.

"And now, I'm going to hand it over to Edward," I say, intentionally emphasizing his first name ever so subtly, smiling sweetly in response to his suspicious frown.

"Thank you," he answers. "I'd like to turn your attention to the overall timeline for this project-as you can see from Figure 2, we expect to have a meeting with the department on October 5th to discuss the project in detail and share any opportunities for participation. We will then contact-"

"Mr. Masen, I apologize for interrupting, but October 5th is a Saturday," comes the confused tone of the community health director. I bite back a smile, instead doing my best to convey honest confusion in his direction.

He squints. "My apologies," he says hesitantly, as if the verbal act were causing him physical pain. "The correct date would be March 3rd. Next, we will reach out to the technical working group and convene to discuss the proposed members, letters of commitment, and the consulting rates-"

"Actually, we would need to meet with the Board first, to discuss the budget and staffing projections to make sure we're within company expenditure projections," I interrupt, my eyes wide, radiating innocence and a bit of concern.

To his credit, he barely misses a beat, responding, "Of course. As for the specifics of the staffing, we anticipate needing four survey associates, two analysts, three editors-"

I quickly interrupt again. "Those numbers are actually from the previous team meeting from a month ago. The correct numbers should be three survey associates, three analysts, two editors, five teachers, and of course, Edward and myself."

I had been studiously working with my team to gather all the data on the outcomes and the resources that would be needed for the next few years, and I'd been saving it on a shared drive, emailing Edward any updates and getting feedback (re: ignoring feedback). Now, I don't know if he paid close attention to the multiple versions of documents because that was the cornerstone of my plan. You see, he and I both prepared notes for the meeting, which were saved on the same folder. My devious ploy was to upload a previous version of the document as his finalized product, and cover my tracks by deleting the pathway and any cookies that hinted at my presence.

Not exactly War Games, I know.

Yes it sounds pretty lame, but if I had gone into his document a second before the meeting, deleted his notes, and typed in "CARAMEL MACCHIATO MOTHERFUCKER", he would have had (multiple) reasons to fire me. It had to be something that made him look like an ass, but not so obvious that I would be out on mine. Showing up to your first client meeting on your first project with inaccurate information, especially given your father is the CEO, conveyed the perfect blend of arrogance and laziness. That was as good as one nail in the coffin.

And I'm going to pound that nail until it sticks.

Edward reaches up to straighten his tie and clears his throat.

"It appears I have an older version of my notes, gentlemen. I apologize for the inconvenience. However, I believe Ms. Swan should have access to the most recent copy."

Prepared to take over, I simply switch to my notes with the correct dates and accurate information and say, "Of course. Let's continue."

As predicted, I smoothly carry the rest of the meeting, while Edward sits there the entire time, flaccid and useless. It isn't until we switch over to the financial aspects of the project that I see his spine straighten and his confidence renewed.

After all, it's not like anyone would go in and tamper with his slides, right?

"Lastly, the communications team assembled a video for outreach," he finishes. He clicks on the link and I dig my nails into my thighs to make sure I don't start laughing hysterically. I dim the lights and we hear some New Age, yoga studio-esque music from the speakers, followed by the image of a young woman walking through a meadow.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," she reassures, petting a cartoon duck in the process. "Getting help will only make you a stronger man."

I watch with almost psychotic satisfaction as Edward's eyes start to widen to the size of bowling balls. His entire body goes slack, as if he's in shock.

Which is perfect, because that means the video keeps playing.

The brunette smiles demurely into the camera. "Erectile dysfunction affects ⅓ of sexually active men, so you're not the only one. But you don't have to be-there is a solution. Erozapine is a tablet designed to treat ED and BPH, and it's the first non-addictive drug of its kind. Start living the life you deserve." A seagull flies overhead, since she's now apparently transported to a beach. "Become the man you were with Erozapine."

The last few chimes echo through the room, and I hear an awkward cough on the line.

I decide to break the horribly thin ice. "Does anyone have any questions-related to the project?"

There are some murmurs over the phone before someone confirms there are no questions at this time, so I thank them and numbly turn off the phone.

One. Two. Three. Four.

We both sit there like statues, as worry and dread start to creep up my spine for the first time. Have I gone too far? Am I the jackass in this scenario?

Either way, it's time to get the fuck out of here.

"Well, aside from that technical hiccup, I think that went rather well. I'll have the meeting notes to you this afternoon," I say, proud that there was barely a tremor in my voice. Barely.

He nods, bright green eyes boring into my skull.

I stand and make my exit, a bit confused about what's happening. Is he letting me off the hook? Is this his way of saying, "touché"?

My fingers gingerly wrap around the handle of the door-

"Wait."

I slowly take a deep breath and turn around. He continues his imitation of a statue, the sharpness of the green become more focused as he saunters up to me. Unlike confrontations in the past, he advances so close this time that I back up against the wall. Refusing to be intimidated by his height, I lift my head and force myself to stretch to every inch of my respectable 5'5.

Weirdly enough, he doesn't seem pissed off. He barely seems bothered by my stunt. In fact, he leans in even closer by placing his arm right next to my head. I search his eyes for any kind of emotion, but they remain as ambiguous as ever.

"I think there's been a mistake," he starts lowly, his eyes darkening. I try to ignore the spicy scent of his aftershave. "You seem to think you have the upper hand. Let me assure you that's not true."

"I don't know what you're talking about. If you're accusing me of something inappropriate, then I hope you have proof."

His mouth twitches, as if he were about to smile but caught it just in time. "No, and I don't think I'll be able to find anything," he guesses. "I'm sure I don't need to remind you that I'm your superior."

Son of a-my eyes flash at the last word. "Is that all?" I ask stonily, staring at the smooth column of his throat.

I feel his body tense, and I absently note the restrained power underneath like a coiled spring, ready to snap at any moment. For a second, I allow myself to appreciate the pretty package: the GQ styled copper hair, the subtle five o'clock shadow that straddles the line between "professional" and "I just filmed a tequila commercial", the classic Roman nose, and the unfairly full lips.

Stay thirsty, my friends.

I quickly regain what sense I have left and meet his gaze head-on, waiting for his response.

He leans in a few centimeters more and I practically feel his breath on my neck. Instead of backing away, or even stupider-closing the gap-I simply raise an eyebrow.

He smirks and concludes, "For now."

Nodding sharply, I turn around and open the door. Without looking back, I say, "By the way, Mr. Masen, I prefer Dr. Swan."

If there's one thing I do exceptionally well, it's getting in the last word.